"coloration" poems
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
When I'm near you I'm anxious.
At any moment I can explode.
A coloration of floral hues printed across the sky,
Covering you; the night.
Appropriately expanding.
A sizzle awaiting detonation.
Catapulted high.
Nothing to do but fall.
Fall in love with you.
Plummeting down unable to sit still.
Your hand the stripe that surrounds me.
Stars; echo in a crackle.
Change is inevitable.
The glory of being held close,
Counting every second until we burst into pieces.
Wandering around your essence.
Wandering in turquoise yellows & purple strawberries exhaled in smoke.
The moon forever jealous
Every night July everlasting.
The closer I get to you
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 9:43 PM UTC
i.
Mine admiration for her
Daily doth beam;
Hour's passeth by, with meteor shower's aloft the Sky's
I'll awaiteth a million year's for mine queen.
ii.
In mine sleep, betwixt mine dream's
No ado shalt get in between, none evil, nor fiend's;
Laughter and light, in struck night's, angel polite
Amour in flight, wherein all is right, crystal gleamed.
iii.
I'll dye the scene, a daffodil coloration
I'll be here mine sweet, I'm not leaving, I'm patient;
On other planet's, or nation's, wherever I shalt be
I promise mine lass, mine half, I'll be waiting for thee.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
Excuse me as I rant.
I am tried of trying to inhale religious expectations
expecting it to restore some coloration
Within the walls of my longing to be accepted soul
Because once I inhale
I'm drowning with rules and regulations
Suffering by asphyxiation.
On one hand I am told not to fall into temptation
On the other my fingers count the scars of self mutilation.
And they wonder why there's lack of communication
When most spit their words calling us abominations.
But Franny that's what they believe
yeah and I believe their teachings are a form of defecation.
you see what I mean, it's all 'bout interpretation
They see lustful behavior needing modification
I see nature and nurture working in collaboration.
because I am more than just a concept of sexualization.
Because I am more than God's "Mistaken creation"
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
~for you, girl~
words have definitions; shades; moods,
even within the contextual moment,
the coloration sometimes is discolored,
one person frantic is another’s
normal
passing fancy
insanity
quiet
overwrought silliness
frantic is a continuum’s conundrum
and oft the hubbub coverhup lends
a veneer of urgency importance
when knowledge acquisition is iron
irony, best when well chewed, quietly
considered and consumed with the
perspective of addition and subtraction
what we know is more than yesterday,
and less than what we will one day own,
for the only purity of learning is that’s
final refining is never ending
the artifice of deadlines,
gradation vis-a-vis
all the rest, is not a
distinction worthy of
distinguishing
your human value is beyond compare
exactly!
the greatest of valued adders to the world body of understanding put the race of
ego to one side, and so should we all,
not
be ****** in by the imposition of qualifiers
you are quality, and that is the only
qualification you will ever
acquire and require
and in my naïveté
I reflect looking back
and give you here the
free use thereof,
of its worth, you will
determine
but in summary judgement:
always keep thinking
ridicule is ridiculous
but best when applied
by oneself to oneself
with a
*** did I really think:say that?”
and laugh out loud at our human
foibles, especially our own,
with a wry smile, admitting
some of things we conjure up
in all seriousness are
are the funniest things we’ve ever heard
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 11:13 AM UTC
Come sleep with me.
: Dream of us together that we may embrace each other in the ethereal realm and caress the wisps of each others soul.
Come with me and dance upon the clouds and the sun's coloration of the sky shall be our dream scape.
Hope will be our blanket, love the pillows for our weary heads. Trust and honesty make the softness of our bed. I sleep with you and dream. I dream of you and smile. Come and sleep with me my love, if only for awhile.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
*She was a picture of monotonous monochrome.
She was deathly quite in one jaunty home.
She lied in wait of eyes that could see through her bleakness.
One who could see the beauty in her , beyond her illusory mess.
People gazed at her and noticed the lack of chroma.
Then a man , destitute of vision , approached and followed her aroma.
He gazed at her with the touch of his finger.
And time stopped as he started to linger.
His gaze took him , in the depths of her beauty.
And she spilled colors and made him sooty.
With no vision he espied her coloration.
and world was hysterical
at their love in
such
excommunication*.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
Amid the glory times of darkness,
Sitting on the edge of the white tablecloth,
Brilliant white from bleached soaking, and stained with yesterdays
Clouds and air of desperation, was the cup, the coffee cup,
Its broken flower coloration, its yellowish hue,
Half full of what was once blistering hot, now the juice of warmth
And the morning begins its wakening time.
Four burners atop the gas stove, each with its black *** stand,
Covered with blackened skillets, grease from the bacon, popping
And sizzling and bringing the best of the day together,
With the tablespoons of lard, from the five gallon silver bucket,
Covered in white stained T-towels, and the shallow bowl in which you washed your hands.
You dried your hands, loosely, leaving each damp and warm,
As the biscuit dough was rolled, and broken up, and pinched into the skillet
And then placed, with ringing noise,
Deep within the ovens hole, no light there, and you could smell
It all cooking, and see the hands that made it,
With their wrinkles of days of and months and years,
Making the breakfast of today, just as if it had made, no; it had made
For many years.
Bacon grease taken up on the tablespoon, and poured into the other skillet
Black, and hot, and making that little sizzling noise, as the bacon fried,
The biscuits backed, and the flours was spread in the skillet,
Browning, hard little clumps; stirred around, spoon on the pan,
And the milk poured from the quart jar, which was left on the porch this morning with four others,
Before life as we knew it began, and the spoon turning, the heat from the stove
Almost too much, and the gravy was stirred and turned, and stirred,
Thickened up, burner down, and a dozen eggs cracked into the fourth skillet,
Bubbling and popping, bacon taken up, put on a plate, the gravy stirred again,
Biscuits pulled, placed on a potholder, their greasy tops looking fine and brown,
Fresh butter, salt and pepper, breakfast was made again.
For the umpteenth time in this umpteenth world.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Dedicated entirely to and for Marisa White
So many human cells,
trillions, not billions
staying alive, a constant balance
between losing and making more.
when young and growing,
like you babe,
like you babe,
making many more new,
than we lose.
when we "advance"
to advanced ages,
like me babe,
like me babe,
when old sick,
either body or heart,
starting to die,
losing more than we make.
new cells, no more,
past
tense,
yet, still have colorations of all kinds,
streaming residues inside yet thrive.
the youthful biologist,
you, know all this,
yet still needy seemingly,
for gentlest reminding,
by an inexorably dying man,
prime declining,
so care for these words well,
they won't come again.
for you to imagine a grain
inside you,
so wonderful envisioned,
that the yet uncorrected words
limbo, stasis,
are deleted from the textbooks
as yet unwritten,
on and of you,
writ by you.
I need
but one cell,
of your DNA,
freshly birthed this day,
a canvas of only you,
unsullied by pernicious infected hopelessness,
where, under the microscope electrifying,
I will paint with scalpel and brush,
away the limbo,
injecting the blue dye of
happyness,
to course through your red veins.
how cannot you see,
the potential vastness of the trillions
that awaits, so in need,
needy for coloration by a scientist~poetess,
when a lover good and true appears,
you will birth trillions
new cells in a new body, imagine that,
using only the brightest hues of your untapped potential.
which cell?
so many choices,
so many possibilities,
why that I leave that
up, to you babe,
up up up up up,
up, to you babe.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
There's a frenzy around ID cards
when you're fifteen
an excitement like trapping bees in an airtight jar
which cannot be replicated as an adult
although the behavior is the same:
Criticize the picture
Berate oneself for being
A human with height and width and coloration
Then there's the barber shop mirror replication of self
the meta-selfie of taking a picture of one's ID
and posting to
everything . . . ever
so you have a sounding board for your self-aggrandizement
enrobed in self-deprecation like
a chocolate-dipped madeleine
which will inherently lead to a
knitted afghan of praise and adoration
which was entirely the point
Then there's the dismissal
the abandonment into a wallet
from which it will never escape
living out lifetimes ad infinitum in vain
never recognizing the worth of
Your student ID
113809
which identifies you
but is not you because
You could never be so two-dimensional
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
I been bumpin frank Sinatra
I been chillin with these mobsters
Perfect Italian girl put the parmesan upon the pasta
We had white sauce on the angel hair
We were sipping on the pinot
Her hair was black as mine,
but her skin look like a kilo
Thighs look like a hundred grand
Eyes green like a c- note
Liquid nitrogen in her veins
The tongue game ****** she wrote
She whispers fortunes in my ear
While tracing plans upon my skin
Lead me to a life of sin
Then gave the roulette a gentle spin.
I never gave her a wedding ring
I proposed to her with the shell
wedding dress was made by Prada
The coloration red as hell
Showin fangs in a crooked smile that she hid behind her veil
Death upon her breath, it turned the atmosphere stale
Unholy matrimony pastor trying to hide his thorns
Ring bearer bared his fangs
flower girl throwing thorns
Bridemaids holding bouquets made of wilted lillies
She drove a knife through my heart and said
“ baby do you feel me?”
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
**"Love...
It comes,—the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,—
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one."** Wadsworth Longfellow
<>
forgive me, Henry,
for tampering with thy perfect,
these words provoke
a restless, hard earned, smouldering and enflaming,
imperfected, unasked, unsought,
yearning
to explain, share, complete, abbreviate, lengthen and explicate,
my version, my coloration,
my coronation,
from the end of ceaseless, repetitive waves of wanting
completion
forty years in the desert,
four hundred year in ******* in Egyptian exile,
boul
der chained, uphill climber,
amazes me even now, how
did I desire to breathe,
arose to contemplate, perplexed,
why was I placed on this star,
skin branded dissatisfied, a human being,
unratified, unconstituted
just another love song, just another poem,
certainly no better, and surely worse,
than the thousands of thousands that preceded,
and the thousand more that will come by
nightfall
surrender - I cannot surpass
what lies below
acknowledge respectfully,
the luckless, the loveless
despair can dissipate, as hard to believe,
as hard as the unendurable, I counsel not
hard patience,
instead,
awake forever impatient, irresolutely
hardy and ravenous,
for what will come your way,
when I cannot say,
but this I know,
you are an elected, selected one, and
**It comes,—the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,—
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one**
8:21am Aug. 27, 2016
<>
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 8:24 AM UTC
~
she shows her loss
in conflagration,
her death in
varied coloration;
in life support
of beautied kind,
she displays for
all mankind
her burst of
brilliant orange,
of rusty red,
and deep magenta,
of richest shades
in burnt sienna.
all are losses
soon to be,
loosed from limb,
and fallen...
from her tree,
to the earth
for all to see;
master of
this burning fire,
fulfills the eye
to heart’s desire,
she makes sweet love
with dying breath,
she breathes her last
with heaving breast,
and summons all
to watch her death,
to bid adieu
in living color,
and thus fulfills
her yearly drama;
showing loss is
more than death...
tis cold winter’s
icy breath
that breathes
anew each spring,
and thus the
cycle filled
she the chosen,
she the one,
to bring new life,
awakened sun;
renewed to us,
and thus,
the rays of hope
again, begun!
~
*post script.
my inspiration for this creation is simple... the posting of a dear HP friend, K. Mae, who wrote these simple and profound words here...
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1435498/see-through-loss/
thank you K, for helping to open these eyes to the riches that lie before us... even in loss!*
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
The blur of the subway reflection inspired me to
Inspired me to, to believe in
The crimson blood that flowed within you
You and your hollow valentines card veins
The bite of the winter wisps of wind asked me to
Asked me to, to remember if
Your embrace was the dagger sugar coated blue
The first icicles to fall in January’s pain
The drip and dance of the winter medication forced me to
Forced me to, to make love against
The memories that held me close within the heart’s decadent hue
I never asked for his real name
The salt and citrus that embraced the tequila motivated me to
Motivated me to, to waste tears upon
Your deep violet royalty and my role as the ingenue
I only wished to offer you a red paper crane
The pallor of my skin introduced me to
Introduced me to, to the truth
And nothing but the truth, so help me God, I cooed
Drive me somewhere beautiful, a place I cannot blame
The final echo of your weary voice released me to
Released me to, to an apocalyptic city
The street was reduced to a cemetery so I choose the avenue
The four horsemen galloped in the sanctuary of the bus lane
The loneliness of restless half-hearted dreaming lead me to
Lead me to, to a crystal forgotten river
It stretched through the city and the city’s shoes
Winding in and out like a vagrant gone insane
A switching staircase indebted me to
Indebted me, to the essence of humanity
It explained all is made so that it can be broken through
No river shall ever flow without rain
The bright of the afternoon convinced me to
Convinced me to, to stand before the mirror
Bright eyes and shaking lips sparkled wet with diamond dew
She blamed cupid’s arrow for it was surely improperly aimed
A lover, half asleep and half in dreams, insisted me to
Insisted me to, to scream until I collapse
It was the only sound I could honestly make to begin anew
He promised without shame
The blare of the harsh siren in the night awoke me to
Awoke me to, to a dream I once believed
The vivid coloration and forms were an artistic witch’s brew
I’ve been to love, so I’ve been to war and I shall never be the same
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
There are eyes that confront,
but there is no remorse.
Brown carries a negative connotation
and so the story carries on.
There will be eyes of this coloration,
but rarely a tale of happiness.
The theories behind formulas
don't take emotions into consideration.
It's kind of a misappropriation,
if you think about it,
We spend lives following
sequences, patterns, developments.
But we're only becoming dense
as we're hollowing.
I wish to love
as I wish to breathe.
I wish to love
as I want to believe.
This unreachable constellation
is a similar misappropriation.
I am a ball of yarn
hopelessly tangled
and
ignored.
You are a seamstress-
weaving optimism
and pragmatic emotion
for the forlorn.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
Let. me.
I’m going. to. do it.
I’m going to rip every painstaking petal from my eye
I wont be okay. if the idealization kills the love. I feel
Im going to smash. And. Mangle.
These rose tinted glasses
Over this, Concrete, corner.
Don’t care who’s going to look. and judge
I am the victim
No longer will I look through a pink vial of self possessed poison
No longer will I escape true unconditional love
If there was, a Satan. this would be his game
His oracle.
Of divination.
Well. I said. **** this, I’m not going to believe in its dictation
I’m going to be. my own salvation
From its pink. Innocent. coloration
I’m going to pull, pluck, and wrench
These petals from my eye lids
It’s going to be a painfully beautiful process
Don’t be.
Deceived.
So sweet. how could it. lead you to do harm?
When. in. actuality. it will end up twisting behind my very arms!
No, I wont collaborate to torment this feeling deep inside!
Inanimate object,
Objectifying. my love.
Going to shatter this wall. that you build.
Between us.
Gonna **** this in my fury.
You separate me from my beautiful reality.
Reality, is much more beautiful. than you and I. can conceive!
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
This odd fellow took
a long drink at night,
rock n' roll long forgot,
hard driving,
reacquainting unused,
years ago seeded,
elements of a
young man's remembering soul,
Hotel California living life,
live before his eyes,
demonstrated, recalled and
well-played
on a double slide guitar,
so each note of distinction
new and familiar,
au courant from decades
then, now and when-forever
the odd fellow
listens happy high,
drinking the music's
rich woven countenance
to the thrumming bouquet
of a pale white coloration
a Sauvignon Blanc
newly arrived from New Zealand,
just because,
this odd fellow
liked the name,
Supernatural
just like the music
and the
odd fellow is
young and old
at the same time,
tipsy and sober,
fresh and forlorn,
days wasted past,
days made for memories to last,
feet move timed
to the beat,
his heart resonance timed
to the beat,
the odd fellow is thinking
nothing could be more natural
to recall the supernatural past
and the future natural best to come,
with wine, his woman and
those rock n' roll songs
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
Can you envision it now? An Inverted World?
Where colors go beyond their definition...
Shades of shadows transforming as beams of white
They do the opposite of their given mission
Praise the Lord we don't live in an Inverted World
Where Comfort and Chaos try to share one frame
The morning's flawless innocent white clouds scatter away and are replaced by black clouds that will start a new reign
Our minds will try to solve this puzzle as a sun of dark radiance blast it's curse over the nation
The forgiving pink roses turn against us as their petals allow green jealousy to manifest their vision
The diamonds that covered the sky at night would only be small shadow reminders of the new sun that leaves us breathless
The Night would be purer then Daytime it's self. The Elements water and fire would have switched identities. These changes are endless
Praise God we don't live in an inverted world. Where our skin looks like it was painted in ashes
Or for those with a darker tone, look like their body have been invade by an icy storm encouraged by magic
The Lord instructed color to have a meaning, commanded nature to have a destiny and a desire...
Again, Thank you Savior, for your mercy of an orderly world, where shades are in their places, and harmony is not a liar
Coloration embraces it's role and refuses to fail it's task to symbolize it's emotion...
How truly lucky and blessed we are..
That We Don't Live In An Inverted World...
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Sept. 5th, 2020, 6:35am (wondrous palette)
the sun risen, but a solid foothold as of yet unestablished;
the new day’s skies borrow coloration from nearby sources,
no unique identity bright enough as of yet to call its own;
thin cumulus streaks, striate against an unidentifiable blue
paleness, more to contrast than to claim, “here we are!
the bay is in labor: multi hues of blue intermingle, as the
light illuminates each part differentially; soon enough,
one hue will come to dominate, just like you, soon enough,
a single hue will dominate, and this day will be distinct,
and who knows? perhaps even distinctive enough to be
memorialized.
minute to minute is the ever changing interplay; unlike a
human, this rapidity maturation is unafraid to experiment
with new combinations but-based on prior recalled self-
examination; something on the water, a small boat low and
close flat to the surficial; a skiff, a rowboat with no oars,
drifting, languishing on the fishing spot, unmoving unhurried
humans aboard, thinking, this is the good way to start living
*last comment; tiny hinting shades of violet, pink and orange
exist, hard to discern so well blended are they with the norm
of broader blue and vanilla white and then all readily apparent!
this is the new days message, we are what we appear to be,
one earth, one sky, indivisible but born from* a wondrous palette;
*and so yet another first poem of the day is created, a verbal
prélude, étude, unique but a product of its many ancestral
predecessors, just like*, we the people.
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 7:01 AM UTC
Adding minutes to a lifetime (saying magic words)
**”And you, dear poet, friend of many years,
have given me so many inspirations, birthed within
us words,so oft, and so well, that your pithy observations,
manufacture time, add minutes to lifetimes**”
<>
wrote these words without thinking,
they’re sweet and neat, trivial but incomplete
but upon rear mirror review, Mr Poet
re-thinks, perhaps deserved of another serving,
curvy white, soft-to-the-lips, a moist vanilla kiss,
excellent ice cream in a sugar cone, words irresistible
for the sweetest poem sparks multi-coloration-explosion
of sprinkles ‘pon a skin’s surface,
uprisings of what lurks in the centrum of your
embodied universe and disembodied soul,
shockingly uprising from an internal fulcrum,
sea~tossed flotsam of a jagged life, now, all recovered
words sprinkling, beach treasures, and yet,
adding minutes to a lifetime…
*reliving old reels, is time recaptured, creating a
certain robust additive to thine cranking and
cranky engine, that’s logged much more than
a picayune hundred thousand miles on a voyage
of e i g h t decades, you employ ten fingers to
calculate your fugue of multi-voiced numerations!*
*can it be? it cannot be! millions upon millions of
minutes, possess and passed, yet highlight feature
films, enabling reliving so real that by watching,
seeing, believing, re-reading it is as if one is earning
life extensions…*adding minutes to a lifetime…
*‘tis true, rereading every small scrip, every poem,
returns one to prior-places, each a datum,
a particular spot, a point upon a schema of integrity & integration,
that rule the visions, a message of individualism
in the largest context of a true vision(arie)*
“chacun un point dans une peinture pointilliste…”
“each a point within a pointillistic painting…”
*in a few years, a stumbling upon shall here return me here,
and I will smile with great gratitude for the life extended,
accepting with gratitude,*
these few seconds, a last lasting chance,
to say some magic words
with a great vanilla whispering
adding minutes to you life as well
nml
May 7, 2024
May 7, 2024 at 3:56 PM UTC
Mind boggles and heart melts down
That's when I feel you around
A bliss fills the air
Permeating everywhere
With you, everything is fine
Feels brilliantly divine
A psychedelic rift rhymes
Across the vast ocean of space and time
A color intermediate green and orange
In the spectrum of coloration tinge
Looks great on you and me
Meet you again, when it'll be time
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
there are parts of me that are unseen... like my heart, that hairline of a fracture.. that slowly makes me close up.. scared as i bottle myself up.. a message in a bottle, lost at sea.. the waves are the things that pull me under.. and carry me away from anything that i find happiness in... a dark abyss.. slowly losing myself.. within myself.. not realizing i'm pulling away from the brightness.. all i see it as is brightness in the dark.... the light seems so far.. like if it were a million light years away... as the walls of your mind close in on you.. crushing you inside out.. just to prove that you are crumbling.. fading... like coloration, a stain... feeling as if you're fading but stayed... a sight for sore eyes.. and a broken heart upon mending.. while i sit here descending..
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
*”You going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
Well, I could've loved you better, didn't mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind*”
Tom Paxton
<>
the lyrics get caught in my throat,
of Tom’s guilty confessional,
so instead of voice emitted,
the letters and words
fall to the ground en-
capsulated in tears
multicolored,
the salt & &pepper
coloration of sad regret
for the multifold &
man-I-fold
mistakes
recalled in black & white graydations
of reflections of loves lost that yet haunt
and now honored, at last,
with their very own
words of
farewell
Jun 15, 2024
Jun 15, 2024 at 10:19 AM UTC
This black & white world
With no little delight
The concept of beauty
I have no sight
Wrapped around a needle
Ends that keep you near & dear
My fear, my dear
To be sincere,
Never age, never to be changed, don’t burn
This chapter that is our page
I’ll keep you from being caged
Leave this land away with me
Youth & beauty
Is an illusion
Our bodies will
Wither away
To dust and bones
To fertilize
A never ending cycle
We call life
My attachment
My devotion
Come to life!
I give you motion
Breathe my life in
I’ll give you life
Streams of water
Flowing through my eyes and out my veins
My state of reality no longer
Exist or nor to survive
Goodbye?
No, I’m not delusional
This emotion is unusual
A dark feeling
With no heart
Or soul
A creature that surrounds my every movement
A lifeless body that stares
Down upon me
Stitched from the ends of my skin
Dangling helplessly
I’m a slave to it’s every
Command and I know I’m truly ******
Hope or not
I see a bright light
I feel comfort
I feel… well I don’t know what to feel
No longer amongst the dust
That creates life
No air to inhale
The memories of long & gone
Treasures of beauty & perfection
I stare at this bright light
To ensure what I had near & dear
Is alive, but I curse this white light
Because it’s the creator & death eater
How can you ****** me with love and affection?
While your poison spreads through me like an infection!
It’s like a love hate relationship
How can I simply accept you?
The one thing I had purpose for is long & gone
How can you simply create life and just take it away?
Is there a point to your logic?
Maybe I don’t understand, yet.
I beg you, reconstruct me
Send me back to this dreadful
Black & white world
With no texture & structure
The inability to preserve life
I plead to return what was near & dear to me
For it’s worth something to have
In this cruel fate
It’s something that brings me ecstasy &
Ecstatic coloration to my soul
I simply plead to have
What was near & dear to me
To feel the alabaster tone
Ascend through my heart and soul
A winter land of desire
To watch flocks of black ravens
Land on my chest
To stare at the crystal blue diamonds
To assure peace between
The crimson river that flows through us
To seal a deal
With a red wave
With what is near & dear to me.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
the tinkling kiss,
tween silver bell
and the windowed door,
at the ice cream store,
announces with the delight of
a tingling excite
a novitiate,
a well scrubbed innocente,
a suckering, youthful customer
has entered the store
all the ice cream poems stand up straight,
paying cold attention,
the little boy ones,
fix their crookedly crooked bow ties,
the little girl ones,
pat down their crinkly crinolines,
all best behavior-ed,
shivering cold from hot anticipation,
the idea, the conception
of becoming
the chosen one,
invited outside,
for delight,
the pleasure of melting into
sweet, sad loving death,
in the smiling mouth
of a young fan & reader
now, they all know the rules,
no calling out!
just stand in frozen attention,
glistening, shimmering,
displaying their true coloration,
hoping to be the selected election
but that rascally bad boy,
with salty language,
yes, the salty caramel one,
can, in his over-sized container,
no longer can contain himself,
screaming out
with an aura of entitlement
*"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,*
favor my flavor"
all thirty one flavors,
one for every day of the month,
start to shout,
like a raucous caucus
of politicians huffing and puffing,
wheezing and whining,
pretend crying
for the favored blessing of your vote,
*"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,*
favor my flavor"
there is even a
"flavor of the day,"
usually a newly minted green poet,
a chipped one,
seeking to find a permanent home
for its fresh faced tasty, word sensation,
but after thousands of plastic spoon samplings,
nonetheless melty-dies in the corner, alone and forgotten,
for fame is fleeting, and not always long term good eating
so many to choose, got the poetic ice cream blues,
sweet slow aching of loving infatuation for the iceiest of
tongued-licking caressing, the only way to be consumed
organically
*"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,*
favor my flavor"
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC