"canvassed" poems
I am in love with an invisible string
as it moves around in motive motions
swinging my heart to extreme lengths
singing a song in definitive heights
tounging it's mouth in unknown breadths
I am in love with something peculiar
it moves in people and street pendulums
in cities it drives a longing restless soul
it's inside the trees and soaked in barks
It's paradise taste is an eternity paste
I am in love in a dream that will settle
as we chase to the end of broken seas
where we wrestle, crest in chutes we rest
as we make love soul to soul, word on word
on the cross of pens and canvassed fends
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
is like sun-drenched empathy canvassed on the back of wildflowers
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
I can only remember your eyes
looked like moons
bathing me in
bluish clarity
peeking below trees;
They brushed your face
like eyelashes.
I wish Mother
Nature
had given me a more
Celestial
body, that I could show my love
in grander gestures.
Disappearing woman,
I imagine the breeze is your lips
unfreezing glass-water
Bringing canvassed flower -field
alive with just a touch.
Disappearing woman,
I looked for you on mountaintops
and beneath
rust colored leaves
that
fall.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
Children of fire and ice
See how you lost your way
For your dreams evil
Always a price
Now listen,
What I have to say
In his name
We have canvassed such misery
It must cease
This rage on the land
Acid rain, just tears of a deity
Reaping the the east winds last stand
And for those who demand silver
In his name
Think hard on these things that you do
This idiot poet
May say all's a game
But life is an accounting
And my soul is stained too
This is the world
That we live in
Make no mistake
There was always a plan
And of this tired existence
choking in sin
Long dark is coming
YOU understand? Hy
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
perfect little lines of symmetry
paint the curves onto your face
the dimples dip & peak a smile
canvassed iconicly in place.
It's hard to describe such beauty
compared more closely to the stars
an everlasting glisten - twinkles -
before your laughter starts.
the elegance and poise of a goddess
- personified by form -
the greats would be enamored by
your eyes - angelically adorned.
Heaven bends it's will, slightly
conforming to your mere presence.
With the greatest care you mold was cast
to give you every aspect of divine essence.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
Rain reminds me of you because it is reminiscent of the receptive and raw eros that engrossed my brain;
every interaction provided a drop of ransom to my heart,
which you held priso(ner-vous) hands and pituitary glands slam into the back of cabs
with such frazzled force that
they will brand their passion into passengers
who will jam their own uncontrollable acid into the same canvassed seat,
and they will rub it off on everyone they meet,
and rain will continue to fall
and I will continue to call
and every drop reminds me of you,
what you've done and what you've put me through
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
You.
You've undone,
me.
Each
thread
snipped.
carefully and thoroughly-
not to miss a single
one.
They don't make them
like this,
anymore.
They patch with glue,
and nothing really combines-
really meshes-
anymore.
They squeeze tightly
to what they hold
but
they hold
nothing
compared to these old threads
bound
stitch by stitch
through canvassed paper.
Etched into my heart
woven
into my hips,
they don't make them
like
this
anymore-
they patch with glue and print
on thin
flimsy
sheets
of shredded tress immune
to routine they know so well-
Slice
Shred
Print.
In my days,
it was woven,
it was thick canvas paper that
paint couldn't bleed through.
It was woven into the spine,
threads of teeth
stitch by stitch-
Behold,
somehow-
you managed so easily
to
un
do
me.
Unbound
and with each
breath
another thread
slithers
loose
and
inhales, then hums
and settles.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
******* smile crooked syntax
twisted fingers
Broken bones with splintered ends
but where they stopped grew empty friends
broken people, battered souls,
rotting dreams in empty holes
ice cold screams crawl up
and tear
dead flesh on the edge of the freeway
those lost by the wayside
They lay under broken streetlights, flickering neon crosses
rictus smiles
canvassed eyes
late night ships that dont touch the water as they sail by
I can't fix them
they wont sew together, they cannot heal
can't be reforged like broken steel
but I can't hide
although I've tried
the jagged edges of the world
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
Feast your eyes
on this!
100% Super One-Twenty,
Windowpane, chalk-white,
on a navy backdrop.
Fully Canvassed, mind you,
for the elegance of the suit
is dictated by its drape,
the structure the cloth streams
from shoulder to waist.
Here!
Do you see it? No?
The shoulder, it’s expression:
Spalla Camicia!
Simplification of the cumbersome Neapolitan,
shedding all the padding
of the English shoulder.
(Padding, I emphasize,
is for insecure prepubescent girls.)
Ah, but the star of the show,
the six by two,
the armour of choice of all dandies,
the de facto of the eternally stylish,
the double breasted jacket!
Shoulder wide peaked lapels
drawing horizontal lines
that elongate the torso,
nipping the waist.
(And as they say,
I like my jackets like
I like my women:
Double-breasted.)
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
If You Come to San Miguel
by Michael R. Burch
If you come to San Miguel
before the orchids fall,
we might stroll through lengthening shadows
those deserted streets
where love first bloomed ...
You might buy the same cheap musk
from that mud-spattered stall
where with furtive eyes the vendor
watched his fragrant wares
perfume your ******* ...
Where lean men mend tattered nets,
disgruntled sea gulls chide;
we might find that cafetucho
where through grimy panes
sunset implodes ...
Where tall cranes spin canvassed loads,
the strange anhingas glide.
Green brine laps splintered moorings,
rusted iron chains grind,
weighed and anchored in the past,
held fast by luminescent tides ...
Should you come to San Miguel?
Let love decide.
Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and Muddy River Poetry Review. Keywords/Tags: San Miguel, vacation, summer, love, affair, cafe, cafetucho, anhingas, cranes, sea, tides, bay, moorings, green, brine
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 12:31 AM UTC
She shed her scales by each drop of rain
her eyes; poison in blood
the desert her veins
as she travels across silk concrete
towards the edge of her mind
the bloom of yesterday billowing its monster
side glances perceive venom
Israel is tangled in her hair
she is drowning in harlots blood
frozen against an eclipse
continuing her journey curled up in chaos
each trail a fragment of forgotten memories
Delusions are alive in her
A perfect flaw of raven fields
razed with withered crops
The dream is curved around her tail
liquid and edged with bone roses
She peels from herself
Iridescent
Venomous
Bleeding
Watercolors evaporating from forked tongue
Canvassed
Painted to slither off the cliff
landing beside her arrow fangs
her brand new scales
melting
Like sugar inside my peppermint tea
~
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
If I'd ask you for a dime,
you'd just toss me a nickle.
If I'd ask for your advice,
all you'd say is, "Life is fickle."
You like to keep me wanting more,
thirsty while you hold the cup,
so when I head for the door,
I always leave without enough.
If patience is a virtue,
I could be its patron saint.
I canvassed my whole life with you
before you smeared the paint.
When I hear your off-key chorus,
it gets hard to keep composure.
I know where the door is,
but the window is much closer.
I don't want to be leaving,
but it's clear I shouldn't stay.
It's my fault for believing
all the things you had to say.
What's the use in grieving?
Nothing to lose, anyway.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
time for a hiaku
count the syllables
through to
a blank canvassed brain
no,
way too many
will have to
begin again
flotsom and jetsam
surfing the synapse brainwaves
awaiting wipe out
better
but still inane
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
Handshake claw grip, crustaceans with an overstatement,
Never distressed with a sober sense spent on aimless wastage,
Never become too complacent,
Never butter devil's sodden words on scriptures burned through the ages,
Certain pages curtain stages grace to shattered shambles curdled shameless.
Shiny geodes the traditions on the backhand,
Sages matching matter sets a salamandrine babble balance act,
Skin tight ever-bond clasped reattachment,
Radical bags sag at the mystery of a mattress ,
Routine carry forth enabling of double standards,
Tailored youth to a callous canvassed pander *******
Cat scratch moral compass to the badlands,
The pinnacle of rabid actions in the aftermath,
After that,
A rabbit or a lab rat,
Maze running side effects from the last batch,
No lessons learned just oblivious to brass tax,
Malleable malice in the marrow of the crab man,
Can't stand a phalanx divided by the last laugh,
Middle finger sinner Peter chapters in the chapel of a hashtag,
Shadows in the chiaroscuro flit mongers little gas lamps,
Calypso rhythm stages a symphony of backstabs,
Coup d'etat passive damage scatters gravel slat in sandbags,
No matter shiny medal coiled vertebrae permeate the flashbacks,
Never with a sordid memory retraced to get a plaque stamped.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
Too much information
and my mind goes Crash!
a crouching canvassed crooner
bracing for the Splash!
Kept alight, at bay at night
to hone a zone of Vision.
Clarity ablaze despite
this Schism o' division.
Engrossed in battle weary thought
Art of War, ideally fought
We ring a ring o' roses,
Hang a wreath upon Death's door.
Inibriated image in a former
blurry self-defensive, nearest Sight
Autopilot megalotross
Keep it real and run it tight!
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
She is the unsung lyrics,
the pieces of her favorite quotes stitched together.
When one plucks the lyre of her heart
melancholy melody soothes another heart.
She is a pallet full of rich and moody colors.
Sometimes she is bold like the streak of red of the sky at dawn
or delicate as soothing soft colored pastels.
At times she's vibrant
with her colors high on hue
and at times she is dim and quite.
She is contoured with passion;
whirlwind of colors
coaxing the brushstroke
as she is canvassed.
She is the evocative strokes
of a tempestuous soul
of curious contrast;
an exquisit chaos.
She is the raw,
broken tiles pieced together
into a mosaic
s intricate masterpiece like picasso's.
Her body
Her soul
is constantly moulding
sculpting into a phasing masterpiece.
She is an album;
a gallery.
She wasn't built to validate
to be understood
and loved by all
She's supposed to make you feel in the way she thought.
For she is the enigmatic narrative of her truth
and a beautiful ambiguity.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
Illuminating the darkest chasms
Within the labyrinth
Of my mental construct
In the most lustrous colors
- You paint my soul;
with brush strokes unspoken of
heretofore & forevermore
I smoldered along the inferno
But you make me glow
Incisive as red hot knives
Cauterizing me to the hollow core
My twin flame personified
Guided by the Eye of Apollo
The fire crescendos bright but
Can we still burn tomorrow?
The comfort of being vulnerable
Something I’ve never known
Permeating the fabric of reality
From which we’re both shorn
In this abstraction I am magnetized;
Canvassed by your sanguine fashion
You’re a force of nature so I energize
Being your equal and opposite reaction
Mesmerized; when we synchronize
In utmost harmonious passions,
It intensifies the butterflies
Multiplying in my abdomen
Did I mention, my thirst for you is
Unquenchably vivacious? It’s like I’m Tantalus,
Stuck on the cusp & you’re the pool
I’ll always long to drink from
I crave your vibrations;
Sensations on strings which I hang on
-Your every word reinforces
The advances I can’t play off of
It’s not happenstance; Fates wove our path
Admirance enchanting our perspective
You’re in my reflection and suddenly
I’m projected to a different dimension
The sky splits then I’m wondering
If this is truly ascension
Flying on the wings of Icarus;
Longing to plunge your furthermost depths
Jul 15, 2022
Jul 15, 2022 at 6:37 AM UTC
“Travesty,” those orange words spilled across the highway lines
Came on swathes of a stilled
And perfect evening time,
‘Tween buffeting air and screaming music
It seems but a step in a cyclic progression,
Or the lines that commence
This processional of cars
That follows, to the site, trails of incense,
Tears of mourn and memoirs.
Towards the hills canvassed in reluctant ennui
Jutting in the shadows the bleached ribs and pearly jaw lines
That, at times, may have looked alive, yet now
They rest static as the dead ought to be.
I sense I’m getting close, the ***** surges its triumph
As it does the sanctuary,
My head swells with deep booming sound,
The lyric of the preacher without need to expound,
Too late as the ***** shan’t stop or abate
As I pass through churchyard admonished “Hell,
Is truth realized only too late.”
Though I am soothed by that song of my youth,
Lyric’d by many-a familiar cadence and tune
Vestiges of naïveté play on the lips
But, “Hell is truth only realized too soon.”
I wait at its back and reminisce
The coming great years were something to fight for
With life, defend,
But I now see that I spent those last seconds
Waiting for them to end,
Whilst prayers of hollow wind abound
Escaped to show something holds on, at least
Pretends,
Will remain after me, aft’ I’ve settled in the ground,
To be as a sunset and come back around.
I feel like a sun, burning in fury,
Not simply a shimmer in the vastness afar,
Or the muddy face of fetid puddle
Simply rippling like a star.
Keep driving! Don’t cease my tiny hearse!
Just now do I hear the mourners’ verse,
It sounds so golden and couldn’t get worse!
But the ***** has ceased,
The daylight, it rots
(Never mind that, I’ll charge it with haught!)
And the processional laughs as they go to their plots
Their verses fall too coward to brave
The ice and the snow that is to come, mine fall stricken
With every sense of the word ‘dumb,’
But the sun reassuring with it warmth-giving rays
Will be sure to put flowers next to our graves.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
lets imagine an illusion for a time being where illustration of my hidden blackened thoughts can be canvassed without any distortion of fear,trapping and misjudged(or rightly judged).i read somewhere that we all are bad filthy cynical people if we raise the un-attended curtain in dark hole, and that cynical one can even take life for pleasure.
how pain can be associated with pleasure?? never i knew that before until one day i took this beast out of me and it made me surprised from the deligince of its curiosity and rageness of emotions....
sometimes *********** of filthy mind is all what u need.. "who is ur ****** did u ever ask this urself?? did u ever tried to get drunk without having whiskey? did u ever dreamt of leaping deep in ocean of ur soul without leaping ur faith?
so many misconduct around us, but if one tries to really express himself, that misconduct is considered biggest of all sins. i sinned once and for all, that sin completed me.
it is hard to embrace ur alienist mind, and the act that is considered misconduct, but its not impossible to actually explore the whole of urself until u be able to say proudly "I KNOW ME" and that is actually the time where "U DNT KNOW URSELF EXACTLY"
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC
The camera lens, like the piercing stare of your lingering eyes, twinkles in the foreground.
I stare deep inside like I am looking into the soul of the earth hoping you will see the way I look today and understand how I feel now that time has changed everything.
Around me, small echoes of children laughing reverberate off of hotel walls that are decaying from the trials of seasons and time.
Sitting against one of the walls, I find a sense of comfort knowing that nothing lasts forever.
I try to remember that even when things loose the sort of false perfection of something new if I can remember how things once were, memories can be preserved, solace can be renewed, and I can find excitement in other perfectly imperfect new things.
So here I sit against a creme colored structure. My back against a blank canvas with the past behind and endless possibilities ahead.
The only lingering, twinkling eyes, are the green ones staring back at me, colored by the trials of love and lust–rejection and acceptance, and the stains of canvassed love turning into a pretty picture.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC