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Josh May 2013
Eyes of pale celadon
refulgent in the dusk
lips of skin so thin they grin
around the tips of tusk

Jagged saw-like teeth
beneath a sagging beastly jaw
the putrid reek of flesh and cheek
he's gobbled - nights before

His pointed nose will point his toes
when he snuffs you shuffling by
the fright enough will be so tough
your legs will lignify!

And once he's done he'll click his tongue
his mood enhanced by food
he'll walk home late and ululate
his deepest gratitude
april 11 1952 Mom gives birth to beautiful blue-eyed girl Mom takes name Penelope from Great-Grandma Penny who died week after Odysseus was born Mom and Dad are not educated to know greek mythology and homer it is odd coincidence they picked Odysseus’s name out of book of names thought it sounded strong  anglo old money Odysseus is thrilled to have sister to share childhood with when Odysseus is 6 and Penelope is 4 Grandma Betty invites them to visit her house block away she serves them oatmeal cookies orange juice shows them her latest small painting of field brightly colored flowers birds in sky lower left corner is horse or dog painting is still wet she shows them magazine picture she copied from Odysseus realizes it is pony in lower left corner when they return home Mom yells at Odysseus “where were you? why didn’t you think to call or leave message with Teresa? do you have any idea what a nervous wreck you’ve made me!” she slaps hard Odysseus’s face reprimands “don’t i have enough to worry about without you pulling something like this? you only think about yourself it’s so typical of your selfishness wait until your father gets home he’ll deal with you now go to your room!" every time he gets caught in mistake he is punished the drill is Mom gets upset with Odysseus flies into rage yells slaps him around threatens him with Dad gets home has a few drinks Mom tells Dad explodes beats Odysseus Mom is judge jury Dad is executioner afterward Dad goes back into living room pours another drink sits in celadon green lounge chair Odysseus is trained to wipe tears put on pajamas go to Dad apologize admit fault promise to be good kisses Dad and Mom goodnight goes to bed that is the drill

Odysseus is barefaced curious exploring discovering tries to connect with Mom and Dad but they are unavailable they are his parents not his friends as far back as he can remember he lives in world of “it’s safe free here Mom and Dad can’t see us” children are smarter than parents think figure ways to self-protect something stirs inside Odysseus creature separate from Dad and Mom whatever psychological or emotional patterns are developing he does not understand obediently goes along

Mom and Granny Mattie take Odysseus and Penelope to browse shops on oak street at one store little statuette like kind Granny Mattie collects catches Odtsseus’s eye he slips it in pocket on drive home he takes statuette out to show Penelope she asks where he got it Mom Granny Mattie overhear ask Odysseus where he got statuette he confesses took it from store Mom gets livid steers car back to oak street Granny Mattie insists “it’s just a figurine let him keep it Odysseus meant no harm i don’t see why you want to make such a big fuss Jenny!” Mom replies “he’s got to learn right from wrong!” they all return to store mom explains to sales clerk what son has done Odysseus hands back figurine apologizes when Dad gets home he dishes out punishment years later Penelope remarks “that was the first time i realized Odys you needed to reach out for something beyond the family”

Odysseus wants to die he is 7 years old and wants to die he knows his life is critically messed up wants new different existence person he is becoming is too error prone ruined already he is way too ******* himself Dad’s temper Mom’s criticisms subsequent self-absorbed social demands drive him to ideas of suicide Dad and Mom are too busy to notice Mom always uses sleeping pills placidal nebutal seconal miltown whatever is the latest Mom says she does not dream Odysseus guesses she does not remember her dreams on account of those pills everyone dreams years later Mom remarks i need sleeping pills to forget about you Odys as Mom describes “i run a formal beautiful household” she delegates chores to weekly staff of brown skin ladies it is house of feminine décor matching pillows sheets pulled tight under elegant bedspreads everything put away in proper place furniture in precise order little dinner bell servant’s foot buzzer beneath Mom’s chair at dining room table maids in servitude once a week white woman with big shoulders foreign accent shows up to give Mom massage Mom is not to be disturbed during that hour Odysseus knows first names of each laundress cleaning lady doormen deskmen garage men janitors caterers at holidays tall black effeminate John comes twice a month on sunday to cook serve traditional american breakfast along with fried bananas apples afterward he cleans up shines silver first 13 years of Odysseus’s life are lived in buildings with elevators staff of residence employees

Mom’s closet is vast with colors textures ground level hundred or more neatly arranged clear plastic boxes containing pairs of expensive shoes walls of imported French and Italian designer label dresses skirts suits blouses top shelf fashionable purses hats other feminine accoutrements also two large dresser chests filled with drawers of sweaters scarves girdles lingerie hosiery more accessories Mom often wears joy by jean patou arpege by lanvin chanel # 5 Mom shops at saks bonwit teller occasionally marshall fields within several years most of her buying will be done at fantastico, exclusive import boutique on oak street clothes jewelry cosmetics are important to her but most important is hair she prefers bottle blonde color wears hair trimmed medium length fluffed up sprayed fixed as do many women of her generation social stature she visits beauty salon twice a week must enjoy letting her guard down with other women while being served by homosexual men her hair prevents her from driving in car with top down all other outdoor activities that might threaten hairdo Penelope mimics Mom though she keeps her things in less tidy fashion she is being groomed to be queen like mom maybe Mom is more sympathetic to Penelope because both innately share female experience Mom portrays herself as lady of elegance Penelope is different from Mom more earthy bumbling routinely scratches Odysseus’s records leaves her drawers messy Mom takes baths so her hair will not be disturbed Dad takes showers Odysseus and Penelope take baths together then apart as they grow bigger ****** is normal in Schwartzpilgrim household Dad hints reserve Odysseus follows takes showers Mom leaves bathroom door open while bathing she is constantly changing clothes traipsing around in robes slippers elegant silk lingerie
With these words Hector passed through the gates, and his brother
Alexandrus with him, both eager for the fray. As when heaven sends a
breeze to sailors who have long looked for one in vain, and have
laboured at their oars till they are faint with toil, even so
welcome was the sight of these two heroes to the Trojans.
  Thereon Alexandrus killed Menesthius the son of Areithous; he
lived in Ame, and was son of Areithous the Mace-man, and of
Phylomedusa. Hector threw a spear at Eioneus and struck him dead
with a wound in the neck under the bronze rim of his helmet.
Glaucus, moreover, son of Hippolochus, captain of the Lycians, in hard
hand-to-hand fight smote Iphinous son of Dexius on the shoulder, as he
was springing on to his chariot behind his fleet mares; so he fell
to earth from the car, and there was no life left in him.
  When, therefore, Minerva saw these men making havoc of the
Argives, she darted down to Ilius from the summits of Olympus, and
Apollo, who was looking on from Pergamus, went out to meet her; for he
wanted the Trojans to be victorious. The pair met by the oak tree, and
King Apollo son of Jove was first to speak. “What would you have
said he, “daughter of great Jove, that your proud spirit has sent
you hither from Olympus? Have you no pity upon the Trojans, and
would you incline the scales of victory in favour of the Danaans?
Let me persuade you—for it will be better thus—stay the combat for
to-day, but let them renew the fight hereafter till they compass the
doom of Ilius, since you goddesses have made up your minds to
destroy the city.”
  And Minerva answered, “So be it, Far-Darter; it was in this mind
that I came down from Olympus to the Trojans and Achaeans. Tell me,
then, how do you propose to end this present fighting?”
  Apollo, son of Jove, replied, “Let us incite great Hector to
challenge some one of the Danaans in single combat; on this the
Achaeans will be shamed into finding a man who will fight him.”
  Minerva assented, and Helenus son of Priam divined the counsel of
the gods; he therefore went up to Hector and said, “Hector son of
Priam, peer of gods in counsel, I am your brother, let me then
persuade you. Bid the other Trojans and Achaeans all of them take
their seats, and challenge the best man among the Achaeans to meet you
in single combat. I have heard the voice of the ever-living gods,
and the hour of your doom is not yet come.”
  Hector was glad when he heard this saying, and went in among the
Trojans, grasping his spear by the middle to hold them back, and
they all sat down. Agamemnon also bade the Achaeans be seated. But
Minerva and Apollo, in the likeness of vultures, perched on father
Jove’s high oak tree, proud of their men; and the ranks sat close
ranged together, bristling with shield and helmet and spear. As when
the rising west wind furs the face of the sea and the waters grow dark
beneath it, so sat the companies of Trojans and Achaeans upon the
plain. And Hector spoke thus:-
  “Hear me, Trojans and Achaeans, that I may speak even as I am
minded; Jove on his high throne has brought our oaths and covenants to
nothing, and foreshadows ill for both of us, till you either take
the towers of Troy, or are yourselves vanquished at your ships. The
princes of the Achaeans are here present in the midst of you; let him,
then, that will fight me stand forward as your champion against
Hector. Thus I say, and may Jove be witness between us. If your
champion slay me, let him strip me of my armour and take it to your
ships, but let him send my body home that the Trojans and their
wives may give me my dues of fire when I am dead. In like manner, if
Apollo vouchsafe me glory and I slay your champion, I will strip him
of his armour and take it to the city of Ilius, where I will hang it
in the temple of Apollo, but I will give up his body, that the
Achaeans may bury him at their ships, and the build him a mound by the
wide waters of the Hellespont. Then will one say hereafter as he sails
his ship over the sea, ‘This is the monument of one who died long
since a champion who was slain by mighty Hector.’ Thus will one say,
and my fame shall not be lost.”
  Thus did he speak, but they all held their peace, ashamed to decline
the challenge, yet fearing to accept it, till at last Menelaus rose
and rebuked them, for he was angry. “Alas,” he cried, “vain braggarts,
women forsooth not men, double-dyed indeed will be the stain upon us
if no man of the Danaans will now face Hector. May you be turned every
man of you into earth and water as you sit spiritless and inglorious
in your places. I will myself go out against this man, but the
upshot of the fight will be from on high in the hands of the
immortal gods.”
  With these words he put on his armour; and then, O Menelaus, your
life would have come to an end at the hands of hands of Hector, for he
was far better the man, had not the princes of the Achaeans sprung
upon you and checked you. King Agamemnon caught him by the right
hand and said, “Menelaus, you are mad; a truce to this folly. Be
patient in spite of passion, do not think of fighting a man so much
stronger than yourself as Hector son of Priam, who is feared by many
another as well as you. Even Achilles, who is far more doughty than
you are, shrank from meeting him in battle. Sit down your own
people, and the Achaeans will send some other champion to fight
Hector; fearless and fond of battle though he be, I ween his knees
will bend gladly under him if he comes out alive from the
hurly-burly of this fight.”
  With these words of reasonable counsel he persuaded his brother,
whereon his squires gladly stripped the armour from off his shoulders.
Then Nestor rose and spoke, “Of a truth,” said he, “the Achaean land
is fallen upon evil times. The old knight Peleus, counsellor and
orator among the Myrmidons, loved when I was in his house to
question me concerning the race and lineage of all the Argives. How
would it not grieve him could he hear of them as now quailing before
Hector? Many a time would he lift his hands in prayer that his soul
might leave his body and go down within the house of Hades. Would,
by father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that I were still young and
strong as when the Pylians and Arcadians were gathered in fight by the
rapid river Celadon under the walls of Pheia, and round about the
waters of the river Iardanus. The godlike hero Ereuthalion stood
forward as their champion, with the armour of King Areithous upon
his shoulders—Areithous whom men and women had surnamed ‘the
Mace-man,’ because he fought neither with bow nor spear, but broke the
battalions of the foe with his iron mace. Lycurgus killed him, not
in fair fight, but by entrapping him in a narrow way where his mace
served him in no stead; for Lycurgus was too quick for him and speared
him through the middle, so he fell to earth on his back. Lycurgus then
spoiled him of the armour which Mars had given him, and bore it in
battle thenceforward; but when he grew old and stayed at home, he gave
it to his faithful squire Ereuthalion, who in this same armour
challenged the foremost men among us. The others quaked and quailed,
but my high spirit bade me fight him though none other would
venture; I was the youngest man of them all; but when I fought him
Minerva vouchsafed me victory. He was the biggest and strongest man
that ever I killed, and covered much ground as he lay sprawling upon
the earth. Would that I were still young and strong as I then was, for
the son of Priam would then soon find one who would face him. But you,
foremost among the whole host though you be, have none of you any
stomach for fighting Hector.”
  Thus did the old man rebuke them, and forthwith nine men started
to their feet. Foremost of all uprose King Agamemnon, and after him
brave Diomed the son of Tydeus. Next were the two Ajaxes, men
clothed in valour as with a garment, and then Idomeneus, and
Meriones his brother in arms. After these Eurypylus son of Euaemon,
Thoas the son of Andraemon, and Ulysses also rose. Then Nestor
knight of Gerene again spoke, saying: “Cast lots among you to see
who shall be chosen. If he come alive out of this fight he will have
done good service alike to his own soul and to the Achaeans.”
  Thus he spoke, and when each of them had marked his lot, and had
thrown it into the helmet of Agamemnon son of Atreus, the people
lifted their hands in prayer, and thus would one of them say as he
looked into the vault of heaven, “Father Jove, grant that the lot fall
on Ajax, or on the son of Tydeus, or upon the king of rich Mycene
himself.”
  As they were speaking, Nestor knight of Gerene shook the helmet, and
from it there fell the very lot which they wanted—the lot of Ajax.
The herald bore it about and showed it to all the chieftains of the
Achaeans, going from left to right; but they none of of them owned it.
When, however, in due course he reached the man who had written upon
it and had put it into the helmet, brave Ajax held out his hand, and
the herald gave him the lot. When Ajax saw him mark he knew it and was
glad; he threw it to the ground and said, “My friends, the lot is
mine, and I rejoice, for I shall vanquish Hector. I will put on my
armour; meanwhile, pray to King Jove in silence among yourselves
that the Trojans may not hear you—or aloud if you will, for we fear
no man. None shall overcome me, neither by force nor cunning, for I
was born and bred in Salamis, and can hold my own in all things.”
  With this they fell praying to King Jove the son of Saturn, and thus
would one of them say as he looked into the vault of heaven, “Father
Jove that rulest from Ida, most glorious in power, vouchsafe victory
to Ajax, and let him win great glory: but if you wish well to Hector
also and would protect him, grant to each of them equal fame and
prowess.
  Thus they prayed, and Ajax armed himself in his suit of gleaming
bronze. When he was in full array he sprang forward as monstrous
Mars when he takes part among men whom Jove has set fighting with
one another—even so did huge Ajax, bulwark of the Achaeans, spring
forward with a grim smile on his face as he brandished his long
spear and strode onward. The Argives were elated as they beheld him,
but the Trojans trembled in every limb, and the heart even of Hector
beat quickly, but he could not now retreat and withdraw into the ranks
behind him, for he had been the challenger. Ajax came up bearing his
shield in front of him like a wall—a shield of bronze with seven
folds of oxhide—the work of Tychius, who lived in Hyle and was by far
the best worker in leather. He had made it with the hides of seven
full-fed bulls, and over these he had set an eighth layer of bronze.
Holding this shield before him, Ajax son of Telamon came close up to
Hector, and menaced him saying, “Hector, you shall now learn, man to
man, what kind of champions the Danaans have among them even besides
lion-hearted Achilles cleaver of the ranks of men. He now abides at
the ships in anger with Agamemnon shepherd of his people, but there
are many of us who are well able to face you; therefore begin the
fight.”
  And Hector answered, “Noble Ajax, son of Telamon, captain of the
host, treat me not as though I were some puny boy or woman that cannot
fight. I have been long used to the blood and butcheries of battle.
I am quick to turn my leathern shield either to right or left, for
this I deem the main thing in battle. I can charge among the
chariots and horsemen, and in hand to hand fighting can delight the
heart of Mars; howbeit I would not take such a man as you are off
his guard—but I will smite you openly if I can.”
  He poised his spear as he spoke, and hurled it from him. It struck
the sevenfold shield in its outermost layer—the eighth, which was
of bronze—and went through six of the layers but in the seventh
hide it stayed. Then Ajax threw in his turn, and struck the round
shield of the son of Priam. The terrible spear went through his
gleaming shield, and pressed onward through his cuirass of cunning
workmanship; it pierced the shirt against his side, but he swerved and
thus saved his life. They then each of them drew out the spear from
his shield, and fell on one another like savage lions or wild boars of
great strength and endurance: the son of Priam struck the middle of
Ajax’s shield, but the bronze did not break, and the point of his dart
was turned. Ajax then sprang forward and pierced the shield of Hector;
the spear went through it and staggered him as he was springing
forward to attack; it gashed his neck and the blood came pouring
from the wound, but even so Hector did not cease fighting; he gave
ground, and with his brawny hand seized a stone, rugged and huge, that
was lying upon the plain; with this he struck the shield of Ajax on
the boss that was in its middle, so that the bronze rang again. But
Ajax in turn caught up a far larger stone, swung it aloft, and
hurled it with prodigious force. This millstone of a rock broke
Hector’s shield inwards and threw him down on his back with the shield
crushing him under it, but Apollo raised him at once. Thereon they
would have hacked at one another in close combat with their swords,
had not heralds, messengers of gods and men, come forward, one from
the Trojans and the other from the Achaeans—Talthybius and Idaeus
both of them honourable men; these parted them with their staves,
and the good herald Idaeus said, “My sons, fight no longer, you are
both of you valiant, and both are dear to Jove; we know this; but
night is now falling, and the behests of night may not be well
gainsaid.”
  Ajax son of Telamon answered, “Idaeus, bid Hector say so, for it was
he that challenged our princes. Let him speak first and I will
accept his saying.”
  Then Hector said, “Ajax, heaven has vouchsafed you stature and
strength, and judgement; and in wielding the spear you excel all
others of the Achaeans. Let us for this day cease fighting;
hereafter we will fight anew till heaven decide between us, and give
victory to one or to the other; night is now falling, and the
behests of night may not be well gainsaid. Gladden, then, the hearts
of the Achaeans at your ships, and more especially those of your own
followers and clansmen, while I, in the great city of King Priam,
bring comfort to the Trojans and their women, who vie with one another
in their prayers on my behalf. Let us, moreover, exchange presents
that it may be said among the Achaeans and Trojans, ‘They fought
with might and main, but were reconciled and parted in friendship.’
  On this he gave Ajax a silver-studded sword with its sheath and
leathern baldric, and in return Ajax gave him a girdle dyed with
purple. Thus they parted, the one going to the host of the Achaeans,
and the other to that of the Trojans, who rejoiced when they saw their
hero come to them safe and unharmed from the strong hands of mighty
Ajax. They led him, therefore, to the city as one that had been
saved beyond their hopes. On the other side the Achaeans brought
Ajax elated with victory to Agamemnon.
  When they reached the quarters of the son of Atreus, Agamemnon
sacrificed for them a five-year-old bull in honour of Jove the son
of Saturn. They flayed the carcass, made it ready, and divided it into
joints; these they cut carefully up into smaller pieces, putting
them on the spits, roasting them sufficiently, and then drawing them
off. When they had done all this and had prepared the feast, they
ate it, and every man had his full and equal share, so that all were
satisfied, and King Agamemnon gave Ajax some slices cut lengthways
down the ****, as a mark of special honour. As soon as they had had
enough to cat and drink, old Nestor whose counsel was ever truest
began to speak; with all sincerity and goodwill, therefore, he
addressed them thus:-
  “Son of Atreus, and other chieftains, inasmuch as many of the
Achaeans are now dead, whose blood Mars has shed by the banks of the
Scamander, and their souls have gone down to the house of Hades, it
will be well when morning comes that we should cease fighting; we will
then wheel our dead together with oxen and mules and burn them not far
from t
Adrien Jul 2014
Quiero pintar tu cuerpo con mis dedos, de mil lineas y puntos
Para capturar los mil verdes que toma tu mirada
Segun el tiempo, segun la hora.
Para guardar conmigo el sabor de tus suspiros,
Y el de tu oreja,
El de tus labios,
Y el de tu lengua.

Quiero cojer estos tesoros inaprensibles,
Estas gemas inalcansables;
Como de mis dedos la arena,
El polvo de oro que se escapa;
Nubes suaves y edulcoradas,
Por cual viento invisble llevadas.

Quiero pintar tu cuerpo con mis dedos, de mil lineas y puntos.
Para mostrar al mundo y a la faz del Sol
Lo que puede brillar una pequeña flor,
Como puede cambiar un miserable en hombre mejor.

Quiero ser tu siervo, alimentar tu fuego
Proteger de mis brazos tu belleza
Y hacerte sonreir para que sea dia
Quiero estar a tu lado poque estoy enfermo
Y eres la prescripcion que me hizo el cielo
Quiero robar el nectar a tus labios
Y tocar tu piel para estar con Dios
Quiero ser tu sombra para seguirte por donde estes
Quiero ser tu alfombra para que me toques con tus pies
Quiero ser la orilla a la que vaya tu barco
Quiero pintar tu cuerpo.

Quiero oler, quiero tocar, quiero sumergirme alli dentro de la corriente pacifica casi magica, de té y de menta, de miel y de lima, con los ojos bien abiertos para sentirme vivir y la boca y cada poro del cuero espeso que cubre mi cuerpo debil.
Quiero vivir toda mi vida en este instante, en el que mis pelos se levantan, en el que mis entrañas sobresaltan y mis pupilas se dilatan, cuando me miras y lees en mi alma, y juegas con ella, cuando paseas y bostezas en el jardin secreto de mi sueño cuando posas tus pies sobre mi boca sobre mi letra cuando caminas sobre mi, sobre mi poesia como sobre un camino que no lleva a ninguna parte, para no irse del pais solo recorerlo no salir del museo porque tu eres mi galeria de arte.
Quiero tocar, quiero oler, quiero sumerjirme, dejar de orar, de pintar puntos y lineas, quiero alcanzarte.
Estoy movido por esta fuerza salvaje que late en tus pupilas,
Esta misma que mueve el insecto  hasta la flor prominente, es lo que hace sudar y empapa los páramos cada noche como para bautizarlos y lo que mueve los sequoias a tratar de tocar los cielos por miles de años ; la excitacion y efervenscia en las ramas de los bosques cuando llega el alba, las alabanzas y los cantos de hadas vestidas de plumas cuando viene la luz, el susurro del insecto y de monstruos minisculos que musitan llega la luz, llega el color
Tu eres mi luz , tu eres mi calor cuando me atrapas en el abismo verde de tus ocelos dulces que quiero oler, quiero tocar.
Quiero sumerjirme en las galaxias celadon de tus fanales que percibo a veces en el cielo, quiero con la boca y las venas abiertas impregnarme de la clorofila que moja tus ojos es lo que mi cuerpo pide, mi cuerpo suplica, el eucalypto a mi garganta a mis pulmones el aire puro, el aire limpio, quiero oler tu haliento, estar penetrado de calor, y de fuego por un instante que me mires como el pajaro secreto que toca su nido por un instante y por un instante solo, cuando se ilumina la noche por un fragmento de segundo y que desaparece, quiero volar contigo quiero parar el tiempo porque cuando me miras vivo. Quiero tocar quiero oler quiero estar contigo, porque eres mi luz, mi ilucion y mi dia, la mas bella creacion que hizo jehova.
anusha Apr 2018
I’ve

seen love

In movies, viewed parting

lips, glances

through a glass—

To know:

I’ve never felt

the heartbeat of another

sync alongside

mine

But my

mind, it holds

Skin, salt, of sea

waves who may feel the scratch

ofthe sand for-half

A second, to then

be dragged

away,

how many,

I ponder, are alike? It must

be an ocean wide,

those

For whom this

ache is commodified. I fear—I am

A blossom, bearing

fruit, which knows

it will fall

soon;

It is but a

matter of time before

I am crushed

underfoot... .
Ma Cherie Jan 2017
The great Green Mountains,
up where the tallest evergreens grow,
stretching,
upward an outward,
toward the heavens,
a perimeter of boundaries,
where white iridescent angels,
can drift,

Touching the clouds,
in winds of change coming,
gathered together sheltering storms,
alongside barren maples
and birches,
with shriveled others aging,
gracefully,
bowing down to winter's bone,
and ready for Spring's solstice.

When,
in surging solar winds,
upward of,
a million miles an hour,
40 hours after leaving their sun,
raining in an big bright ariel shower,
emphasizing their greatness,
in an eerie tranquility,
behind a diffused hazy luster,
a distant soft moon light,
in a beautiful Glory Shining.

Silvery satin ribbons,
and celadon green bends,
as colors wait pensive to create
in messages it then sends,
a heavenly landscape,
for their part in the prism ballet,
these arial acrobats,
yearn to touch tips on sturdy cutouts,
of tall old aging trees,

Dancing into ever-changing,
multifaceted soft,
an inspiring hues,
an shifting in the breeze
they move above,
in a mystical rhythm,
a dark and mysterious,
black smoke rises
in between rays,
in the opaque darkest hour,
for the creation of,
a spiritual backdrop,
mysterious feeling power
in the magnificent,
Magnetic Midnight.

The darker the sky,
the brighter the light,
for an otherworldly setting,
as colors merge and ignite
while they mix the palate again,
I am lost in silent reverie,
for the forces that dance there in that blackness,

Awe-inspiring,
breathtakingly beautiful,
alien,
frightening,
imparting comforting wisdom,
it is everything an so exciting,
and healing to your soul,
like a hauntingly familiar sound,
of
music to your ears.

moving like in an immensely,
active native conga,
while flitting eiree,
ghosts of glaciers perform,
when fueled folklore beckon,
swirling magic colors
in a perfect moving storm
these beauties from frozen skies,
spraying snow & tossing sparks,
as their created stars,
saturate the deep,
as their tears are shed,
in big butterfly kisses,

playfully floating,
in lovely little fine wisps,
of cirrus smudges of pure refractions,
bending in rarified veils of light,
into a seamless,
shimmering skyscape.

A hiding crystal clear,
deep Alice blue sky,
now fading,
as colors are now blending,
from azure into darkest denim,
then turning periwinkle,
stretching out,
into auroral archways,
dusted in a tangerine glow
in transitioning brushstrokes,
gently cover impressionistic sketches,
evolving into luminism,
on an endless open canvas.

As I paint the words,
where I sit there quietly,
respectfully awaiting answers,
as clouds and moonlight smear,
into watercolor scenery,
using up each angel tear
an intimate engagement occurs,
the passion of nature,
is sublime,
just perfectly,
these synchronized sky swimmers ,
becoming one

As a stormy sun is forcing,
red light dancers,
holding torches,
colliding and becoming excited,
edging themselves,
these powerful ominous portents,
becoming the framework.

Around a fantastic fluorescent show,
the cast wearing blushing pink,
and wild viola purples,
tinged in chartreuse green,
basking in beauty,
where hope lies,
in these colors I've never ever seen, since,
transcending skies of tomorrow,
into an age old masterpiece,
waiting patiently for this,
spiritual journey,
to begin,
with an eager & beautiful,
dawn coming.

Where the North winds,
send a brilliant light show,
of atomic wonders,
in watery pirouettes,
of shaped effects,
& teardrops sacrificed,
swirl in spirits of harmony,
completely memorizing,
I am transfixed,
an astonishing feat,
of brilliant pigments,
smudged into,
the mysterious lightness,
my drifters heart wanders,
melded into atmospheric colors,
we can only wish to see in this lifetime.

Where life seeds now
glide,
on the giving winds,
and Eagles and hawks can,
applaud this much beauty way up there.

This place,
a heavenly firmament,
where all the sacred souls come to die,
  where all the very, very, wise end up,
where they all spend their eternal lives,
young and old alike,
eventually they all retire here,
bringing us hope or warnings,
a chance at redemption,
striking hot iron in a glow,
metallic bits,
stars form,
restless,

Sighing, awaiting,
  a gifted chance to share with us,
along with all the parished,
souls and spirits,
playfully transforming,
from native garb,
mocassin covered feet,
change into favorite animals,
stomping on the colorful floor,
a great bear,
a wolf,
a beluga whale,
a soaring raptor,
not wanting for anything,
walking in Native American circles,
to the sounds of long silent drums,
morphing & shape shifting,

Again,
and again,
and again,
where rain shadows dance,
in ancient skies,
celestial bodies are illuminated,
reflecting the fire circles,
from where distant oceans shore,
take me there...ancestors
take me there once more,

As night slowly declines,
as daylight seeps through cracks,
bleeding into tomorrow,
to fly again to share what they must,
they pray and worship their God,
and they trust..

And Aurora Borealis is her name.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Listen to Time to turn the tide by Millpond Moon  global warming is affecting this gift....writing this made me cry ....for our sacred Earth.  This is a meaningful piece I had to dig deep in old studies and in my beliefs this was BREATHTAKINGLY beautiful Aurora Borealis a few years ago. This is about stars, this place- Vermont, Heaven, angels and death or coming omens. Peace - Vermont
(I watched my video again in astonishment.)
I hope you all are well n happy. I'm OK....
Olga Valerevna Sep 2012
i detached my mind's roots from what had grown along the inside of my skull
like a patch of celadon poison growing up the walls of a brick house
inhibiting other plant life
i wrapped the vines around my hand and up to my elbow into a perfect wreath
thorny and dry
my fingers bled
less conscious than usual
all I could think was
this was easier than I'd expected
K Hanson Sep 2014
In Africa the lissome eucalyptus leaves
Sharply ovoid, a washed celadon,
Turn their silvery backs, yield, bend with
The promise of on-coming rain.
You taught me this
Sign, this tree-voiced prediction, long ago, among
The tenderly sloping, densely viridian hills
And heavy, somnolent, rolling fogs of Iowa.
And so, I turn my back. I yield, oh, how I yield.
But, you didn’t foresee, didn’t know
How, much later, my heart would
Flake and flay
How great sheets of myself
Would peel, would fold
Would slough off just like
The bark, the back of those massive whitened eucalyptus trunks, you
Didn’t, couldn’t foretell how this long union
Scars, clings, sinks so deep, tattoos itself so that eucalyptus-like, despite
Repeated rain lashings, leaf bowings, droopings and sun decimated leavings
My heart, my soul sheds, molts, reforms, renews itself and just as those
Sharpened leaves arch and curve and arc and sway
So I bend, I turn, I give in, I give in
To the chafing wind, to the scouring hurt, to
The on-coming African
Rain.
Sethnicity Apr 2016
I watched her write Love on her arms
it flowed like lava as the meaning was felt
ripples of hardened flesh
with hot plasma and her cooling kiss
scratch that one off the bucket list
(codetta)

To tattoo love on my lids
finding you between the highs and mids
when the lights go off you are there
then you reappear
in the strobe and LED atmosphere
All I can do is wish... you were here too
unravel the shutters of my soul (segno)
to embrace you in a place more real
animate my memories to simulate surreal
stimulate thoughts my body can not feel
till my lids reopen to reveal a deck
used to project a black massif sunset
platters pressed with disco tech
soluvum's spun to some rung of heaven
I's reflect; eyes *****, to mirror mystery
celadon mandela murals and memory
a nebula of history (fine)

When eyes see you come (:l)

Below the surface afraid you'll run
yet steady marching to a heart shaped drum
echoing the song of the lord god capon
we've gone deaf to the celebration
Eyes close when kissing to lock in what's missing
maybe to hear the rush of blood hissing
maybe to capture the sound of oceans shifting
maybe to feel the steady rise of hills below our feat
maybe that's why we hum synchronizing our meditation
Maybe to become one symbols like wedding bell vibration
(dc al fine)
She is my York peppermint
and when I bite into her I get the sensation...
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Glorious wanderers on Death's celadon globe
Stride- in sombre ceilidh- the arsenic haar,
Mantle of Dis' harrowing of derelicts.
Feral shadows stroking the hollow strath
With crimson paces aloft Acheron's shores,
The Erinyes, in macabre cavalcades
Walk the land, bereft, forever of aubades
anna Mar 2019
she tasted like sorrow, and the color you get when you mix pretty myrtle green and storm cloud gray.  

what perplexed me the most was that
despite her celadon elemental taste, her lips were fiery warm to the touch.  

when i put the proverbial cup down and opened my atramentous eyes, she was grinning slightly.  

her own eyes glittered like the ocean i had come to visit most days in her giggles and words. but the sea’s backdrop was the apocalyptic-esque orange-crimson death of Ra.  

it was almost like they were speaking to me as she wiped her rosy lips.  

what a beautiful language to learn.
Ghelli Jul 2015
Adrift in my ocean
Foam lifted and light
The sky sets on the horizon
And your leaving brings the night

I spy the lighthouse oft the distance
And wrack my body to relieve the pittance
That space brought such a torpor and a tremor
I need your assistance

But tho I cry out in pain
As though struck, no answer except
The uncaring roar of the inner me calls
And the brine lacquors my lips and lids
So that all I can account for
Is the cold emptiness of the place that I had been abandoned in

Not one to give up, I summon my courage
Heart full, I swim away from the light
That can't shine on me, and the shore that won't harbor me
And push deeper to the midnight blue
So I can cast away the memory of you.

It is bitter cold and lonesome, but in time
I note the water eases its assault and the light begins to shine
Truly, not the lighthouse, false shore and rocky bay
But the dawn's morning light off the continent ahead

So I redouble my efforts and drag my weary and wasted body up the celadon sands
And open my heart and with my hands
Throw to the bitter depths the pain I had carried
Like a locker all the way across the ocean of many

And though for a moment I feel the pang of that empty space
I know you couldn't stay

The wrong time and the wrong place.

Nick
Cut and trimmings mummified in your dreams in the cool of the evening
Lithe, and it's pottery
Mike Rollain Apr 2016
He thought for a moment that he might be drowning
But he loved the feeling (I am ever changing)
And she knew he would live for the progression

A common series of notes dragged him under, his vision
Flooded by dark blue spirals, words
Like strands of dripping yarn (I am ever changing)
And he knew she could see them too

They built a home just inside and forged
A memory, a shared vision (I am ever changing)
That formed a tight-knit cloak of protection
From the world

Years passed and they each grew
Closer to the words (I am ever changing)
Yet further from the meaning, unraveling

He wanted to say (I am ever changing)
That he could relate and empathize
And that he knew what it meant to be ever changing
To feel within the oxygen flush of every pulse
That nothing in this world was immune to change
And that it didn't matter, the words--
They never mattered

And how could she not see (I am ever changing)
That the color of this clover was never
The dampened celadon hue of once new love
But rather the soft saffron whisper (I am ever changing)
Of the morning sun? But he knew
She wouldn't understand the question

It took some time to realize
That time has a tendency (I am ever changing)
To spread out like a mushroom cloud and fall
On a quiet Tuesday afternoon like any other
As he barely recalls which notes to play
And the forgotten words trail off
(I am...)
Audio: https://soundcloud.com/mike-rollain/ever-changing
brooke Mar 2016
Queen of the fallen tree and the gneiss ridden
shore, ruling over an empire of celadon
moss and early spring waters, you stand off
to the west (of me) and i see your breath shift
over your lip and dissipate in loose tendrils against
the evening sun

I catch him staring up at the trees arced over
our heads with a strange boyish grin,
this is sorta what I imagine my life to look like he says
all this **** in the way and then beyond that it's clear.
He wipes his hand across the sky as if to illustrate the
supposed clarity beyond the tangle of branches.  I am startled,
I meet his gaze briefly and nod because
if not a mess or entanglement, what better way to
describe the way I feel than to elude to the bracken
and brushwood ?

Out across a wire fence, deer gather quietly and stand
stock-still as we pass, aloof if not for their big inquiring eyes
watching us smirk and bump shoulders because
we don't know how else to be close (I already tried my tricks).
But he surprises me now and again with his gregariousness
with a determination to get to but an equal pleasure in
idling, in stillness, in gliding across my instep, performing
quick studies on my nails or briefly succumbing to the shadow
beneath my collarbone--

Quite arbitrarily, i ask for his pocket knife
but it's him that carves our initials into the
snarl at my feet, his hood pulled close
around his neck as he sets to work
Bis now with those hands that
have been kilned and slipped
with engobe, I am stirred
stirred
stirred
and
awake
awake
and
afraid.
February 25th

(c) Brooke Otto 2016
Aparna Oct 2020
rain mist wreathed
virid groves
of evergreen
sun languished
behind clouds grey
overcast sky
lachrymose;
distant rumble
thunder;brontide
pellet-laden gusts
of wind;cold
leaf-stirring
nubivagant drops
falling
glistening foliages
rustling;
celadon leaves
rain-washed
brushwood damp
galore humus
dewy silence;
gerful downpour
incipient
another rain poem:)
FullMoon Aug 2014
The clear beau sky above my head
The fresh celadon grass beneath me
All just brings happiness to me
Sam Sep 2018
A branch I cannot bear to be far from
Lifted on wings from spell of yonder blue
Soaring high, we watched the blossom come
Lo, as leaves will turn green to umber hue
So now, as still we reach for further on
Lifting, the leaves will show their underside
And bare a shade of fractal celadon
A light beneath for wilting blades to hide
But once they drop and scatter at our feet
Until the breeze, let’s walk through tumbled time
And stay until new buds mature complete
For memories that hang need fall to climb
As we ascend until the season’s passed
The boughs will brace, for such bold love does last
It's only the time
To be alive with the sunrise and pied piper
Tryst with miles to go and trials with her
To attend to migrant dreams in stylish clinics
Attending to a cure for the surprised
Heading towards a placid flirtatious expression

I mistook these looks for affection
Only time will tell
If the love was alive
Placid flirtatious surmise
Silken, celadon hangs on the balcony
Trying to escape the sunlight entering
The lantern near the beside
Open the bookend, marked the page
After sultry kisses washed away on peach skin
Rosy cheeks, and nimble feet
Just touch and your body quivers
Your toes move a little quicker

As the clock ticks
Only time will tell if I'm alive
Body stop, free prose next to my bedside
Lately, the time has fallen in the silence
As delightful, this sounds and summed up
In time, I'm alive as we make the connection
Inflection of our tongues intertwine at the eyes
That hold gazes over the kisses
Sojourn the day, sleep at night
Are you in spirited my child like my poems
Let's fly together on thoughts that know no measure
Let it be love that takes us to that pleasure
Sittin' next to my bedside

Now you're cured and my poems have found structure
In your alive lively motherly arms, where I can cry for eternity
But, I must confess I don't in this virile panorama
Free and strapless, I can see your heart which I dream of vividly
I sit and conserve this memory on physical adaptations in my poetry
Your body is poetic silence, that's where my metaphors lie
All this love in my head, I guess fly first 'cause I'm shy one here
Subservient to your will, lovely surrender isn't it?
Her heartbeats meant *******
Rapscallion come after me next to my bed instead
You once called me a common person
Love's a little crazy as it chases after commoners sharing something uncommon
What a time to be alive?
R
coral cinnabar crimson carmine
cerise claret cochineal cardinal
burgundy ruby scarlet vermillion

O
apricot amber carnelian topaz
nascarat saffron jacinthe tangerine

Y
flavescent lutescent xanthic citrine
jessamy ictericious ochre meline

G
vivid viridian olivaceous teal
zinnober porraceous and eau de nil
caeisous virescent cyaneous corbeau
celeste celadon pavonated azuline

I
cobalt peacock prussian pthalo
saffirine aegean denim blue

V
amaranthine amethyst violaceous plum
heliotrope purple violet mauve
ianthine porphyrous lilac lavender too
DeVaughn Station May 2020
All of life is dead and the Sun has set.
Wet is the battlefield with blood after the brawl.
Stenches of death and sweat from both sides,
divides and drenches the trenches.
Sounds echo eerily quiet;
quite loud and profound.
All is for naught, as the vultures of the President descend.

The celadon leader smiles as he looks upon his ****** empire.
His vicious hunger is never fulfilled and his smaragdine iniquity smothers.
He wants, no, needs more; a never-sated, rapacious desire.
A broken country built on the backs and deaths of others;
evermore he wants and he wants evermore.
An incessant life drowned in cupidity and submerged in green,
but he is never jaded. He is a ***** emerald without valor.
His unclean desire for money recklessly expands as a deep ravine.

Avarice trumps the morals,
while he spreads a pestilential malignancy through the air.
The sacred blood of innocents binds together his laurels.
But the need for greed is exponential and blinds him to his error.
The mindless masses amass themselves at his mere feet,
but his mere feats only sum to immense ignorance and hate.
As he continues to stand for nothing but hypocrisy,
and his sycophants continue to vacuously prate.
It is a lesson for us all as a warning for our souls.
Covetousness is a viridian plague with no cure.
He corrupts spirits and gains unrighteous power from the polls.
But he is no leader, he’s only a false savior siphoning from the poor.
I first wrote this nearly two years ago but I never released it until now, when things are at a boiling point. It seems like everything takes its course eventually.
The one Mar 2018
Painted Atelephobia

Inevitable is the oblivion afeard within celadon gardens.
In the center a cerise bloom reaches clouds with ruby fingertips. Not I will touch sunsets as she.


Click is the cardinal heel of white collars which soar in cerulean skies. Still I stand on russet boots stuck in mud. For the wings on my back have been clipped long before.

Aye is the color changing leaf. Not apace is she, yet still grows skillfully radiant. Evergreen bristles with no compare to her auburn tint which gracefully touches winds and sails the seas. A green of dark hue flies not so angelically.

Never will I be the shadow in your eyes, nor the dimples on your cheeks. Never will I stand from the crowd and bloom like her. Never will fly nor soar nor swim. Never will I be good enough for you.
Atelephobia is the fear of never being good enough❤️❤️
In her river full of cerulean celadon, jaded and glideth by its will
Transient and scenic, it's unyielding frame is prone
To breaking hearts that are still, and memory that stills
He stood so close to me,
I could feel his breath, smelling of crisp apples,
for it was autumn and we walked briskly through
the winds of change.

His long blue-black hair and celadon eyes,
captured me immediately. The slanted sun touched
his face with a coral glow as we gathered our books
and headed to his dorm.

He stopped suddenly, gently brushing his hand
through my hair,
pulling at the longest strands of auburn, then releasing
them quickly as if he'd gone too far.

I waited to see what would happen next;
the wind caressing his charcoal locks, and
swinging my red scarf in the cold, fresh air.

There was a burst of light snow, fluttering down
on us as we said goodbye. He always called me
"sport" as he knew my love was raging within me,
but he was "spoken for" by the girl back home.

Still, I wonder, if it were a different time and place,
would he have been the one. I cherished my time with him,
brief as it may have been...

And now he's with God, after a lifetime of success and joy
with his girl from home. I'll always feel blessed to have
known him; to have laughed, sung, joked, shared lunches, and cried on his shoulder about life's foibles.

Thank you, dear sir, forever. At 21, you were my guiding light !
for Elliott, SHALOM, and RIP !
Sitting in the nearly faded sunlight,
feeling early summer's warmth--
As its mercurial rays bounce about,
then linger on the wicker chairs,
and soaring upward to the still and stalwart
birch trees--
an occasional breeze dropping leaves on the
red-brick yard below.

Above us glows the day's calm and azure
sky--
Where floating clouds paint a softened view,
and the sun continues to shine on the sea-green
waters of the pool--
Appearing like dancing diamonds.

My arms and legs shift delicately--
to catch the rays of the 'golden god' of the Solstice.
With flushed cheeks I then observe the birds,
nestling among the trees,
preparing for the season--their voices singing
through the white-hot zephyrs.

The stage now set for a glorious afternoon,
as the children jump into the pleasant spring
of celadon waters--splashing, howling, screeching
with laughter--
Enjoying life, as it should be !
On vacation down the shore, resting after a swim, observing the view from the porch at the B&B !
Finding lost lamps in the endless river
Finding lost paths in the endless sea of shiny slivers
Superimposed by cherry blossoms looking to get red, falling like the samurai wind
A metaphorical sword in the word of the kicking and rolling with the deracinated punches
Leers and steers, queers and the prayers comin' in the firm hands and the strutting souls that just can't make it through
Trembling and positive rhapsody, heartbeat flows through these terrible feelings with ease and rough edges
That gives me some relief in the ruins of a time past and has gone ne'er to wait on the cusp of time
The temerity of the weak people gets on the nerves of the patient who wait to test time
Loving you is like a trap, and the journey ends up in the faintest memory
These are things that make the spring lust, undermining everything that I remember

The sunset line can be mistaken for this road of hopeful faith
And opportunity comes with it, and some lost souls find their destiny awakening
Impression and departure, it's just case of arriving somewhere but here in the future of adversity
Fickle lady luck you've made my life, a metaphorical world
Just for a metaphysical girl, in case I just forget
How funny it is when life is times in perspective
Adding a soundtrack too can make it or break it
etudes, classical violins and broken dreams in this town of blue notes and thick smoke and purple groove
Haze doesn't work as a substitute for connective interfaces
Freedom to bucolic cygnets too truant to dream desire and demean
Swimming in the pool with the same ducks and ugly as cracked places
Traces of you, smoldering smitten semaphoring thoughts of someone close to you

Killjoy, repeat joy, you don't say; tell me more about your bebop and hip pop
Hip hop doesn't stop, until the groove is gone and the night as right
I guess I'm to blame for that rap music
Trepidatious isn't it being surreptitious, sounds silence in the dancing dark
Your mountain dog helps you awake in mended ways of a villainous version of systems and resuscitated governments
Of hootenanny, heralding the vernacular and jokes and veritable wine of aged humor, the dogs of the military take it all
Sharing it with the slightly avuncular makes it singularly appealing

Like a rat crossing the vegetations to look for slavery
Forging the plots of the bubonic pathos of plagued souls
Logical isn't how the rebirth died with a topical topsy-turvy thing called metaphors and teenage angst
Tranches and branches, stigmatize these sprigs of hovering forest of the streams of streaming rivers through the Conrad lands of radiance and splendor
Reminding of madness, barren words of the baroness, iridescent memory
Telling us only time could wait for us, and tell us to fly above all these vermins and scar tissues
Sermonize and call the heaven-sent, and ask for destiny awakening, in the crimson red, celestial bodies that resemble celadon
Love is true, till is you, that flows through the river in you
I could tell you till my face is a different hue, I dream of a better time in this place called reality
Reminding myself everything is in reverse, and distant memory is just the closest feeling I recount when each iambic meter states the verses of this timeless life  
Remember from the blues and the acropolis and metropolitan incriminating, all these people going across like fleeting figures of the literary imagination
I could care less, and leave this city too, this is a thought I keep
If I could run away from this destiny too if I wasn't sleeping at the new kid's place in this town, drinking on the borrowed time of strangers
Trenchant, turpitude and tocsin is the truth when it comes to freely loading all your murderous cases of reprise and flickering lamps
True is just me that thinks it's relevant to this germane generation following the natural order, calling it the new substance
Simply railing through this blazing road, I'm on fire
Intermission and comes transience
This hip hop is old and so is the talk of condolences, shot rappers for gold and fake names
Riches from rags, to make homes out of the outbound trembling time that scares common time
And talk of immediate memory, and thespian and tulips blossom similarly
Putting on an act, like the midnight pretenders bending midnight spoons
Surmise and I suppose to be yours if I could get over these brighter stars of the darkness
Make your magnum opus with the correction and subjective precision, that you would show an etherized patient
Terse and cursory, you're spontaneity only syncopates with the silence
The redaction of statements would be criminal and I would rather like your writing on some stolen notebook
Grasping and gaping Centauri, releasing gases like the solar chrome horses
Inane and intermittent, aren't these sunshine beams, God wouldn't want me to be a sagacious beam
In the unforgiven law of the supposed religious belief and the dream weavers, make of the same sky we share
They might mistake the distance of the Sun, for God's light shining on cues
So, says the man who sold the world, to the cumulus accord that governs the capricious desert
Surpassing this law takes some law and serfs, breakfast is served by the smurf-head
The sun shines on us all, especially those who have mouths to feed
And don't understand boulders, unsteady tears, and cologne
They revel in the thought of seeing sunshine on their weary shoulders the coalition of the hollow men
Country roads, hitchhiking, I'm lost on road called sunset free street, the straws burning
People ask me, why I never appear on this trailblazing cars and find a hilarious lintel saying "This way for Love."
Suppose, I should tell them that I'm famously private and I don't take rides from strangers and don't lend hands to those without money
Love talkin' about that sometime, honey
Sometimes is never and some semblance of the past that was fiduciary
Smug and shy, I'm not sure that guy brings me some childish dreams and inspired, stirring, and compelling stories
You make life my desirable
You take my Thursdays and turn them darker
You turn every other day more colorful, and except green returns
We take turns smoking celadon and takoyaki in pots of bridling heat
Hues of a different scenery can change my climbing ladders
And the serene and hundreds of men that live in honesty
Hiding behind trees, and members of the clan
And the camels and deserts sands, change their thirst for water
Like the chameleon, tha climbs for the spider
In a cobweb and a truncheon thing called dishonest cenacles
A group of murders and murderous men, both have a mystery
And enigmatic dirges, that how we die with the faraway celestial bodies
We airbrush strokes in our starlight madness, someday in this carefree heart
I find your lost words
Kind of appealing, I love how you found yourself
In the wrong places, and ended up at the broken places
With the traces of the past, hanging like fearful destiny
That you don't want to come back to, a morning sickness
A glorified dream, just forget it when you go to retirement
Sleep comes when the money stops
Misanthropes following tropes of evidence
Conclusively positing them as logical statements
Seen the resourcefulness of people, conclusively work
I'm pretty sure, they work under flickering lights
Trimming and trespassing, savage gardens under lighthouses
Right under same old blue, and the turquoise shells
That hang on your shelf, like dreamweavers of blue embers
The breaths of the wind, touching your skin moonlit
You moonlight as the nighttime savior, bringing tsunamis
Washing out daydreams, and people looking at the blue sea
Sea green is where the horizon is, the turbulent tempests of thunderous storms
Stream of consciousness doesn't break the thoughts and doesn't stop with acrimony
Aspersions cast upon Poseidon's seas, like murdered mysteries
Bows and arrows slower with the samurai swords that light up the path for death and decrease
Breeze and the moss green, celadon, and ninja seals
Bursting your bubbles that flow and dissipate like distant memories
I might be flowing and collecting my shells, but, I never give up the search
The journey never stops, like the blue center of hope
Cinemas and music, that flow like beating cotton buds and blossoming drained flowers
The sun falters like these forget-me-nots asking for something in epiphanies
Just so you look so godly
God, I wanna go into solace
Souls wild, like your goddess
That compares like the stress of wires
Her complexion bound by the conviction
Complacent, celadon, transient twisted like metaphysics
Grab my life by the metaphorical soul
Stop your marbling, talking to me from meddling fiddles
Trees calling you, reimburse your mass in properties and irradiation
Streets lit up, the weather was worse for leucistic jeans
Your journeys were chartered along the right corners, speaking
Trained stations swipe left, and life of the party
Teas and charts offal killing my lungs, pearls in my ostensible oyster
The kitsch of the cent, and last of us persons in the hundredth
Wake me up when September ends, as the life of December sees the light of the next year
October Sun call me during the rain on the parade, thoughts from the underground that doesn't see the rainy days
Rise, resplendent walk among the wilderness
The motionless moon paved out our moving shadows
The rain turned those into reflections, too
Sun comes out the somber smile, the December day
The November name, of the September slave
Sanctuary September, maybe
Wade through the wilderness of thirsty haze
Let me kick off on Wednesday, the life of the playful dalliance
Trained stations, impudent the prudent paved praise
Pray with criminals, and abandon the day of dandelions
On train circus stations looking for trained lions, Percy Bysshe Shelley
Looping me in the dream of moonlit inclination on the spark of the timeless wilderness
My restful ease, and my mellow dream
Among a class of neighborhood, looking for a birthed ideal
I rested my case, with my pack of suitcases, on the road of devilish deeds
In this land of eternity
My case carried sandalwood, creme brulee, celadon, chartreuse, cognac, a copy of today's newspaper
A phone rested in a knapsack, among other erroneously kept articles, a duet for cello and violin, icicle, a firebird, a lighter case, and post-it mentioning your number
These are my creative and crests of cemented ceramic carved poetry, in a carved out moon for the cruising werewolf driver
My face hung from the wall, just like the thought of a perfect day
Welcoming your good-intentions and charmin', a winding road disarming cars on this road to the universe
I love cups of tea like twigs signing to the air. Swinging to and fro with nothing to care. I like women and wooing them with cups of tea and woollen mittens to amuse them. They ask me to hold their fingertips as they shoot moonbeams from there lips. I like cups of tea that need to be caressed by rudimentary teeth on ruby lips. I like sipping cups of tea peacefully as I shape my hands around that ceramic and dream of rivers of jade. I like dreaming of celadon too as it reminds me of the emerald ring that I bought for you. Where I proposed to you in the coffee shop. Down the hall where the best mind knew the best friend I knew I had found my worst critic. I wish love could last as much as my liking for cups of tea. I like cups of tea because I love peace as angels sing and chant cantos in some silver Oak. Where we look for spring in the perennial winter. Your arms around are like winter twigs holding leaves that may fall soon. My memories are weak and a week old. My memories are frail and untold. I love cups of tea as you can tell from my hate for coffee.
Surreal street
My neighbor's house still is green, gates open
Hangs from the clothes line, the halcyon image
Stuck inside these cold walls, a celadon boiling pan
In red and azure, granite and brick lay strewn
Like an unseen wind, that bellows in my neighborhood
Blue is the warmest summer, sun looks like day
When the skies turn to nubile solipsism, night changes
Polaroid of my childhood reminds me of the lost time, stars were fantastic
This was where I grew tanner and older, now we have grown
We just have love in common, there goes the police
Yoking together law and power, a colored footprint
Turning the graves more and more, concrete trees
Exiling the tenants, food for free
Keeping the truth alive though, but hope has died
The missing girl has now come back, with a Siamese cat short
She is on a holiday, in the UK
She reads much of the night, and goes away
Lest the memories feed on her lung, tail and heart
Tales from a storefront, is her only recluse
Her friend is now a balloon

— The End —