"crisscross" poems
Standing on the hillside is a rustic yellow cottage,
Rusty yellow staining from the steel dust of the trains.
Passing, rushing carriages that crisscross by the hour,
The ten o clock from Frankston meets the City train detained.
Golden light of sunrise in the calm of early morning
Golden light reflected on the rusty cottage roof,
Puffing at his briar and sitting at the doorstep
Old Grandpa drinks the peacefulness whilst stroking cat aloof.
Bacon smells a-beckoning from coal range fires a-glowering
Delicious tang of coffee from my Granma’s breakfast fare,
The clattering of silver wheels as silver rails reverberate
Sings the music of the morning with not a trace of care.
Memories from yesteryear I treasure on reflection,
Memories, a little boy, recalled from times secure.
Memories of cuddles in the ***** of my Grandma
And the scent of plum tobacco giving Grandpa’s pipe allure.
Perhaps a trick of memory, perhaps my passing fancy
But I clearly recall a sign above the kitchen door,
A simple sign of welcome with a sense of real belonging
In the gentle name of “Sunrise” to warm the heart galore.
Marshalg
In memory of my dear Nan and Pop Cummings @ Mordialloc by the bay.
23 April 2013
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
My neighbour is heartbroken.
She had her heart torn into pieces by a poet,a writer, a painter and a singer.
Her silent cries are thought to be hidden through her thick walls.
But I hear them.
She spends her nights screaming and rummaging the pain silently away.
But loud enough for me.
I hear her sharp razor tickle through her skin creating a flawless crisscross pattern.
I see the blood explode from her vein running down her no longer smooth skin dripping on the tiles forming a puddle.
I hear the loud crack from her throat that shows me the tears that desperately escapes from her eyes,running down her cheeks searching for a way out.
She covers her mouth,closes her eyes and huddles, hoping she's tricking her heart to believe she's being cuddled,
But her mind and I know what's real.
Her blood's escaping vigorously,
Her hearts beating ferociously,
Her mind is wandering off into darkness tremendously.
My neighbour is heartbroken and I don't know what to do.
I cannot save her.
She believes that I am like him.
Because I am a poet.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
Petite arctic terns
navigate the sky
on epic migration
wings clocking
45,000 miles each year
it seems they know
how to go
with the flow
by thumbing a lift
on atmospheric airways
that crisscross the planet
adding thousands of
seemingly needless miles
to an already
arduous journey
flocks congregate
in open ocean
to rest and fuel up
on fish and krill
for the last push home
these tenacious birds
understand
the cliché
it's all about
the journey
they synchronize
with invisible currents
because to beat
into the wind
is a futile expenditure
they pause
in community
to re-energize and feed
on unfathomable
bounty
four ounces
of feather
and hollow bone
instinctively holds
these truths
there is much
to be learned
from an
arctic
tern.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Touch me softly
And run a feather
From over my neck to my belly
Then
Up and down
round and round
Move your hands gently
Over my boomerang
And when you can’t hold it
Anymore
Move fast and slow
Eye to eye
Until our faces glow red
and our hair is wet with sweat
Crisscross, our
legs like scissors
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
gulls cawed, so loud their calls
echoed off the cliffs behind us, a ghost flock answering,
though not shrill enough to rouse us
they flew crisscross patterns
and dove into the surf, but not one landed
on the carrion strewn across the sands
not like the vultures of my youth,
ravenous black hawks that began their devouring
at the first scent of death, or a moment before
no, these creatures merely called
to one another, a curious conversing
about the carnage below
perhaps their strange song
our dirge, as they swooped to and fro, wings
slicing currents carrying our souls
Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will never understand.
- when you first go to run your hands through her hair, her halo will slice your palm. and it will hurt like hell. she will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and leave so abruptly that she is gone almost before you even blink. the thing you will see is her at the doorway. terrified eyes, blood stained hair.
(later, she will tell you that she never realized how breakable humans could be. when she explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you begin to understand )
- ask her about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away. ask her whether or not the universe looks like a blooming garden. never ask about lucifer - she will become a soldier before your eyes.
and not, do not, donot, ask about god.
do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee mothers.
(do not infer about a war you know nothing of)
- in a science class you are taking simply for extra credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. he will explain galaxies and refer to stars as "celestial bodies," but you won't be listening. suddenly you will only be able to think of the way her mouth curls at the sides, of the way her golden skin glows, of all the puckered scars that crisscross her torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of her foot. celestial bodies are certainly on your mind but they are so much more than gas and light and heat and touch and --- oh heavens ---
when the teacher asks if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. supernova.
(at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but at other times, it is not)
- beware when you fight, it is like the world is ending. her anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire country is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightning catches the house across the street on fire. you are screaming at the top of your lungs – something about duty, something about god – and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the foundations. the weathermen talk about the storm for days. you flinch and change the channel.
(no matter how right she is, she will always let you win)
- there are times when she won't visit for months on end, and when she finally comes back to you, she is not herself. there are new scars across her chest, and she does not speak. she sits with you in her arms for hours, her nose buried in your hair, and her arms squeezed tight, so tight. she does not cry. you do not cry.
you do(not) cry.
(but you do remember the miles and miles of white scarring. you wonder if angels are as immortal and unbreakable as they think)
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 5:25 AM UTC
Close your eyes,
now imagine yourself on an island
that doesn't need make-up to be beautiful.
Imagine yourself,
walking joyfully through an exquisite flora.
Imagine you and your family
camping in a tropical rain-forest
swimming in cool hidden pools,
great mountain streams,
and magnificent waterfalls.
Imagine yourself on a canoe,
gliding atop blue lagoons.
Or, rather than an evening at a theater,
how about a romantic evening
with your love, by the beach,
with a beautiful sunset glistening
through your eyes,
while nature sings peacefully, to you.
Imagine walking through a tunnel,
that was left behind by the **** in World War II.
Imagine going on an adventurous trip,
through a mysterious archeological ruins,
with immense stone logs,
stacked crisscross to form a wall.
Imagine all of this,
and open your eyes,
and you'll find yourself
on my island - Pohnpei.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
Chocolate swirl
Flourish of vanilla
Crisscross of marble
Lemony tang
Creamy peanut butter
White washed and dipped
Strawberry poppin'
Caramel drippin'
Cherry filled
Cookie crumbling goodness
Wrapped up in a smooth delicacy
Revitalizing breath of mint
Chocolate as dark and rich
As its flavor
Some common, some unique
Tiger's eye, what's that you ask?
Peanut butter and milk chocolate melded into one
Sprinkled salt
️️Warm caramel
Tantalizing, fresh orange creme
Homemade from grandma's
Or warmly bought in a bakery on a rainy day
What a wonderful feeling!
When a flavor seeps into your tongue
Growl of stomach
As you gaze at the slice
And then you attack the tender palette of colors, flavors, smells
Your lust for fudge consuming you
As the smooth delicacies explode within your mouth.. And you know
It was worth it
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
I want to learn everything; everything comprises of everything,
be it the knowledge of the nature or the horizons of the cosmos
I want to canvas over the universe, multiverses;
to paint my reality with a brush of joy.
But, it's tough for me, because I'm dementic
If I decline it while inclining towards a book
Dyslexia obliterates my desires and hurt me badly
If I ignore all this, ADHD comes forward to poke me
with a stick of astounds and pains of eventide
If I cut down the roots of ADHD, S.A.D greets me
and enter to my dark world and enhance its darkness
I'm confused, shattered; directionless in a myopic way
Highly myopic, no direction, but I do have vision
I want to crisscross my myopia to an extent
where it diminishes.
Meningitis, shut up, you *******
Please have mercy on me, I don't deserve U at least,
But do I really need someone to have mercy on me?
I guess no, I can build my own world where
Dementia strengthens my spirits by saying,
Why just Embryology, what secrets do you want to find
Ova is not dependent on a ****** *****
it is a complete YOU.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
I stepped out,
finally, a terrestrial in Istanbul.
My leveled shoulders carried
an empty satchel of undone buckles
To let every fresh sip of raw experience
tumble inside,
my adventures impatiently plucked
from the closest branch
of a banyan tree bearing
a crisscross of endless tales.
I rescued my lungs with air,
thick with resentment while
swallowing astringent flavored symphonies
and ballads of orchestrated ruckus as
women deflated their lungs
blowing out antipathy, through high pitched whistles -
A forgotten kettle blowing off steam.
Adorned in scorn, sardonic welcoming mats lined the airport.
Women pushed at their car horns as if the dragging sound,
like a severing saw can cut through
the tenacity of the ones with innate ear plugs.
They have become obsolete traffic signals -
First, their green light diminishes - like their wages
Then, their red light is dimmed -
it stops too many people in their footsteps.
And thus the world just races past them,
And they are left only with yellow -
Telling them to slow down.
They said it was an act of love.
That their plumped crimson lips,
Glossily complimented with nails
that matched the tails,
of the so-called mile high club
was just too much to handle.
Priming for work meant neglecting their love
for the perfect shade of watermelon lipstick,
No more sweet ketchup fingertips
Showing you the emergency exits. No more,
lipstick stained glasses
of a self made woman.
These cumulating lip kissed glasses
stack up like trophies,
that sway in the heavy panting
of the ones who can’t keep up with this generation.
So the women gracefully conducted the orchestra
and through lipstick stained whistles,
They tried to drown out the dogmatic policies
And with unrelenting strife,
they passed on some advide
stop shattering our liberties
And underminining our abilities for
Endless possibilities.
Because we are the ones
Who fly high and soar
And we will always
look fabulous
while doing it.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
*some rather dark nights
seems the moon's on vacation . . .*
1.
Look, here comes courage
Dragging the moon in its teeth
While stars dapple in its tangled fleece
Go on, you!
Go and put the moon back up in the sky
Where it belongs
2.
Tenebrous nite falls on square
Yet a caged moon shines courageous slivers
Most haunting melodies
Then that dark figure appears
Trying to steal it away
With black birds flapping round him
Like a sombre halo over him
He slinks off into the welcoming shadows.
3.
Girl with long blonde plaits
sits on water-lily petal-pads
In the middle of a mild mere
Mauve moon lies tame in her still palms
But the wrong notes suddenly play out
Harmony not quite jacked up
4.
Elemental whirlpool explodes
As sceptred figures hunch in red dust
A flash of green sky
white elephants drown in shallow puddles
angels sit on the edge of blue teacups
while thoughts crisscross
and moon hops away
galaxial order pleased
*put the moon back
where it belongs
let it hang there . . .
in the sky*
S T, 20 July 2013
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
everyone has gone back to suburbia,
city streets are dangerous, if you look
at someone cross eyed, it earns you death.
don’t celebrate this madness,
mourn it in black, it has a taken
a pandemic to school me again.
this a broadcast, shout out, email me
if you know how I’m feeling and can
share what other mutualities crisscross.
Do you like Jazz? Me neither.
Flouncy bouncy dresses? Nah!
Sweats? Unnecessary, I can sweat
just by concentrating.
You like me, own soulful bluesy singers,
femme fatales, who coax and croon,
wet the spun threads of subtle emotive,
who live by light of candles votive,
I live in black, day and nighttime,
write in midnight blue, a woman who!
takes no b.s. and doesn’t ever take no
for an answer...
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 2:10 PM UTC
A string wrapped around your fingers
Threaded through my heart
Pretty patterns crisscross with my blood vessels
Paper butterflies dancing about
In my stomach of felt and fuzz
These lungs of mine expand and contract
Filled with your very own carbon dioxide
My popsicle stick bones ache
Splintered from heavy use
A doll for your entertainment
Made with love
For making love
But it isn't really love
Now is it?
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 4:40 PM UTC
Crossroads that crisscross my mind
they say, "find the right way"
but I'm stuck where they left me.
Without a notion of
North, South, East or West.
No compass
to tell me which way best.
I want to go in every direction,
wander into new wonders,
but that's not allowed.
I want to shout out loud
for someone to set me straight,
save me from choice and regret,
but I'd only strain my voice
and remain at the crossroads.
I must be in Purgatory.
So I wonder
which way to Heaven
and which way to Hell.
Not that it would matter.
As either
must be better than this limbo.
This nothingness.
It's worthless.
Meaningless,
until I take that first step.
Dust of the cobwebs.
Feel a gust of wind,
ebb and flow.
And begin.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
and now you're singing karaoke... so ha ha and Kyoto.
and this is the part where i tell you i love you?
it sounds like it's the part where i **** your dog off
and laugh; or maybe that's the part where
i say i'm scooch-peppery-ish!
tangy! mm hmm!
solid gold worth's an advert! aha,
Elvis just rolled up his sleeves!
while Shoon can-can the worthy,
sire nigh nigh the knighted made
speeches at a royal funeral that made 20 kings
abdicate, we all thought of Monaco
and Senna... lipstick Helsinki...
crisscross Albania and: Waterloo...
when Napoleon sniffed glue... oh Waterloo!
i too built Stockholm in a day, based on
the pop culture of Europe casually so.
but indeed Sean, the flowery basin of all
that's Essex, Sussex and Kent,
i.e. Scottish, show... i'm ashoored it'sh
Shcandinavian cartoon or at least halfwit Belgian
with the moustache, dumb-flicked Hercules Poirot...
authored by a nagging Agatha Christensen.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
It just happened to be when you turned 18
At the height of the war, Vietnam
The letter for you from a relative you never knew
By the name of Uncle Sam
Requesting you join him for a party
You and a few of your friends
Ooh La La here comes Paris
Island life you would live to regret
Where they turned your school boy fantasies
Into that of nightmares for men
In the confines of time you never dreamed you would find
The thoughts that now crisscross through your head
Then came the news, they picked you for a cruise
The last time you slept in your warm bed
On the very same day you packed it all away
Including what little sanity you have left
Here you were promised the tropics
There is where reality set in
Instead of the fancy sweet umbrella drink
They placed a cold gun in your hand
It came with a set of instructions
In black & white **** the yellow man
Where democracy rules, communism's for fools
As you share this for your Uncle Sam
You spent all of your time in the jungle
Battling those they told you to hate
Going to sleep at night in hopes that you might
Wake up to at least one more day
When they finally told you it was over
With fewer friends and far less of a man
You'll remember the names as they call from the graves
On the hillside of war, Vietnam
Back home to the sweet taste of freedom
Not quite the same as when you first packed your bags
Now they spit on you for what your Uncle put you through
You have to wonder what is the sense in that
The colorful world in which you once lived
Remains to this day a deep shade of gray
And all of this because you happened to get
That letter on your 18th birthday
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
i do not wish that
no silence lies between us;
there must be those silences
interlaced with our deep breaths
as we meet.
but when our silences
cease to speak
when they have
told us all they can
--in the space of a heartbeat
or the entire span of creation
when they have exhausted themselves
then,
i shall want words
i would have them fall
not gently or slowly
but in great energetic torrents
electrified with our passions
for the words that pass
between us
are not the usual cacophony;
they are music
when words
yours and mine
crisscross.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
29.05.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
The anchor has rose up from its deep weighed level pressure. It isn't as heavy,
I can hold it with one hand.
I can use it for important uses.
The anchor may have rust stains, rugged edges, bent tips, and crisscross seaweed,
but i can use it.
This anchor has been through steeps of rubble and underwater debris,
But i can use it.
Nothing can pull my anchor back to the bottom drenches.
It'll stay up, thank you very much
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history.
my hands fit
irregular-sized gloves,
life summaries,
slightly worn,
marked down
for the discount table.
my creases are
covered up
underneath a few
genesis survivors.
a "handful" of
youthful blonde hairs,
failing to depart,
as time has requested.
these blonde survivors,
refuseniks to
time's ravages,
mockery makers,
of history book writers.
yet, these cohorts few,
are in cahoots with,
wave machines,
tidal decay suppliers,
gray color,
content providers,
to the balance
of my body.
nicks and grooves,
crisscross stitches,
vanity disrepairs,
someone is
counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,
used up, only shells,
wreckage of death stars,
jails for membranes,
forgetful fabric memorizers,
crumbled fractures,
patches designed by
an unknown haute couturier,
a failed revisionist
of the original conception.
All our hands.
upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale,
arrival day of the
Halcyonian,
mythical bird,
powerful enough,
charm the winds,
calm the waves,
harbinger of
our demise.
that date,
initialized,
DVR recorded,
visible,
right there,
upon on all
our hands,
all our history.
Source coded
in a language
for which the
Rosetta stone
yet undiscovered,
but visible,
right there,
on all
our hands,
all our history.
Halcyon bird,
comes
when it comes,
though we,
always, surprised,
oblivious
to the obvious.
Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm,
and to lament loss,
coming,
to still the wind
and wave within
the heart,
repair the
deepest rent.
So these words,
caresses,
coming,
to calm and to lament,
from my hands
to yours,
asking modestly,
for acceptance,
for forgiveness,
for another's hands hold
mine, my heart.
Yet my hands wave on,
each wave, a day,
an entry in and on my handy ledger,
where recorded,
**upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history,
the what is
as well
what cannot ever be.**
------------------------------------------------------------------
* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian
(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
indifferent to unplanned pathways
destiny knows not enslaving bounds
pathways crisscross at befallen crossroads
knowing all roads lead to all roads
restlessly searching through the ache writhing within,
the voice of my soul speaks crystalline
through the hidden portal of my heart
beckoning the wounded healer within
be at home in the silent darkness of suffering
to perceive the gems of awakening light;
embrace the lessons where the wounding leads us
to bring forth a healing reincarnation,
intimately feeling the collective pulse of humanity echo
a wholeness in a deeper level our being
the only spark to rekindle a flame blown out
a soul’s assent to the labyrinth through the wound
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
The boy you love says, *I’m going to **** you.*
So you let him.
You let him take you home and
you sit in his room while
the heat from his fingertips lingers on the doorknob.
The steam from the shower
curls like smoke into the room
and he wants to swallow you whole,
so you jump right into his mouth.
It’s wet.
It’s hot.
You can’t breathe.
This is Unbearable.
But you get to be with him
—in a corner of him—
lying on his balcony.
This is what you wanted.
So these rusty bars that crisscross over his heart,
this forgotten half of an apple,
the rawness of your body—
you asked for it.
You had booked a ticket to this ****** cave—
to breathe in him, with him,
exhale him.
And now you get to taste him,
drink of him, drown in him,
die from him.
But you’re waiting for him to turn the shower off,
turn the sky on,
nick away the black and paint it blue again,
blow a few white clouds into the emptiness.
And you hear him—hands on your handle—turn it off.
But the water keeps running.
This doesn’t make sense, you say.
The water gushes down the glass pane,
wets your pain.
Your arteries pump this water.
I’m not thirsty, you say.
But the water is still running and
his chest is thunder, his mouth is granite.
There’s no lightening to light your way out,
no way to see the clock.
This never-ending minute,
this hour of forever,
the ocean that flows back up into the river.
This is all wrong, you say.
But he doesn’t hear you
because his body is covering yours,
crushing yours.
A cracked sternum,
some water in your lungs,
a little blood in your tears
—but it’s okay, because he gave it to you.
And you deserve this, you do…
to remain here in static acid forever
so you don’t forget.
The boy bit my thigh,
sharpened the left blade of my shoulder,
couldn’t remember my name
or the warmth of my blood.
But he memorized the place in the river
where my body was thrown
—a stone, some silt,
the scales of a trout.
But even with these, he’s still left
drenched in his own body.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
A crisscross breeze
nips
me
gently.
I can see the way,
clearly
they have come
for my resurrection.
Under twinkling stars,
the incense swirls,
its glow tip smoldering
into the heavens.
And here mortal,
I sing sacred songs
& spirit-drummers chant
while the ancients
ghost dance.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Chandeliers of childhood
Clink above out heads
The crystals glitter and gleam
Singing ballads about
the day we first met
But my ribcage is tattooed
with your criticisms
And my sharp tongue
has left crisscross needlework
Patterns that trace your wrists
We both dangle pearl earrings
from our eye sockets
As our daggers flicker endlessly
in our gaping mouths
I watch you
Stuff your ears with cotton *****
From the stack on desk
Collected meticulously
To block out my metallic clashes
My left hand tries to take the
cotton out of my own ears
While my right ear stubbornly
Stuffs them back in
And my dagger makes such a clamor
That my pearl earrings turn to necklaces
Patchwork lungs burning
From the effort
I hope the strands break
So perhaps a pearl or two
Can roll to your dainty toes
But the chandelier's cracking
above our crowned heads
And both of us are too busy with cotton
to climb the gleaming ladder
to repair it.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
My dearest Rocky,
You were too old.
Too old to chase after that mischief of mice.
But you were not to be halted.
And in return,
Hind legs destroyed.
Cut up and sewn together
In crisscross fashion.
Once a lazy *******
Then a lethargic moribund mutt.
(But still a *******
On your last leg, (or two) in a literal sense.
You dumb dog.
You balding, simple-minded scoundrel.
Christmas came and Christmas went.
A feast of elegance at your disposal.
Any indulgence you desired.
We bequeathed, as a last goodbye.
Brisket, frozen cream, pastries and more.
Up until the day, our eyes became sore.
One last car ride- One last roar.
One last breeze through your jowls.
Your clacking stomps and palsy-walsy howls,
Echo even now when I walk through the door.
Now silent and still, turned to ash and dust
I hope you’re herding that memory of elephants,
And leading that pride of lions,
In your infinite dream.
And remembering those who you brought joy.
But especially,
The one who carried you
Upstairs to bed
Every night.
I love you still, and always will.
Good boy, ******* good boy.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC