"cradles" poems
She weeps not for the shore
As distance creates a shadow
She embraces the current
Becoming the wave
And gently pushes her sea home
She chases not the sun
As the day is put to rest
She is the moonlight
That cradles the stars
Tightly to her *******
She yearns not
Her pain-streaked tears
That fall below her feet
She is the soil beneath her toes
Her pain now colors the tree
She worries not
The flowers' bloom
Or the leaves that fall like rain
She is the wind
That will kiss the ground
And sweep it all away
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
*Phones, shapely, laughing beauties of yore,
once patiently rested in cradles , what elegance!
waiting for the prince to come, give a kiss
break the spell, remove the curse!
Gone are the days of pampered babies,
no cradles for phones anymore,
cell phones, the petite beauties we all care for now,
are born grown up.
The baby in the cradle now
sobs demanding the slimmest of cellphones,
once able to lay hands on it
the games continue till the eyes droop .
Cradles get vacant now too soon
the petite phone rings with out
any rest day and night.*
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
it is my unseen lover
it caresses my dreams
and weaves beauteous nightmares
my closest friend, it walks with me
our hands entwined in better days
and cradles me tight against its breast as I falter
though feared by so many,
it is comforting in its consistency,
in its dependability
always there, it never disappoints
close enough to feel its cold breath envelope me,
it feels like home as it moves like fog through the cracks in my soul
And my heart can almost feel whole in its bitter embrace
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 6:46 AM UTC
*Music is my only refuge
Expresses the soul of Nature
The mellifluous journey between notes
Lingers in my heart, the silken veil
Drives away the melancholy, music cradles
Soul to Soul, I sing away Nature’s notes*
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
*Before I thought of doing it
My neck cradles itself sidewards
A strange glimpse
Stood out with radiance
And I knew it was different*
*I catch myself looking at you from afar
Your eyes meet mine
Is it just coincidence
Or an accident that happens too often*?
*Our glances hold messages
Of undefined feelings
Words become fathomless
For our eyes manifest*.
*Your eyes wandered through the crowd
And mine roamed around
We both know
This is just an excuse, a distraction
Not to seem obvious...
Until they locked
And I swear I won't let this moment pass*
*Oh, your eyes
Inviting me to see
Bidding me to come closer
Wanting to let me know you deeper*.
*I'd look at them all day of course;
Because of all the eyes staring
I only care for yours*.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Behind those eyes of blue-gray-green
Lies a heart of which is seldom seen
Though hard for some to realize
There's a world of pain behind said eyes
From drama of torn childhood
From doing bad but being good
To grown up tears of discontent
From words once spoken but never meant
And now with empty bottles past
With clarity one hopes will last
Can be seen a glimpse of inner peace
Of eager joy which begs release
Though years of numbness linger still
Denying freedom to laugh at will
A perfectly polished yesteryear
Cradles everything the heart holds dear
The memories of warmth and fun
Tarnish easily out in the sun
When walking backwards leads you blind
One can never leave the past behind
The farther away the better it seems
Even the nightmares look like a dream
Now, when walking heel to toe
Facing the way you want to go
The road's less bumpy for the ride
Obstacles faced with longer strides
The light behind those eyes still burns
As chapters end and pages turn
The book continues day by day
Joy slowly rises come what may
Living is what makes us strong
To do what's right when we've been wronged
And though that pain may never die
There's no place left for it to hide
It's worn dull by loves embrace
Displaced, in time, with joy and grace
And then those eyes of blue-gray-green
Will sparkle new with brighter sheen
For a heart that's swelled to greater size
Will be foretold behind those eyes
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 2:57 AM UTC
Its all just words
No faces
No looks, no clothes, no smell
A simple connection
It could have been anybody
But it wasn’t
It started off as a hobby
Something to keep boredom at bay
By now you’re junior olympics... At least
It can be as flawless as beach glass
Or jagged
and farspread like the trees still dieing
I never know what to expect
Excitement
Misunderstanding
Seriousness
Interest
Laughter
Understanding
Awkwardness
Distracted
An idea
... Clearly I could continue
It’s like my little escape hole
A therapist that Actually understands and wants to
We just click
Alined by the sun
Some would say
But I dunno if that’s true
All I know is what I feel
Should I not feel what I feel?
Do I feel what I feel?
Is what I feel real?
Or is it fake
Is it a lie?
Or should I make it one
I don’t know what’s best
How can I
I’m new at this remember
All I know are the words of the known
Who are unknown to me in one world
And an empty chair in the next
I sit down and wait patiently
Until it’s finally my turn, here is where I’ll sit
There is no shame finding comfort in the little things the chair offers
Its smooth silky surface
The wine stain down the middle
the dots that resemble a smile in the corner
You don’t forget what you know so well
You open up your palm
A baby snake inside
He doesn't take it
He doesn't **** it on the spot
He doesn't grimace with disgust
He doesn't burst out in laughter
He picks it up
and cradles it in his hands
And sets it free
Back into the world where it belongs
And then he gives you a dalia
You take it and tuck it behind his ear as something to be admired
He blushes
He needs you too
Maybe
But its real
Almost too real
So you push it away
It’s impossible
It might not even be close to what you think it might be
Forget
And stay silent
Hey
We start again
A haha here
A smiley face too
Climbing up the uncertain mountain that has never been climbed before
The chance of falling high
But you like the chase
And for now
It’s enough
You don’t really care if you summit anyway
A possible “when”
always dangling
Inside the clouds
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
OCD And I
We go to couples counseling every week
you know, the usual "Has there been any progress?"
You see, OCD ... he is a bit obsessive.. and doesn't understand why we need counseling
His nails grind into the office chair and slams the door on the way out
He loves and cradles me with commands like flowers that bouquet against my mind
And the next morning as if the bouquets were to fall over from their steady placed vase, he apologizes.
There are mornings where I cannot leave the sheets because his arms are wrapped around my waist and do not want to let go because if he did I might as well be **** independent
If he loves me so much, why is it that I must wash my hands after tracing over everything he has touched.
OCD says he wants to protect me from all the dangers of the world...
and he reminds me by constantly ticking in my head
asking me if I locked the door...Yes
did I turn off the lights... Yes
did you turn off the stove...Yes
We went to counseling again this week
She says I'm closer to being independent
That little by little
I will be able to strive without OCD
by my side
There are mornings now
where I can leave the bed without his arms
sinking into my waist
and his demanding words
whispering in my ear constantly
"Just stay a little longer... The world is dangerous"
Now... when OCD leaves...
I tell him to make sure he closes the door on the way out.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
In touch with you inner feelings
You create a beautiful world
The charisma of your touch
Will create beautiful ripples
The placid lake of love
Will come alive with the beautiful touch
Genuine touch touches the heart
Creating a lasting impression
A touch that becomes a remembrance
From heart to heart
Touch that cradles with loving hands
That touch etched in memory
Forever, a touch, that inspires
Love and beauty in your touch
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Goddess of virility suckles me
to ******
Her legs stiffen…
to acute angles.
Toes, ballerina firm
make her
body—
levitate from the bed.
A smile reveals…fangs
the tips of which
are barely…touching
my ear.
The lizard tongue hisses in ecstasy
revealing ancient—spiritual…bliss
mystics could only
speculate of.
Her anaconda legs
wrap—
around my back
as her fingernails
embed into
my spine.
When I yank
Her hair
Her eyes
Scream inside out.
Our bodies—
Swimming in
An ocean of ravenous
Liquids pulsating from our pores.
Sopping hair clings
to our foreheads
we suddenly realize—
A new shape is invented.
We make a sound so primal
inside each other’s mouth
as her jaws snap down
to my neck—
both bodies rigor-mortis stiffen
as the mountains collapse around us
and the sky is ripped open as a tsunami
billows down into a wave of exhaustion.
The wind cradles us,
Back to the earth
We split,
Admiring a new continent
We created.
Our limp bodies—
numb from the velocity and suggestions
resign to the crater
we call a bed.
We smile, simultaneously,
looking past
our brains,
realizing…
in this moment
we, are one.
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
God before we compete today,
we come together as a team to pray.
Please watch over us from music start to finish,
it wont take that long just about three minutes.
God, all we really want is some help to succeed,
so here's a little list of the things that we need:
We pray for..
Stunts that are solid and tight.
Arms that remain by our side.
Flyers that are confident.
High "V's" that are never bent.
Cradles that are caught up high.
pointed jumps that truly fly.
Tosses that soar through the air.
Judges that are knowledgeable and fair.
Spacing that is on the money.
ENERGY THATS LIKE THE BUNNY!
Motions that are sharp and snap.
A loud crowd that likes to clap.
Voices that deeply shout.
Thumbs that do not stick out.
No bumps that happen while we're passing.
SMILES THAT ARE EVERLASTING!
Endurance that keeps us strong.
Teamwork that cant go wrong.
But mostly God, we'd like to have
A routine that is injury free.
And if you see it in your heart
A FIRST PLACE TROPHY FOR MY TEAM AND ME!
So God, when your work is done,
And your no longer needed here,
just take this little thought with you
Amen.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Between drags of my cigarette,
I lie back on the concrete
and stare into the night sky.
The stars are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?
Not because the air is clear,
or that the heavens are unusually bright
but because tonight I see their depth,
their quiet elegance,
the way they gather into a canvas
stitched across light-years.
The way they align feels like perfection
a harmony born of distance,
comfort found
in the vastness of the abyss.
I trace the Big Dipper,
Orion too.
Not for anyone else,
but for the stone that cradles my skull,
for the roots beneath the soil,
for the spiders weaving
in the leaves at my side.
I’m almost finished with the cigarette now.
But some part of me wants to stay out here,
just me and the stars
serendipity
in their quiet, endless beauty.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 8:20 AM UTC
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime’s harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks’-heels trim;
All dear Nature’s children sweet
Lie ‘fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough ****
Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
6.4k
if you find one happiness
like the barrel on your head
loaded with a pocket of air for you to breathe
then you know that if you sink
to atmospheric tides
you must find fresher barrels
when the novelty declines
and the oxygen gives way
to the oceanic brine
for the last moments of time
you’re chin-up on a water bed
the water cradles your esophagus
and then you find you surely must
find some fresher air to breathe
but to search is to be dissatisfied
to question once is to imply
that everything can be replied
with answers and with truth
that bucket on your head
running out of salty air
to stay is to slip into death
like listening to the ocean in a seashell
till slow blood flows in too few waves
but could you not also swim?
abandon the comfortable end
for the off chance that some underwater shelter
will serve you shots of oxygen?
the funny thing you find
when you let dying pleasure go
and you’re suspended, all alone
the gas trapped beneath
was too stale for you to breathe
but enough to buoy the unburdened barrel
into swiftly surfacing
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
KEEP a red heart of memories
Under the great gray rain sheds of the sky,
Under the open sun and the yellow gloaming embers.
Remember all paydays of lilacs and songbirds;
All starlights of cool memories on storm paths.
Out of this prairie rise the faces of dead men.
They speak to me. I can not tell you what they say.
Other faces rise on the prairie.
They are the unborn. The future.
Yesterday and to-morrow cross and mix on the skyline
The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets. One waits.
In the yellow dust of sunsets, in the meadows of vermilion eight o'clock June nights ... the dead men and the unborn children speak to me ... I can not tell you what they say ... you listen and you know.
I don't care who you are, man:
I know a woman is looking for you
and her soul is a corn-tassel kissing a south-west wind.
(The farm-boy whose face is the color of brick-dust, is calling the cows; he will form the letter X with crossed streams of milk from the teats; he will beat a tattoo on the bottom of a tin pail with X's of milk.)
I don't care who you are, man:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are gray dust working toward star paths
And you see them from a garret window when you laugh
At your luck and murmur, "I don't care."
I don't care who you are, woman:
I know a man is looking for you
And his soul is a south-west wind kissing a corn-tassel.
(The kitchen girl on the farm is throwing oats to the chickens and the buff of their feathers says hello to the sunset's late maroon.)
I don't care who you are, woman:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are next year's wheat or the year after hidden in the dark and loam.
My love is a yellow hammer spinning circles in Ohio, Indiana. My love is a redbird shooting flights in straight lines in Kentucky and Tennessee. My love is an early robin flaming an ember of copper on her shoulders in March and April. My love is a graybird living in the eaves of a Michigan house all winter. Why is my love always a crying thing of wings?
On the Indiana dunes, in the Mississippi marshes, I have asked: Is it only a fishbone on the beach?
Is it only a dog's jaw or a horse's skull whitening in the sun? Is the red heart of man only ashes? Is the flame of it all a white light switched off and the power house wires cut?
Why do the prairie roses answer every summer? Why do the changing repeating rains come back out of the salt sea wind-blown? Why do the stars keep their tracks? Why do the cradles of the sky rock new babies?
4.4k
Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers,
And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,
The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees' song,
Is this everything only a god's
Groaning dream,
The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?
The distant line of the mountain,
That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,
Is this too only a convulsion,
Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,
Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling,
Never resting, never a blessed movement?
No! Leave me alone, you impure dream
Of the world in suffering!
The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,
The bird's cry cradles you,
A breath of wind cools my forehead
With consolation.
Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!
Let it all be pain.
Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched-
But not this one sweet hour in the summer,
And not the fragrance of the red clover,
And not the deep tender pleasure
In my soul.
4.2k
All of those identities that end in "t" and "r" and "n,"
make us feel god awful and self-conscious.
Singer, artist, writer, musician, mortician, poet.
Who entitles us to use them?
And it's true, your voice touches in between my shoulders,
and melts to the bottom of my stomach when you croon,
but you don't find yourself an apt enough player of the voice box.
And sure, painting the reasons why I woke from your dream,
might seem like I'm an artist, but I rather just say...
I enjoy painting.
And right, we like to etch words into books and alchemize
the desire to question into stories,
but we're just fans of reading.
And you know, when the air cradles the harmonies of your guitar
like newborn unicorns, I want to point and claim,
though you think you know too little to call yourself musician.
And yes, the way we lay our bodies to sleep every night sometimes hopeful we don't rise again,
is much like how we treat our desire to declare ourselves,
but that makes us only those who give the dead away.
And of course, my blood courses in order to stitch and weave worded thoughts like these together,
because they lighten our concerns and brighten our better qualities,
so of course,
yes,
I know,
Right,
Sure,
It's true,
I am a...
I might dabble in poetry, here and there. No big deal.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior
Of the wheels move, they appall me ---
The terrible brains
Of Krupp, black muzzles
Revolving, the sound
Punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other.
I am dragging my body
Quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels
Fixed to their arcs like gods,
The silver leash of the will ----
Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses
Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery,
Touching their wounded,
The men the blood still pumps forward,
Legs, arms piled outside
The tent of unending cries ----
A hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men
Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood
Into the next mile,
The next hour ----
Dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There is mud on my feet,
Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side,
This earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth
Ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it
A minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small
The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ----
The body of this woman,
Charred skirts and deathmask
Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ----
Thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place
Turning and turning in the middle air,
Untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ----
An animal
Insane for the destination,
The bloodspot,
The face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas,
I shall count and bury the dead.
Let their souls writhe in like dew,
Incense in my track.
The carriages rock, they are cradles.
And I, stepping from this skin
Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces
Step up to you from the black car of Lethe,
Pure as a baby.
3.6k
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim;
All dear Nature's children sweet
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough ****
Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
At night, when the sea cradles me
And the pale star gleam
Lies down on its broad waves,
Then I free myself wholly
From all activity and all the love
And stand silent and breathe purely,
Alone, alone cradled by the sea
That lies there, cold and silent, with a thousand lights.
Then I have to think of my friends
And my gaze sinks into their gazes
And I ask each one, silent, alone:
"Are you still mine"
Is my sorrow a sorrow to you, my death a death?
Do you feel from my love, my grief,
Just a breath, just an echo?"
And the sea peacefully gazes back, silent,
And smiles: no.
And no greeting and now answer comes from anywhere.
3.3k
Half circle waves crash into themselves on the shore
wipes the slate clean as they rush back to the deep
Where Amphithrite cradles them to her breast
and collects the imprints of lover’s footprints
before she sends them out again
If I jump ship and the tide draws me close to your heart,
will you keep me safe in the circle of your arms
Will you extinguish the lighthouse’s glow
so the pirates can run aground on jagged rock
buried in a sailors grave where no roses grow
When all is done and the storm has gone
will you walk with me on the shore my love
close to the clean slate of the water’s edge
Where the the waves can collect our footprints
and carry them to Amphithrite’s breast
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 9:10 AM UTC
Chains on your door
Rabid rabbits that are biting at your core
A second sentence notice waiting on the floor
In the eyes of the gods you feel like a cheeky *****
Sometimes you want to see
Without sailing
To breathe
In the presence of crashing boars
Fire fire raging on the shore
The tips of your finger calloused and sore
Take a flight to the next big war
So you can find something or someone to answer for
The words look at you
They're not smooth jokers anymore
The notes they sneer and rage at you
While you're still next to the second notice on the wooden tiled floor
On the lit streets you find the gravel and all the other things
And the city like a midnight jungle in full swing
Like a speechless parrot you try and sing
While not minding the other things
**** the other things
When you know that life burns like the shore you once slept on
It cradles you and your books like kings
Then sneers like the music that you once thought grafted butterfly wings
Don't look too far, the gravel is the king of things
***** is a feeling akin to literary spark
You drink from the cups of beggars in the Rimbaudian park
And upon your grand tombstone is a question mark
Where was he when they needed him?
If they knew of the evil sin
Of the city jungle
And the things and whims
They would've clenched their fists
And held their breath
Found the cave where triangles are circles
And circles mean death
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
*If I ever catch myself criticizing something I don’t like about myself, that is neither a life threatening nor a destructive observation, I have to question my own thoughts and ask if this judgment is truth, or coming from a place of insecurity. If insecurity is the reason, which most times it is, I step out from underneath that microscope in which I stood, and walk into the light of reality. I realize that my purpose in life is not to analyze and dissection who I am, or even other people.
If we can shift our thinking, we can change our feelings. Our feelings control how we view the world and ourselves. Perception has power; it cradles both thinking and feelings.*
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
Where is that hand,
That motherly embrace,
Which comforts in its ****** -
That motherly hand I can trust?
Where is that hand,
That warming caress,
Which eases the nerves -
That cocoon of soft curves?
There is no rest anymore
In thoughts of exile and escape;
My being is shaken to the core,
My soul bent under the stress.
Where is that hand,
That soothing absence,
Which cradles you gently -
That silence of calm and mercy?
Where is the hand,
That promise of better days,
Which relieves innocently -
That convincing “don’t worry”?
There is no rest anymore
In thoughts of exile and escape;
My being is shaken to the core,
My soul bent under the stress.
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 2:25 PM UTC
What once was warm and welcome
Is now but distant cold and silent death.
But the setting of a friendships sun
Not quite as yet a souls dying breath.
-
Up in arms and marching forward
There is no need for anyone of us to be alone tonight
Who'd have known that brotherhood pivoted upon speech untoward
And who'd have known that some love, to kiss through embrace of fight.
-
From cradles and cots
When were we supposed to learn
That parking lots and graveside plots
Were our only future to discern.
And just like all of those bedroom eyes
friendship itself also often dies.
N.H.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC