"creasing" poems
somebody knew Lincoln somebody Xerxes
this man:a narrow thudding timeshaped face
plus innocuous winking hands, carefully
inhabits number 1 on something street
Spring comes
the lean and definite houses
are troubled. A sharp blue day
fills with peacefully leaping air
the minute mind of the world.
The lean and
definite houses are
troubled.in the sunset their chimneys converse
angrily,their
roofs are nervous with the soft furious
light,and while fire-escapes and
roofs and chimneys and while roofs and fire-escapes and
chimeys and while chimneys and fire-escapes
and roofs are talking rapidly all together there happens
Something,and They
cease(and
one by one are turned suddenly and softly
into irresponsible toys.)
when this man with
the brittle legs winces
swiftly out of number 1 someThing
street and trickles carefully into the park
sits
Down. pigeons circle
around and around and around the
irresponsible toys
circle wildly in the slow-ly-in creasing fragility
—. Dogs
bark
children
play
-ing
Are
in the beautiful nonsense of twilight
and somebody Napoleon
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*She got star dust sprinkled evenly
Within the shorelines of her ravishing eyes
And stardust, pristine naïve look benignly
Creasing her soft supple aristocratic face no need to accessorize
Her posture upright and poised
Elegance, charm and grace effortlessly effused
By her, emotional hazards posed
By a presence so spell-binding, one will be amused
At the hypnotic effect experienced by
All and sundry
Though she turns a blind eye
A scathingly sultry
look suddenly evident on her sweet face turned sour
She undoubtedly is a toxic flower.*
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
Never trust the mirror,
for it only shows what's skin deep.
It doesn't show how your eyes sparkle
when you laugh
or
how your laugh
makes you younger in so many ways.
It does't show the moisture your lips
glisten with
from the anxious biting
nor
does it show the creasing of your brows
in annoyance.
It doesn't show the flutter of your lashes
as you fall asleep
or
the way your hair frames your face
as
you light up the world with a simple
smile.
It doesn't show the posture of you body
as
you walk
or
the look in your eyes
as
you stare at your significant other.
It doesn't show you loving
or
your fleeting glances
of
pure admiration
or
even your look of raw anger.
It doesn't define you.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
I tried folding a paper crane again the other day
and it didn't turn out right
tracing back my folds,
I knew I missed somewhere
unfolding, re-creasing, refolding
just tracing my fingers back
fingers
feeling the paper
and beyond
A three-minute fold
times 10 now
Even if I needed to do other things,
I paid no mind, determined to fold that crane
I had to get this right.
I had to.
Almost there...
As it turns out,
I only missed one step,
--something to do with its wings, I believe...
Amazing how a single step
could be so important.
Stretching its wings now,
the paper crane
soars proudly on my palm...
So beautiful.
In refolding this paper crane,
I hope I never forget...
Amazing how easily things slip from our minds,
but more amazing
is when our hearts Do remember.
We remember,
and then we Do something...
...I have hundreds of paper cranes yet to fold,
it may be taking me far longer
than what I had initially planned...
but yes, you are in my thoughts,
you are in my prayers...
and I shall continue folding these cranes.
...I revel in the thought, for that moment,
when I can send them flying towards the Sun...
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
Clearly, darling, you do not understand why
I love you.
All of you.
Stare at these two cups of coffee or look into my eyes.
Shuffle your feet, tangle your fingertips in your hair.
I don't care,
just listen and
let my words
meld into that beautiful mind.
Okay?
For a person to be here, it took years.
The little wisps of hair that always gets into your eyes.
The laugh-line underneath your cheek.
It all took an immeasurable number of tick-tocks.
In those infinite string of days was hours.
In those hours, there were minutes.
And yes, in those minutes are seconds.
Now, don't roll your eyes just yet.
Dotting in between the mellow epochs are experiences, dreams, unspoken wishes behind closed eyelids, tears, laughter crinkling your lips.
The creasing of the edges of your heart.
The sound of your very breaths in a lonely room.
If you think in such numbing detail, eventually I found myself happily and hopelessly tangled in those strings of little infinities.
And then, I fell in love with you.
It's simple really.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
the folded man
sat creasing the edges of his wallet sized heart
and stared off into the romantic night
full of lovers embracing
and others who silently wished for a hand to hold
he waited for her soft footsteps
but she just sat in her bedroom mirror brushing her hair
thinking of some boy from long ago
sundown was just that kind of girl
trade your temptations today for the empty promise of yesterday
she will stay here another season
maybe he will pass this way
maybe the storm clouds gathering will go away
the harlots all dance with unacquainted tenderness
not all embraces are done with joy
call it a sundown's choice cause its a bad one
and the gambler brushes dust off his neat appearances
each detail of his solitude lie must be cared for
lest it crumble and expose hes just a green kid
from illinois
we all put the best face we can
some just take it too far
she went to the picture show
and looked for familiar faces in the crowded hall
but the folded man had already slipped away
with one of the harlots
who will make a pretty bride someday
everybody gets a second chance
they just may not want it once they get it
she brushed the ashes from her clothes
they fell like thin snowfall on spring day
a last taste of winters hand
out of the burnt shell of the dancehall at dawn we came
the thick smoke splayed out on the thin wind
wound its way past catching the dust and
making the sunlight a dull brown
she looked at me with tears for eyes
asked me to take her from this place
everybody gets a second chance
they just may not want it once they get it
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
When time stops,
Would you remember me like how I was at the back of your mind? Would you still remember me as a whole. Coffee brown eyes,dark snow white's hair,pink tinted cheeks,crimson red lips,eyes as pure as a baby's. Would you find me exceptional,alluring or even intriguing? Exquisite yet intoxicating.
When time stops,
Would you find me in your dreams? Would you find me at the bistro where we first met? Would you find me sitting at the corner of the room,drinking a large cup of mocha latte,with a book in my hand and a croissant on the other? Fingers creasing the corner of the book. Steam rising from the mug of the brown liquid,warming my face.
When time stops,
Would you miss me? Would you try and turn back time just to find me laughing at your jokes? A tune which you probably won't miss. A laugh that broke the thin quiet air. Would you sacrifice yourself to search for Father Time to turn back things to the way it was? Would you climb to the highest peak of the tower where heaven meets earth,open the gates of the celestial spirits,and seek for me?
Time stops.
Now,what would you do?
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
Off from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
Rounded my globe of heritage, journey
In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen
Twice in the feeding sea, grown
Stale of Adam's brine until, vision
Of new man strength, I seek the sun.
2.1k
"Funny poems aren't taken seriously",
the figure splashes verbal acid over the
crumpled piece of paper I handed them.
Refusing to laugh
Curling their lip.
The paper quickly,
without a thought,
thrusted back into my hands.
They leave behind my thought
which fills the space between
myself, fidgeting alone
and them, striding away.
*Does it have to be serious
to be taken seriously?*
A mental court gathers itself around me
Myself, a defense attorney
Pointing a stained finger
at the figure on the stand.
I present the shoe-eating Peruvian
and his limerick friends.
Generations of drinking songs
often crass, but lasting.
There is laughter from the jury
There is hope for the poems.
Then my final evidence
the crumpled paper
I read it aloud
silence.
Is split by the dull chuckle of the figure
elbows in suit jacket pressed against the stand.
"Sure, there's examples from the past,
but you?
the troubled kid?
the depressed one?
the pariah?"
I glance at more files, appearing,
my name on each.
analysis,
evaluation,
diagnosis,
test.
Laughter, the type that jeers,
grows into a crescendo.
I huddle, hands over ears,
creasing my suit
but the muted version is worse.
I stagger to my feet.
The court has morphed cruelly
into an arena of sorts.
Brutal, simple, life-ending
decisions are made here.
My jacket is gone
My cheek openly bleeds
My sleeves have ripped
revealing the scars below.
I hurl out, from deep within me
"It's because I'm ****** up that
I need to write it!
Don't you understand?
Making people laugh
keeps and edge off the old habits
keeps the thoughts where they belong!"
My voice is hoarse.
The arena tightens.
Even as I say it, I'm overwhelmed by the thoughts
That I do not belong.
That a funny poem punctuated by my fingers
despite their past harm
delivered from my mouth
despite its harsh denouncements
and shared by my whole self
despite my self-banishment
is not enough.
I sink to the ground, stripped of my senses.
My poems have turned course
once helping ease pain,
now proliferating it.
My fingernails pierce the palm of my hand
through the crumpled paper
and two drops of blood strike the tiles.
I meant for this to be
a funny poem
But I guess it's about why
some people need to write them.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
little star,
cold and timeless,
ebbing in the gloom,
breathing like lungs,
exhale dust.
thin blanket,
old and creasing,
grey and faded vermillion,
stealing our shadows,
a penumbra.
aged animal,
majestic in death,
raising its horns skyward,
embers in ashes,
fossilised stone.
our patron,
quiet and brave,
bringer of gentlest creation,
player of sounds,
little star.
May 20, 2022
May 20, 2022 at 8:21 PM UTC
When I get here, don't ever ask me to leave.
I'm not saying I won't ever leave just that I can make up my own mind
and I've been a long time coming
and you can pack my bags for me if that's what you want,
I was never one for folding,
for folding,
for folding creases,
for creasing folds down the middle like I was waiting to be split in two,
I am waiting for you to split me in two,
split me in two,
split me in two,
cut me in half and all you will find are mirrors.
Your face staring back at you. Jagged edges so I could feel you from the inside out,
feel you,
feel you,
finally feel you.
I've been knocking at your door,
staring through your windows every time I had your door shut in my face,
knocking on your walls,
knocking,
knocking down your walls,
cracking your safe so that you know
when the sky seems like the most solid thing around you,
that you are always a porch light.
You are a struck match, a roaring flame and I am orange, fully open,
I can always be your accident.
You are the oldest thing in the universe made new for me,
a lens,
my left hand,
my right hand,
my arms, clutching hold of my wrists
so I can feel your heartbeat in my fingers,
your pulse a busker, singing only for me when the clocks have stopped and the lights turned out
and we've been waiting at this door for too long.
And I'm just stuck at my boarding gate,
halfway across the world and you're still dragging behind
like it's all too fast
and all I can tell myself is that I would always drown in you.
I will always choke on your words so I can taste them in my mouth,
taste you in my mouth, like a warzone,
taste everything you've ever said, ever been.
I will make up my own mind. I will keep you in mind.
Keep me in your mind like a cemetery.
I'm a long time coming.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
the years pile up gently
as snow upon snow pile up
on snow laden ground.
you wake up one morning
still with sleepy eyes
to see the view from your window
still the same
yet somewhat changed
from the landscape you saw before you went to bed last night.
you jog your head,
to drive away
the lingering laziness in your bones,
smiling at a half remembered dream
where you were flying through the sky
dodging the telephone and electrical wires
that crisscrossed the path of your flight,
and whispered a silent prayer,
you get up your bed.
reaching out with heavy limbs
to the pair of sandals
lying on the floor
and trudge out of your cozy room.
you look at the mirror
(at a landscape still unfamiliar?)
and frown
(or smile?)
at some added lines
creasing the sides of your eyes:
a view more subtly changed!
a year is gone,
another is on the run.
count your life if you may
in ages
old traditional way
but, mark it off proudly
with words:
painful, prayerful, purposeful,
incisive, iniquitous, imperial,
eclectic, electric, effervescent,
dolorous, delirious, devious,
singular, simple, (sinful?),
frenzied, frivolous, feral,
tepid, tremulous, turbulent,
ludicrous, libidinous, lugubrious,
zany, zennish, zinged,
barbaric, beatific, bucolic,
and so on and so forth.
words that are sensual, soulful, spiritual,
that moved your heart ,
that moved our hearts.
words to remember you by.
be happy.
feel blessed.
it is your birthday!
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
But it's as if you’re ****** into the page on which you sit so precariously. You realize his eyes have become weird again, throbbing to the beat of your love. He looks away, leaning back on his hands, arms taught. And you sit as if alone, watching him tear a piece off your history and craft a paper airplane from your devotion, fingers gently folding and creasing, lovingly shaping, his head turning, focusing, admiring. And when he is satisfied, he throws it with a flick of his pale wrist. It sails beautifully through the air, buoyed by affection and adoration, leaping through the gusts with pride. You reach out a hand willing it to come to you, wanting something so tender for yourself, for your gasping heart. But as you lean in, poised with glory, a thief melts from a burning tree, morphs from the shadows, an ugly, beaten creature, scaly and peeling. It slinks foreword catching the plane in its mottled claws, pinching it slightly as your lover lets out a small gasp, eyes widening. The creature places it inside the steel bars over its heart and suddenly the thing changes and becomes lovely, blooming and whole, an infection of grace and slender frame. Fragrance floats back to you as you cower and your lover looks at the lovely figure descending upon him and you scream and scream, seizing and foaming, something mad, unwanted, hidden from sight. But he is no more than smoke; naked body drooling, jagged blades protruding from his back; and where his heart should have been, there are only iron bars. He turns and howls, an alien sound, unreal, lips curling back, twisting and forcing his screeching notes into your chest smothering your mind. But finally you have had enough; finally you understand, finally you find strength to pull apart the stitching and release yourself and you fall.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
Her fat arms raised in the air
twisting her lips up, creasing her eyes
“Ha!”
She was loud and boisterous
Through the dull shine of her square frames I could see a dim light flickering in the blackness
A motor, sputtering and rusted into a slow churn
A sailboat, with sail at half mast
When she left this earth,
she would leave nothing but those fat arms.
—The memory of that crooked smile, burned into my memory
Like an ape making faces from inside the cage
She would never get out
So she would stir ***** into her drink, and
like an ape, threw her **** around
She would die in her cage.
Me, smiling at her like a child,
taunting her from the outside.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Yes, I have them
Feelings.
Aren't they tears that run
run slowly down my cheeks
When you tell me its not fun
to watch me suffer.
Yes I have them
Feelings
Aren't they the lines on my brow
wrinkling and creasing
worrying my now
now that I suffer.
We all have feelings dont we?
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
The lines on her flesh
The slightly closing eyes
The breath
Just barely
Everyday I'd wait for you at the top of the stairs
Hiding in the shadows as the morning glare peeked through
Shining on the boxes that I had stacked up in the night
While I gnawed on my hunger
You'd come up for several minutes
Whisper to me in our stolen time
Let me smell you all over in brief embraces
And then leave
Moments in the breaks of my lightwatch
Nights and the descent of the wolves on the hunt
The scent of dusk and the ever blinking stars
And the creaking of bicycles treading through the woods
I'd look you all over in the darkness of the moon
Taste the weariness through the souls in our eyes
Mildew and the chirps of homecoming birds
Warming our bodies in unison
The whips of sunshine would come again
We'd scramble away from each other
Dislodging our joints and other such things
Tightening the knots
Every fragment I'd wait for your silhouette
Luminance granting me brief glimpses
Drawn through the curtains of prying eyes
And the numerous opuses creasing our hearts
The dots of Orion in the amber snow
Greeting our hands and chalking the rain
Pyres of pain make the distances scarce
And burrowing in my chest we'd sit
Burning in the ashes of twilight.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 3:51 AM UTC
*There are moments when it’s barely perceptible
An incessant itchy scratch creasing the soul’s walls
Culminating into sparkly luminescent smiles
Dancing eerily on a day dreamer’s visage
Or a soft pain lodged deep into the abyss of the soul
A laceration to the soul
That throbs rhythmically almost in tandem
To the heart’s diehard throb
When it’s too overwhelming a circumstance
Them eyes become awash with emotion riddled tears
Cascading in an unheralded kind of way
Down the glorious hallways of faceless facades.*
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
Wither your wings go
Yet, forth you walk
To parting lips, blackened
Breath
Sheathing nervous impulse
Behind roiling haze
You were immortal, once
Gazing without seeing
A glass heart
Full of hope
Life flushed your veins gold
Sunk its teeth
Into warm pulse
Carried two sets
Of two strands
To a place, called home
But fear
Etched its make
Into the hollow of your soul
Creasing aspirations
Careless in their birth
And growth
Lying, in a lull
You flicker through
Replays
Fingers lacing
Soft wake,
Soft skin,
Immeasurable
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
‘Pro Rege, Pro Patria,’ you tell me with wistful smile creasing sad eyes.
I squint up with narrowed lids,
Trying to push scepticism aside as my sight traces the words carved into the stone.
‘Pro Rege, Pro Patria.’
I can barely contain my scoffing.
But I do, because as ridiculous as I find it that we are claiming these men
actually died for
Something,
I would never dream of disrespecting them.
In fact, in my eyes,
They are the kings,
The noblemen,
The deities.
They deserve
More
Than the riches of their wildest imaginings.
They deserve
A family,
A beating heart,
A silver-lined
Life.
They are worth more
Than a fancy inscription
On a grey headstone.
And some didn’t even get that.
Consider this, though:
What use is a fancy inscription when you’re a pile of bones under the ground?
We can only hope that there is a
Heaven.
That they are living like
Kings.
That their divine lives are
Silver-lined.
That they can’t see how little has changed,
Because that is, I think, the saddest thing of all.
I look up again,
At the clouds sweeping across the sky.
It was then that I thought:
Just as
The clouds keep moving,
The Earth keeps turning.
And
Just as
The Earth keeps turning,
Humans will never stop fighting.
That’s why
I can’t help but scorn those words.
‘Pro Rege, Pro Patria,’ you tell me with wistful smile creasing sad eyes.
And that’s why I cry:
Because I know better.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
Dig deep poet;
You too reader;
Commandment One:
Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions
You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous
where you dig, salted water will come
in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort
Debate Commencement:
reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed
ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:
the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation
do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
truth
Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 8:51 AM UTC
"Forgive me, Father…for I have sinned"
This is how all my thoughts begin
Their ritual of villain regrets and sorrows.
They come, they lie, they spin…
Misguiding words and blinding the hallows,
While tears pray for the everyday forgiveness,
The tyrants chain my finned tomorrows
Forever consumed in acid of my illness.
Forgive me, Father…
For I have baptized my thoughts in holy water.
Their slushy sins dived into a cruel slaughter,
Leaving me senseless…hopeless…
My tongue have lost its ability
To cut the truth from raw evilness.
In this shell of madness there's no tranquility
In vengeance, burning wounds don't find stability,
In anger, blurry paths lie in selfishness
And so I lie there senseless.
The way back home
Can't be guided by crippled lights,
Redemption has got me in too many fights
Between me and my reflection,
I breathe and I bleed with no defection
While violins cry over my lost pure smiles,
Their grave shrouded me into a foolish disguise.
My lungs shout for Jordan River.
'Cause I can't go on like this…
Lies, mistakes then hinder
Every time dreams are never what is real.
Hear me, Father…
Here I stand in this place my tears used to gather.
Give me a rain drop so my eyes can heal,
Give me myself again so my skin can feel -
My thoughts are unsafe and they will ****
My insides as a sacrifice meal -
I can hear their evil whispers, late at night…
Don't leave me drowned into this tight well,
Where my pillow is creasing words of farewell.
Thoughts sing lullabies in a shallow swing
Words like "Forgive me, Father…For I have sinned."
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 1:37 PM UTC