"curtained" poems
I used to step on the solid ground
The grey asphalt with li'l pebbles in black in it
I used to walk with cemented pavement
Where no one hinders me to enjoy the tack I'm in.
You led me to the boat
And together, we left the crowd
My knees are shaking, as if I'm freezing
You guided me to enter that narrow boat
And I had nothing but myself to bring
For it may sink with tons of extra things.
We started sailing
The curtained sky was the scene
With lil stars painted on it
And the depth of the ocean was present
It bounces the crescent up there.
I felt the wind brushed my hair
He sounds so mad with the clouds supporting him
My feet trembles with fear as my faith does.
You are with me, oh Jesus
And I asked you if you care
For I may fall from where we are
And you may not see it and forget I was there at all.
Words come from your mouth
And the wind listened with your sweet voice
You brought peace and calmed my raging seas.
I trust no one but You
Even if I don't know how far but I'm ready though
Oh held my hands indeed,
Let my grip be frozen upon your hands.
I'll sit and take a look at the vistas
And move the boat as we sail
You'll teach me how to act
And wherever we'll go, You are with me.
(6/4/2014 @xirlleelang)
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
I’ll endeavour to look brightly now.
Knees bouncing and brittle,
No ginger treading in the endless streets.
These footsteps clink like charms
Through all of the peaceful, curtained slumbers.
And I sing, you see,
To myself, and only me.
I sing my sorrow like an exorcism
And it leaves.
I am free, I am here now.
My shadow is so joyfully invisible,
But I am here.
Aren’t I?
I promise I am here.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
There is a forbidden pleasure in the poet's art
it's like having an illicit ****** liaison, is it not?
now it can be told, that's the way one felt
enticing while evasive, was her two way dance.
In the secret society meeting last full moon night
for the first time I came face to face
with the enigmatic girl, rumored to be the mistress
of the poet I admire, for his skills of allusion and veiled speech
she was so young and somnambulistic in appearance
her lips were so thin, the only remarkable thing
still in memory those pale lips remain,
how helpless we are in a world, curtained off
to keep our secrets in rooms of green darkness!
The poet was absent, but he was very much present by that,
as her shame intrudes when she starts conversations.I found him there.
The words whispered from her lips were not heard, however one tried
none listened to it, I bet, a poet's mistress is as curious
as an object of art, stolen from its rightful place, I suppose
When the boat returned to the island to take us back
we were the only passengers left, at last, how strange!
In turgid waters a fallen full moon like a snake swam
I was looking at its wriggle, creating a tragic geometry
that reminded me her thin lips, she sat next to me, motionless
her soft breathing, was rhythmic poetry I kept imagining,
till we parted exchanging a faint smile. her's was florescent.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
~
Of light at play…day’s end, to cease
Now mirrored of a rippled sea
Casting long in shadowed dreams
A drifting silhouette…at peace
Sail on, sail on,
currents feed this destined course
Arcs, spun gold…on dance card wings
Lemon dust, the sifted sound
Framed of flowing tangerine
Silence sings…as truth is found
Sail on, sail on,
captured breezes…quiet source
Abstract waves…in curtained sweep
Drape this ocean’s fantasy
Melodic so the depth to breathe
Champagne tints the tapestry
Sail on, sail on,
horizon’s beckoned rendezvous
Citrine jeweled on zephyr’s flight
Calmly cools in twilight feel
Motions quell the rhythm’d night
Beliefs this sun shall soon conceal
Sail on, sail on,
as daylight disappears from view
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is’t to such an end
That I praise thy rareness!
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary—
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.
Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning.
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone
Love remains for shining.
Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares, and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow.
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.
Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing.
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.
And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double—
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.
And this dog was satisfied
If a pale thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping—
Which he pushed his nose within,
After—platforming his chin
On the palm left open.
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No map traces the street
Where those two sleepers are.
We have lost track of it.
They lie as if under water
In a blue, unchanging light,
The French window ajar
Curtained with yellow lace.
Through the narrow crack
Odors of wet earth rise.
The snail leaves a silver track;
Dark thickets hedge the house.
We take a backward look.
Among petals pale as death
And leaves steadfast in shape
They sleep on, mouth to mouth.
A white mist is going up.
The small green nostrils breathe,
And they turn in their sleep.
Ousted from that warm bed
We are a dream they dream.
Their eyelids keep up the shade.
No harm can come to them.
We cast our skins and slide
Into another time.
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Sleeping Beauty never slept
she waited for those men.
High up in her dusky tower
she would sit for years on end.
Cigarette butts littered the floor
around her curtained bed,
and as always a Prince Charming would come,
find her sleeping, dead,
her lips painted red.
Seduction and abduction
no one saw them again.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
They'll find me hanging upside-down.
Ankles bruised by the ropes
From which you strung me up for field dressing.
Lacerations where you’d cut my throat,
Bled me dry, spilt my guts,
And broke past my ribs, to uproot my heart.
Can they carbon date the remains of my reputation?
Trace the ****** back to your mouth?
Will they know the cause of death to be the
Malignant rumors you couldn’t help but spew?
Your false words: the final nail in my coffin.
Do you regret ever letting them past your lips?
Slowly, my reputation crippled by the aggressive
Cancer that was your embellished utterance.
And it didn’t bother you in the slightest.
You marveled at the sight of my struggle.
And amazing how these things seem to spread.
One caustic, contagious, breath from you was all it took.
Though the slanderous virus wouldn't make it 'til morning;
Addicts to their fix; gossips, crave your empty words.
Like ******* the rush is intense but brief.
Interest fleeting, they move on.
Off to the next peddler.
For all these inconveniences, I thank you.
Thank you for lifting the masks that curtained your distorted self.
How blind I must have been not to see it outright.
Another leech, feeding on slighted words.
And to think; all it costed you to buy in
Was me...
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:10 AM UTC
You noticed, when you last
saw Betty the evening she
was dying, in the curtained
off area of the ward, that she
was wearing around her neck,
the wooden rosary you had
given her some months before.
Her husband had telephoned
you and said she was dying and
she wanted to see you. But when
you arrived she was already on
her way out, her eyes closed,
the death rattle taking hold,
her husband and her children
about her bed. The rosary, a
brown wooden cross with a
metallic Christ, was still there,
the Christ lying where her night
gown covered ******* slowly
rose and fell. When you’d seen
her some months back, in the
high street, she said she would
learn the prayers of the rosary,
and how grateful she was to you
for the gift, and she fingered it
there and then, her thumb and
finger rubbing over the Christ.
You’d first met her a year or so
before as she sketched the large
gardens you visited as a group.
Her hand guiding the pencil as
the image was translated onto
the sketch pad, her eyes scanning
what it was she wanted to capture
in all its beauty. I like capturing
churches, she had said, watercolours
and pencil or charcoal as my aids.
You remembered words that evening
as she lay there dying from cancer,
the curtained area dim and silent
except for the rattling breath, just Betty
and the rosary in the end, and your
deep love and the unwanted death.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 9:46 AM UTC
the moon chased me through cities
growing more as days go by
I could not escape its gaze
through foggy curtained windows
I always thought I was made for
the night but as it turned out
the moon burns in me more
than the sun ever could
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 3:02 AM UTC
Sight of mine dulled to nothing but red.
My aching fingers bleeding from the splayed out shards of glass.
Time and time again, this feeling will never truly fade.
The destruction that eases into every walk that I take.
The pent up pain that does not soothe
It only comes in waves of doubt and an ache that runs deeply through my body.
I can only sit in silence and wait for it to wash over as the never-ending wrath bounces in the corners of the room.
No freedom found as I keep myself from lashing out.
My blood keeps dripping around my pooling ire.
To lock up such a monster that laps away at every upset and disappointment
There really is no telling when
The day it stops rocking back and forth the dark curtained bedroom I try to subdue it in.
The day my warm blood no longer satisfies the steely blue light that edges its existence.
And the way it bounces off of the crystal shards coated in crimson beneath my hands.
Alcohol has never truly worked for me as much as I wished it did.
What do I do when there is nothing I can do?
How will I cope when I can no longer keep from being violent?
-Kore
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 2:44 PM UTC
I lay on the ground below
the curved hips of the hills at sunset
The aperture of my eyes, my *** my eyes
and the narrow escape
of mind from body
I am ten again
and they’re calling me falsey
“Big **** No bra!”
Shoving them into the lockers
of Holy Name’s pool
My eyes? Brown. My hair? Brown
My body? Invisible, lean and “Leave me alone!
or I’ll punch your lights out!”
Meanwhile, Mom is mortified
but not cause I’m banned from the stupid pool
All I want— is to run bare to the waist
Ride my bike, maniacal
Be a bird
Swipe ice from the milk truck
Marvel over maggots in garbage
Catch toads, caterpillars, pollywogs in jars
Later, sell lemonade— get rich!
…and pretend…pretend…
till the litany of our names, hollered from the porch
till the street lights come on….
*****
“This is for something you haven’t got yet”
says the matron of the fitting room
Bones in a bathing suit?
What I haven’t got?
or they haven’t got?
will never get—
in their worlds of curtained cubicles
Cause of death:
Strangulation by measuring tape!
*****
In my plaid two-piece
sunburned shoulders, wind-wild hair
By sweat and the afternoon’s imaginings
I built a fortress of sand and stones
to endure forever….
But she— shook the blanket
at the tide’s full reach
Peppered the air with an epoch
Clouds darkening
the wind-torqued sea
Finding my flip-flops, we—
trudged off…
into the changing… changing
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
Caterpillar afternoon,
mom and daddy are home soon.
I stretch out on unkempt grass
a cat counts its claws,
I count clouds through blue glass.
A hairy man looks over my fence,
I feel my stomach tense.
A crooked finger says, “come here”
the ground grips me like a vice
Muscles ice with fear
I run towards the screen door
stumbling on a muddy marble floor.
A screen, lock between me and the lawn,
I peak through a curtained window,
and he’s gone.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
That girl doesn't inspire me a bit, let me guilelessly confess,
the one that sits right there,diametrically opposite to my roving eyes,
in her cozy corner, shielded from the view of most others,
filling the seat exactly with her perfect curvaceousness,
she has false promises written all over her many allurements
for me (who else) bored to death, at this blighted moment,
triggered by scrolling account statements when all I love to see
are words, dainty pulchritudinous words, I can munch always.
In spite of my valiant efforts,to make do with what is at hand
and appreciate the poetic bit, her body language whispers,
as my existential compulsion demands, I couldn't move any further.
I do my best, try to caress her gently with my brooding eyes,
trying hard not to look duplicitous, but my eyes, curtained off
with boredom and drooping, easily lose focus, seeing this,
her eyes pop out,yet my arrows that lost verve hit sometimes!
Now, with enthusiasm renewed,she gives it a try,but repeatedly fail,
every shot she returns is a blank, such a cruel curse of cupid!
She is an impostor, tamed sheep cross dressed as a wanton she wolf,
the easy chemical repulsion, lectures to me on the alchemy of affinity,
but how can I complain, it's not a clause in her letter of appointment.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
SHY one, Shy one,
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
pensively apart.
She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.
With catries in the candles,
And lights the curtained room,
Shy in the doorway
And shy in the gloom;
And shy as a rabbit,
Helpful and shy.
To an isle in the water
With her would I fly.
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She was an appetizing,
poetic proposition,
right from the opening line.
No way to keep
that veiled suggestion,
curtained off from
my window of attention.
Then I decided---
in slow time
ate that sensual creation
in total self- absorption.
Couldn't help speeding up when
the crescendo of culmination began.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
He was a mid life crisis
Wrapped in black velvet:
A curtained tunnel
Of scarcity
the drive to create it.
I was a placeholder
A magazine while you wait
Your diploma comes in the mail
Marketing copy in Latin.
The only thing you fear
Is the weight of your own sound
Resounding:
An invisible fist
Beating a drum,
The one your rib cage locks away.
Soundless.
I use my pennies to buy experiences
Like your smile
The smell of your skin
Fresh and real
For those I steal
Lie
And cheat
A drug to beat
Another drug
To beat the need for drugs.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and lang'rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise—
Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday—or holinight
Of fragrant-curtained love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through today,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
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Goodnight anthropocentrism—
Mitochondria swim in your stardust
But Contraverse awakens on the
Frontiers of the Valerian Kingdom
At the gnarled staff of the Oil Sage
Taking root between the Earth’s furrows
Springing forth fountains of sweetest Nard
The Jewel of Jatamansi emerges glistening green
In it the eye of the beholder finds the
Seeds of a once forbidden dream
Germinating in the juices of this Gem
Out of it the silent roar of a thousand fields pressing
Aromatic oceans through bursting buds
Of Lavender pagodas rapturously trumpeting forth
Framed by stacks of soft sweet musky Sage
Broad and leathery like elephant’s ears
Curtained with a soft cascade of Orange blossom snow
The sweet kiss of Neroli on your brow
Imbibing the senses with paralyzing pungency
Tangling tendrils to heartstrings
And pulling us beneath Rosewater pools
Floating breathlessly ensconced in a dream
Primordial songs whispering wordlessly,
“Wake whenever you’re ready . . .”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
Imprisoned inside tall red brick built tenements
curtained in by cheap store bought accoutrements
and locking up the world outside within with a needle and a pin and sewing life away.
where we stitch up every day as if only cross stitching could show or say how angry that we are
and far above some half existent but quite persistent feelings that the life we live is what we get for being better than the dogs that line the streets with pockets bulging emptiness
is more or less the happiness that we were told of, when we read books in those classrooms dripping coldness from the cold lights,prefabricated by the councils to educate the poor and in this we have believed for fifty years or more.
But technograbbers took the high road
ripped the legs from under desks by which we sat
and then they spat on former teaching
teachers in the pay of local educational authorities
had no authority to intervene
and preaching texts that they had learnt by heart 'cause all the textbooks burnt far brighter in the fires in tenements
where former pupils with dilated eyes felt the cold much keener,much cleaner than the dogs upon the streets
and behind the curtained windows I weep for a yesterday when as a young child I could play outside and not wonder what the future held.
Held spellbound by the monkey man who turned the handle on his barrel ***** and put a flat cap on the ground which magically
naturally filled with pennies from the folks who had such things.
Sadness and the lack of more or less brings me nothing but the bulging emptiness
and the breaking of another spine
another book a former time
and locking in the world outside
I bide my time
and watch
the black and white
the day within the night
I'll be alright
just me and shotgun joe beside the bed
and nothing else to spoil nothing
that we never had but there are badmen in the badlands
roaming tenemental bands that would cut your throats
if you looked twice or even once at them
Like the dog down in the street I never raise my eyes to meet
anyone or any other
why bother
it's just the way it is.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
The air feels heavy in the daylight.
Morning noise falls through the cracks.
Like unwelcome guests.
I do nothing.
But breathe in. Inhale. Corrode
Heretic lungs weighed down by sighs.
Combust. Purify. In fumes of nicotine
And smoke of papal white. Aware
Each breath burning away at life.
Eyes that see no oversight.
Curtained in ******* light,
Fade out of view
The room is shun away
The world lies flourish
I have made an enemy
Out of the Day.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
I love the costume you wear
Discounted and undervalued
But I see it for its true colors
It's a method, a mood, a mystery
How after so much pain
You're still here somehow, and smiling.
I love the costume you wear
Ocean blue sadness
Veiled by the violet warmth of your acceptance
Indescribably beautiful melancholy
Like the sunrise I watched today
The night wistfully accepting the inevitable morning
Knowing that midnight's velvet comfort will once again return.
I love the costume you wear
But I wish you wouldn't hide your true colors within
Its fierce red curtained folds
Or behind those miserably memorized monologues that just don't ring true
It's like you've got stage fright but
The stage is yourself.
I love the costume you wear
But come with me
And let's dance until the pain glows like the sun and becomes beautiful
Until the moon lights your way and you are no longer afraid
Until the wind takes your hand and you can release the curtain and let go
Until you can drop the script and let your words fly like birds, of their own accord
And until you can embrace the world
With only your heart, your smile, and yourself
And dance beyond it all, freely.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies,
Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth
Of all that irked her from the hour of birth;
With stillness that is almost Paradise.
Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her,
Silence more musical than any song;
Even her very heart has ceased to stir:
Until the morning of Eternity
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be;
And when she wakes she will not think it long.
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The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,
And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly
Towards the dazzling street.
Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.
The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.
Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting
To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry,
We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow.
She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward.
We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow.
Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!--
Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . .
She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes.
Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been?
She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries.
Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,--
Paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . .
She thinks she's heard a message from one dead!
What did he tell you? Is he well and happy?
Don't lie to us--we all know what he said.
He said the one he murdered once still loves him;
He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken;
And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . .
But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,--
Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know!
That's what you get for meddling so with heaven!
Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going?
We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits.
Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry!
What have you got in an envelope, old lady?
A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye?
How do you know the medium didn't fool you?
Perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it.
Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son.
What did he have--blue eyes and golden hair?
We know your secret! what's done is done.
Look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful,
Right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry?
You don't think you will find him when you're dead?
Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,--
Look at her eyes all red!
We know you--know your name and all about you,
All you remember and think, and all you scheme for.
We tear your secret out, we leave you, go
Laughingly down the street. . . Die, if you want to!
Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!--
. . . She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body
Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her?
Was no one with her when she fell? . . .
We eddy about her, move away in silence.
We hear slow tollings of a bell.
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