"courtships" poems
Not so far away girl
still so impossibly far
why must we wait until sunrise
to fall asleep?
Why is this beauty only conceivable
after the bottle dripdrips empty?
sinking deeper and deeper into saturn's orbit
youthful vibrant fluffed up peacocks
clucking on about research chemicals
and music festivals and last night and 6 days before
about banking and obamacare
and oh, my they're all talking
all at once
talktalktalking about this this this and that
not even asking for audience
soundwaves echo into nothingness
screaming lungs void of substance
fleeting purposes
failed courtships
unheard unimportant words
and oh, my, what a tedious thing
the night has become
but to stay at home alone
would be even more unspeakable.
Outside the party across the street
there is a tree
splayed out overhead and undergound
soaking up carbon growing tall still growing
slightly sad tree breathing in the silence of our sighs
dancing fallen leaves wrapping up the deadspace around us
deadworld space where we two sit under the edge
of revelry and absurdity
laughing, drunk, with the moon and the stars and
for just a second
feeling
slightly less impossible.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
In old south down, where the mourn mountains sweep,
There's a bridge made of wood where the willow trolls meet,
It's on midsummers eve when the sun takes a bow,
And bids bye, and farewell to the willow tree bough.
Talk of the evenings events and the mood there about,
And the damage that was caused by those lager louts,
Father willow troll talks of the courtships that passed,
Between boy trolls and lady trolls, and whether it'll last.
The baby trolls settle as the darkness descends,
And the moon shows her face to the willow troll friends,
Merry music is made from the willow tree strings,
And the food is supplied by the south down night things.
Horrid worldly events are a lifetime away,
As the humans excist by the exposure of day,
Two worlds so close, but nature keeps separate,
Never mixing together, its chosen by fate.
Pay attention and watch now, as my tales have begun,
Of a day seeking willow troll and his son.....
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 3:11 AM UTC
I was the canvas, as were you
One canvas to each other
and on the wall
with knees underneath
indecent exposure
naked mind of mine
Flushed out edges of this unique bedspread
a shower curtain used as a tablecloth
used as an ashtray
This was her only wedding dress
Wedding dress two dollars and seventeen cents
value market discount white sale
Found in the back when
suddenly everything was zebra stripes
and she was already ten minutes late
But what is time to a pack of teeth?
A high-ceiling filled with nostrils and bat claws
smouldering tar-stained enamel
fits nicely on the frayed corners
of her tablecloth underwear
and brushed away the ashes
leaving half-finished highways
and dark-stained alleys
and brooding courtships
She missed her basement apartment
and the way no one took her seriously
and the Grand Finale!
and riding high
and the blue ribbons
that sometimes came with last place
and windows and pillows
darkened sleep patterns with silver eyes
half-moon Iris
She isn’t home anymore
She left for a smoke
and the sidewalk took her
Michael Sinclaire/Mary Fahey. March 2013.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
I look at you .. your countenance and demeneour .. how one eyes follows the other and curls of your hair address this courtship unknowingly .. and at a gaze when all at once, my eyes brush off your glance, . hiding in plain sight, what our gentle nudges couldn't hide ..
You do not say .. in fear and worry for what might, I do not ask .. illusions of my habits overcomes.. and yet, we nurture that infinitesimally small fire .. hoping meekly in our hearts .. that something or some force would cater to our reconciliation .. but it never does.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 9:51 AM UTC
As stars reflect the knowledge of the sacred,
The boiling seas of the cosmos churn acrid.
Upon the nurturance of Venus' passionate quivering calls exclaimed,
The essence of God's wrath so lovingly made tame.
As the chariots of love, upon the courtships of epic virtue, possess,
Our goddess sisters, import the specialty of rule, for which the governs obsess.
As Boreas' trumpet sounds a euphoric ecstatic bliss,
Rosicrucian passion bells hither, to a faint swaying and hiss.
As the murmuring embers of the divine, left receded,
Hour of humanities past, no time of present, so subtley defeated.
As upon death, a mummy spreads its rein,
Crucibles of knowledge, all for not, in vain.
The seduction of fertility and the mysteries left to relish,
Though made bitter upon showers of mourn, to embellish.
The disillusionment of our fathers’ petty immortal opportunity made solemn,
The wisest of men, why, amongst the true, made golem.
Take precedence, then and now, when upon your throne of pride,
As the winds of wrath call upon, our savior’s passion tried.
In due notion a precedence of time, without respect,
A fulfillment of God's love, our souls to resurrect.
As dragons drew the chariots of night with profound duration,
A coward’s sword in hand, his skewer's elation.
As stars reflect the knowledge of the sacred,
Humanities, why… derision for dole, left shaken.
As prophets emit, as seen thus…
When stars do let fall the Sun,
Pray thee, a heavenly Venus.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 2:56 AM UTC
It's the night,
before another rotation,
things feel right,
unspoken words,
have turned into one way actions,
elusive internet *******
replaced by the piggle wiggle's,
chainsaw snoring,
the room smells of seroquel, feet,
and the helping of hope,
sticks from a recovery melted poet,
legs of jell-o,
mood of mellow,
dancing twilight in a skyline,
of building and buses,
a year ago he was drunk,
and jail was his entitlement a week,
later,
two years and more,
have evaporated to chemicals and nights that no longer exist,
and lust,
and fair share of unalibitical rust,
the sounds and smells he's,
holding onto this year,
the only hourglass sand bits,
not fallen through, for the feels of fear,
will only disappear,
Birthdays in rehab,
birthdays ad non infinitum,
courtships of programming & meetings,
the poet,
now producing naturally foreign unforced smiles,
better get his sponsor,
to sign his slip.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
It's the churning in my stomach again,
beyond anger, beyond pain,
beyond anything I've ever felt before.
it's those tunnels that scope my vision,
like the ******
staring down his gun.
It's that -
unforgettable sound
of porcelain shattering under your skin,
like muffled screams -
into the midnight pillow...
For I am
the ****** in every war,
in every untold "love story."
I am
what dwells
within a fighting heartbeat,
the pulse, the backbone,
the very ******
of every knife in the back.
without hesitance
I'll turn your world upside down
and inside out;
just to paint the sunset red.
I'll be there for every breakup,
every fight, and every fall.
I am
a Monster
un-welcomed to most,
yet embraced by so many.
I bring the demise of friendships,
courtships,
and all good things.
and yet I am always around,
even when you think I'm not,
I am
there to guide you
into
that rage you can't control...
Born of vengeance, envy, and jealousy;
i give birth to bloodshed, pain, and tears...
I am love, I am Hate...
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:43 PM UTC
Like all of my relationships -
acquaintanceships, chumships, courtships, worships -
the connection between poetry and me
is a little queer.
Because I write when I feel like it
is going to burst out of me.
I write to get the feeling out,
throwing it out, like refuse.
So when the feeling is there sitting,
staring at me, on unblanked paper,
all that's left to read it first
is Reason...
who shows it to Judgement,
who defers to Knowledge,
who laughs it to Shame
who wears down my Ego.
And if I am a clue,
maybe that's why
there are too many poets,
and not enough poetry.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
Content.
A lazy finger runs down my arm,
My curls are wild, floating up your pillowcase,
Like creeping vines entwined with dreams;
My eyes are closed.
You whisper about the brown of my skin,
The smooth earthy tones
Of fabled Aztec princesses,
The two small pyramids
You love to kiss,
The chalice of elixir
Of my thighs.
Content.
Worshipped.
Loved.
Wanted.
Your love reaches every corner in me,
My mind of metaphors,
My womanhood of wants,
My desire to be loved.
Completeness.
Sweet sugared syrupy caresses
Like Victorianesque courtships
Behind closed doors;
Courting of minds and ideas,
Two birds dancing love;
Hungry, ravenous raptures,
Nonhuman desires,
Tear me apart, want you so much.
Everything,
Everything,
Everything:
The hunger, the thirst, the sweetness,
The battle of minds, words, the challenge,
It convinces me of
Full, mature, unencumbered,
Growing, flourishing love.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
we’re like a puzzle, dear.
a constant struggle to find our match,
the piece with which we fit.
and all the while referring to the
example on the box, an image of
a puzzle perfectly plenary,
cookie-cutter courtships of two
jagged-edged squares
just looking to fit in.
and the sea of polygonal
cacophony, swept by the tides
spawned from the puzzler’s searches,
grows ever-increasingly frantic as
the elusive match hides amongst
the others, like a needle in that
hellish and predictable haystack.
in impatience, he concedes to the
concealing pile, and continues on
to the next piece of the puzzle.
but he’ll return, for the game
will not be complete
until we two final pieces
meet.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 3:02 AM UTC
the Gentleman three stools down shot an admiring glance her way.
She brushed away a strand of hair, a lovely silver gray.
She slipped a ring off of her left hand and felt a warmth that flushed her face.
It's not like she was unaware of the quick courtships in this place.
"Compliments of the Gentleman" the barman brought her some champagne.
Though somewhat out of practice, she still knew how to play this game.
She turned towards the gentleman with a shy smile and confident
stare.
He moved in to claim his prize and sat in the adjoining chair.
She felt a momentary pang of guilt; this act of infidelity.
Then brushed away that traitorous thought; their love was but a memory.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC