"coarseness" poems
Time is of the sentence, while
verbs reveal their intents
for adjective nouns (pro or no
comment) quickly in vents
meant for air, but coarseness
courses through upturned grates
shredding of courses into no ways
to go from here to home,
awaiting infinitely fine moments
caressed along necks of silken
skin within the wear of stretched out
glances left lingering still
in compassionate ponds rippling
soft warm smiles lazily by
the melting cares of the world
golden in luxuriously wrapped light
playing across the surface & through-
out into emerald encrusted irises
to cast love's shadow over
swamps of fear gurgling neuro-
toxic diatribes against plu-
perfect pasts & future
imprefects presented in a case to
Your Honor's (the jury) out of bounds
dissolved with ear ration-
al solutions mixed & stirred
thoroughly throughout,
without spilling too
much.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Unless your bucket list is in pencil
Unless you’re content in front of your television
And your eyes see better than your heart does
If you heard on the radio that intellect killed hope
And read on the message board that we never needed hope in the first place
Unless you see unfiltered
And the light in your eyes is not a reflection of anywhere you’ve been
If there is nothing out there
And you’ve seen it before anyway
Take note:
When every metaphor ever built
Has fallen apart
Love will be a voice saying, here I am
Saying fight to take that deep breath one more time
Find me up ahead and run to me
The horizon isn’t as far away as you made it out to be
And looking over the edge will be the sweetest thing you have ever done
When every metaphor ever built
Has fallen apart
Love will still be saying: “get out there and find me” as directly as it can
Pleading with you to be a part of something bigger
Something lasting and dangerous
And hard to believe
The evidence is the beauty that you’ve seen
Miracles are not so different than dappled light through the canopy of trees
And that judging by the way it dances down the creek bed, water must hear music that no one else seems to believe
But there is a peace in that music
And a whisper in that dance
And if you listen long enough
You will feel some of your coarseness wash away
And that refinement is love
Look, even the stones lose their edge
Here’s to saying: “Look!”
To saying “You have to see this!”
To: “Come with me!”
“Let’s go!”
“Hurry!”
“Don’t miss this!”
“We’re explorers!”
“Let’s get out there!”
Adventure is only half going
The other half is who goes with you
The eighth wonder of the world is being together
And while all stories will end they can be shared forever
No paradise is complete alone
But love is an eternal home
When all metaphors ever built
Have fallen apart
Love will still be saying
Get out there
Find me
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC
I'm a Cowboy, a villain in black
I drink whiskey as if it was going out of fashion
and yell ye ha, as I ride wild creatures
the coarseness of my words
is the amour of my cold tipped heart
My pain is reptilian and waiting
for I have eyes so very steady and firm
and no matter how you hide
one slow as me will by numbers
have the will and tongue to find you
I may crawl on my belly
on most days and evenings
I may be a lost soul on a barren twig
yet my name is rebellion
and I don't give a fig
I ride storms that are too much for most
I push myself to the limit
and when things go wrong
my claws do dig deep
and I never relinquish my prey
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 4:37 AM UTC
i am the piper
cept my pipes are
a bit rusty
out of tune
melancholy
its too late for monthly checkups
but you never seem to mind
but you see the only reason they are
so worn out
is because i sing my melody
as loud and beautiful as I can
every time we do the dance of passion
no, they can't be rusty
because
i've serenaded so many other women before you
that can't be
you,
your melody is sweet, pure, harmonious
but of course, you've only just started
you make me feel like an old man
whose pipes have seen generations
i almost feel bad serenading such a pure heart
but i know what will happen
you will leave me soon
yes, I know from our passion dances that you
love me
but when you find another whose music is sweeter
more pure than my coarseness
i promise
you will love him more
its only a matter of time...
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
*why do people always pain themselves to write as if they could ever be understood, when so few read them, and even a fewer number care to understand? and why do so many ably bodied ******* themselves with writing? why have they lost the taste for fresh air and instead chose a wheelchair that writing is?*
in legal terms - are you implying a play on synonyms or
just simply stating: d'uh, i don't know what
that means? ah, a limitation on the vocabulary,
an atypical symptom of lawyers - when socrates attacked
eloquence per se, he also defeated himself
by ensuring law abided by the law of highest eloquence,
and the rabble got diddly-squat, his attack on rhetoricians
lost the prowess of attracting debased educators
with himself the most debased educator:
and instead attracted lawyers... thus the law of the eloquent,
rather than the rubric of the least eloquent...
lost an eye for an eye, lost a mouth with it too...
i rather be fed eloquence and education
and coarseness to equally educate
than be fed a justice fed by eloquence alone,
because if this is to be the equilibrating case,
then serving justice will just be a case of speaking
in a satin tongue of readied rhetoric
as justice so called,
and when speaking in a coarse tongue
no justice will be made applicable...
i rather be educated by someone in a coarse tongue
than be brought to justice by someone in an eloquent tongue,
i rather not be educated by someone in an eloquent tongue /
i rather be brought to justice by someone in a coarse tongue
(the mob),
at least the coarse tongue is well equipped to
address the many who require educating,
unlike the eloquent tongue equipped to
address itself and itself alone, rather than addressing
the jury who blindly pass judgement, because
the lawyer's tongue is not in the mouth of the defendant
but in the lawyer's mirror of social strata of respectability
appearing so guiding, kindly tying a bow-tie of applause.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
Dreams of you.
What is peace
A squall of grit,
Coarseness caught in teeth.
The earth spits resolution.
I do not accept it.
Long ago, I fell into the sea.
My tongue tasted salt
My body
Was tugged by tide
But tomorrow it'll wash you
Away
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Today's great undead poets,
awash in the internet sea,
seek to fill the void of sensible emptiness
of our cyberspace world.
Following the heroic tradition of Man,
these daring individuals look to gain acceptance
through the expression of concepts.
Mirroring the virility and vitality of Life,
in defiance of critical naysayers,
the blankness of virtual paper
is scribbled upon with hurt, hope and ideals.
Writing styles and topics,
whether expressed in romanticized language
or the coarseness of profanity,
are brilliantly reflected in individualized glory
and authors bask in the personal satisfaction of achievement.
In the ever continuing flow of poetic thought,
today's great undead poets
find treasures in the discovery of self.
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
My mother enjoyed shrieking
by the luminous Atlantic.
A place where she was sure
the salmon were scant, like
the bleach dumps, threatened
by a figure who loved binding
her to thoughts of terror.
Our hands were rough, at the
time -- so much so that we
would grasp at glass in the
white sand, pressing the edges
against calluses, without feeling,
before hurling the fragments
into the endlessness.
The sun would sit on the pink
and orange carpet of the sky.
And we would join it, with our
striped bottoms in the coarseness.
Praying for the glass to return;
asking for each piece to be sharpened,
so that we may be able to feel.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 5:19 PM UTC
(Words once dedicated to beauty have become a scream of true hideousness. This truth is your damning, filthy beast of a panther).
I wish I could forget your face
Tell my stupid heart the rot underneath your skin
Our laughter shared was only a tool
The words spooling from your mouth spider silk I coveted
The heat and solid muscle of your body
A comfort until your hands discovered my body
Creeping across to touch and hold steady
Teasing the edges of my underwear
Finding the soft coarseness of ***** hair
Hold me close, be my protector, my champion,
But all you’ll ever be is a predator
Your friendship and my wanting of you stripped me down
I stayed still
Let you touch and rock
Hoped you would stop
Remembered another body that pulled and pushed mine
I wanted you I will not deny my hunger
But I wanted you to want me as a person, as a partner you loved
Not a possibly sleeping girl who you could ******
A girl who you could take from whatever you wished
Did you find my rejection a challenge?
Get excited that your fingers might be the first inside of me?
What would you have done to me?
Would your fingers have been followed by your ****
Why would you violate me, Hercules?
But you don’t deserve that name anymore
You’re a bright flower that rots from the inside
No, you are washed of your name
Your hair knotted in between the fingers of my fist
I relieve you of the weight of dignity, cut you of all strength
You’ve frightened me with what you could have done – were willing to attempt
You’ve betrayed me of my trust and affection
I want you to pay
I want you to answer me: why, why, why?
Why would you do this to me, Jacob?
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
Whenever I see
Mothballs rolling over
To sublime inside
The ***** of
My closet,
I reach in
And touch its coarseness,
The roughness of size;
How come it withdrew
Itself to the world
By shrinking its
Speculations.
Strange though,
but a thought
Came to my mind:
Its state
Is similar
To a feat
Such as mine.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 1:20 AM UTC
how can I describe the sweetness of your breath
as I inhale it
the roughness of your chin
when you kiss me
the stubbiness of your nails
as you clutch my hand in yours
the tickle from your diaphragm against mine
as your bed time breaths steady and deepen
the softness of your eyelids
always hidden by your glasses
the coarseness of your hair
as its laced between my fingers
your dynamic eyebrows
the gaps between your teeth
your long second toe
I can't sleep, I'm hyper aware of your presence next to mine.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
a fog of uncertainty
or mist of opportunity
discouragement of the fearful
passion of the pathfinders
boredom of the erudite
opportunity of the ready
despair of the overcome
pride of the calm conqueror
crumbling of the thoughtless
savvy of the thinker
rebellion of restless seas
wisdom of the calmer waters
coarseness of the unmodified rocks
refinement of a rare diamond sage
repeating dirge of the pessimists
excitement of the optimists
shock of the confronted
pragmatism of the realists
dissatisfaction of the takers
fulfillment's flame in the givers
empty shell of the ever selfish
and balm of those who
to the bewildered
smile kindness
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 12:30 PM UTC
Much of America is mourning still--
Mourning the light extinguished when
Heedlessness embraced false promise;
Mourning the loss of what could have been;
Mourning the hope of a glorious day
Darkened by a cloud of despair
And sincere interconnectedness
Became replaced by vanity fair;
Mourning the loss of a heart that beat
For all and not for a limited few,
And coarseness received people's praise,
And true refinement became taboo;
Mourning a dream of inclusiveness
With all-embracing open arms
When a nightmare smothered it
And drowned out warnings and alarms;
Mourning the flower of optimism
With hope in every opening bud
When weeds with thorns of cynicism
Flourished, and hope was dripping in blood;
Mourning the renewed freshness of spring
And the calm peace of a summer's night,
Ravished by winds of uncertainty
And the bitter harshness of winter's blight.
Much of America is mourning still.
The grief will end one day. Till then,
We all move forward while many continue
To mourn the loss of what could have been.
- by Bob B (11-25-16)
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
i want to see the pigment of your eyes
what if they are more than i imagine?
i want to feel the coarseness in your voice,
reverberate against my soft skin
what if it is more than i can fathom?
i wish i could stop asking questions,
but glad you make me ask them
should i dye my hair a brilliant purple,
tattoo 'crazy' on my collarbone,
act like someone you just met, but have always known?
there we go again, asking rhetorical questions
because you can't answer
when you have to hear across the clatter
of all fifty states, wish for clean slates
or some time in your bed, wake me, from the dead
just like we play it, cause we're so demented
our hearts are black, our breath cigarette scented
we don't buy into religion, or this world we live in
and the last thing i vest my faith in
is you
with your black and white art, the way you pull me apart
and **** your heart is beautiful
i devour you unusual
and wish that i was what you craved
made you this manic and depraved
or at least that i could cure you
that you might maybe pull through
so we could spend our time together in the graveyards
the sun would shine on our arms
where we intertwined like vines
fade like passing time
and finally be alone
finding solace in our home
but i'm wasting precious hope, becoming my own ghost
because i can't take what isn't mine
so i'll get drunk off ancient wine,
pretend that i am fine
and wait for morning to face me,
wait for scars to grace me
and while you wait for C,
i will save your seat
on the shore of this warm ocean,
cause i know your wounds are open
and the salty brine
of love and rhyme
will heal them all, from me.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
*"Fearless flights of the imagination
do exalt my spiritual vitality
and this reduces the coarseness
of my character."*
-J.L. Cantore
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
thinking lately
"baby, bate me"
indigestion
if you grate me
no longer in the past
forget the late me
maybe you could
date me?
drama here in the mountains
breakdowns and bus stops
kids who feel entitled
parents cash in their jeans
screaming, obscenes
strange scenes
heart on my sleeve
people here say I'm too deep
as the truth creeps like snow melting
waterfalls breaking through
and I scream just as obscene
because the truth is much more difficult
and I didn't come here for an easy ride
or to build my pride
I quicken my stride
with thoughts of home
as I face the faces who scream,
"this is our mountain and we can do what we want with it!"
I disagree over quick paces
the coarseness of burnt toast
the smell of fresh brewed coffee
and I quicken my pace
quicken so I don't have to feel the weight of their egos
so that I can try and break away from my own
I feel so alone with myself
when did I forget I was here
that I'm all I need?
I miss the ones I love as I bleed
struggling to breed my own love
to move on and to move up
forgive the past and destroy the ruts
another day counting cigarette butts
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
I smell of smoke on your breath
And taste blood on your lips
Feeling the roughness of your hands
Seeing the pain in your eyes
I hear the coarseness of your breathing
I pop a breath mint
And wipe my mouth
Smooth on some lotion
Faking a smile
In and out; I count my breaths
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
When baby girl first bloomed, her hair was slicked down on all sides of her little head.
No products were used on her hair quite yet and she was as naturally beautiful as the brightest flower in the garden.
Her hair was as delicate as her baby skin but that didn’t stop it from becoming a nest of smooth curls.
She was a happy and vibrant baby but her hair grew at a fast rate.
Her mother often used a small brush to make her baby’s curls look “neater” as if baby girl cared.
A pink, yellow, or red bow would be placed in the middle of her soft little fro to give her a shiny little glow.
Then baby girl got older and the smoothness turned into coarseness.
Some described it as spongy.
Her mother would use a kid’s hair lotion to give it more moisturization.
However, baby girl’s hair required more than regular hair lotion could give.
Baby girl still bloomed in radiance and beauty.
Her natural hair wouldn’t be a real problem to her until years later.
Her mother could no longer deal with the broken combs, screams of her daughter, neither the losses of money in a lump sum.
Her mother decided to relax her baby girl’s curls.
Baby girl knew her scalp tingled and burned for her natural hair to be “tamed.”
Though baby girl wasn’t as young anymore, she noticed some changes in her hair.
Her fingers could go through it without getting stuck.
Her hair was shiny as a piece of gold and bounced when she moved her head.
But now, baby girl knows.
She knows her hair may be bone straight but it’s missing something.
To some, it’s just hair but to her, it’s her sense of expression.
Others like her rock their fros with pride while her relaxed tresses no longer appeal to her.
It never did as she was oblivious to her mother’s logic.
She went full circle when she returned to her ***** roots” and she couldn’t be any happier.
Now baby girl has bloomed into a woman with her nest of ***** and coil like curls.
Her curly fro was something like the beautiful flower that resembled the sun.
A beautiful brown centerpiece as the center and her curls as the petals that surrounded her.
Her tresses were as perfect as they could be and it will never matter who chooses not to agree.
#OWL'S WORLD
Aug 5, 2020
Aug 5, 2020 at 11:24 PM UTC
My perfect winter:
precious in how
the summer still
seems to
simmer within
the metro station’s
humidity.
Even if the palm trees
still do shake
alongside the rhythm
of the wind,
my perfect winter
is hot—
pink like the day-ends
of summer solstice.
They are brown like
the sugar in
how you speak
to me,
sweetened.
Orange for
the lengths
of a coral sky right
before 6 o’clock.
And perhaps
I cannot know
a more
perfect season
until I’ve spent
time away
from my orange,
brown, and pink
winters.
But for now,
I will shiver
at 75 degrees,
I will chatter my
teeth at
this humidity—
so that I may
take your hands
in my own for
warmth,
and so that I
never forget the
coarseness of your
skin during
the most perfect
time of year.
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 11:55 AM UTC
I don’t need beautiful music to continue
to dance.
I don’t need perfect words
to tell you my life story.
My life is shown in the grace of each sunset
and sunrise.
It is written in the blackness of the night up until the light of each day.
It is felt in the coarseness of the sand
and in the softness of the clouds.
It is heard through the songs of the birds
and the psalms from the still water.
Each of my story is part of the dust and hopeful seeds blown and scattered by the joyful winds.
The magic, the majesty, the glory of everything that surrounds me.
Every single moment is a memory.
A wonderful memory of my story.
Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 8:47 AM UTC
~
O’ blustered winds - of coarseness flow
Upon these lips atone
Yon murmured fields of slowly strolled
To quest as if unknown
Lest I call these visions deemed
A’ crying o’er the heart
Breadth o’ mine own eyes hath seen
Nor fancied o’ thy part
It hath been of sorrowed sleep
O’ cast of humbled dreams
That I, for one ~ hath felt the thrill
A’ wash of what it seems
For as with all ~ who’ve angels smiled
And to the long of mind
Within my heart thy taste is real
Of you that I now find
For thee, I say ~ I now must weep
Thy joy engulfs my soul
To breathe is lost from what I see
This heart o’ my control
Happiness doth shed these tears
‘Tis moisture meant to show
O’er all that I hath known this past
My heart doth love thee so
I pray that I shall not awake
Yon beauty calls my sleep
For if mine eyes should find the sun
I fear that I shan’t keep
This love angelic I hath found
So forged this slumbered dream
As is each day ~ of years to come
Your love doth come to me
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
the coarseness of his whiskers prickled
rubbed red rash masses burned cheeks
lips past chapped stretching crevices
straining to kiss your goose down smile
wondering what you see behind thin skein lids
closed but to the most brilliant illumination
so sweet so soft two fat bellied worms
caress cracked slugs immobilized through sodium
his voice a dark tunnel a flickering tongue of fire
settles
you absorb the warmth understand every word
reach to stroke the bristly brush bush pulls
down
push in fall up
for the reprieve from light's absence
as the two of you stand naked in the rain
waiting for lightning to strike
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
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Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
coercive the tune she sang
to his ear it had a tempting twang
she the harlot wind
enticed him into her snare
she'd coveted
possession
of him
with strength
she sang her strains
to the appeal of his ear
the hallways
of his mind
endlessly reverberated
with her chords
in the back of his mind
a virginal breeze
murmured
her delicate tune
her pitch floated
as a feather
to his ear
her zephyr
twas dainty
and had not
a coarseness of tone
his dilemma
which of the possibilities to chose
a covetous harlot
so enticing
a ****** of daintiness
pretty of tone
who would sway him
by way of correspondence
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC