"crisped" poems
PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets
APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog
The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan
The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A ****** bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak
The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear
The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu
The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled
EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:15 AM UTC
I'm cold. A chill in the air.
Wood fire dwindling to smolders.
Ash crisped cinders to share.
Cotton between our shoulders.
That endearing musk of burnt wood.
A soft kiss on your cheek.
My arm wrapped round you.
I whisper in your ear
those words I do love to speak.
"I'll distract you not from the beauty of this world,
nor the loves you've counted.
I'll never let you waver from your hearts dream.
Stay true - look up ahead and mine will be seen."
This faint light up ahead.
It flickers and dances.
Clawing and bubbling to break.
Daylight will be upon us, no chances.
Don't blink or you'll miss this.
The birth of life - light years away.
An explosion of color flooding the sky.
Life inspiring feeling - opposite to grey.
Rain of warm power filling my voids.
A dream born anew each day.
A love found in you.
Explored in every single way.
A never ending gift.
If only we're awake.
Just then as it broke.
Did you feel it?
I felt yours and you mine.
Our hopes and dreams become one.
A valley of trust now glowing.
Warm tones red through yellow.
Delivered by the morning saint.
My dream revealed.
Endless passion only the sun could paint.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
You made me soft;
A Marshmallow drop that melted sweetness,
and tasted like nostalgia on your tongue
In that place where camps fires smoked and we smouldered,
Orange with a glow
that crackled envy,
I saw forever in those flames.
Just a little tiny taste of eternity
Reaching for me, as I reached for you.
I curled and crisped,
Dribbled into that abyss
and bubbled up in the heat.
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 5:17 AM UTC
So breaks the sun earth's rugged chains,
Wherein rude winter bound her veins;
So grows both stream and source of price,
That lately fettered were with ice.
So naked trees get crisped heads,
And colored coats the roughest meads,
And all get vigor, youth, and spright,
That are but looked on by his light.
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The dreamy sea washed ashore bringing
little bubbles of life to its end
Children splashed and jumped as wave after wave fell in
Bucket and ***** at the ready as castles from the sky
formed from minds in youth and fairy tales
Cream at the ready as grandads cap retreats
crisped from the comfort of his strippy deckchair he waits
Mothers blankets blown from the wind held down by
a shoe to be lost and a stone found yet not cast
These were the days we remember
These are the days we forget
These are the days to be treasured
A fine sad old memory from a past we most had
Ice cream sounds calling at fathers request
Is grandma still yawning from bingo's night fest
a donut for mother all sugared and warm
don't forget Charlie as woof is all heard
A match game of cricket from children about
or footy at lunchtime sweet sand in your mouth
These were the days we remember
These are the days we forget
These are the days to be treasured
A fine sad old memory from a past we most had
Asleep from the sun and a sneaky quick pint
as dad tries to doze be free to unwind
A call for 3 strikes as rounders is found
hear grandad all snoring more cream to be crowned
Tis time for a dip to twinkle your toes
to jump back a mile oh blimey its cold
These are the memories all children should have
a time when no phones when a time wasn't planned
No little computers to spoil the day
just fun and great memories of children at play
A time when your family all joined in the fun
a shame we have lost this to greed and the sun
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
I have always accepted you.
I have watched you take and take and take.
You've taken my family,
hell, you've even taken friends.
Suicide. Cancer. Disability. Age of Old.
I've seen it all.
I've seen you in the pain,
the Love that is overwhelming as people weep over you.
Once have I cried because of you.
One funeral.
A boy, my age, murdered by his own hand.
A classmate. A friend. Dead.
And I watched, as people wept at his funeral,
and how easy it was to pick out false Love.
How untrue they were.
You take, and you hurt, dear Death.
But you show the reality,
our truest forms,
our deepest souls,
the Love buried deep down,
how real you make us.
But I see you,
even in things you haven't yet taken.
I see you in the trees,
as they turn to feathery golds and crimsons, oranges crisped as they crunch underneath our toes.
I see you in the morning,
as birds flutter amongst my window
fettering amongst the trees.
I see you in the river,
horses that run rampant across my memory,
as I long to just run away and ride,
to feel the wind rush through the curls upon my brow.
I see you in my mother's eyes,
in her laughter and smile.
Her eyes when she is pained, how hurt she has been, or as she dawns things anew,
or when she cries of the loss she has grieved.
Giggles and joy erupt from her lips, as she dawns on the silly things her father did.
The curve of her lips, as she remembers her past, what Time has given her and what has passed.
Oh how she looks of her parents,
how kind I remember them,
always full of Love, even after I have seen them leave, depart the land of the living and go onto the gates of Heaven.
For they live in memory,
and that is the gift you have given.
You have given us peace and memory,
and for that I thank you.
Most are angered by your name, oh Death,
but I?
I am not afraid for you,
and rather,
I welcome you.
Take me when you will.
I'll gladly take your hand.
I thank Time for what he has given me and countless others,
but you, I thank for the bargain of Time you have given each of us.
It is a treasure,
the memories we are able to hold dear
and the peace we don't have to fear
when we take your wrinkled hand,
and step into you fully,
without a pain left to feel,
because that pain is left in our world
as we step onto the floor of Heaven
and gaze upon the greatest sight of all.
Perhaps we as humans need to stop seeing you as we want to see you
but to see what's in you truly;
the collateral beauty of it all.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC
Are we now not on two different planes?
Hearing new songs in lay, in sideways borograbes
By your feet too do these crisped, grey leaves scatter?
These humming autumn inscects remind me it doesn't matter
That shining floral fantasy is now merely fauna
I smother now the tinted leaved cantaluna
Can a buried flower blossom and grow?
I yearn not to care or know.
This old marigold once shimmered with light
Age and decay resisted any honest plight.
Henceforth I am the seed, waiting for the warm sun's yawn
These boyish locks now retire, waiting for a new man to dawn.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 3:33 AM UTC
Eyes having opened,
They were met by an infinite blue.
Deeply rich and sapphire-esque in tone,
The sea rushed into the mouth that was held agape
By both marvel and fear.
At first instinct was the will to resist,
But then came the strange comfort of allowing the passionate Blood that once boiled
Chill itself to a painfully distant frost.
It was ecstasy and torture coexisting within
A circular harmony of sensation.
This order of solace was short lived.
With a shimmer,
The once reserved and vibrant sea of blue transformed
Into an abyss of clarity.
The briny and familiar taste shifted in nature to something other. Something potent, something repulsive, something sinister.
At once,
The calm oasis turned into a scathing hell.
His inferno incarnate.
A body that at past times swam with jubilance
Now sank to the fiery depths,
Having already lost both the spirit and the ability to fight.
Crisped,
The corpse felt an enormous pain.
But the mind felt none for there was none to speak of.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC
His throat opened under stale wind
and screamed sharp sounds like fish fin
pricked and cut soft hand tissue.
The bruise was a pinch because
the eye can only see what was
there before the attack surprise.
He performed dog magic in Prague
under willows but lacked
important mastery techniques.
Turned rock to frog but not back,
simply a half witted magi
ruined like slapped sewn hide leather.
Crisped under hot red sun he
shakes in his boat like maracas
he curves with blue currents to shore.
With a boat in the mud jammed rudder
he stares at clouds hugs himself
and sees a rock kiss a frogs belly.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:31 PM UTC
rotting horse carcass.
green glowing filament by moonlight ******
& mistrust us.
radioactive drums of waste &/or dreams.
boys swimming.
fistfights at night
by headlight & tooth crackle. (spit) then bonfire pallets
lit & danced upon.
plumes
of gas-can outcries.
the days & abuelitas
& ghosts
pinched cheek - pinched cooler - grandaddy
on the grill.
his gasping yellow dogs.
judy is in the underbrush with a walkie-talkie
& a p.b.j.
desmond leaps from high rocks; he
descends into another world by way of molecular-mishap.
dove deep.
riding the portal boar.
wasps hover above spilt wine
& declare war upon brothers with b.b. guns
& firecrackers
& spf 50+. the saturday/sunday sagas
between beams of heat laughter breakdowns
to knees, to bees,
honey.
homecoming queen dead & wrapped
in plastic.
body found with
turtle bites.
fungi.
the slabs of granite.
old iron tractors bent & held by tree wives.
toast.
jam hewn hwedges of crisped bread.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
perhaps it is apt
the first pancake
is always
a disappointment
stodgy
anaemic
without that light
crisped perfection
we've come to expect
it is undercooked
typically
as the ideal
frying time
is gauged
incorrectly at first
it will be
plated with
accompanying pleas
for forgiveness
and absolution
but as penance
someone has to
suffer this
pariah's offering
with each mouthful
comes thoughts
of apology
of atonement
of promises
it will be better
next time
Feb 27, 2023
Feb 27, 2023 at 5:56 AM UTC
Chained in the market-place he stood,
A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude
That shrunk to hear his name--
All stern of look and strong of limb,
His dark eye on the ground:--
And silently they gazed on him,
As on a lion bound.
Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,
He was a captive now,
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
Was written on his brow.
The scars his dark broad ***** wore,
Showed warrior true and brave;
A prince among his tribe before,
He could not be a slave.
Then to his conqueror he spake--
"My brother is a king;
Undo this necklace from my neck,
And take this bracelet ring,
And send me where my brother reigns,
And I will fill thy hands
With store of ivory from the plains,
And gold-dust from the sands."
"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold
Will I unbind thy chain;
That ****** hand shall never hold
The battle-spear again.
A price thy nation never gave
Shall yet be paid for thee;
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,
In lands beyond the sea."
Then wept the warrior chief, and bade
To shred his locks away;
And one by one, each heavy braid
Before the victor lay.
Thick were the platted locks, and long,
And closely hidden there
Shone many a wedge of gold among
The dark and crisped hair.
"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold
Long kept for sorest need:
Take it--thou askest sums untold,
And say that I am freed.
Take it--my wife, the long, long day,
Weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play,
And ask in vain for me."
"I take thy gold--but I have made
Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa shade
Thy wife will wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook
The captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look
Was changed to mortal fear.
His heart was broken--crazed his brain:
At once his eye grew wild;
He struggled fiercely with his chain,
Whispered, and wept, and smiled;
Yet wore not long those fatal bands,
And once, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands,
The foul hyena's prey.
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Chapter I
I once was young minded,
vulnerable with wide tooth grins
and fluttering words,
binding soft skin with liquid
metals - like gallium,
clustering in my ribbed fingertips and
letting love level in my lips.
I turned old the day I watched
rough bodies portraying the new style
of
***
on a vhs tape, and he
gave me a shaking milkshake to
turn off my developing
voicebox.
I always wore this barbie nightgown
that had tears from the nights before,
but that's ancient dust that folks
flip past in encyclopedias.
as he knelt down to tie my veins
together in little bows,
I untied after each loop was set in
my bones.
his acidic fingers braced my eight
year old metal frame,
so I broke the nuts and bolts since
I wanted to see if he was
a part of the human race,
I wanted to see if he could bleed
iron-richness that kept myself breathing.
Chapter II
he was beautiful.
his philosophy branched in
segments and he tasted of
earthy tones, but sometimes
he couldn't smile easy and
I felt his love only in acts of passion.
The football game stuttered in
pure vertigo,
as if my body was still
positioned in missionary.
he held me in concern, his arms
laced as protection from myself.
as a survivor, his words felt like
whiplash or lagging from too much
flying in the high altitude.
I needed to forget, float, forgive
and begin the process over again.
I would never see the shades of love
from anyone other than from him,
his words used to brand me.
Chapter III
I drank too much.
I wished on meteorites,
lead-filled, hoping they wouldn't
fall on the tent.
my luck was never strong enough.
I felt as if a wildfire was singeing
my dysfunctional limbs.
I wanted him off. now.
and my tongue was made of
parchment paper. crisped.
I woke up ten after nine.
my body repulsed me,
throwing up the last of poisonous
alcohol I left stranded the
night before.
I devoted that I will never sleep in
a tent again.
Chapter IV
I am finally free.
I still have energy in these
old bones,
and I want to put them
to good use.
so I'll walk for centuries to
find truth and trust.
I use my voice to tell myself
I am more profound than the
surface film those insignificants swept
on my skin.
I found my voice again.
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
Here they come to seek a symbol
of seaside sun - a cruise ship
castaway, beached,rain stained,
landlubbers hamock and griddle.
But first they collapse me and curse me.
Doing it properly should be
part of their curriculum vitae,
a test of nationality.
Then I'm candy flossed, ice creamed, Blackpool
rocked, salted and crisped, generally stuffed,
while they lie back, roast and relax.
Good job it's not a nudist beach.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
their cries for help became like whispers
almost like the mere passing wind
it blew against the people's ears
their pain ignored, dismissed, unseen
she doesn't recall how she has let
the demons to come, at her, to laugh
at the raging storm inside her head
against the war her heart has stirred up
as cliche as it seems, she is his world
she intoxicates the chemicals he breathes
he couldn't let go of that one girl
her poison seeping to his soul within
like the falling of the autumn leaves
were the tears cascading down her cheeks
no sounds were made from her trembling lips
closing up like leaves dried and crisped
a rose is beautiful but its stem grows thorns
tightly he embraces her, the more he bleeds
the petals are wilting, dying, all forlon
his soul colors the same shade, dark and bleak
they walk alone in the pouring rain
the gloomy skies crying with them
they look like they're to be washed away
their world has crumbled to ashes again
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
I wrote you each August,
asking you to break the
tall, thick clouds into flat,
cold floes that vanish when
the sun vaults over them.
You bring your cool moon,
and it slides over my skin
from head to heel or hand
to hand. Cicadas feel it,
too. Like medicine on a cut.
I typically pause, let silent
vowels swallow the air
peeking around the curtain,
and until we feel fresher
by it, crisped, I stay still.
You test the leaves one,
two nights pulling with open
hands; I remember ice,
shattered on the pavement
and spread thin, whitens.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
It was a pleasure to burn
standing over smoldering ash, watching
his face crisp on a glossy 4x6 print
I spit into a heap of blackened memories
I promised myself that this would be
the last piece of me
he would ever consume.
I swore to anyone who would listen, I was through with his twists and ties of lies.
Yet, I was still tangled in
his grip; beset with spite, my mind muddled
through dark daydreams of revenge. A sudden flash
regained my consciousness as the barn’s worn wooden beam erupted into flames.
I knew I had to split
before I too, crisped into cinders.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
The snow crisped to your eyes made me giggle
Made me wonder
About the lightness of snow
How the white in your lashes made them seem more wet
And how much heavier they would need to be
Before they bent
How heavy can your shoulders get
Before the shiver shakes the weight
I want lie beneath you
And catch your cold
The doctors asked me how long I’ve been feeling this way
I told them I didn’t know
One in particular
Gave me a mirror
Told me about actors
And how they would practice making different faces until they could completely control their emotions
When you feel sad practice happy
Practice angry
Practice solemn
Practice confused
With this much control I could be held accountable for everything
When I was 14 I learned what living looks like
In the mirror
It is that jaw dropped gasp for air
After the rope breaks
It is smiling at the neck bruises
It is being thankful for ******* up
Again
And now it is forced breathes of air
Visible in the cold
It is you smiling
Carefully wiping the wet from your eyes
The weight is building
White wet and heavy
But thanks to you
The bough is not breaking
It is slowly shedding
You collect it
To make a man
You make me
I ask you not to break branches from the bough
To give my man arms
I am afraid of the collapse
Maybe I can’t hold you the way I want to
But you have fixed me so much already
You have fixed me so much already
Flakes fill your lashes again
I laugh at how cute you are
When you fight to let them stay
The slow flutter
The pursed smile
I wonder about you
And am thankful at how much you have done
To fix me
Apr 16, 2012
Apr 16, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
You hate that I wear your shirts
Specifically the ones that you got from being in the marines
Its just I don't know you
I never really did
So I wear your shirts because you've worn them
And I was hoping that the fibers would tell me who you were
The woven strands would tell me about your personality
The dyes would tell me about your past
A history written in cloth
The folded crisped sleeves
Telling me about what happened in the past ten years of not talking to each other
You see I **** at talking about what I'm feeling
The only proper way I can is spilling it through the tip of a pen
Or pouring it into a keyboard
I'm slowly reminded that your shirts don't take on a condescending tone
Telling me that I'm just a kid
Part of me was hoping that
Some kind of weird information transfer would happen
Your shirt and I would swap information
So the next time you put it on
(If I hadn't taken it with me)
Everything I've been through would swap into your head and be processed
And you'd stop calling me a little kid and you'd realize that
I **** at showing emotions and that you aren't a brother to me
You're a stranger
And you left
When you did I had to grow up because you were the first to go
Ten years ago you left and I don't hold anything against you because I don't know you
And my earlier memories are always swirling eddies
A fogged shower mirror that I can never make out
You left and when you did you left a child behind
Someone who still had chimed belled laughter
Will o the wisps smiles
Someone who treaded on pearl ingrained feet
But those pearls began to sink in and cut
Only to become blood rubies
Unforgivingly beautiful
And seductively painful
I walked back into your life on those ruby kissed feet
I stood a little taller
My shoulders a little broader
My face a bit more graced with age
Hi
I'm your slightly older younger sister
How have you faired these past ten years?
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
Wherever I maybe,
in the front porch, in my back garden,
reading a book,or for a walk,
on beige soft powdered sands,
picking pebbles on the beach,
as crushed corals brush my feet,
I shall remember you!
Gazing with my caramel eyes
in the vast blue serene seas,
I shall think of you!
a soft sweet whisper,
in the wafting wind breeze,
a dew drop in silent streams.
Wherever you maybe!
reading the newspaper,
scenting the morning aroma
Of fresh coffee beans
gardening,planting tomato seeds,
Or lyin'in the balcony of dreams,
You shall remember me!
a playful wild white daisy,
sleepin'on a hammock,
of crisped auburn leaves.
In your absence,I shall call your name!
In my distance,you'd yearn,for my touch !
In Seperate lands,We loose each other,
Yet lives the memory,of when we hugged,
Of when we kissed the richest soil,
Of when we ****** the ripest fruit,
Long lives the memory, Of when we Loved.
(To the man in my dreams)
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 11:59 PM UTC
You would cry like there was no end,
tears dipping in the broken smile
until they clung on the very outline.
We were sat in the morning shade,
sketching me with your lead
in hand; you see me. I’m empty.
Across the field the thickets were empty,
the crisped, golden summer would end
as though the teeming life were mislead.
The sun would fade like your smile,
then only a glimpse would escape the shade
and stay with me as a furtive outline,
inescapable in nightmares. This outline
leaves my bed covers breathless and empty,
waiting for your hand to guide. You lead.
I question whether this will end:
When will you stop taunting me with a smile
unable to slide, sketch and shade?
I’d try to broach the shadow of the shade,
yet my eye cannot catch you. Just an outline
of that torn heart is left in the smile
leaving the space more than empty
until I decide to have it end
by picking up the scattered bits of lead.
Across the golden fields I would lead,
looking back onto the folds of the shade.
The tall grass would make my gaze end,
leaving our tree grazing over the outline.
The field’s thickets were undoubtedly empty.
I head on home. I can still see the smile.
In our child I can see your smile,
as it was before you were misguidedly lead
and left me here feeling alone, empty.
I see on the walls how you used to shade,
how darkness clung to the drawing’s outline.
There I see that you knew light would end.
You always seem to end with the same smile.
I am the outline that you embrace with shades
until the skin is lead. You left me empty.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 8:22 AM UTC
To write with tongue in pen,
Saliva dripping ink.
The heady-remembered sensation
Of flavors long forgotten.
Sifted with fingers floured,
Arms limp from kneading
To have them
Penned to perfect succulency.
Until they are coined to smooth and creamy texture.
The rich-written smell of impatient waiting
For oven-crisped words, over-penned with
Timer-gone-slow.
The salt and pepper of a final read-through
Always spelling disaster to our over-spiced and cooled,
Now cookie-cut words.
The souffle sinking deep in the pan of it's paper-page dish.
Till loving eyes scoop up that first tender-tasting bite,
Till the sound of a thought drifts over two lips
With a satisfied sigh.
Our long-awaited, frustrated, penful recital:
Experimental, new-dished-out, tempting
A-rivals.
Bellies full, read-through finished, enough of the sauce.
We clear the dishes with the simple act
Of turning over the cloth,
To the next blank page.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
Imposing structure,
inanimate and cold,
edges crisped with set tools.
Do you want to be here?
Or do you simply do as you’re told?
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
He loses grip of reality.
Loses morality.
Gets bitter taste of insanity.
No ability to bring himself back together, in time.
In his head, he hears beautiful chimes.
The clock inside his chest ticks on every step that he takes.
Right foot in front of the left...
dragging himself slowly back home.
Pondering and viciously swears at the wind.
Making up excuses for the things that he did.
Deep down beneath the skin, he is dying from within.
Stupefied from all the grievance and regrets.
Suddenly,his eyes go backward from shock and distress
His feet begin to soften.
Legs begin shaking.
No stableness.
Crisped nails and pruned at the fingertips. .
His hair converts to grey.
I called out for him stay.
But it was too late
The man is turning liquescent before my eyes.
He no longer can hear my cries.
Hardly recognizable by the disfigurement of his face.
I am amazed.
He gets down on both knees.
Dissolving in earth’s soil.
His heart then recoils…
I woke up and I screamed.
It was not just a dream.
Daddy has left me.
Cold heartedly.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC