"complementing" poems
She has a cute face with heavy heart,
Pure smile without mask.
How can he control his feelings,
When black hair brown eyes complementing her.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 5:45 PM UTC
She sat by the window, with the rain pelting the foggy glass, breathing hot air into the cold. She took her finger and slowly ran it across the pane, pushing away the gathered dew and then running her fingers up, down, up, down. G O N E sprawled in messy cursive. Her thoughts were as dreary as everything surrounding her. It was as if the rain was complementing her. After all, if it was sunny, depressing thoughts would be banished to the back of her head.
They had all left her, her past lovers. Their words echoed across the wooden floor, false promises stealing pieces of her heart until the outer shell was the only thing that remained. It was beautiful really. Her shell was so delicate, like a bottle tossed into the ocean, broken and grinded against the sand and rocks, until it finally rested on a beach somewhere, all edges smoothed. She was seaglass, a reminder of the past, but beautiful.
the first told her that she was an angel, just one without wings. “But that’s ok” , he said, “sometimes there is no need to fly”. He found a single mom on concord avenue two weeks later. She got child support. He bought her a ring soon after.
The third she met in the winter, where for months, white was the only variation of color. He liked to push her on her sled, but he laughed with more joy when he pushed her down the stairs. Red was the second color discovered that winter.
The fourth was the last. His love aged like a plum, darker and sweeter each week she was with him. He stroked her knee with his fingers when they sat upright at the doctor’s office, and he stroked her neck with his lips as she cried, laying horizontally on his bed. “Where did you get the scars on your back?” he would murmur into her skin.
“I fell down the stairs once”, she would whisper in the direction of his voice, her words floating in the darkness of the bedroom. The tip of his thumb would run down the pale pink scars, but she wouldn’t feel him there, that part of her had become numb long before. He left her two years later, his side of the room empty except for the spare key resting on the mahogany side table. His smell still lingered carelessly on her pillow.
Whenever it rained, she sat at the window, shadows gathering at her feet.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
Turn the kitchen sink on. Wait 36 seconds. Turn the sink off. Count the sides of the kitchen doorway. One, two, three. Put socks on, walk to the bathroom. Take socks off. Turn the bathroom sink on. Wait 36 seconds. Turn the sink off. Count the sides of the bathroom doorway. One, two, three. Put socks on. The whole procedure had been finely polished into a smooth six minutes. Exactly. Justin’s day can now begin. He finishes his normal routine and leaves the house. He checks the gutter. He’s not checking for anything specific, but it’s sixth in his morning ritual and must be done.
Today he found something. There’s a girl, passed out. She is wearing an excessively short turquoise sequined dress, with matching stilettos. Justin was at a loss. The gutter was not empty. Should he call the police? He took her shoe. He ran. Six blocks later, he stopped. He was In front of his favourite coffee shop. It was an intimidating place, with a tattoo and piercing service offered, while you wait for your coffee. He liked it because the address was 666. He was worried the police he hadn't phoned would be searching for the stiletto he had stolen. Who would have known he would turn to a life of crime? Just earlier, while the bathroom sink was on, he had been thinking of complementing the local parking officer (the one with the limp) on his ability to write tickets. Now here he was, holding the glittering fruit of his crime. Maybe he could return it to the young lady. She seemed nice enough, from what little he knew of her. But what if she questioned him? Best have an excuse prepared. He could say he saw a spider climbing into it. His chivalry had saved her from a nasty bug bite. No, he couldn't pull that off. He would pretend to be a poet, that’s what he’d do. Poets are known for being strange. So he set about writing her a poem.
*Turquoise like the rain,
off you go, down the drain.
With a dress, short like our fleeting existence,
that could really do with some more distance.
I took your heel to 666,
left you a poem in the mix.*
Justin was in fact quite proud of his apparent literary side. He rejected -yet again- a discount on tattoos, and left the coffee shop. He walked back to his gutter, Finding once again the girl, passed out. Slipping the stiletto back into place on her foot, he looked around guiltily, double checking the police hadn't followed him. He went inside. He went to bed. The next morning, he forgot to turn the kitchen sink on. He didn’t wait 36 seconds. Didn’t turn the sink off. Didn’t count the sides of the kitchen doorway. One, two, three. Didn’t put socks on. Didn’t walk to the bathroom. Didn’t take socks off. Didn’t turn the bathroom sink on. Didn’t wait 36 seconds. Didn’t turn the sink off. Didn’t count the sides of the bathroom doorway. One, two, three. Didn’t put socks on.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
Prelude
"Let's go" his soft whisper
the mantra, in his voice she hears
the esoteric voyage through
the cryptic high seas of self,
fathomless, unmapped,
uncharted and reachable
only by the most fearless
ready to unbind and make
the self free for it's adventure,
begins thus for the peaceful pair
complementing the absolute
for a life time, til they reach there
and find themselves one with
pure consciousness.
"Let's let's, but only together"
she chants in unison,with him.
1.
Bidding good bye to ego, clad in red and black
a beast, not easy to bring to it's knees, submit,
the high horse proud,raring to go,having sharp horns
sticking out, fierce, that goes berserk,on seeing white.
Altogether a curious construct, that dictates terms-
they set about, invoking the blessing of the flame of light.
2
They stood together, eyes widely shut, bringing
both palms together,in front of their chests
creating a lotus bud, symbolizing hearts,bowing
each other in "Namaste",-bows the divinity in thyself-
chanting the mantras of peace, thrice, each time, repeatedly.
3
"Lets go back to the begining of every begining.."
the primordial hum, transcending quagmires of time
in the path of our ancestors,who did see the" unseeable",
without eyes, knew the "unknowable",diving in to the
ocean depth of self,going inwards chanting"Neti, Neti"
Not this, Not this, inquiring each till the essence did reveal.
4
They did this, focusing the eye of the mind, on the eye
beyond all, that watches every small thing in universe.
Mind, sharpened like the blade of a sword,efficient to cut
the Gordian knots,of paradox, duality and illusion,
encountering the silence that thickens at last, speaks
the words of wisdom,patient they are, to know the ultimate,
right there at the source of light that is the true essence of all,
5
Celebrate the pure consciousness, that pervades in every thing,
the thought that begets all thoughts,that moves on to be karma,
that becomes purer, through the cycles of lives, one after another.
"Let's be humble, utmost, sans the ornamental clothes of pride.
May the thought reigning cosmos, the spirit of peace,chanted aloud,
take us to it's sanctum sanctorum and melt us in to it's divine embrace.
Only one there is, all are it's integrals,the divine cosmic hum 'Aum'
that enliven the universe within each cell, remember , is eternal"
#@@#
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
The sun was young and bright,
Nestling elegantly on my face.
Filling me with new hopes,
Melting all the cold within.
The aroma of coffee,
Wafting pleasantly in the air,
Complementing beautifully to the croissant,
Filling up my lonely stomach.
The day is auspicious and inspirational,
Leaving all the sorrow behind,
Walking with a new hope,
Forward and further
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 6:12 AM UTC
He over looks me,
His emerald orbs focusing on
The girl next to me.
To him, I am only a shadow;
A filler of space.
My only purpose is to exist,
And for my feelings,
Exactly the opposite.
His ***** blonde hair
Matches mine exactly,
Complementing it like it should.
Still, whatever I do,
He looks the other way.
He looks at her, and only her,
Even though she doesn’t feel that way
About him.
He’s wasting his time on her,
When I’m right in front of his face.
Sometimes I think about waving,
Or saying hi,
But I know that it will give me away.
And maybe this is just a silly infatuation,
But it feels solely and completely real.
I don’t want him to be the boy with the green eyes.
I want him to be my boy with the green eyes.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
The sky resembles the robin's eggshells
scattered across the ground,
a blue so seemingly infinite yet fragile,
cracks running between understanding and madness
complementing each other
as divine truths in their own right
to conquer my mind,
to unhinge the doors,
making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks
letting thoughts fly free,
releasing love out into the horizon.
If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations,
it will surely die,
but even so,
I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly.
Until I saw the sky and eggshells today
Peppered clouds reflected on the water,
paralleling speckles on the eggshells,
remind me of the freckles on your face.
We need to be wide-open-free,
we need to fly,
without focusing too hard on shells of yesterdays.
We need to unclench our fists,
unclench our tongues,
explore the vast blue peppered sky
on wings of letting go....
so that we can once again feel with purity,
so that we can hold each other ever closer.
05.24.12
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
A perfectly linear shape painted in gold
Is what you see
Through Instagram pictures Facebook posts Snapchat videos
The tacit life
I lead in the virtual stairway
I am living the life!
So you say
You painted my life in the most shimmering color
Turn on every light in the room to make it brighter
Gazing with admiration
Sometimes
Most of the time
With jealousy
Seduced by the lure of the blue light dependency
Turning this perfect lie into some meditation
And make it my definition
An image I’ve built to cover the within
A perfect fragmented me I post on social media
A habit I borrow for social gatherings
A behavior forced into me
For the sake of society!
An illusion so fragile made out of eggshell
A shell covering the true essence of ME
Uncovering myself for the world to see
The egg wall and make believes shattering
To life unpredictable burdens
That perfect golden shell cannot bare life’s hurdles
Holding something beautiful that doesn’t curdle
I am more of what you see
More of what I let you believe
More of society’s standards
More of you
More of me
I contained beauty and imperfections
I contained colors and bricks
Strengths and weaknesses
Enough to **** in all life’s miseries
And to also reflect confidence and vulnerabilities
I am not just one color
I am every shades
Every undertones
Every hues that follow the changes
I am the intense
The neon
The eclectic
The iridescent
From the lightest to the darkest
The contrasting
The complementing
The chromatic
I am in nature in art in paintings
Everywhere
I am every northern lights dancing to my own ballet
Don’t just paint me with your own palettes
Crack me open
And see what’s inside
For there you will see
My true colors
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
Quiet and demure night
one finds out by chance
is sleeping peacefully
on the same bed,
covered by a grey blanket
the sultry day too seeks after,
the tribulations a day long.
One would think that
smug and complementing light
for her is an anathema, is it?
But now it comes to light,
he is more like her paramour,
this face she keeps hidden
so audaciously, the unabashed
adulteress has no sense of shame
"When you imagine things,
take responsibility to it,
don't try to blame others"
You'd hear her murmur,
the long clandestine affair of
darkness to light, takes me
to where it all began..
will there be diversity
that enriches life without contrast?
The Himalayas should
sincerely thank ocean trenches..
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
Three Nails (...)
Not so many as to denounce
A job done to make me well.
Three rudimentary spikes to nail
A man's own flesh to wood.
Three nails cannot
Seem so much to proffer;
Human efforts complementing
God's sacrificial offer.
A self-inflicted crucifixion?
Yes, I would do my part;
Would do me good, I think,
To offer up an offering to God.
So let this painful work,
Human endeavoring,
Perfection capturing,
Begin.
A simple thing, I think,
To hoist and hammer
Nails into myself,
A manly job to undertake
Impaling self
To spare my God
A little work.
The first, perhaps
Most painful...
To stop the feet
Their wandering ways,
To give me pause for just a bit
To meditate in pain
And to reflect or to project
Myself in better ways.
.
Then on to nail number two,
One hand to hold the nail
And one the hammer.
The pain intense
Impacts my good intent.
.
And yet, I've nailed number two,
And finding where the problem lies,
I have no way to nail thrice.
My living flesh begins to writhe
Its will-ward way,
E'en though in sky-ward
Agony my soul now wails.
Then I remember
Someone said,
"Your crucifixion stands
Upon a different hill,
Hangs on a different tree."
. . .
Though I can never end my flesh,
He paid my debt for me.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:01 AM UTC
He sat there
on the edge of my bed,
playing with the strings
on his guitar,
stringing me along.
Pulling me closer
with his voice,
beautifully bruised,
carrying me in.
The moonlight complementing
his every note,
every inch of him.
Buried diep.
Lost within a fantasy.
Lost in this room
with a melody,
and a voice
so addictive.
He sat there,
smoke and moonlight,
playing his guitar.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
She will astound.
She will amaze.
Her thought process is more often than not unique and profound.
We have been in near-constant contact for hundreds of days.
One email; complementing an author for writing a truly wonderful work of fiction.
Has become so much more. I certainly didn’t foresee. I doubt anyone could have, well not without assistance, perhaps a psychic prediction.
I find it immensely difficult to verbalize, even now.
And I feel that I must...Just….Hmmm…How?
We have talked for hours on end, about any and all things.
Who knew?
But what I write is true.
An unbreakable bond we have. With the clicking of a Send button, that is how I say it begins.
Her voice at times, is the only thing that allows me to regain or maintain my focus.
No amount of medication, therapy or any other kumbaya related hokus pokus.
She is always reminding me that I have, and can find inner strength and powers.
Countless times, she has been the reason for me not to yield.
She has saved me in my darkest of hours.
She is my shield.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
SWINES OF CIVILISATION
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Hypocrisy, sycophancy and snobbery
Are the three swines of human civilisation
All are social and power oriented
Cradling from egomaniac fibre of human cowardice
Complementing one another in to a social blend
Of betrayal, despair and stagnation
Hypocrisy removes authenticity brick
From the mall of civilisation
Sycophancy add aghast deficiency
To the mall of civilisation
Snobbery removes justice and fairness
From the mall of civilisation
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
'
"In the world of mortals there's no greater perfection than music."
~ Impeccable Space Poetess
'
Divine music beats
bombard my being
as non-rippened ripples
The surface of my ear drums aches
without perfectly harmonious
sounds
complementing
Roses blossom in a quiet garden,
some lavish quietudes here, where
I've got enough peace and not
the right space for a siren's songs
enthralling enchantment
Searching at the random pace
for the most peculiar music ~
thunders in my thoughts!
Those undiscovered waves
appear as lustrous song lenghts,
as limbs of a sound corpus slumbering
in the solace of silence and rhythm
Deep bits bite my emptiness
and this wanton yearning
forces me to reflect upon
this uncultivated
wilderness
and
what's there to miss at all means
'
***lovable etudes
classical chello drifts
bansuri flutes***
'
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.
In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.
It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.
You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.
In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.
The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.
Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.
In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
She is from all directions
She is the North...
All of the wide open spaces
Crisp as the cold mountian air
She is the East...
Where the leaves fly with the wind
A warmth that surrounds you making you feel less alone
She is the South...
The sweet fragrance of the magnolia blossom
With the gracfulness of an osprey in flight
She is the West...
The smell of the ocean lingers on you
Where the sunset leaves you
speechless from it's untouchable beauty
He is a man for all seasons
He is the Winter...
The chill that hangs in the breath of the air
Frost's intricate design on a windowpane
He is the Spring...
The soft lullabies of the birds
Drops of water as you dance under the rain
He is the Summer...
A heat that burns to the touch
The longest of all days
He is the Autumn...
The sturdy tree that stands alone without his leaves
The chill that goes down your spine
when he's looking into your eyes
Complementing each other gracfully
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
Sunrise nearing its death,
the end of today
complementing the beauty of a pen stroke,
harsh scratching alleviating indelible ideas
showing selves in hues painting our last moments
allowing me to trace timelines
in the contoured caresses
of this silent instrument played
to blend melody with beginnings,
each progression scaling further along
the passing hours left settling
to minutes from now,
purpose elaborated in contrasting
blues and oranges and purples
composing the elegance of utility,
colors not enough to excise the excesses
of depicting days in dimensions,
of simplifying it to degrees of time.
Laying alongside this current
to shape clouds
and animate constellations,
my faux-corpse stares again into
the memory held in galaxies
only glimpsed at twilight.
Sharp cuts of consonants
and vowels' smoothed corners
try to rid me of
stream of conscious thinking loosed,
the inner struggle hoping for reprieve
from that constant combative nature
of inward disagreement
and dialectic digression
deflecting the question of
what if we'd only spoke
instead of being lost
to foreign type-faces designed by
some soul never to see
the dying day my way.
If only we'd spoke,
I would have had the chance
to stumble on a goodbye.
Rather we are left
to flourishes of unfamiliar weapons
sitting askew on these pages,
the balance shifted due to
us degrading to another's personality,
and writing out those lines
we couldn't come to say.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
Blue
reminds me of you
Old soul in a body that's new.
Missing piece of a jigsaw
Complementing every flaw.
Misty morning, mysterious night
escaping this world in plain sight.
A pair of broken wings
Urging hinged things
to fly, fly, fly away.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 3:41 AM UTC
Today: A Paperclip
Continuously and seamlessly complementing and complying with myself
Bending solely to hold something foreign as whole
With a surety of security
And right angled refine
Unless the load is too much or too smooth or not right
And in leaning the lines some part
Or some whole
Sideways makes escape
From skewed hold
Shiny soundness
Will surely soften
And the Paperclip appeal will reveal
To be as paper thick as any
Continuous and seamless
Paperclip in a Paperclip ***
Maybe tomorrow warrants
The hopeful and overly capable Staple.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Have not pity for the puppy
in the box by the street;
his purpose yet to be determined.
I took him home as chosen last among others,
but first in my heart,
and my stomach.
I took the poor puppy
into the kitchen
where I lopped off his head
drank his blood
and cooked him for dinner.
So dear children
do not pity the poor puppy
whose flesh still fills my belly.
Allow us to applaud him
for complementing good jelly.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 1:40 PM UTC
Sit down here for a while
Look up and observe the sky
With a kaleidoscope of dreaming eyes
Contemplate how the stars shine
Complementing the beauty of night
Brazing to be the brightest sight
Bearing the heat by constant burning
Just to illuminate one’s world.
Turn your face beside
And savour my talking heart
A canvas made of refined stardust
Count the sparks of it
That complete anxious dots from your stare
Faith in myself when I say
Your tender existence already be the best being
Your enchanting gaze lights up dusky room I was lost in
Your warm embrace convects my flower’s needs
Makes it fully blooming.
You are solely my star
And I’m eternally stargazing.
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 11:32 PM UTC
So thoughtful in the choice of his words not to hurt anyone feelings,
Why can't you stop beating around the bush.
So humble with everyone and thing always understanding things could be worst.
Why not see situation for what they are . ive come to realize that your the type of guy I can't stand your so one sided not letting my point of view in.
I just want to kick you . Telling you how I feel is giving me a rush,
Better yet being with you is like having a rash one that you scratch until the skin cracks.
And your ******* cuddling drives stevie wonder to see,
to be or not to be was the question whenever we were togather.
Your behavior was unbearable always complementing and asking of my welfare. Even if I told you I didn't care you would just try and fix it another one of your conversations about work it out .
So **** quite you could hear the **** birds cherp when asked any personal questions .
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
Teary eyes, crocked lips
Broken faith complementing crooked hips
Factory of life they tell,
wounded souls, whispers to hell
Losing faith, into voids
Body aches yet to avoid
How this makes me stronger I ask
making it bitter for every task
my soul cries and pleads
body is something it needs
for if there is no strength in body to support
what is the meaning of these milestones that I report
I fear I’ll lose my existence
no one will remember this soul in any co-incidence
for again I plead for strength in this body
Will power doesn’t seem enough for a crippled body.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
All motions are fluid as she descends down the stairway
So delicate
As if she never even touches the steps
She remains in the nightgown from the previous evening
Her long, dark hair complementing its dark complexion
A cup of tea that's a little too hot
The morning routine
She quietly moves to a window
Softly blowing steam off the top of her cup, fogging up the glass in front of her
The outcome of contrasting temperatures does not cause her to move
She remains still
Silent
Elegant
She turns to face me, and my eyes open
Where she used to lay, where I used to meet that euphoric smile
Is now clairvoyant
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
We meet
in Spring,
but began in
the Fall.
Looking out
the window
of your car
I imagined running
my fingers over
cornfields like pages
of a book.
Watching the sunset
in the rearview mirror
as we moved forward
together, needing
two of my hands to
touch just one of yours.
Followed by 120 days
of realizing we both love
saltine crackers and both drool
when we sleep really well.
You loved listening
to my heartbeat and telling
me how it sounded and
when I couldn’t sleep
you’d pull my head to
your chest and tell me
to listen to yours.
120 days of you guessing
my favorite flower,
complementing my favorite cardigan,
picking my favorite book off the shelf
and reading to me, and attempting to tie
my hair in a ponytail or a bun.
And you touched like
my skin was ice and
your hands skates,
but that turned into you
grasping at me like
the room is flames
and my body oxygen
On the 120th night
you crawled into my bed,
I could taste the alcohol
on your mouth when you
told me you loved me
and I became addicted
to the taste.
After a week
I was Rory and you Dean
and with that began
our 39-day happy hour.
Until the 159th night
when you took back
that you loved me and
I knew I never could again.
My skin regressed
back to ice and the next
45 days was our last call,
numb to it all.
On the 204th day
you were Summer and
I was Tom eating pancakes
in a diner.
All I did was stare
at the buttons on
your shirt and think
about the time we
saw the moon and you
asked for me to write a
poem but little did you
know I have been this
whole time:
Iris Moon
Marble Moon
Missed Moon
Monday Blues
Button Moon
Spring Cleaning.
And never moonstruck.
We lasted 12 more days
and when we ended my first
thought was that I can now:
cut my hair
count again
and write again.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC