"contrasted" poems
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky
And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...
Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,
Finding depth and height
out in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching
High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground
Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
The smells of caramel, citric fruit and bread being licked by flames,
The colour. Black. Deep and rich. As if it was oil taken from the ground,
The taste is different, bitter, and earthy, contrasted by molasses, and sweet almonds,
This is how my day begins.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Is it really this hard
to find people I can go back and forth in discussion with
about Buddhist and Hindu theology compared and contrasted against Christian and Yoruba
I want to scream and shout and dance with somebody over Janet Jackson's new album
and at the same time
feel the heat and talk with somebody about how extremely sad and depressing
but oh so good Giovanni's Room was
I want to be able to speak with somebody whom can quote Malcolm X and Kafka in the same breath
Somebody who could see the logic of Pac and Immortal Technique on the same piece
with the Budos Band or Mulatu on the back track
I want to know people whom know
just exactly who
Suki Lee and Bayard Rustin are
can we talk about Jacob Kinohoor's ***
at least for a moment
then get into some B.B. King or Johnny Cash
have you seen Dune
the one from the eighties
James McAvoy shirtless
as well as John Goodman’s acting
were only good things about the other
if you read it
even better
what about the ***** that sat by the door
Or
killer clowns from outer space
let's be shady and point out all the inaccuracies on the history and discovery and channels
praying for that day
that's not in February
They show Shaka Zulu in full
without commercial interruption
Or maybe a documentary about native American people
with actual native actors
that do not depict them all as either
plains people
Or Inuit
Cause you already know
not everybody is Eskimo
then let's put on our own private production of legally blonde
followed by encore presentations of the classic scene
Of Miss Celie and miss Ofelia going in over Harpo
can I discuss with you
how the Patriot act nullifies everything in constitution
And the bill of rights
even though they never were intended to be permanent any way
It would be nice to not have to explain a Corporatocracy
all my life Ive been into Egyptology
You do know that Imhotep was the actual founder of medicine
by a good 2000 years
not that Hippocrat
the thing is
I'm still learning
when attempt to delve that deeply into people
which I don't even consider that deep
They often misunderstand
They often concluded without thinking
maybe
just maybe
©Christopher F. Brown 2015
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
If there was another way to say it;
An easy way for you to understand...
I would not be pouring out these words
In an attempt to paint a picture.
I wouldn't be desperate to bottle
My emotions and thoughts
Into these stained glass letters,
With the tin syntax lid.
Poking holes through the top
Of my head,
So you could see.
Firefly ideas.
I am a photographer of hearts and minds.
The blood red room holds
My negatives.
How can I make them easier for you to see?
The composition so sweet,
The lighting so contrasted with
The shadows hiding the everyday.
What I really want you to do is stop reading.
Go look into the eyes of a lover.
Go hold a child's hand while they sing.
Listen to the wind change.
Feel the pulse of a city.
Cry with old wrinkled skin
For youth and life, and hope.
That is what my poem means.
It is a pulsing picture
Held captive in rhetoric.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
I imagine I can write about
war—that god and man
have contrasted to the
continually shading
topaz of bodies being
crystallized.
stoic,
tangled planets overhead—
circling as my eyes
fill with infinity-pools.
your edges
fall off when I
look up into space to
see you without
seeing you.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
She saw a rainbow where he could only see black.
But together, they made a frame, keeping their picture perfect life intact.
She saw the sun where he was always captivated by the moon.
But together, they made each other's wishes come true and not a moment too soon.
She saw smiles where he drowned in the sadness of eyes.
But together, they made laughter and found truth amongst a million lies.
She saw beauty where he could only see regrets and pain.
But together, they made a life that could always be and would always remain.
She saw him where he would always find her.
And together, they made happiness that could span galaxies forever.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
406
Some—Work for Immortality—
The Chiefer part, for Time—
He—Compensates—immediately—
The former—Checks—on Fame—
Slow Gold—but Everlasting—
The Bullion of Today—
Contrasted with the Currency
Of Immortality—
A Beggar—Here and There—
Is gifted to discern
Beyond the Broker’s insight—
One’s—Money—One’s—the Mine—
2.7k
is this craft
that chose you,
not defined by millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye pleasing
they demonstrate
no tolerance
for tolerance
of the
ordinary
the skill of words,
too, cut so fine,
find the
extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused, discard,
instant recognition,
unusable
cut new cuts,
thy spirit tolling,
thy soul trolling
anew
is thy
toolings earth sourced
from and of the
ever better,
ever closer,
always newer
make thy own designs,
faithfully execute
the new born original,
by elevating,
with the tools
in you, provide us,
by illuminating
no thing machined,
can ever be as fine
as the originality
that requires
soft spoken definition
in new ways,
heart and hand
guild crafted
when God designed the Connecticut
autumnal leaves,
overriding the summers's single green, good
but not miraculous, insufficient,
when contrasted with the
shades of red, yellow,
purple, black, orange, pink,
magenta, blue and brown
of newly fallen
words and worlds
in the season of change
write me a tool
so elegant, so complex,
so refined and yet so simple,
that its point will force no choice,
but engrave gasps of pleasure upon
my faltering eyes,
my slowing heart,
my exhausted limbs,
and make me
live again
through your
finest creativity
heat heat heat
burn to look beyond
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
There is the smoke dancing through the gentle air.
Rising whirls of a diminishing fate contrasted ever so clear.
Pushed and pulled with out a care at all.
Becoming what is to become
From the ashes of what never was.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Click
Click
Click
Words spew onto the screen,
The story of how you make me feel.
How my chest aches in anguish
At the distance that divides us.
How I spent seasons sobbing at the sky
How the brightest blue fades
Contrasted with your smile.
How every “I love you” I send is as sincere as the first.
How every “I love you” I receive still makes me melt.
How I can measure minutes in thoughts of you.
And then.
I crush the curious arrow always pointing left,
Never letting me be right.
Never letting me express myself for fear of being cast aside
Funny how that unassuming arrow
Holds me back from so much.
Click
Click
Click
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
I asked if it was night
and he replied ney
he untied my blindfold
and showed me the day.
The dead leaves around me
contrasted the sky
but amongst them appeared and adorable guy
He asked for my hand
a date would you please
I froze and said yes
may love set us free
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
The peacocks were behind wire
the sun warm
cloudless sky
and Monica had ridden
beside you on her bike
knowing her brothers
were out with the older brother
you not knowing had gone
to the farm house
to meet them
o they’re out
their mother said
didn’t they tell you?
no they‘d not
you walked to your bike
and got on
where you going?
Monica asked
don’t know now
you replied
I can ride with you
wherever you decide
she said
her mother
hands on hips said
don’t go bothering Benedict
he doesn’t want no girl
hanging on his tails
he don’t mind
Monica said
looking at you
her big eyes pleading
don’t mind if she comes
you said
giving the mother
a smile
if you’re sure
she said
and walked back
toward the farmhouse
her backside moving
side to side
in her flowery dress
and you watched
until she had gone
sure you don’t mind
me coming?
no I don’t mind
you said
where we going then?
the peacocks again
o I like them
she said
climbing her bike
foot on the pedal
ready for the push off
her sandals open toed
bare feet
the off white skirt
contrasted
with the mauve top
her hair dragged
into a bow
at the back
ready?
sure am
and you rode off
along the track
from the farmhouse
into the lane
between trees
and hedgerows
she followed at your side
keeping up
her eyes seeming
on fire
her hands gripping
the handlebar
white and pink
and the small fingers
holding on for dear life
her legs up and down
pedalling
you felt the wind
in your hair
through the open neck
of your white shirt
pushing down
the jean covered legs
up and down
the lane narrowed
then widened
there they are
she called
the peacocks
she dismounted
and laid her bike
against a tree
and ran to the wire fence
and peered through
you put your bike
by the hedge
and walked over
to where she stood peering
her eyes bright
and fiery
how comes the *****
are bright and colourful
but the hens are so dull?
she asked
that’s how it is
in the bird world
you said
hens are just dull
I’m not dull
she said
holding the wire
with her fingers
making noises
at the birds
am I?
she said
looking at you
beside her
no you’re not
you said
nothing dull
about you at all
I’m like a peacock
she said
bright and beautiful
aren’t I?
sure you are
you said
you peered
at the strutting peacock
nearest the wire
out of the corner
of your eye
you saw Monica
nose inches
from the wire
call to the bird
her lips pursed
and opening
and closing
her arms soft
and reaching up
I’m a peacock bird
she said
her arms in motion
like wings
her hands flopping
above her head
her feet in dance
stepping
and dancing in turn
you watched her dance
and twirl
Jim and Pete’s sister
the peacock girl.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
The hounds of fear nip at winter heels,
whelping doubt and baying at the moon.
Cocoon prayers whispered across the fields
of becoming; this dark of the light is
contextually contrasted. i am little and
young against the ages, something loose
and rattling in the box of reality and
afraid, fleeing the dogs of war.
i write post-it note prophecies and
crumple them, building a nest in
the trees, a mother's womb nearer the sky,
for when the sun comes it comes
first to the birds on high.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall honky-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.
"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.
That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
“Who are you?”
my sleepy mind mocks me
It tears holes and ties knots
It drips and oozes and makes toxic puddles
contaminating confidence, daily
Instagram is a persona maintained for an audience that seldom claps
100 whistles for
smart captions, pretty faces, good lighting
over-exposed and contrasted, highly saturated filters-
and roses for cleavage
my distorted caricature
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
A contrite flash of blue
Coolly coquettish whispers
Are a far cry from the temper
Tantrums of yesterday's
Heated tropical tears:
Torrential downpours amidst
Sultry sobs and gusts
Today's clear skies contrasted
With Irene's angry outburst
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Breath count.
Doubled out.
Half pause and exhale.
Breathe full for more.
Closed eyelids.
Charged silence.
And then
A siren vibration chorus
opens up two contrasted locked doors,
and falls through my porous shapes.
Wash the old cell storage and erase
this byzantine conduit maze made
for losing myself to the grey man inside my skull.
Pull back my irises and behold
a reshaping of awareness.
I AM thisss awareness.
In bold language and expansion,
upward glances and dances
I made up from star dust ballerinas dancin.
So far away from being lost to the chances.
There are no chances.
Life was made not for you, but from you.
To pull through purpose
and choose to
keep
on
breathin.
Directing ITs glow.
Showing God how to flow.
How to sing praise and know
that nothing has been lost or is leavin.
Darkened waters, and quaking storms are weakened
in the silent, still, space that this pressence has seeped in.
Of, in, around, and through.
Creepin.
Sleepin until called to move.
We are always callin.
So true.
Yeah,
IT stays so true.
Whatever you put in, IT pulls to you.
So open up, let in this groove
or choose to lose all that ever meant something.
Was or ever will be hard to lose.
Just see the space and welcome IT in
the empty fullness from where you begin
and end up to begin again.
Recycled through spirals of your imagination.
Practical estimate of reincarnation;
a collective memory passed down through generations
of double helix information storage stations
jotting down every hoped for expression
of who you could possibly be.
And still the variations reach towards infinity.
So yeah this kinda is your one shot
to give this particular expression what you got.
God has just got TOO many incredibly beautiful ideas waiting to be expressed.
And they are all YOU.
So take a step back, it's okay to be impressed.
But even when its hard not to lose my breath to this glorious unfolding,
I still gotta get up,
get dressed,
and go to work in the morning.
I greet presence with every breath I take.
Or at least try to remember ITs name.
I'm still unfolding myself.
Still just pushing the sleep dust from the corners of my eyes.
But with you by my side
there is no one against me.
Only a lover constantly insisting
that the room is oh so cleverly crowded with secret undercover versions of myself.
Existing in and expressing The ONE LIFE that we all are.
Come to me my Love.
Let us begin.
Again.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
To the Anti-American Teacher…We Knew You Were Pro-World
A clause in your contract slated your signature for patriotism.
You never signed, they never checked, but you took down your flag
after that.
They didn’t check that either.
So, you stripped and tacked and taped and striped all the flags
from all the world to the walls.
On the east, sat Uraguay, and Paraguay, and Peru.
On the west, we went to Austria, and Hungary, and Bangladesh
for good measure.
But the north wall was your northern star – the shining one
among the rest.
The Chinese stars of social class contrasted against the five-pointed red one, the
one next to the ending of a Tsar in a February Revolution, a marking point found – not in our textbooks – but in all the places you have been.
Oh, the places you’ll go, you began.
In Israel, you had gone in your college years, and you learned of bamboo
tattoos in Thailand, but Korean was a class you completed in
France of all places, and I never had the chance to see the locations of
the south wall.
You were fired.
Over night, they tore you from the walls, lone of which, they left the
tape tacked up in four corners, a collection in each place of a flag
we once saw before us. In my desk, you slipped a map inside.
Oh, the places you’ll go, you wrote.
Such a sorrowful tune.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
I'd always been used to disappointments. Disappointments of all kind. It was funny, though, wasn't it? How people would often laugh off disappointments; shrug, smile, and say something like "oh, no, don't worry about me - i'm used to it!" truth is, they weren't. And i wasn't used to it either. We wouldn't like to admit it, but every disappointment, every failed attempt at short lived sucess, every disastrous relationship, and every bit of spilt milk came as a shock. We're always expecting a positive outcome for ourselves; that just this once things might work out. What was the opposite of the word 'disappointment'? I don't think there is one. Everything is a disappointment, felt in higher and lower variations. Everything and everyone is a neatly wrapped up parcel, with a pretty pink ribbon, that appears a present, but is actually nothing but a disappointment waiting to happen. Exploding into sighs and tears and rubbed eyes.
Humans didn't seem to notice just how much hope every fiber of their being actually contained. Strands of hope intertwined with their DNA structure. It was really the only thing that kept us going when we felt completely abandoned and lost and utterly alone. I whispered it to myself, "Hope."
That same afternoon, when you physically entered my mind (since, all this time you had been living there, mentally. Overstaying your welcome, might I add.) I questioned the growing smile on my face, contrasted with the painful 'gut feeling' I was experiencing as well. Since you left all I'd been hoping for was that you'd come back and tell me something along the lines of, "I was wrong, I need you. I want you" and then top it off with the overused, 'I love you' card. I'd leap into your tanned, muscular arms and then, well. Well I hadn't really thought past that moment. In the three months you had been gone, all I pictured as 'happiness' was you loving me back.
pathetic, wasn't it?
We're all just looking for something bigger than we're able to find. Searching for more substance on this little planet with these heart breaking people. Okay, okay, people weren't all that bad. But one thing that people are, unintentionally or not, is selfish. We want the best for ourselves, of course.
even though I'd guided myself to believe that my life was all about you, it was in fact all about me, me, me. There was only one 'you' but there were a billion 'me's within me. A me who is happy, a me who is sad, a me who is constantly confused and a me that convinces me I'm okay.
And you see, we are all actually okay. Perhaps being 'broken' or 'damaged' just appeared more intriguing to both others and ourselves. Did I really want to be 'happy'?
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
He was an angel
With dark broken wings.
His pain was venomous
And love torturous.
His dark side
Never showed.
He never wanted it to-
It would hurt me too much.
He sent off a mysterious vibe.
No one ever saw his black wings,
Hidden by his leather jacket.
But someone eventually did
Taking it off and revealing him.
Scars and bruises marked his body-
He’d been hurt and broken.
I never realized I wanted to hold him,
Love him,
And mend his jagged pieces.
He had a dark side-
He lived dangerously,
He wanted exhilaration,
More excitement to last a lifetime.
He was the bad boy.
I was an angel
With white wings.
I sent out happiness
And brought smiles to faces.
I had a bright side
That always showed.
I wanted everyone to laugh,
Most of all, deep inside
I wanted him to smile
I wrote, read and imagined
Love lives day and night
I dreamed to fall hard
For someone one day.
I lived a quiet life,
No risks,
Safe and sound,
Hidden from the world.
My chances came from my words.
I was disguised by
Everyone else’s uniqueness.
I was the good girl.
We met. He was dangerous
I was cautious-
I wanted nothing from him
He wanted nothing from me.
Yet he made me blush,
He made every word we exchanged
Worth it.
Good or not.
He made my stomach go crazy,
I felt so special.
The intensity in his eyes
When we spoke
Made me feel incredible.
We were star crossed lovers,
But he was willing to do anything
To keep me.
He planted a smile permanently
On my face.
I soon learned to like him.
A crush became love
And love led me to crave-
Crave him.
I wanted to fix his wings
Make him fly again.
Fly back to heaven where he belonged.
He was out of this world-
Just perfect.
He loved me as much as I loved him.
He was black, I was white,
I was day, he was night,
He was dark, I was light.
We contrasted,
We were abstract-
Amazing.
I wanted his touch,
His kiss,
Begged for his words,
Every. Single. Day
He drove me crazy,
Insane every morning.
I could only think of him,
He affected me
So Much.
I was addicted to his words,
I needed him-
I needed my angel-
My precious Dark Angel.
He was the danger I needed,
To spark my life.
He was happiness,
I loved him so much it hurt.
He was perfect.
He was all Mine
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
Weird in his outfits of a late ragamuffin
Reflecting strength of character and soul toughness
Contrasted by dreadlocks on his pykitonic head
Giving him a look of an African amorous ogre,
In the tough stunt for *** with a tectonic girl,
Veneered by mastery of his pen and keyboard
Following after his *** starved ancestor
The muzhik; Vladimir Nabokov the ****** lover,
Swimming in enviable freedom to *********
Afro-English words in his road to the burning church
That barely roasts the peasants for tribal reasons,
A ****** ground for Mochama’s humour
That will hold you glued and captive to the pages
Until the he goat of Abagusii goes through
The second round of its ****** act
Basically forming education for Smitta
The smitten rock of African literature.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:11 AM UTC
The probability of life itself is unpredictable
For I can’t extract your mind or heart to decode
Likelihood of possibilities in measurable quotient
For I can’t retract a past gone by to encode
Continuums of even chances and certainty
The toss of the toasted dime, the weigh of sides
Slashed slide all smashed and thrown in mines
Fallibilism of my indefinable opinionated delicacies
Attenuations of what life is attacks and strangles my neck
Global troubles of war, bombs, hunger, anger
Illogical connotations of overlapping determinism
I burrow like a termite in a convex rising molehill
Terminated in contrasted stations as we convene
Gripping hands to grasp our existence in life
I wonder about the whole of it, I think of it somedays
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Naaman met Amana
as she was on her way
to the shop for her mother.
He was counting out change
in the palm of his hand.
The morning sun
was coming over
the fishmonger shop,
the sky was grey blue.
She spoke
of her parents rowing,
how she never slept
until late,
a series of slaps,
then silence,
she said.
Naaman put the change
in the pocket
of his school trousers;
he saw how tired she looked,
even though her fair hair
was well brushed,
there was a haunted
look about her.
He knew of rows,
slammed doors
at night,
weeping into
the small hours
from his mother’s room.
Amana showed him
the list of shopping
she had to get.
He showed her his.
Doughnuts are warm
from the shop,
we can share one,
he said.
Won’t your mother mind?
she asked.
You can only eat them
once she’ll say,
Naaman replied.
They walked to the shop
across Rockingham Street
and entered in.
The smell of warm bread
and rolls and coffee
being made.
He stood behind her
as she showed
the woman her list.
Amana had on
her school uniform,
the dress well pressed;
the white socks contrasted
with the well blacked shoes.
Her hands were at her sides.
Thumbs down,
soldier like.
He had held that hand
home from school once,
warm, tingling
with the pulse of her.
That time on the bombsite,
collecting chickweed
for the caged bird
his mother kept,
she had kissed
his cheek.
Never washed for a week
(least not that part).
He could smell
the freshness of soap
about her
as he neared to her.
The woman handed
the shopping over
the counter
and Amana paid in coins
which the woman counted.
Naaman handed
the woman his own list.
Rattled the coins
in his pocket.
Amana waited;
the bag by her feet.
She spoke
of the Annunciation
being taught at school,
the Visitation of an angel.
All beyond Naaman’s grasp
at that time.
He knew of catapults
and swords ,
of old battles in fields,
and the Wild West
where he rode
his imaginary horse.
He wanted to kiss
her cheek as she
had kissed his.
Shyness prevented.
She spoke
of the ****** birth
the nun’s spoke of,
the wise men coming
from afar
following a star.
Naaman liked the stars,
the brightness of them,
the faraway wonder
in a dark sky.
After he had received
his shopping and paid
they walked back out
into the street
and crossed to the slope
that led to the Square.
Then beneath
the morning sun,
bag in hand,
she leaned close,
pressed her lips
to his cheek
and kissed him there.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
She had sun-kissed skin and moonlit eyes
An angelic eclipse in human form
Sunspots freckled across her cheeks
Like a newfound constellation of warmth
She had a smile that sparkled like starlight
That contrasted with her night coloured hair
It flowed so subtly like passing clouds
Gleaming strongly against the daytime flare
She carried a heart as bright as the sun
And her mind that glowed like the moon
She was an embodiment of healing light
With a calming aura that could subdue
Her greetings were like the sunrise
A timid light with soft spoken words
And her goodbyes were like the sunset
A sweet ending in colourful allure
She radiated a vibe of twilight
A serene disposition of pure intent
She was every thing and in between
She would be one of my biggest regrets
If only I could make her see her born beauty
How she does not need to change or chase for more
For the people who judge the darkness between the stars
Chasing the intangible beauty of society’s lore
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 2:07 AM UTC