"crispest" poems
That sight of the scars
Painting her young wrists
Shook me with with disbelief
Yet overtook me with jealousy
I'd never be able to express pain
Like she did in her poetry
The crispest of papers
The finest of inks would falter
In front of that beautiful, mangled mess
Her smudged, blood-tinged words would author
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
I am angry in the way that
bubbles in champagne
rocket towards air.
I am pretty-
in that beige and golden way.
That heat paints my face,
Scolds my cheeks-
like an iron to the crispest collar
of a well-dressed man.
And I am virile in the hot.
Lovely reds and pinks and
eyes that catch-
LaCross nets that
will not meet your gaze
lest you see the squall
I work so hard to hide.
I am breathless with my rage,
and oh, so beautiful! Finally.
In my pain,
I am dry and fragile
brittle leaves crunching underfoot,
the salt left careless by the sea.
Nothing grows in me-
nothing grows in me.
I am dead sea
and beauty floats boastful where
love cannot swim.
For I carry this grief
in the way a river stone
bears the weight of the rushing water.
The lovely
and the ruthless.
The heinous
and the clean....
the very worst of me
is the prettiest to see...
Naked before the judges table
I have no shame.
"Such a pity", they'll say.
"Such a beautiful girl,
all that anger in such a beautiful girl."
Sahn
3/24/15
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
You're the heaviest rain to ever soak my skin,
And I'm drenched to the bone
But you're not giving in.
You're the crispest air to ever slash my wrists.
And it burns but I love you still,
Only now, with clenched fists.
You're the poorest soil to ever grow my heart,
I'm left to rot but I love you still,
Like I have from the start.
You're the most toxic man I've ever met,
And so you took too many pills
To even out your head.
You left the ones who loved you
With all this **** regret.
And the worst part is that to this day,
I haven't stopped loving you yet.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
As of yet, untitled.
“Hometime!”
The hue and cry is raised
and with it, I am gone, losing
my winding way down leafy lanes that
glitter cold and golden, soft and sapphire
in the crispest spring.
Down pen, down paper, down tools!
- the streets are much more tempting
with their silver promises made
in the emerald afternoon glow.
I huff and pant (cheeks
ruby-red) round the
rolling hills that hide
the treasures of this city…
*…(looking back, older - wiser? -
I realise that I
would give it all away.
All the coins and chests and
jewels and gold and crowns
and sceptres and stars and coronets
that you could care to mention -
surrender my kingdom
for just one more day:
One more afternoon of youth,
carelessly wasted
in the cold and golden streets
of yesterday)…*
…But that
comes later
and this
is now;
and I
am young
and
golden
in my promise.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
when i've tripped a star
whole over night
the silver flinging
of its crispest muting has
a daughter shed
of lightness
eyes its
their
teetering upon
perfectly easy winking
and her hands are so
they feel like
like when
night is so long
and hot it
stifles moving into
a pinch of stillness contained
by the exactness of my square room
struggles to retain
that lovely burning
o' 'er
splendor splitting
wings so gentle
i painful pinning
have neatly to keep
their body's wonder
to my sheets
sweat so glowing
as like the yowl
of dying day
it cleaves easily
darkness
and it rises 'pon
love after
love it
soars
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
father-watching
faraway
triggered sweet by
memory plucked
from twinge of
heart at
husband whiskers
sprinkled in
the sink
father
slow transforming
out of sight
whisker white
a-creep through
long-time
beard of boyish
blondish-brown
sprouting
scraggled out from
ear and nose
and knuckle
round
eyes a-cave
and sunken deep
in shaded-over
cavities
for inward looking
more than
out
with no more
footballs
flung
about
and no more
children yanking
on the waking hours'
daggy trousers
for weeping
over old-time
music secret
in the dark
up with the
birds
down with
the sun
midlife
rush at last
a-hush and
calm in its
surrender
done
bones exposed
of parenthood
held frail a-clung
by gristle grey of
simple habits
coffee thick
and silky
run with
milk
and crispest
crusty bread
torn up
for dipping into
hearty stock
with olives
cheese and
ham on top
a drop
of something
oaky sipped
and languished
a-crawl with
thoughts of
father own
disintegrating
boyhood memories
coddled close
and satiating
with daughter
unbeknownst
father-watching
faraway
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 7:53 AM UTC
In winter, we went.
Clandestine, beneath the crispest sky,
Armed with carrier bags and clippers
Undisturbed by passers-by.
And frosty twigs cracked underfoot,
The trees around were starved of life.
A landscape drained of colour, and you alike,
As you looked at us, but saw your wife.
We strode through greying groups of bushes
Hems caught on outstretched arms of thorns.
I struggled; how could we three seem together
Yet underneath, I knew we'd torn.
We talked of life, and things before
Our time, we talked of war.
You grappled through the crunchy, ashen leaves
To find the perfect stick to whittle.
Kicking 'round carcasses of trees once grand
Now dusty gray, worn and brittle.
And there! In clusters, what we'd sought
Had ****** the life blood from the day
And would release a drop for nought
Trapped in bursting beads so gay.
Them voluptuous, glowing knots
Crowned by pointed varnished leaves
Would shine clipped to a lady's breast
But would do instead for our wreaths.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
Why is it
That when the world
Is quiet
My thoughts are
Loudest.
There is a boy sleeping
In my bed.
I should lay with him
I want to lay with him.
But I am so restless
So full of purpose
During these dark hours
Of the day
Every word that I type
Brings with it a release
Like a breath
Of the coolest,
Crispest
Winter air
Oh how I’ve missed this feeling…
The keyboard
Calls out to me
Like an old friend
In the night.
I greet her
With open arms
And
A pounding in my
Chest
These words keep me
Going
These words are my legacy
These words are my own.
I hope that one day
You will read these words
Too
And find some
Solace in your own
Heart.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC
what if i destroy you
what if i put you between heaven
and hurting
what if i love you
what if you find me dreaming
some morning and lushly
fold me in your crispest singe
?
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 5:54 AM UTC
neatly performed life
between a girls thighs
a boy
i knew last summer
who
loved a fairy with
a piece of steel in her
nose
got
caught in the cut
of her
downy sable
and
gentle
sweep of eyes
where crispest jade
spent a rounded chip
of beautiful
pain
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 1:21 AM UTC
I write to you in my mind
on beautiful crisp white parchment
I write sacred things
disguised as daily minutiae
things of magnitude only
because of mundanity
small glimpses of the vast empty
hidden in the overgrown wastelands
milestone markers to nowhere
to a land inhabited by ephemera
daliesque in it's discrepancies
in relation to the current realities
i write mile after mile of dragging letters
a breadcrumb trail eaten by carrion birds
that grow fat on both joy and misery
i am like a plough horse, in a field
overused and crumbling, but still
i work the rows, for no one has
released me from the harness
my words are mud, on crispest snow
turned to water and frozen to rime
my words are finest gibberish
bedlamese, sublime,
vapour in a hurricane
a cry in a bottle
the salt in a tear
my words....are the ellipses
of my understanding of your life.
I write to you in my mind
and post the letters to you memory.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC