"cottony" poems
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.
The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.
Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.
Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
*On a bright and delightful Easter morning
A furry white rabbit, wiggled her pink adorable nose
Peeking through lush bushes
In a lovely and distinctive pose
And jiggled her cottony soft scut
Aiming into a vegetation
On this sunny day
With so much motivation
Quietly hopping into a blissful garden
Placing decorative filled eggs in pastels
With little time to rest
As she quickly inhales
Adding vibrant colours, to an emerald spiky blanket
And into a rainbow of unfolding tulips
Enlightening her way, like a dazzling carnival
For little peeps enjoyment, upon soft winds movement
Beginning in the latter daylight hours, as tots of all ages
Eagerly carried empty interwoven baskets, on their quest
Pacing through, as in peekaboo
And observing who competes the best*
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Although the skies appear blue,
Blueish white, with cottony hue.
Coloured orange, with fainted red
Dazzles bright at each sunset.
Evening sky, intensely blue,
Fainted is the sunset hue.
Glowworms dance, adorn the hue
Happiness spreads in the world anew
Into this landscapic purplish blue.
Juggling, days
Klucking nights
Lying stunned in this hue so right
Man, the creature, so curiously few.
No matter it's a day or two,
some hues amaze like a landscapic view!
Orange red, with deep yellow in blue,
Pearly stars, adorn the view.
Quilty cold, in the days with dew
Rosemary looks majestically new!
Sun, the ball of fire for few
Teaches, turns a page each new,
Unknown, interesting, perceivable to few
Vanity is so pale, to take,
Wander, wither, breath well each day.
Xmas may not come each day,
Yawn, smile, admire all days, as uncertain are night somedays
Zenith meets only the braves, let zephyrs cuddle, embrace your zealousy face.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
Cottony smoke curled under my nails, on hands too clean, clearly, for the task that would send them one day to bones. Perhaps without the cinders and ash burning peacefully away at the underside of my tongue, I’d find the strength to understand. Though in the darkness, one little gnat of color was a world of fascination. My mind withered in the fire and ignited in that small, red-black glow, wrapping into its strings. Wishing I could burn away too, and burn away everything.
It is no wonder, that….
Being toasty in frosty air, unable to feel my toes, and quite unable to care.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
Brown-Eyed Girl-
they say she is the weakest link
gone and sprung amuck
through clouded fields of poppy seeds
and cottony ****** they say she is a sprain
of chortling pain in the dumpling
maker's yeasting wrist.
brown-eyed girl seeing powdered
blues of glass-stained eyes,
he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked,
rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie
slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right,
a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her-
tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his
dumpling hands - and flakey chest.
they say she is that button-down clad-
sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad.
memories tainted, she said, he said,
she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night,
my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried
and phat-
brown-eyed girl.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
I like a doll
who’s cottony soft
One setting up straight
with her prissy legs crossed!
I like a doll
with a silent scream
when you wind her up
and pull her string!
I like a doll
who’s love knows no end
I love a doll
anytime I can
I like a doll
reminiscent of times
back in the days
when you were once mine
…..
Nov 10, 2021
Nov 10, 2021 at 7:47 AM UTC
I pray for a lucid dream tonight,
In a sky colored carpet floor,
Seasoned with bluish tulips
on the ground,
In a pure white long dress,
decorated with pearls,
with happy people beside,
Seeing tall pine trees,
With a calming cloudy weather,
Bits of sunshine
that balances the mood of the setting,
Singing behind the white cottony curtain,
Someone's listening
and waiting for me,
Curtain opens,
Ended the song,
Take down the microphone,
I see someone from a bit distance,
A sudden music played,
That made everyones happy tears fell
and touched,
I walk towards where the man is,
Blurred, but as I go forth to him,
Little by little,
He is getting clearer
From afar, I know
That it is you,
Waiting,
At the end
Of the altar.
-A.M.
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 4:22 AM UTC
reveries of sun-drenched prairies;
windswept under cottony clouds
golden-yellow in summery indolence
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 11:24 AM UTC
See,
None of cottony optics,
Skimming soft tissues,
For pollutants on swimming eyes.
Dissuade,
To leaving sleeping innocence,
As a silhouette,
Lavished by the curtains down.
Outside,
A whirring static,
Underwater sounds.
Who will gather the pieces,
For a sweetheart.
Filtered through amber bottles,
Of honey-speckled moonbeams.
Curled fetus style,
In puddles of obsidian.
It can't be me,
I was left curbside of a floating castle.
Hunted with gabbling bullets,
With their own tongues.
And biting at lobes,
As they barked past.
If you see,
With no obstructions,
By flowery oriental screens,
My staggering paper doll,
Pass on:
The feverish spoon,
Was stirring,
An impossible raspberry leaf.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
Dave took his little boy for a stroll. Hand in hand, they went, as-three-year old Brody loved walking with his daddy. The spring weather was finally here, and green color was starting to return back to the landscape. Brody stopped and pointed up in the air, and shouted, "Daddy, look! Birds running in the sky!"
A flock of birds flew on by, fleetingly, and Dave smiled down at his son beaming up at him. Oh, that little-man-in-the making! It was like father, like son! Dave used to say such things when he was his age, yet he never heard it put that way before. Birds running in the sky--wonder what the birds thought of the ant-men down below? He exclaimed to his son, "Those critters have feathered wings, and they can travel like airplanes! And they can also relax a while and soar through the sky like they were floating on air! Like balloons!" Dave put his hands out like he was an airplane and Brody followed his lead.
"I want to fly!" Brody declared, running around in circles with his outstretched arms.
"Me, too!" echoed Dave. He knelt down on one leg and pulled his boy next to him and pointed to the sky. "When I was a kid I thought those clouds were made of marshmallows. My dad used to say to me, 'Let's go outside and play catch under the marshmallow roof'". The cottony, white clouds were billowy, three-dimensional puffs of fluff, stuffed up in various patches as if to decorate the big, blue sky.
Brody gave his father a big boy squeeze, a precious moment, indeed. Dave never wanted to lose that imagination that he could share with his son, and his son could share with him. They both continued on, making their way under the marshmallow sky.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning
**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching
As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen
I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction
But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana
While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin
When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied
But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air
I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
the doughy round of your nose
nuzzle-burrowing as it does
my bewhiskered neck
I miss it so
sleeping
alone
the cottony caress of your yawn broken breath
blowing as it does, midsummer breezy
my threadbare open chest
It is not easy, you know
having to sleep
alone
the butterfly blare of your blinking
beating as it does
my back rubbed
I miss it so
sleeping
alone
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 2:17 PM UTC
I am sitting here, or lying there, yes, across this bed, penning in my diary as the tropical winds off the Argentinian jungles
breeze through my curls and a whisper tickles up my thighs.
I have left the din of sorrowland,
I have taken flight into the drifting clouds,
I sit atop a cottony cumulus, bouncing surrounded by delight,
for I have found love.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 5:58 AM UTC
I still hear your voice
in the dead of the night,
I still feel your touch
in the morning light.
I see your face in a sizable crowd.
I see your smile in a cottony cloud.
You weigh on my mind,
and you reside in my heart-
even though we're worlds apart.
Apr 15, 2010
Apr 15, 2010 at 10:12 PM UTC
a man cloaked in dust bitten rays skip down the rude lit hall
as a voice calls to him run your fitful bow across my cracked
teacup mouth and draw forth a loosed leaf smile at first
i dismiss it as contrived twaddle one might hear in settings
where silk roses bloom on synthetic counter islands or
a cloth lily wrecks on its maiden voyage mid-way through
a copper sink’s bounded blue but cigarette tip joy burns
peep holes into my cottony resistance it’s a compact thrill
as dense as the peach pit my tooth struck to chip that once
such piquant frissons dissipate into damply aromatic trickles
when the man replies with a tartly rolled lavender bud ready
to burst its pink i’ve the heart of a wobbly kneed boy about
to pull back the tulle cloud on an auburn morn’s feathery
bathers petaled girdle strewn on the slippery rock path
leads up to her dewy lap where luminescent splayed fingers
lay printed hymns when ash trimmed logs fall from his fatty
lips i take the house sparrow’s hasty cue to flap a skyward
exit out from the bony white glow of his unfulfilling promises
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 8:54 AM UTC
Playing by all the rules,
or so it seems,
the out-law fears
nothing and no one
as she
places her backwards cap
atop her
full head of fine hair,
sunshades
hiding her wide
toffee-colored
eyes.
Chewing hard on a piece of
wintergreen gum
like a first baseman
and some chaw,
she grips the steering wheel
as a heavy clap of
bass
emits a thundering chorus
out her rolled-down windows
into the half-empty street.
Brow furrowed,
the out-law ponders her next move,
bobbing and weaving through
one-way roads;
the destination she knows,
but the route is more
a riddle
yet to be solved.
The light air
and brilliant rays of sun
that sneak behind
puffy white clouds,
the out-law senses
some promise
from the
universe.
Lungs still filled
with
smoky wisdom,
she reflects intricately
on the life
lived by she
in the past few months,
gaining insight
into her own
optimistically
curious
soul.
She slurps
her Diet Coke
thirstily
as her cottony mouth
forms words and phrases
she one day
wishes to utter.
Time and space,
they are dear friends of the
out-law,
so drive she does
down that
long
windy
road,
twisting and turning
on the beacon of self-discovery
and hope.
And
love.
The out-law
watches the sky,
fascinated
by the rich colors
the sun paints
as it falls into a state
of serenity,
and
the out-law feels so serene.
Leaving comfortability
and safety behind,
the out-law relishes
in the excitement of the unknown,
getting high off
the fumes
of the uncertainty
that looms.
On she drives.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
There's an air of stale tobacco;
But nobody here's been smoking,
And a feeling of wilted flowers,
But no one has yet to die.
And the air moves all on it's own;
With a trace of smooth monotony,
Changeless, beneath the sky;
All our mouths are dry and cottony.
There's words you would not speak,
Though the bells might be hovering,
Soundless, for a wedding,
They're waiting to keep,
Invitations, sent on the breeze,
And the guests; fabrications of movement,
In a church, with an empty steeple:
My life is moments, such as these
Filled with plastic, mannequin people.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 11:43 AM UTC
Everything that gives
me pain
echos
in waves
I find myself
staring at
the wall
wishing to be higher
than the stars
and sky
being away
from it all
Maybe then I can
dream
of smooth milky
kisses
and sunny
baths
that leave my skin
tingling
Right now
I feel cold
Bones that sing
like a decrepit
abandoned home
Greasy skin
and wild curls that
are blacker than
any sober 2 am
morning
I wish to be
higher than the clouds
to swim in their
cottony pillows
oh how sweet
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
When my body can't take it anymore
I go into the closet- not to pray, but to worship;
I kiss the complacent coat hangers there, orderly on their metallic racks,
My lips on smooth plastic; eyes closed,
All senses centered on my mouth;
Enraptured, I can't see any colors at all..
The surface doesn't soften, as I beat out my lips
Against the mild anvil; altar of pain, loving the more distant you
Somewhere on a compass that the heart knows best;
This pain is merely a devotional exercise, to take my mind
Off the fact that the hangers can't actually kiss me back.
The wool blazer has your blue eyes;
The polo shirt has some, not all, of your softness.
The shoes delicately waft a heavy, calming manly odor of leather.
The weight of the clothing leans back against me, sighing
And muffles most of my cries and exclamations
While I sway, to their soapy limerance of fabric softener and dust.
If I push far enough into them, they enclose me all around
Just like a lover's firm grasp, of aching seams and straining stitches,
Loving me soundlessly, from many directions at once.
To silent, undanced waltzes, we hang together, in furtive salute;
For they are not free, and neither am I;
But we can dream together, in the small cottony, worsted room,
For we are old friends, we have known both sunshine and rainshower together
And long, undying afternoons, of tears and questioning why.
They have known many of my beloved's names,
And I in turn have seen them both inside and out, plush and threadbare.
We have no secrets any longer; I know their every scar by heart
As well as they know mine:
I can never discard even one of their kind,
I have to keep them closer than skin.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 8:14 AM UTC
Water and sapphire doth crave
The color blue held within thine eyes,
And thou doth possess skin so fair
To such a degree that cottony clouds
Become none more than stones of sand.
The beauty that thou outwardly projects
Doth draw my soul so deeply in.
Shakespeare would compare thee
To a summer’s day,
But I must disagree for thou art more
Closely resembled by the winter’s night.
With the twinkle of one million stars
From the skies held within the eyes
Of only the most beautiful,
And the purity of a fresh snowfall
Envious of the natural beauty
Only your fair body can possess.
Some may offer their heart,
But to thee, my love, I doth give my soul.
For long after the final beat of my heart
Resonates from beneath this chest of mine,
My soul itself, shall wander with thee,
And by merely being in the presence
Of such a beautiful soul as thine,
Mine will always feel alive.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:10 PM UTC
Go find for me in all of botany;
The rarest green amidst the sweetest mire.
That blooms of petals white like cottony,
Of growth 'twas serenaded by a lyre.
Replant with gentle skill by window's sill
Repose the eye that sunlight does not steal.
The blondy gaze, so fixed herein and still,
Unless the breezes kiss corona's seal.
Then flowered dance shall sway to hymns of bay
And whom shall follow trance'd with steady eyes;
Be titled botanist, of beauty's play.
Degree that yields each morn' when sun does rise.
Find that and glimpsed what fair does lay this bed,
But 'pare her side the flower, flower's dead!
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 8:34 AM UTC
Microfleece nighties and cottony socks,
Squeezable soft like a carnival teddy bear.
Rituals of the night we perform,
Brush, brush, your silken hair.
Brush, brush, your milky teeth.
Kiss, kiss, your tender cheeks,
Hug, hug, you tiny squeeze.
Breathe in the intoxicating scent of your sleepy innocence,
Shampoo and skin, breathe in, breathe in.
Lights out, door ajar.
Sweet dreams, my angel.
1/17/2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
Rains wash away
The moments of gloom
Gray skies transforms
Into pristine blue
White cottony clouds
Wipe away few tears
Lights play along
Gifting a rainbow bouquet
World is brighter
Hope spreads its wings
Dreams take to the skies
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
My chest explodes with
joy and pride, that is,
if pride is the right word
for a sense of wonder
that seems to dominate
both my most quiet, dark moments
and shatteringly sunny seconds.
Staring at the blazing blue
of the morning sky, and the
counterpoint of cottony white,
I wonder why so much gas
and light somehow came
to inspire rather grand words in
an inconsiderable and small
speck of carbon such as I.
How can I explain the way
I see the space around me, that is,
Without pretense of creation
and acceptance of insignificance,
in a way that wouldn't offend
and could inspire even the most
singular minded mortal?
I am of only humble understanding
of much but was taught some words:
that any lost feeling of awe
cannot be nourishing to a
mature peace of mind, nor body,
nor soul, if you call the way
all things connect as such.
And if I had a thing
like a soul, mind,
at this moment,
it would be
soaring.
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
enormously tiny
(amorphous)
white idea
you sat
in Cerulean
comfort
holding ephemeral
puffy-ness
wield your cottony skin
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 12:44 PM UTC