"charcoals" poems
They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.
One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.
If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.
In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.
In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.
At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.
Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.
He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”
I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.
“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
your heart pumps kerosene
to your matchstick veins,
& maybe i imagined things,
but i remember your eyes as ember rings
& i can't wipe my memory clean
of the dingy debris--
the delicacies of your legs & knees--
this fire's not extinguishing!!
those ashes you disguise as eyelids
won't keep me from the iris
i know i'll find inside them
& i'll skim past your skin grafts
to your smoke-smothered stomach
then plummet to your flame-engraved pancreas
((scarred from swallowed promises)).
these propane x-rays
can't scan the barcodes
on the charcoals
that the holes in your heart hold
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
artful creations
colors, charcoals
paints
stone and clay
wood and paper
bringing life
from
lifeless
form
from
formless
can the artist choose?
~~~
garden creations
shades of green
jade
artichoke
asparagus
fern, forest
and
jungle
mint, moss
and
pine
shamrock
tea, olive
mixed
with
a multitude
of blooming
hues
can the gardener decide on one?
~~~
kitchen creations
sweets and treats
savories and piquants
cakes and pies
meats, stews
casseroles
butter, garlic
lemon
rosemary
and
thyme
parsley
and
saffron
onions caramelized
to sweet
peppercorns
and
cardamon
tamarind, turmeric
nutmeg
combined in
precision
joy and
love
can the chef say which is best?
~~~
and thus
I challenge any poet
can you choose your favorite "child"?
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
The storm– she will come,
Oh- by the roar of the drum,
The boom of the beat–
Now cometh defeat,
Four seals are now shattered,
The ground will be battered,
Come forth thy lost line,
Thou shall face His divine…
The sky opened to set them free–
The creature like thunder: “Come and See!”
Foremost in the lead–
Upon the White steed–
Arrow of the Bow,
All obstruction fall low,
Striking the weaker down–
The fire glistens about his crown,
Above all the rest,
Behold all victory; CONQUEST…
The bizarre of the steeds–
The color that bleeds–
A Fiery red that burns in the eyes,
As each soldier dies–
The civil war spark,
As if for a lark!
In the fight of the four,
The second is WAR…
Come and See! Come and See!
Now the count is to three,
The black horse doth ride,
The third horseman as guide,
The hand bears balance not gore–
The sole vocal of four;
“…And see thou hurt not the oil and the wine”
The third–oh the third–John! The third is FAMINE…
Oh the horror– the horror– the fire filled eyes!
All that follows in path now simply just dies,
The pale green beast is a savage- a monster- no heart,
The ending- the rebirth- the salvation doth start,
The fourth rider tears– ravaging all the land,
The unholy Reaper with scythe in it’s hand!
The harvester hath expelled mankind’s final breath–
With Hell at the rear– the fourth and final is DEATH…
The war now to heaven and Hell now to Earth,
The charcoals are black and red hot in the hearth,
Cast forth by the Lion of Judah- the Lamb of the Lord!
With all of existence- the Divine became bored,
The Harbingers of the Last Judgment- the servants divine,
The living creatures cometh to steal all hope from thine,
Cometh One then come Two from the mythical Seal,
Cometh Three then come Four from the seven rumored to be real…
CONQUEST– the archer- the first rider of pure WHITE,
Crown capped with unholy deception of light…
WAR– the swordsman- the second rider of fiery RED,
Blood and betrayal as thou mark thy brother dead…
FAMINE– the balance- the third rider of pitch BLACK,
Food and resources all man will soon lack…
DEATH– the reaper- the fourth rider of pale GREEN,
Hell guiding scythe ridding Earth of all souls unclean…
The horsemen they triumph in biblical tale–
Consider an alternate story and detail,
Think not of no hope in the book Revelation,
Rather- imagine the truth of a war of no rotation,
The power unbalanced to alter dimension,
A different battle scene with a similar intention…
– Written By: Jacob Coffey –
*********************************
Just my take on a Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Hope you enjoyed it!
– Jacob Coffey
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
i
youth is your neighbour's Bee
hive wax, candle lights, flickering Flame
lovely sorrounding delicate contours
on a pale gently shaped face
ii
thou eyes still shine with
chesnuts burning flambouyant
charcoals, who can lit Free choice
of will and thoughts of Heart
iii
eclipses of centuries covereth
you, waiting for a Cosmic chariot
to take this moonsoon romance forth
holding the Sky's beau crinoline
iv
I feel wurthering imagination
floating and tearing my passion for You
when Thee become Thou in my deepest
love passion taking chapeau off
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
“oh, how they will all bet on morrows that strain rills after dark,
and yet the Game, unpitying, regains its lordly behest at dawn;
lean back and feel the turn of things, the chance, the risk, the almost...
ante!”
⋮
this mania!
when it wreathes,
the imperceptible of myself,
it drains through me, sedulously,
hands aquiver, sight fretful,
and the bath of wanting (and not, ergo),
spewing and fusing
inside the etna of my inlying.
you are, then, obedience itself,
long before the grapevine,
before the Cards;
rails tarnishing, yet begrimed steel,
rather ossein, or thew,
turning to a suttee so pale, it forgets its ills.
and the trains;
yes, they were gushing, though not afore;
“did you think they would arrive for you?”
they smelt into clag,
into a mist of faces, barren,
swelling and shrieking of throe,
snaking, snaking down the spine of
the Stake.
slaves betting with their ilk of ardor,
when a match struck, belatedly,
but already it is leaning toward cinders,
its shine no more
than a laugh of people,
leaving the hall shivery in its bleat,
charcoals sighing their waning,
others honing their exit.
bitterly, bitterly, i am
left with nothing to hold but smoke.
but time, ah, time,
the nimble Host,
old trickster with his cuffs of lithe,
shuffling cloaks for loose change.
he and i,
always at the same table,
and i know his favorite sleight:
to grant the boastful player
a losing hand,
and winning eyes.
the coin is tossed,
to the Parlay; so soon cast,
so soon swallowed by the piker.
the crowd, they clap for a name,
but it is never genius they are crowning,
only luck,
foremost Dealer,
with that last word,
smiling as he lays it down:
only the blind Card turned upward.
~~~
and i,
sitting with my empty cup,
still growing a taste for losing
foolish, surely,
but the loss only deepens the greed,
doubles it, whets it past the reach of will.
so ring then, coin,
dull as you are, tattered,
clattering against the floorboards.
it tells me i am counted,
measured,
already spent.
yes, yes, it is only a caprice,
but it hews, it digs,
it laughs where no mouths are,
and i laugh back;
ante!
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 6:33 PM UTC
if the world is a canvas,
your hands can form lines
that connect us together
tell me all the mediums
you create our world into
the castles we live in
the stories of our forever
we are never steady
but these textures
always build the feeling
of the future we are having
so promise me
one thing
and one thing only
let us be our creators
and creations
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
We are firefighters you and I.
Fighting back a blind hot fire.
You, because of our impossible situation and the Other.
Me, because of my impossible situation and your Other.
I'm trying to keep my fire low and starving, or only a faint glow even,
but a whiff of air is enough,
enough to set my whole existence on fire.
Lay homes in ashes if not drowned or extinguished.
I'm grateful...
you keep your fanning breath of air
a swift tickling breeze for my sake.
Keeping your flare out of my flammable hair
but God, I want to burn so badly
I want to flame high, white and hot.
Not allowed to do that though....sadly...
I want to explode in a firestorm.
Consume everything in my way.
not listen to what they'd say
Turn everything into sorrow and ashes.
Let my heated tongues of flame lick you,
until you too is burnt to pieces.
Burnt pieces of charcoals
that I'd keep in my heated heart.
A charred smoking reminder
of how devastating this fire of our love is.
How ugly to all that is beautiful and true.
Once letting my fire burn free there is no taming it,
no pardon, no wit
So, thank you my love!
For not fanning this fire
with more than
your flammable existence
It is oxygen enough.
I've lost all resistance.
So, thank you my love!
For not doing it my way.
Not letting me lay
my world in ached ruins.
It doesn't seem fair,
but let me slowly suffocate,
Turn your love into hate
make me choke and gasp for air.
A faint flickering flame
Pitiful and tame
As my fireman, put it out while you still can...
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
The vision :
(dreams torn, torn)
A picture came to me in the darkness of night,
Of myself in ten, twenty years time;
Worn out with the struggle, weak, and no longer able to fight,
Finally giving way to the forces ranged against me,
Sad and grey and defeated.
The sketch :
(in harsh charcoals)
This dream that came to me,
Was as though I had finally and sadly, late in the day,
Lost my innocence.
The Canvas :
(Life, existence)
I had been high-minded and apologetic,
Full of enthusiasms I didn’t quite mean,
And guilt’s I didn’t understand.
And now I stand looking at the man I could’ve been.
In Oils :
(violent colours)
I had spent years thrashing around in confusion
As drowning men pull each other under,
As wave after wave we are swept away;
Our cries obscured by the thunder.
My signature :
(...)
See my writing on the wall,
There’s no one to catch me when I fall;
But Death was on my side:
Suicide.
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 9:57 PM UTC
Reds and golds and
maple syrups dripping
from the leaves of the trees
Greens feathering the
walls of the valleys and tickling
our feet with their cool tongues
Blues that missed the sky
and hit the seas instead
forever keeping time
with a celestial conductor
Purples that kiss the forests
and leave their lip prints
on scattered petals
like tissues on the ground
The deepest chocolates mined
from the sweetest of soils
and baked by the brazen
Texas sun
This is what I paint my face with
in the morning
and then you left
your paints
your grays and charcoals
your cigarette butts
your footprint.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:41 PM UTC
He was leaning against the wall, backed up
And staring through fumes of gin and whiskey,
Glaring at all the toffs, dressed up
And ravelling through his sordid history.
But never a sense of ‘us’ with him
He was more like a raging arcane animal,
Caught and caged, as they looked right in
To poke and pry at his painted trammel.
Oils and charcoals, water colours,
Pinned like an insect by their gazing,
Pointing fingers would **** his skin
Pick through his pockets, grinning, gaping.
What would they know of his woods and fields,
The towering oak, or the dew at dawning?
Only the light that a lamp post yields
In the mean streets when the world is yawning.
Theirs was a world of tile and brick
Of diesel fumes and the rail line snaking,
His were the hills of hay and rick
The tumbledown cot and the farmer, raking.
‘What did you bring me here to spill?’
He said to the shyster gallery owner,
‘There’s nothing you couldn’t print at will
With a Laser print, and a barrel of toner.’
‘They’re coming in hordes to see your myth,
You’re a breath of air in a jaded Autumn,
A genuine Primitive, Jordan Griff,
I lured them in, and your work has caught them.’
But Jordan scowled and he curled his lip
As the crowd milled using an unknown language,
‘I’d rather be down at the ‘Rope and Skip’
With a pint of ale and a cold meat sandwich!’
‘You’re really an artist?’ said the woman
Who stood at his shoulder, pale and shaking,
‘I like the one at the farmer’s gate
With the girl, head bowed, as her heart is breaking.’
Griff looked deep in the woman’s eyes
For the chord she’d struck was his secret mourning,
‘How did you know?’ He’d sobered up,
‘I was the girl your paint was born in!’
Jordan halted his glass, mid-sip,
He seized her hand as his heart was pacing,
‘Years have slipped between cup and lip,
I’d give them all for a second tasting!’
He led her into a lumber room
And she locked the door as they pulled apart,
Then found some cushions and in the gloom
They lay on the floor there, making art.
That’s how his Primitives came to start
With a joy not there at his god-rot dawning,
A horse and cart with his palette heart,
And a tousled woman each tumbledown morning!
David Lewis Paget
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
Between half steps,half words
Half thoughts.
When the sun sets
Let me climb the night,
Align stars
Scribe charcoals around moon.
Create seasons for you.
Catch the leafs of autumn,
shadow between our palm,
And grey voices under snow.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
I have drawn portraits
charcoals of Saints
who stayed in one plane
for 200 hours, not moving a hair.
I built a castle, over a hill,
which one I forget.
I have painted oils,
landscaped with smiley faces,
they might look as if they have boils.
I have written, specious, meaning one thing saying another,
poems and probably will do again.
I have laid with Mona Lisa naked,
her perfect breath breathed
into my head.
I have chased Dragons, had a princess by her long hair,
her breast a white snowy her mouth the pinkest gasp.
I have stood taller and fallen farther.
I would, gladly,
do it all again.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
I love you in silence in the sleepy mornings of Monday,
wanting you to drive my tear away, without any commitment,
our hearts are still cracking like hot pieces of charcoals,
our lips being deliciously flavoured as strawberries and mint.
I love you on Tuesday, even if I seem insensitive,
lost in a labyrinth, like an insecure, capricious pseudo-child,
you take me flying up to the sky, in a charming idyll,
carrying me in your arms in an incredible adventure and mild.
Time... seems like slipping through our fingers on Wednesday,
enduring the words, the rhythms of my lyrics in the background,
singing our love even if we're crawling on the frenzied fields,
we make vows for better and worse, for always to be around.
Thursday doesn't forget anything when we are both together,
your magic hands, your shy eyes are pulling me back
to gather our hearts, to know that one plus one makes two,
looking at the horizon, to the fusion of colours, not the black.
I love you, you love me... we love each other until Friday,
as one body, one soul without any given restraints,
we know that our hearts belong to us more than yesterday,
your whole life, you put it on the tray, without any complaints.
I love you enormously on Saturday when I'm spoiled,
when your kisses have a hallucinating flavour on my lips,
radiating strongly, with a sacred and stubborn passion,
with an excess of emotions that are never lying to the eclipse.
I love you anyway and anytime, especially on Sundays,
passing through the thin border of my everlasting diary,
feeling that shake of a thrilling desire, a unique experience,
that you... make me feel like I am your fiancee, eternally.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
Silhouettes and shadows
live in your mind
there is no colour
just porous charcoals
swallowed into the void
where the darkness seeps inside
the night is long and dark
and the silence stretches on
for an eternity
Corridors of sorrow
each door opens to the next
closets wide and full
where your misery hangs
a new suit for everyday
you talk in an undertone
muting all supplication
whispering no forgiveness
I am forever in torment
And here lies the devastation
from a time long past
and there is blood on the walls
blood on your hands
you enjoy it's colour
holding it up to the light
it tastes like mine
screams of sadness
echos of tears
shadows of time
if you would only but abandon me
for I am not here
and the shadows..
they are not mine
not mine I tell you
not my shadows
not my blood
please.. don't let them be mine
they cannot be mine...
but they are
I beg of you
let me be
unbind me from your dreams
open your eyes
and see
So silently I lay
among the eggshells
the barbed wire
and the books of memories
but I beg of you
if you would only but unwrite me
then I will be on my way
I will never look back..
I promise
Searching for a way out
I know that I have died
I know it now
I feel my death
it is in the air
my love
but a festering corpse
my laughter
tolls the end of time
my happiness
an unmarked grave
I lay in Sheol
and in hades you have lain me
but I do not sleep
This is where I reside
and I cannot escape your oblivion
the cage of torment
that you keep me in
you are easily amused
please hear me
just one more time
if you would only but forget me
and let me truly be dead
please
just let me be
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
flashing red
crazy eyes
her eyes
mirror her feets
like soft charcoals
hitting the refreshing ground
pebbles tap the
soil quietly
a running oasis
her garments
sweep the floor
like steam
the face
pale as the invisible air
honeykissed by the dew
of the silent nighttime
i wish to touch her
be one with her warmth
but yet
she leaves my reach
drifting like
fireworks in the dark
her mind
enlightens me
as the candle dim
i would kiss her every thought
her voice
tinkling chimes
recourse through
my being
with her i am forever home
(shåi)
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
He's the second one I've truly hurt and I realized now that I burn
I used to think that maybe it was them but it's really me who when touched charcoals their skin and makes them turn to ash
They don't want anything to do with me because I'm not like the others - I'm a light burning hotter than 98.7 and the shades of orange and blue and yellow fill my body so when they ask me to speak all that comes out is fire
My words sizzle on their skin and they turn away because no amount of water is going to spark out this flame
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
We sat beneath a night sky of graduated charcoals, blacks and interstellar blues. Fall’s begun its indispensable work, banishing the harsh sun, the creepy lanternflies and hot summer nights.
The stars seemed hesitant tonight, like they feared the sun might change its mind, reverse its course and run them back off - except one, which Peter says is Jupiter (and therefore not a star at all).
We were (Peter, Sunny, Anna and I), studying, in our fold-up lounge chairs and reading by little kindle lights clipped on our books. Leong’s there too - supposedly studying - but in reality, she was waiting for her date.
Leong and Sile have been flirting since last year and tonight’s their first, official date. Leong’s never been on a western date before or ever been alone with a boy in a car. She’s only seen romance in movies or from afar, like an astronomer viewing a distant moon through a telescope.
Her outfit, though casual, was coalesced from six wardrobes and no king or questing knight has ever been dressed more carefully or with greater ceremony. She even positioned her chair at a carefully chosen angle, to show her, initially, in her best light - “Zhù ni hao yùn!” She insisted (It’s good luck).
She’s a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing woman with a razor-thin veneer of amorous confidence. I know my nerves playup when I’m uncertain about things, but Leong’s playing it off, acting casual.. ish.
Finally, with an almost physical jolt, she saw him enter the quad. As he approached, his every aspect was scrutinized by vigilant, overprotective roommates. The air was filled with the whispered buzz of shared analysis.
Soon they were walking off together and chuckling at something we couldn’t hear. It’s funny, I’ve never felt so much like a parent.
Sep 16, 2022
Sep 16, 2022 at 4:27 PM UTC
A masquerade of perpetual fear,
for all steps were in unison.
For who would misstep with
unkept flames catching
each indiscretion.
Hollow melodies capture the soul,
bounding it with this dance
of the dead, neither a choreography
but a chain of resonance
where bones scrunch in fatigue.
The hell fire ball, where all burn eventually,
Singed gowns, and suits charred.
But the devil is in the details,
and we shall dance till we bleed of die.
Perfection is a demon of fulfilment...
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 5:06 PM UTC
they were my works of art
and you gave them away
you imagined them for me
but you gave them to mere passersby
you painted a world of
watercolour dreams
oils of glorious skies
nights drew in with charcoals
drawing abstract stars
and graffiti moons
that shone over our love of love
our waterfall of wondrous things
but now the paint has dried
it cracks and you give slithers of it
to every passing fancy that looks your way
to muses with Mona Lisa smiles
my works are gone
given out as sweet treats
honey for the flies
catching the artists eye
and I fade to black
charcoal underlines my eyes
and not even my abstract stars shine
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
I fail at sleeping
in a show of unconditional accusation, the reproachful slander of your hereafter,
amongst the placid hours,
I try to be the grand man, but I shake too much
unhinged by the overreach of my skeletal height
much to the delight of every unskilled whistler
tough love and rougher hate interprets the shuddering motions, as my left hand lingers
over a possibility where dreams might bring
freshly ****** flesh and afternoon tea
I barter with **** and borrow into strained relationships
awaiting the unfounded precedence of my childish brain’s
blinked silhouettes burning themselves out
crumpled and brewed, and even while tempest soaked, charcoals outnumber my pasteled ambition
this distinct morbidity, by which I call my life, lacking
in that level of consistency
that spire sponsored screams might bring
for despite the consequences of ambient respectability,
reckless maturity brings terror to the aisles
and grave duels in the carefully measured medium
of the margins
and the starving are no longer a postulate amongst the rummaged toil
but the impotent sickness of a painters earthy delivery
counterfeit conjecture hung in the resentful stench
that remains too good
for the likes of you and I
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
A coliseum tucked into corners
A flickering lantern
A full room with hollow walls
A wooden chip stained with the scent of charcoals
A heavy palm and swollen skin
A pulled ponytail
A sickly sunken face
A front porch swing swaying
A blister on wood pierced flesh
A body resides,
Absent.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 8:42 PM UTC
Our charcoals are dying down
But you are trying to rush in
Breathing as fast as you can
On something that can't
Reignite.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 5:28 PM UTC
I heard the city screaming
My brothers are burning
If this is to end in fire
Then lets all burn together
I see fire
Bringing light
Taking away life
I see fire
color is red
everyone's bled
I see fire
flames high
into the night
I see fire
turning into charcoals
hollowing souls
I see fire
Cover my eyes
Ashes are falling down
from the sky of the town
I heard the city screaming
My brothers are burning
If this is to end in fire
Then lets all burn together
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
Friday afternoon trying to get home.
On down this dusty road, I must roam.
Barstools and Banjos on the radio.
Moccasin Creek kicking hick-hop flow.
Windows down in my pick-up truck.
Behind this 18 wheeler I am stuck.
Heavy traffic on the oil field road.
Off till Monday, I'm furloughed.
Pretty wife and a couple kids.
In the front yard on my cooler lid.
It’s full of beer and the charcoals hot.
To grill some redfish I had caught.
Couple months ago in the bay.
Gonna be one hella buffet.
Friends are coming with *** luck.
Ready to grill this corn in the shuck.
Beer is flowing and the food is good.
Send the kids to start gathering wood.
Bonfire burning and were feeling great.
Sitting around on an old milk crate.
All of a sudden the cops show up.
Their off duty just want to fill a cup.
Laughing and talking old times.
Feeling this good ought to be a crime.
All of the kids have gone to sleep.
I pray this great feeling, I can keep.
Pretty wife and I, are headed to bed.
Make a little love and rest our heads
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC