"charcoaled" poems
So… he looked on, watching from afar the imagery of family.
Now alone, sitting in place on an old cranky stubborn
porch, eighty-one years of tears laughter and memory/smiled;
his smiled gleamed through the haze and humidly
of another summer day: a day that reminded him
of his younger years when the joy in many eyes gathered
for a day of barbecue and rejoice
in his voice, as his raspy cough briefly interrupted the moment,
was the song of an elderly man missing the days of innocence
but briefly in this time, in the sight of the young boy
he now studied from across the street
he saw a familiarity. His vision saw support and togetherness;
his hearing heard the song of compassion
and in the charcoaled flavored heat, his heart felt
what he thought was forgotten;
the genius and destiny of hope. In his life he has seen
once inspiring brick-layered sidewalks become the mask
of crime that has kidnapped a neighborhood once
proud. He has seen the dreams of children become temporarily
paralyzed by the heights of poverty and many visions
of fear. He watched in silence over all these years
but the tears of his mind has always been vocal.
The shackles
of osteoarthritis that now held on to his bones and the slight
battle with old-aged deafness that now challenged
the vibration of harmony and not even the parade
of high blood pressure marching through his veins
could keep him from feeling the pain and decay
of days passed. But as he looked on at the sight
of burgers and hotdogs sizzling on the grill; as he looked on
at the pleasantries of young and old joining in good times
and fun playing the games of life; as he looked on
and lived again through the body language of the young boy
who now looked back at him
he saw the glimpse of renewal in a community
holding on to the aspects of a neighborhood’s inheritance.
For the first time in many decades, he saw the enjoyment
in dancing trees that waltzed in the breezes of tomorrow;
he felt shades of sweat trickle down his bronzed almond skin
that was the welcomed condensation of happiness
and he smelled a renewed energy of genetic fortitude
that was family all in the aroma of summer cooking --
and so…he dreamed on.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
I am not your accessory
a statement piece
to your spineless connections
The thousandth image-oriented festivity
That you thoughtlessly threw
Due to the boredom of your own reflection
I am not a string of pearly witty conversation that you casually bring up when you aren't capable of employing stimulation
I am not a magenta lipstick you reach to cover up your mindnumbing gossip about the neighbors indecencies
You try to duplicate me and slip your right, then your left foot into vintage leather Jimmy Choos
Oh but your archless perception of life
Doesn't quite fit your soul next to mine
Empathy was never your strong suit
Oh but a tailored cold charcoaled judgement suit--that fits just.right.
Still you try to wear me, despite discrepancies
And oh how you hate the way I mock your silhouette
I clash with your champagne clings
You try to bash me against silverware but I remain mute
"Oh but if I can't make her an accessory, I shall make her an appendage!"
Oh how Christian and courteous of you
In the same way you asked your bridesmaid to step off the alter when she came out to you on that heavenly day
You ask me to be your brothers appendage
Oppressive and aloof
Asking was always a waste of time for you
You expect.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
I should have kissed you before you ****** on your smoke,
Before the fluorescent elevator lights illuminated the flaws
That danced and drifted along your skin.
The thick smoke mingled with your shadow,
A shadow of a man; no face, only a cigarette.
You breathed in smoke, but your lips were positioned for a kiss.
I don’t look like the other girls, the ones you used to kiss.
I can still picture your eyes, reddened by smoke,
And your lips as ashy as your cigarette.
And I hoped you, too, could forgive my flaws.
Like how my body casts too wide of a shadow,
And the sallowness of my ordinary skin.
Things that really shouldn’t remind me of your skin,
like old leather books with burnt paper that I bet taste like your kiss.
Such books I read in the shadow,
And hide, like the way you hid behind your smoke.
Because, like the way I love a bad book and its flaws,
I could love you and your cigarette.
I’ve held your hand, the one that holds your cigarette,
And I felt the sandpaper of your skin.
I smelt the airy cologne you use to cover the flaws.
It smelled light; you used just a kiss.
Now, I smell only smoke,
And the memory of your touch is a shadow.
In the hospital you were no longer a shadow,
But a body, surrounded by walls as white as your cigarettes.
Your voice cracked from the smoke,
While needles pulsed life into your skin.
Your lips were cracked with only blood to kiss.
I saw you naked, and I saw your flaws.
Your favorite vice was your fatal flaw,
And the black fire of death became your shadow.
It followed you around, and it saw our first kiss,
Which was our last, because you chose your cigarette.
So a charcoaled monster brooded beneath your skin,
And your flesh succumbed to the white ghosts of smoke.
You died in smoke, from your flaws.
Your skin’s now dust, roaming with the shadows.
So I’ll smoke a cigarette, ‘cause it tastes just like your kiss.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
Along the brittle sandy shoreline fish carcasses, pungent like morning breath and stale milk attract unlikely furry hunters before noon. These unleashed dogs trot slowly. The burden of the sun cracks feverishly upon their sticky, rotted coats. Their tongues roll out helplessly dragging their intimidation down with them like foolish clowns on Sunday morning. On the upper crest of the beach an old woman sits dutifully in her black latched beach chair. Her eyes, beady and gray reflect out into the vast lake. She does not blink. Her cottage, crafted purely of cedar wood comforts like the smell of an old book. On rare occasions athletic fresh water fish pierce through the water’s surface. Flying fish echo their rippled splashes throughout this vacant canvas. But still they are rarely seen or heard. There are hardly any tourists that visit cedar bay. No oiled teenage girls or playful sand kneed toddlers. Once in a while a charcoaled pit circled with empty beer cans lingers in the morning light; its smoggy remains clings tightly to summer clothes that will soon reek of burnt leaves and gasoline. When the time is right, some noble person will try to rehabilitate this stoic landfill, to lift
away stark-lit layers
ill suited for human plea-
sures. It shall rest in piece.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 2:31 PM UTC
Scrambling across the tiled rooftop,
I avoided peering down.
The sight of charcoaled pavement
emerged as an unbecoming comrade to this city’s
easy skyline.
One cord. One hand.
A fear of falling in another
My attempt at a Sunday Night Football
twisted to the anticipation of
a roadside tackle from the opposite team below
The view from up here
was my only peace
A great inhale of chilled air
filling the bottom corners of my lungs
You are safe. You will not fall.
You are content and happy up here.
And that is what scared me the most.
The roof groaned at my passing weight
I stood at the brink of it all. Admiring
the city inside me
the metro, the lights, the busy buildings
It was filthy and a little unbecoming
but I was lucky. Nothing
was wrong.
Then I slipped off the edge of the rooftop.
Gripping at the pipes that rimmed the building,
the hooks of my fingers rioted for a savior.
Sprouting blood like fireworks on a holiday
I begged not to fall. The pipes wailed as
my legs reached further for the ground,
like a child stretching towards their mother’s arms
I cried at how simple it was -
To let go or to bring myself up
not knowing if my will could
get me up to the rooftop
I thought hard for us all - my only undoing -
Then I unclasped my broken fingers
and fell down onto the concrete.
November 7, 2013 3:59 pm
Revised: December 9, 2013 1:53
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
*My contempt wraps your ocean
Of childish notions like a vice
I am a wispy poison
You cannot touch me
As I am made of smoke.
My elements confuse you, enrapture you
I captivate you as I
Stride forward through shadows
To greet you with
Painted lips and charcoaled eyes
You have given me your heart
Unwittingly and unknowingly;
The one whom you made this way
You are mine under lock and key*
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
I see a dying ember
In the middle of charcoaled wood.
Gracefully displaying
its dazzling beauty like stars ,
Which has taught me that even in death
Or downfall,
We too can be dazzlingly beautiful
if we choose to remain lit , for mankind’s to see
No matter what,
Until the end
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 4:46 AM UTC
Sacrificial droves
wildly waving
antenna-mills,
charcoaled palms outstretched
merely feeble
attempts of withstanding poor decisions,
my decision
already calculated,
minute tongues warn
pleading wide-eyed,
muted by a dishwater gull
peg legged watching -
understanding with a single bulging eye.
My top buttoned suicide
finally undone,
shaky windswept fingers
childlike in efforts made,
those made to measure ambitions
superbly shined
befriended balconies,
that leap of faith
faith,
belief in my own boldness
stream uselessly in rivers
from numb sockets,
one single step..
White feather.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
Inflicted pains of knowing it will never be the same
I'm haunted everyday by the remembrance of your utterances
words seep from my skin
they twirl over
up and around settling where you should have been
this constant knocking of pain has worn me down so thin
stretched out so far my heart is forming unforgivable scars
holding on to this imagined world has turned into heart vs head war
I repeatedly ask myself what the hell this is all for
I skirmish with the truth, refusing to see, though I know precisely what it is doing to me
fatigue unravels my skin
it peels off in facets of severed hopes
along with the screaming ring of hoarded charcoaled chains of promise words
Shredded dignity litters the floors of my heart's chambers
Thud, thud it screams, "I failed me!"
as I blackout bleed for the price of loving you
Surround sound beats of rushing blood in my ears
the theme song of banshee screams that leave you sliced open
with your twisted insides falling into the black ocean.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
What is it about stairways?
An image of promise,
Or is that mystery?
Cascading in slanted light,
Tempting us forward,
Upward
Delivering us to romanticized paradise
Or ornamented haven.
To sanctuary disguised as a sun dusted bedroom,
Where doubtless, is a hidden love
Of the sort that once uncovered,
Will ever follow us.
Or maybe to dark wooded rooms,
Glowing with strings of frosted light.
Indigo ceilings and charcoaled walls,
Lit up
Or a creaking hallway that will usher us
To chipping french doors with a glassy view,
Where we will glimpse a new and equally hopeful vista.
Perhaps enchantment
In the form of rolling, dark green gardens,
With another Stairway that is their own, but is
Descending,
And which, at its very sight, we can feel tugging at our hand;
Breeze itself, defined and determined
It will be an alluring yet familiar pull.
Luminescence between our fingertips.
The sight a vow that will pull us down those steps
Cool stone alive with mossy cracks, that curve, disappearing from view
Laying us down to wonder,
Only in a moment to reemerge in the clearer eyes of our mind.
Where surely, round the corner, we will just be able to make out that the steps are met
With an unclouded, rosy woodland.
The aspen encompassment of a measured and ghostly chemistry;
Flourescent tree line and rocky hem,
Savage and most lovely,
If we only have the courage to climb or to descend them, a perceptual promise awaits,
An ended hunt.
The perfect tincture of Wilderness and Refuge,
That will make us feel the scope of our existence,
without ever having to doubt whether we are safe.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
I'm helpless to a man with light in his eyes
And a hop to his step with a glimmering smile
Who is good with his words but better with his skin
Making contact as letters fall off his lips
Before I've seen them passing in the street
But never being drawn to me
In hush posh libraries and little coffee shops
Yet someone so bright usually doesn't notice something so lost
Because in reality, I'm an awkward little lady
Full of doubt, depth, and charcoaled sadly shady
I don't know much on how to touch, not well
Someone to teach me how each letter fell
But I won't say a word, not even one
The longing in my eyes should be enough
Pushing the brims of my lonely self to it's extent
Aside everyone as they twirl and mix and vent
Yearning for some light,
I know for certain so,
If I met a man like that,
Surely I would go.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
The flowers have long been wilted
over your charcoaled remains, but
every time I think of you
I cannot refrain from asking
"Why?"
And I am torn - angry -
that you were ripped so violently away.
My mind says I need to let go, but
my heart may not ever be ready.
FORLORN
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
you hide behind your
painted lips of dahlia
and charcoaled eyes
thinking cheap concealer
can enshroud the
burning thoughts
that churn in your mind
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Yes-
You walked into this
knowing that
you would get burned.
But still you touched
with already blistered,
and charcoaled hands
because
once
is never enough
for children to truly comprehend
the lessons
their mothers taught
them
Don’t play with fire sweetheart
for your heart will turn into
ash
once
her
ambers
go out.
You choked on the heat
of your desires
after they went up in flames,
setting your insides ablaze
and of course
with help always arriving
a second too late-
who could
save you
from the firestorm
that had just
erupted
in the shallows
of
your mind?
So don’t play with fire sweetheart,
because you will get burned.
The smoke will
char your lungs,
leaving
you panicked
for release.
And lust will do that-
It will
set alight
everything it touches
destroying
anything unwanted,
that even dares
to stand in its way.
Arson is a crime.
By: Lulwama Kuto Mulalu
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
You move on all fours, hands are your feet
getting pink-breasted by a garden tulip
and roses gather your thorns to a side street
where we once met, in love just enough.
There was much in that café sort of city,
I thought it was Christmas even in summer:
even on a grey day, you made it pretty
while the clouds so septic, swept me under.
Could not digest the place that is love,
for it felt overgrown and I was just a guest
dining with what is pure, nesting doves:
the meal charcoaled my stomach to unrest.
And I learned that a stationary loving
is not worth a lifetime of running.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
I hugged the fire
My skin burns off its bones
The pain underneath
It is almost unbearable
I scramble to keep the fire alive
I am still burning
I ignore the pain
My self-destruction
As I give my heart to those who ask for it
The flames dance
I struggle to keep the spark we once had
You know the one that started this
wildfire
The fire starts to die
I sink to the earth
I blow the air from within my lungs
With the charcoaled remains of this heart
I tell myself I will keep its luminous glow alive
I scream for the fire to take all of me
...
It begs for more
-Ann
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
It was that feeling
you experience when falling down
the drop
of a rollercoaster.
I’d lost my breath
as it escaped my ribs
hand in hand with my voice
and in that moment everything went silent.
An old fashioned film played slowly
in the back of my head
as we staggered between
two vehicles of fatality,
deaths forewarning tapping mockingly
on my shoulder.
Blank eyes
on calloused hands
my fate sealed as I pressed
myself into his body.
Our sins
smoking off his tires
evidence through charcoaled black lines
on glistening pavement
my heart stops being for an instant
and I finally know the truth.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 4:12 PM UTC
As I struggle restrained
by charcoaled fleece,
unvocalised and uninspired
another “baa” to add to the
manured gears at work,
plagiarized -
sunlight awakening
and moon-dust
dozing serene,
by a need for purchase -
an invasion of the minute
green-noted men,
outlining fortune tales
of a win every time
just pay the million deposit first,
success is guaranteed
just be lonesome.
Perhaps my insatiable curiosity
of fictional footsteps, lotions,
potions in various flavours
rows upon racks
of wondrous words
are leading me astray,
Vicarious witnesses might
consider me a dreamer
uncommitted to a prospect of wealth,
am I truly shuffling along
instead of chasing paper moths
straight into a debt induced flame?
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
I sit, heart still, not beating,
A lone soul amongst my own memories,
Which plaster the walls, a putrid stain.
Through the fog of night,
I hear her cries, silent tears of crystal,
Falling to the padded floors, shattering.
Through the crackle of the fire,
I hear her laughter,
A once pretty sound, gone sharp and raw.
Staring aimlessly into my own palms,
Her voice haunts me, has haunted for so long,
So I reach but a single hand to the fire.
Watching the tongues of the flame,
Lick my open flesh,
I smile when the searing begins.
Then fall from my chair,
Crawling to their sound, their loud cackle driving her memory away.
From the flames I rob a charcoaled log,
That which I toss, and another,
Though when the smoke and flame surrounds I know,
I must've been missed when they came to lock her up.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 1:45 PM UTC
The prettiest place you’ll ever be
I’ll look down and see an old cigarette box
Scattered amongst an insurmountable sea of trash
It’s cock-eyed
Diagonally sticking out of the decrepit weeds
It screams, “I don’t give a ****
Neither do I
I think its beauty surpasses that of Mount Everest
Because I get to feel it, taste it, be in it
I don’t have to gaze at a postcard
Tell myself---over and over---it’s real!
All I have to do is tear it in half
Just a dream sought out by people who are starving for nature to be real
Like one thing didn’t get taken away:
I’ll show you! Here’s a postcard!
I tear
I scream
I don’t give a ****
It’s beautiful because it never imposes that it is
I’ll look at him sitting with a docile glaze
Open your mouth
Decay
Black, old, tattered, toxic to me
Because I can’t look at you
Ugly, tangible and ugly
Crazy son-of-a-bitch
Just don’t rob me, okay, okay?!
I’ll keep walking and cross the streets that are slowly caving in towards that place
They tell us we don’t want to be
Fire? Fire would be best
Probably the best thing to happen
To these forgotten about streets
They’ll nod their heads and crisp into a charcoaled deep-fry
But I cross, because I don’t care about you, you or you
**** YOU CAR
I’ll walk with a purpose because in this whirlpool I can’t have a purpose
So I’ll pretend and walk, walk upward, look forward
I see you, sir, I see you, your eyes feast upon my flesh
You’ll never get me but you sure as hell will get to me
Beady-eyed
I hope the sun will melt your scummy body into these streets, and you’ll burn with them!
This place is beautiful I’m telling you
The Great Wall of China couldn’t compare to its concrete magnificence
I’m dying with it; I’ll take five deep breaths and revel in the fumes of progress
I’ll be on your postcards
We aren’t just Any Town, USA
We are the future *************
And I’m smiling but I’m melting and the flesh, the smell of flesh, unbearable
I’ll take ***** air any day
But before it’s too late, tell those ignorant foreigners
Tell them they can have it too!
We are coming fast
Dying from starvation, dying from hurricanes, dying from AIDS
That’s old news
Tell them they can be beautiful too
And die clutching the remote,
The remote of freedom
CNN
playing
quietly
in
the
background
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 11:02 AM UTC
We wrote our hearts in permalink
and etched the light into our eyes
and in the ink that never fades away
we lettered each and every day.
In peppered nights with parasol
where in the heat that spiced the hands and touched the soul
we founded dynasties
and finished mysteries
then slept like dogs among the charcoaled logs of past desire
but woke to another more intense and spent a little of the fire before the coming day.
and was it thus this way?
Did I really write all night
did she come to me all dressed in white with hunger on her lips
did I rip the pen away and leave the page unwritten and unread
were those words she said meant for me
and could she, could she not see excitement on this parchment where the ink was legible?
to be honest it was hard for me to tell
and in the telling it gets no easier for me to see.
The ink is in the permalink, the permanence and what substance that there could be
in this the mystery
in this the she, and she is this and this I see?
simply put
but strangely said
again we stammer off to bed in hesitance another permanence
but that is good
and that is too and both of us know what to do.
The pen is light upon her page
and the stage is set
we get another taste and tuck into the chapter one with other chapters more to come
and with the wetness of a passing storm
both her and I are born.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
Shush, stop replaying echos of the past
they have been blown by the east winds
right to the cliffs of the angelic twists
and I stare at the window, as everything moves
like the sun never rose
and the moon never shone
never surrender to their voices
as the hollowed beats of their soul
is an empty sack of sarcastic laughter
founded by the foundlings of St Elizabeth
who litter the Aspire asylum with loathe
and the troops of their dusty bags vent
to the charcoaled hues of the ceiling
Where the castaways truly hide inspired
as emptiness get inhaled in the alveoli
to the dense of the unpenetrated amoeba
and they all get sick, in a dread of a century
Let’s run.....It’s the borbounic plague taking its toil
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
an under 30 year old should be partying right now,
gimmicks of chums and the laid leases on the daisies -
well - not this one, he's finishing off a second beer
of his feline promenade that's english suburbia twirls
rather than a grand archway of paris -
sitting underneath the sea of black and the moon
marked clearly hardly scythe or fully chubby -
somewhere half-way between both -
well, the beer was blossom, the cigarette
a morbier cheese - and the traffic,
this traffic night traffic - watching it on
collier row road by the aquarium store
on the brick up-stand, sometimes the moon,
sometimes the traffic - busy bees and dressed and
attired - ready crowd pleasers - i was there once,
hardly a success story, from pedigree pampering
self-conscious bewilderment, to a near-homeless
mutt ragged with 3 weeks of unwashed hair
prolonged by wetting it -
hardly a stink, but still the grease from the pollution;
and lie the children of dentists are told,
pea sized amount of toothpaste, brush quickly
under 30 seconds... go over it, and as nicotine staining
proved prior to this tactic, indeed teeth became
nicotine stained, now using less toothpaste and
shortening the brushing to under 30 if not under
10 seconds... my teeth have no nicotine stains...
after all, we need dentists and what not, we need
to feed them, we need the middle-men to tell us
it takes 3 minutes and a thumb's length of toothpaste
to get the job done, twice a day...
indeed, my mouth was converted into a toilet -
it's mint in my mouth, it's charcoaled roses on my neck
and cheeks, it's quasi-mint under my armpits
of anti-perspiration unshaken can snow muck,
i'm well oiled like Cleopatra - i have babe powder
on my *** - all the pleasant toiletries you know -
but what i don't have and you won't ever give me
is the smell, the smell like Jack Daniels from the
brothel and the sweet taste of the girls -
see, a pea sized dollop of toothpaste and under 10 second
brushing, and still the nicotine staining doesn't
coat the inner side of your chop chopper chops;
ah but still getting drunk watching saturday night traffic,
everyone's so busy i figured the best job around
was to get a profession in laziness.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
The girl lived in the wild,
For she was the wolf child.
She ran with her pack every night,
Howling in the moon light.
One day an old woman came,
Soon the girl became tame.
Years went by,
Every night the wolves would cry.
Still, years carried on,
But the girl was long gone.
Finally, she returned,
Only to find her old home burned.
She ran into the cave,
The scene was a charcoaled grave.
There was one wolf surviver,
And he spoke to her,
“You’ve been gone for many years,
Thats when we met one of our greatest fears.
I hope you found what you were looking for,
Because the pack is no more.
My life is near its end,
Goodbye my old freind.”
The girl stared at the wolf in shock,
Her stomach sinking like a rock,
“But I found my real family!
Can’t you be happy for me?”
The wolf looked at her with a grim face,
“Wasn’t This your rightful place?
I thought we were your real family,
Guess you don’t agree.”
The girl opened her mouth to speak,
But the wolf collapsed because he has grown too weak.
The wolf shed a tear,
“Guess this is goodbye, my dear.”
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
given cutest toys,
they drew, charcoaled
evil monsters.
eyes bleeding lead,
fingers bled,
graphite stained.
asked to draw
things they loved,
created Things.
the novice drew her sewing set.
half term, big schoool.
sbm
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC