"changeling" poems
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Life is unavoidably ecstatic,
at every scale, degree, level, dimension,
an oscillation,
season to season
day to night to day to night
cycle by cycle
wax by wane
feeling
by feeling
to feeling
always moving
both ways
all ways
always
crest, trough,
cresting-
falling,
lifting-crashing
riding, riding out
and in
and through
and by
and by,
bursting..
I could explode,
I might explode,
I did explode,
I do explode
though I'm contained,
boundary by boundary,
transcending,
including,
moving
always moving
both ways
all ways
always
rainbows weaving spectral waving,
rivers raging, bodies growing,
organismic, oceanic, orgiastic
in-ing, out-ing,
coming-going,
holding, letting go,
flowing, flowing, flows
surrendered, building,
pursing, pleasing,
pangs, paining,
ripping, breaking,
sorrows to joys to shade to shine,
as chasms to substantiation,
as abyssal to full,
as burn to burning,
to smoke etheric,
to ashes, to ground,
all passions
as passions
passion
pumping, filling, releasing
on-ing, off-ing,
alive-dying-birthing-living,
living as moving
always moving,
transforming
breath by breath
by breathing, being
this to that,
a changeling,
changing
always moving
always moving
both ways
all ways
always
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Here comes The Change
That has the range
Of emotions
And demotions
And devotions
Of a perilous populous
That likes to raise a fuss
When they eventually learn who I am
And treat me like I'm the Son of Sam
To be specific
They discover I'm gay
And begin to filet
My mentality
In totality
For fatality
Merely by acting differently
If my sexuality isn't the first thing people know about me
I get to witness The Change
Like a dog with mange
I am shedding my hair
While screaming no fair
Because of the shift I see
Because of the **** I need
To make my heart bleed
There is a steady bellowing burdensome baggage
From those that want to ****** some *******
So I search for weight lifters
But only find shapeshifters
That become great grifters
When The Change occurs
And The Change burns
So The Change turned
Me into an interdimensional changeling
And an unintentional rage king
After they use words like flaming
Because the results are so draining
It becomes hard not to hate people
Who are inspired by hate steeples
They say I'm going to Hell
While I notice the smell
Of being buried in their banal ****
While they play their greatest hits
That are as unoriginal
As they are cynical
They say I'm a degenerate
An embarrassment
A parent's lament
I want to change into a carefree bird
Instead I stay in Hell with the herd
Wanting to escape like Lupin the Third
Rather than be oppressed like the Kurds
But there is no relief
Only re-grief
When changes aren't permanent
But The Change is
There's an illustration of my life
That will change your perspective
The picture is in my words
When the painting is what I choose to say
And the canvas is your mind
Whose textures I could never imagine
So I jump off a cliff blindfolded
Expecting to be changed once I land
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:13 AM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
I love too much, but not too often.
My heart gets broken, but I keep going.
I am transparent, iridescent like glass,
So when you strike with the force of a hammer you leave more than a crack.
My heart is fragile, a bird with a broken wing.
I thought you would fix it and make it continue to sing.
I stand tall and confident in all my feelings,
Something that’s scary to you who is not used to these dealings.
I feel shame for the way I am.
Feeling love and passion for you that I wish I could bury in the sand.
A treasure left for you to uncover,
Not something I should have exposed to you undiscovered.
I tend to frighten away the one my heart wants to hold,
Do you see me as crazy, uncontrolled, too bold?
I often take broken loves words and wear them as scars.
Reminders of lessons unlearned and love unforetold by the stars.
I try their words on as an outfit of choice.
If I can change who I am, maybe for once someone will appreciate my voice.
But often times it’s too late.'
My true self exposed in revelations of hate.
No matter how hard I try to mold and bend,
I can’t change who I am, I can’t please every man.
But for some reason I never stop trying.
I can never give up my mind and hearts constant fighting.
I literally drive myself insane for a chance at true love.
I let my mind run wild for an ecstasy that will never come.
Because if I am changing who I am to achieve what I was fooled to see as true,
I’m mistreating myself and I assault my love leaving it ****** and bruised.
It’s funny how the world can constantly build me high,
But it only took you to send me crashing through the sky.
And when I fell and hit the ground,
The armor I built was shattered around.
Underneath it all I could finally see,
The only thing that remained intact was the original me.
I, myself, am my greatest force of nature.
And when I try to change who I am I’m in immediate danger.
The second I wear a mask to fool someone I love,
Is the second that my love is broken, recanted, torn up.
It’s not love if I’m not myself.
It’s not true if I pretend to be someone else.
I’m done being a victim in your insecure schemes,
But I’m also done pretending I walked away perfectly clean.
Yes I am hurt, and yes I wanted our love to be,
But I won’t sacrifice myself for you I’d rather let you go free,
Because somewhere, out there, there’s someone who wants me.
All my imperfections and everything you made me see as faults,
I consider beautiful, rare, a gift to make someone’s world halt.
I’m not sorry for the way I express myself.
I’m just sorry it has to be for someone else.
I love too much, but not too often.
My heart gets broken, but I, I keep going.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
*the light brightening-to-shadow,
gradating
what
can be done,
what
we call it,
when
humans color,
bleach and dye their body's
hair
if only
we could gradate,
gray-date,
our lives,
select the days
we graduate
when
where
the light dissipates into shadow,
bleaching and dying
our lives
when, where,
we could be the being,
the changeling,
dyeing the destiny of our designation*
why would we need poetry?
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
shape
i shrug off my current form
like a
never-ending
flowing river
constantly
moving forward never seeing
the same
scenery twice
skin color changing
driving to colors un-dreamt of
me
a moving changing shape
moving in an
insane
world
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 7:26 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
<•>
too oft, so oft, the absence, the imagining, that
no such comfort exists, that remorse may n'ere complete its course,
when a time for love is beyond beyond, is a bridge too far,
a notion so fraught, a vision unwrought, that we do not
recognize the why and the wherefore to step forward
even for for the next breath small, the in of inconsolability,
a deeper welling
so consequential there is no seeing a piercing light
*then come to me, come to me then, when words can be
a symphony of violins, an orchestrating examination of
thy wounded chest, and caressing slow repetition
deep moaning, understanding waves upon the shores of my arms, my shoulder, my chest, any piece that can be yours,
a shoreline of relief, and listen with great care as the subtleties change, the pastoral comes in an ever ascending
crescendo of lifting, a stabbing, resurrecting but not fully repairing,
restoring but replacing sensation, for inconsolability is a disease
difficult to defeat, deserving of being memory-recalled,
but the ability, the cure, the rhyme of
hope and upward slope of open eyes will penetrate surely as the potion of the music of my words lay you down and rise you up,
and that is enough, to begin the renewal,
the campaign of commencement, the possibility of clarity,
it is the journey,*
***the changeling we call the
destiny of our designation,
which is forever the next destination***
9/17/17
7:20am
<•>
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
Sitting, restless
In this changeling
Sensation
Of freshness and renewal.
Running
Rat on a wheel.
Each passing day
A different way
Of feeling,
An altered state of mind.
Seeking
To find
A man within the boy.
Hoping to see
The real me.
Alive and kicking.
Hot flushed, this post determined puberty
And the desperate need to feel.
An urgent angst to Be.
Short fuse and temper flare.
I’m not really there
Yet still somehow
Everywhere and
Everything;
Else breathing.
Dysmorphic chest
Heaving
Exigency
In this
Juncture
Soul puncture,
And bloodied bandaids
Cast off
My heart
Once worn on my sleeve.
I am finger skin,
Flesh and nail
Torn
And jagged edges
Peeling.
Perplexity kneeling,
I am deeply lost inside of me.
Begging to be found.
Compund; unbound.
They say that beggars can’t be choosers
Only losers left to dreaming.
They also say
That I may be a dreamer
But I’m not the only one.
I will come undone in this undoing.
Eschewing
A life lived unalive.
Slow unravel
To once again
Begin
To belong in this
Skin
Stitched bleeding riches
To my bare and brittle bone
He is not alone
I feel him
Running
Waiting
Sating disquietude
With an attitude
Unshackled
He is not running
Rather feet flying
A rat inside
A wheel.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 10:47 PM UTC
---
she
is
defunct
mother of a
strange changeling
she
nurses it upon
her own heart
arterial blood
of deepest crimson
while It
bites the ******
she
accepts her fate
and allows it to feed
until it is bloated
as a leach
she
allows this stillborn
to drain her soul till
there is no longer any
joy nor pain
love nor hate
peace nor fear
lust nor frigidity
she
has named
her child
loneliness
and she
lets it
drain her
til
she
is
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
black lung whispered
abject terror in my ears
a circle of candles
and closed eyes
made plainly naked
by the thought of you
beneath the rising tide
i poured raw honey
down your abyssal throat
stole a different form
and fell into your arms
only sweet goodbyes
as i grabbed my overcoat
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
.
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
My birthday is today
Seventeen years since another Sunday at 9 AM
On top of a mountain called Ozark
In a land that reminded me of Harry Potter
Called Pettigrew like Peter
It's forests elicited sprites and daddy long legs
Made of me a changeling then spit me back out
I learned what real ice tea was at the age of three
It was my birthday
Doing Pirouettes on my aunts Patio
Again, under Arkansas stars
With faery lights leading my way
I ascended to the brush behind the house
Got lost in the greens and browns of paradise's supply
Returned with flesh painted the colour of love
In an apartment overlooking crab apple trees
Fresh Canadian foliage fostering a well concealed creek
On a 90 degree angle over a dark chocolate cake
My ninth birthday
I drank pickle juice because Vinny said it was limonade
I wore dresses that year
And coveted baskets filled to brim with blossoms
Baked the crab apples into a pie
But preferred mama's banana cream
I wore bandages on my arms
and grass stains on my knees
My tears washed away like Crayola markers
And my biggest inner questions had to do
With what was for breakfast
And the lifespan of a temporary tattoos
14 came with a big black bow
Done up gaudily in greys with a sad little smile
Three years marked with pink splotches and lines
A subject to hormones and arsenic tones
My birthday
A celebration of decay
And mama still sang, and baked, and kissed my face
And didn't wake when I placed cotton ***** in her ears
Because I was a happy girl
Today is my birthday
And mama exclaims
"No more babies! All four of you are so grown!"
But the mirror still illustrates an odd little show
With a baby face
A girls chest
And a womans hips
An ordinary freak all stitched up
Awkward and too much of everything
But not enough all the same
And inside I know
Is a sea of paradoxical Samanthas
Some stubborn and loud
Some shy and reserved
All with changes to make
Books to read
And places to go
And only few that are quite wanting yet
To be 17
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
Autumn in New Zealand is a masterpiece on canvas
Patternings of goldens and bright rose hips in their beds,
Copses of coniferous in deep and darkly avenues
To the brilliance of a country lane awash with leafy reds.
Chimney fires are smoking in the rural country cottages
The warming glow of lanterns in the windows as I pass,
A tantalising whiff of hot buttered scones is wafting
And somewhere in the distance I can hear a red deer bark.
Strolling by the lakeside in the early morning stillness
My breathing fogs before me in the chillness of the air,
Rowan trees glow scarlet and the naked ***** willow
Has shed her golden carpet on the emerald hillock there.
Rushes rattle softly in the mistyness of lowlands
Treeeferns in their glory of silver filagree,
Sparrows ruffle feathers to insulate the coolness
As wheeling flocks of starling mass to migrate to be free.
Gossamer as fairy dust the thistledown is floating
A harbinger of autumn leaves and freezing frost to come,
Those Coriollis forces are determining the changeling
Where the snowy days approaching means the Autumn tones are done.
Marshalg
27 April 2013
In rural Pukekohe.
New Zealand
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
changeling
evolving
journeying
from
pre-conception
mis-conception
immaculate conception
to post-partum
afterlife
travellers
engaging with pilgrims
seeking direction
trying to understand
nuances of relationship
between themselves and humankind
spiralling through vortices
and
mirrored portals to
a life of
clouded memory moments
lions salivating
blooded claws
eager to rip the straightjacketed soul
open
to explosions of truth
and invert the inverted drawer
exposing the convenient
lies that protect us
from the self-accusing soul
knowing we are born of choice
and sin
inevitably our bodies betray
the creator's design
through his eye of perceived benign benevolance.
empty dreams and visions
of moments
before time made us grow old
dimming vision of past joy
indulged, saved, in a treasure chest
with
baubles , bangles
beads of sweat
dripping relentlessly through
our hourglass
puddling in our slowing wake
up and know that love is tainted
before it begins.
before it started
after the dream of you
was the single star
beside the morning moon
that we shared
even when apart
was lost
in the tattered vision
of
perceived beauty
love died
reduced to triviality.
history killed it.
buried it, beneath a mountain
of hallmark cards
and internet memes.
this is the stuff of nightsweat dreams
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
I've never seen eyes quite like yours.
A 17th century folklore might label you a changeling,
try to **** your colic with honey,
and, I'm sorry to say,
but you could've been burned at the stake
with eyes like that.
Sometimes I catch your pupils riding
on a black swan's wings
stealing secrets from the breeze.
The sky around them melts my skin like a scorching Arizona sky;
Lake Placid Blue
That's when I know you're staring out the window
wishing for the birds to return
way too late in the morning.
Sometimes those eyes refract an eerie, emerald green,
like they're mimicking a sci-fi movie:
The Man who Fell to Earth
I know you are too far out in space for me to reach you then,
so I send out some light-house giggles and I hope you'll find your way back to Earth soon.
When those windows to your soul are guarded with golden, earthy chambers,
you rattle the bars with your native tongue,
cooing and commanding I recite the password again and again.
and I know exactly what to say,
when your eyes glimmer like the California gold-rush:
Let me in.
Sometimes I can hold them in one hand
while they ring like Baoding *****
entrancing me into Nirvana.
Other times they burn me like fire,
and I'm caught off guard, not enlightened enough, yet, to walk over hot coals.
You're a changeling, indeed.
But when your eyelids are closed,
and all those secrets disappear back into your soul,
you wreak of consistency,
solid as an oak tree.
Your stories seep back into your roots.
The roots that burrow deep into my soil,
familiar and warm.
I hide your secrets there.
I hold you for as long as you let me,
and I'm not afraid when you flutter back into your folklore
because I hold the key to your resting place,
the seeds of your fruitful vision.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
in ancient times
in hidden places
there lived a tribe
of small green faces
seldom seen by the human eye
these beings in fact were not always kind
a midsummers evening
when the moon was full
though hidden by clouds
the night was rather dull
a traveller walking home
tired and weak
saw a spot by a tree
and took a seat
he closed his eyes
and off he fell
into a world of dreams and secrets
so he could recover well
he dreamt of his daughter
pure and new
how he wished he was with her
and her mother too
but the dream took a twist
with an image too dark
for me to repeat
he awoke with a spark
panic in his blood
and a knot in his chest
he stood to continue
after his interrupted rest
but confusion then filled him
as he looked around
and did not recognise his surroundings
was this where he settled down?
"oh no" he whimpered
but little did he know
this was just the start
of the next few hours of woe
as very close by
not seen by his eye
were the mischievous imps
and faeries side by side
to play was all they wanted
their humour different to ours
ensuring the traveller was lost
would help them in the next few hours
as the traveller was stuck
and couldn't find his was home
which left his wife and child
unprotected; alone
around he paced
but no place he knew was found
though he wouldn't give up
and kept peering around
though at this time
the little green smirks
we're distracted by
the next part of their work
on their way to pick up the baby
a fake left in its place
would anyone notice? maybe
but the traveller grew weaker
and couldn't survive
the faeries fun almost ended
once he had died
i had to say almost
as the mother was left
not to know
that her husband was dead
and that it was not her child
that she watched grow
and we never found out
if she was ever in the know
and the impish beings
were still amused by this
and watched for a while
proud and guiltless
they giggled and laughed
at the mess they'd been making
then flew off to find
a new baby to swap for a changeling
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
I'm employed
But not enjoyed
They're annoyed
Until I'm destroyed
Then they fill that void
With another humanoid
I'm a hollow coil
From lots of toil
Like hot oil
I'm not royal
I just boil
Underneath the soil
I say howdy
Loudly
To the rowdy
That doubt me
And out me
As mouthy
This mistake
Fish tank
I drank
Stank
So rank
My mind went blank
I cannot fight it
My mind on autopilot
The roof I tile it
To style it
Violet
While lit
I am a changeling
That is aging
From waging
A war raging
Against those caging
The rat who's racing
The pain is inner
As a fidget spinner
A ****** sinner
Ate for dinner
For he's the winner
Of the money printer
And my mind of cinder
They broke me
No joking
Just poking
The nope king
While hoping
Society starts sloping
Towards communal coping
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:34 AM UTC
If she didn't color her hair,
what color would it be,
I ask,
making early morning holiday
bed talk
Gray, she replies
disputation, I say,
for I see yet much
brune underneath,
nary a single hairy grayling
smiling with affection,
she salutates:
*appearances of a changeling,
perhaps,
I am or always be,*
***like one of your new poems,
using old words for new colors,
my rainbow always ends,***
decorating our bed
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
Were
you left
pondering?
Inventing reasons?
Chalk marking every crime?
Double checking messages
...from
1 to 99
?
Did you miss the signals?
Have you missed the signs?
Tackling the scenarios
...from
1 to 99
&
then
BONK!
arrives the answer
(they had a wooden leg)
NO!
Like
a bullet
to your head.
The answer was there all along.
"You were happily mislead."
~ You know, you never really listened to all the words that went ... unsaid ~
You left your chest wide open, so they tore that heart to shreds
& that's how all those loving beats
finished so ******* up
sounding
sooo misread
.
from
.
.
1
.......^
...to.....
^........^
....^
..... ^... 99
let
all
those
words
slowly
repeat
in your
messed-up
weary
head
.
'til
soon
they'll
dim
& get dreary
in
each teary
day
that's
sent
&
soon
.stop.
worrying
about
why
that caterpillar
went
.
.
.
"1 to 99"
.
.
.
.
.
then
the silence
will start to sooth you
as cocoons spin all around
~ you've become a beautiful changeling ~
& yourself is surely found...
Spread out those brightly coloured wings
Such beauty is bound to sing
in loving all you're
sure to find
by
chasing
better things
...
"Good Luck
is all
I'm Wishing"
~ whispers the one, with pretty wings~
<3
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
somber song haiku
/|\
*early autumn chill
somber toning frogling bass
stars beam silent truth*
\|/
mid summer hints its end
here too
the night extends in tones
lamenting twilit choke of day--
changeling-hours' ease: a memory
offsetting later dawns
yet deeper chills portend
an autumn's coming tide
of ending-songs
i too am passing
as a haiku's universal scope
of timeless time,
galactic spin within the frogling's utterance,
makes morbid rhythms eyed;
i fear i'm croaking right along this somber bass,
and wonder is it time? so soon?
envisioning the ancient host of haiku masters
brittle, fade
in unison of tears
or tranquil noddings at the season's cutting
partial circles round the sun
i read
i am the aging frog
by virtue of a poem,
and then it lets me leap!
.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
When draped in cloths of purple and the finest crimson,
Gallivanting through the summered forest,
All covered in flower and magic and light.
When heavy in the swoon of a summer afternoon,
Or bathing in the lukewarm embrace of our troubles,
Wallowing away the days
And counting down to the ones when we never have to think.
Or if by chance on the silvery moon,
When gilded with fantasy, and sitting on a happy cloud,
Overlooking our town and falling over from laughter,
For we can finally see how small we are.
It's when we find the golden afternoon,
That special time when birds never die and fairies fly,
That we will truly be content with the way of the hour glass,
And only then can we replace the changeling
With the actual thing,
No longer lost in the green and the mess,
Standing tall in the eaves,
When on our golden afternoon,
We shall be forever friends.
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC