"dabbed" poems
I pried out my own skin
wide open
with needles dipped
in cheap india ink; I dabbed
at the black mixed with red
staining my fingers.
Do I do this for the pain,
or to get the poison trickling in
to my skin, to my veins?
A symbol, an alphabet.
Vast meanings that I tried to bestow
upon them hours later
really means nothing at all.
There's the cause and the effect,
which really goes both ways.
The pain for the gain
of the blurred out ink under my skin,
and the gain for the pain
of the sharpness prickling
my ankles, both legs
bare the stain of alcohol tinged
nights.
The skin beneath my eyelids
a darkened haze;
but the tattoo still burns
needle-sharp against it all.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
Lightning Strikes 323 Norwegian Reindeer
Hunters made the discovery, stealth and *****
dabbed anoraks all for nothing not to mention
a critical downwind approach and camo blend
that rendered Frode and Jørgen or Ove and Anders
invisible against rock and lichen and cloudberry
but offered little protection against thoughts sublime.
Ove, perhaps, cursing God for poor sportsmanship,
the divine equivalent of dynamiting fish, while Anders
gave silent thanks to fortune, a freezer full of steaks.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
That little boy we both know, his nose dabbed
with whipped cream, smiling ice cream lips,
chin speckled with sprinkles like his freckles.
everything that feeling is, is you.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 12:27 PM UTC
i don't know what my father sounds like when he laughs,
laughs where his sides are splitting and tears are in his eyes.
i only know his grin, his slight chuckle.
honestly, i hardly remember his voice;
something about a southern drawl
gently dabbed on syllables
spit out between the touch of nicotine, wrapped
in paper, to his lips.
i know the clothes that i wear mimic
his choice in clothes, somehow.
i know he will not walk me down the aisle,
and this is my decision.
this is my decision, and it will break my heart.
it will break my heart only
because it will break his,
like genetics somehow link emotion
across generations.
i cannot let him run my life,
like pretending to own a car that
isn't in his name;
borrowed from the person who
washes it gently, details the inside,
maintains its running parts.
turning children into property,
it's like trying to take a house that
you used to live in, years and years ago,
but forgot you had the keys to.
you test the locks, and when the door welcomes you
in for the first steps across a threshold
you call it "home" again.
you forget that there is a family on the couches.
a mother cleaning the kitchen.
a brother fixing the shudders.
the house has moved on,
but cannot bear to close its door to you.
this is our relationship.
this is our dynamic.
it has taught me that it hurts to tell him no.
it is expected for him to not care what hurts.
it has taught me how to run from guilt and shame,
destroying past and future in fits of
self-destructive rage,
just to forget the things i've done
or are happening to me.
it's taught me how it feels for a heart to break
from forgetting pieces of someone it loves.
but this hasn't taught me how to fix it,
and i don't think he knows how to, either.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
A sudden evening rain over the rice fields,
memories wake up from deep sleep
of long years, take a walk once again
along the narrow ridge parting green fields
on a rain soaked evening of yore.
She, a jaunty young woman had changed
the quiet world of a village boy
with big curious eyes, just in few minutes.
his innocence, vanished a yearning
for something unknown until then,
started its torment
love, dabbed its fragrance
on his being with its slight of hand,
a spell cast over him made his head spin
like he drank heady wine, how strange!
Under her spread umbrella he came
by chance, only once in his life
walked with her till the door
on his way to the temple of Krishna
for the evening worship,
walking along the zig zag, slippery path
had he slipped a bath in slush was assured.
When the rains came unannounced,
rushing ,with her anklets clanging
frogs spiritedly croaking,
all this mingling with
the orchestra of myriad insects,
she came as if from nowhere,
from a wild growth of banana plants
on one side, down to his path.
She smiled at him as if she knew him well
a lush young woman, who took him by his hand,
brought him closer to the protective
wrap of her sari, that smelled lemons and oranges,
that fragrance remains sweet in memory,
was it jasmine scent from her long black tresses,
that made him feel that the world has suddenly
become, a place, full of luminance,
has he quickly grown up to her age?
She didn't ask him questions,
called his pet name surprising him
about that knowledge of her;
that made him think that
she was someone so close once,
but forgot as he grew up.
Reaching in front of the temple,
she gave just a wistful look,
and vanished from his life for ever.
Not even aware that she just gave,
the best fragrant moments
for a boy on the first step to adulthood,
he stood looking her go on her way.
When he look back and remember,
this delusion, he realizes, stays with him:
"I am under your umbrella ever since"
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
The journey began under a cloudy sky with rain hovering over the horizon. – Going back. – The painter saw the vision. Was it real? Or Was it just the shadow of the storm? The painter saw the canvass. Forms danced before his eyes. Thunder clapped in the distance. The brush moved to the rhythm of the storm that only the painter heard. A lifeline from the clouds like an umbilical cord. – Going back. – The painter focused again. The clouds thickened, blackening against the horizon in anticipation. – Going back. – The painter saw himself. He’d stopped painting. Now going back. – Going back. – The painter wondered. The painter asked himself. The painter took a brush, squeezed paint on the palette; color after color – a new variety. – Going back. – The unknown. A new beginning. – Going back. – The white of the canvass and the blackening sky. The storm. Pure color. Mixing color as the storm moved closer. A clap of thunder. The painter looked at the sky. The painter dabbed the brush onto the palette. Rain began. The brush danced to a rhythm. Thunder claps. Sweeping across the sky; sweeping across the canvass. – Going back. – The painter looked at his painting. The painter looked at the sky. The painter was happy. – Going back.
8/13/19
www.bruclevine.com
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07485W4Q1
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC
I saw her at the diner
She caught my eye right from the start
It wasn't too long after
That this woman caught my heart
She didn't fit in with the people
Drinking coffee , eating up
She was drinking with her pinkie out
As she held her coffee cup
She's was high class in a low class world
That was plain as plain could be
I wanted to be in her world
And I wanted her with me
She was queen of somewhere
I don't know, and I wanted to be king
She was high class in a low class world
And I wanted to be king
She had her napkin tucked
Just so, you know
Not all scrunched up in a ***
And she only dabbed the corners
Like an Angel sent from God
She was crisp and pressed and perfect
Not a hair was out of place
And the light just made her eyes shine
She had such a lovely face
She's was high class in a low class world
That was plain as plain could be
I wanted to be in her world
And I wanted her with me
She was queen of somewhere
I don't know, and I wanted to be king
She was high class in a low class world
And I wanted to be king
She was sitting in our diner
although she belonged far uptown
Most folks here all wore ball caps
while she deserved a crown
When she spoke, my heart just trembled
Her voice was breathy, like a wisp
And she spoke like she was Royal
So cool and cut and crisp
She's was high class in a low class world
That was plain as plain could be
I wanted to be in her world
And I wanted her with me
She was queen of somewhere
I don't know, and I wanted to be king
She was high class in a low class world
And I wanted to be king
She was someone from a movie
Full of mystery, intrigue
And I knew from looking at her
She was way out of my league
I wouldn't know just where to start
She was gold and I was tin
She was High class in my low class world
And I surely wanted in
I stood there in the kitchen
Washing dishes in the sink
And I knew I'd go home lonely
What else was there for to think?
She's was high class in a low class world
That was plain as plain could be
I wanted to be in her world
And I wanted her with me
She was queen of somewhere
I don't know, and I wanted to be king
She was high class in a low class world
And I wanted to be king
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
In a rained-out world
painted in shadow
smeared by waters
and bus stop-
undeterred,
her red umbrella
burns crimson through
desolate darkness
like random library
selfies of beauty
buried in paper skin,
shielded by her
red umbrella
In an overcast world
stencilled in sorrow
her umbrella-
so red, so shiny-
reaches out to me,
taking all my woes
and weary waters away
when I hear her say-
"Hey, write me a poem
about a red umbrella"
In a sunny world
etched in joyance
dabbed in frappé-
my four-wheel red umbrella
drives us from
country to café,
where perfectly good
grand pianos meet
symphonic chaos,
amicably amplified as we mingle
under our red umbrella
~
NM
09/20/16
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
I hate the type of goodbyes
where nothing is said
just things are forgotten
like the smell of my perfume dabbed slightly on my collarbone
applied softly, wishing you would notice
or how you ran your fingers down my neck
giving me goosebumps every time I inhaled the sweet aroma of rain lingering outside
and now
the beautiful words that flowed dangerously fast out of our mouths
are no longer spoken
you gracefully faded from my life
like how foggy breath fades in the winter
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
February a baleful month
dabbed with deep darkness,
the calendar's mortuary
nature's own Gulag.
Its window opens upon
possible impossibilities
none of which yield joy.
Crows plummet murderously
from the heavens
vainly trying to flee
into spring but merely splat.
Roads are crushed
beneath a carpet of ****
Frosted blimps soar naked.
Boots refuse to stay tied.
Your parent's nightmares
freeze your sweaty sleep.
Snow falls like dead swans.
Eclairs crystallize into
lumps too solid to enjoy.
A month of undeserved
solitary confinement
that trembles the soul.
A deep achromatic terror
keening coldness
in a huge white wail
penetrating the ears
until march stops
the madness and hope
blossoms as crocuses,
apricity achieved,
small phosphorescent
dots of desire.
~mce
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
Modest beauties
whose creamily dabbed
orange, pink
and
yellow blossoms
despite tender care
rendered
died this spring
a speckled lizard
lurks inside
their empty talavera ***
next to the cheap blue
sun umbrella
that blows over
with every breeze.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
i remember someone on this site a long time ago.
they would write unrelenting epic poems that
always made my fingertips tingle in that way
they do when you're surprised art made you
feel something again, you know?
i arrive back here tonight because i've been
doing a whole lotta feeling and far too little art
and i've stopped letting it surprise me.
i keep oversharing when people ask, "how are you?"
i keep wondering who i'm supposed to be at this point on this long path of becoming. i don't know, i've never liked the phrasing but it resounds so cleverly from forebrain to nervous system it's uncanny and unavoidable and ineffable. who am i am i am i am i am i ...
i want to make a map,
a cartography of memory,
charting the granite and
soil, marrow and moss,
river foam, abusers,
flower gardens, wild blackberries --
the purple dabbed away from those
soft parts that blackberries might stain
to wash deep berry blood off
in the public pool bathroom
where she first made you a novelty
to scrape darker
from under his fingernails
with bark from the tree she
made you hide behind
the same park you grew up in
a spot you always caught the sunset
a spot he caught you and the sun seemed always then to set
still haven't gone back
it's time to make a map
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
the moonlight caressed her cheeks
as she took a long drag from that cigarette
between those
long, thin fingers.
cotton *******
***** socks,
skinned knees.
shimming along with the rich sounds
of guitar and French tongue.
soft coffee bean coloured waves in her hair
bounced along with the rest of her body.
warm vanilla perfume,
dabbed behind her ears.
i wanted to be behind her ears.
i wanted my lips pressed up against there.
i wanted to line her shelf-like collarbones
with strawberries
from my teeth.
i did not just long to taste her,
i wanted to savor her.
she's the kind of woman with the scent
you'd remember forever.
you could write an entire novel about
the slight curvature of her spine,
and the way it would mold into the
pit of your stomach perfectly.
she's a 'once in a blue moon'
but with the warmth of the august sun.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
She left traces of herself
in the air.
The oil she dabbed on her wrists
smelt of wind through trees.
And sometimes when I inhale,
I can breathe her back in
until I can’t hold it anymore
and let her go.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
all her nails, freshly painted,
the smoothed shaved legs,
seasonally and saintly nick free,
the eyeliner,
A+ student penciled in,
eye shade applied with lightest of touch sensual,
threaded eyebrows,
curvaceously straight,
streaks of red,
the appliqué upon her head,
parfume strategically dabbed in spots near where any
body's lips might invade,
*and yet,
not one primped place upon her
was safe!*
all turned awry,
when knocked I
upon bedroom door,
bursting to read a poem freshly made,
the oven's writing warmth,
still faint discernible,
giving off the aroma of heated ink,
upon a skin-smooth page,
a bakery smell irresistible
presented her with my best,
a man's rawest essence
refined, honed, then, honored, favored by her
she, overcome!
weeping pleasure at the pleasuring
of my words so gentling,
all by my soft speaking tongue applied,
that engendered this response
she,
in a slow pouring, half turning,
presented me with an act of counter-balancing,
no embrace, no equality of caressing,
nonetheless,
a weighty visible estimation of
her physical esteem and appreciation
presented me a bill for repair,
a body's bodyshop estimate,
undoing the undoing damage done,
by my careless, thoughtless,
ecstatic reading of
only love poetry
she added a weary, seasonal, lyrical
claus(e) of some folk familiarity,
by way of apology
"that's what you get for loving me"
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
Sipping from the glass,like a fine wine,
The aroma of your body, simply divine,
Full blooded Italian, dripping down my face,
Dabbed with silken cloth, delicate in taste,
Conversation ends, passion no longer there,
Hunger replaced the lust, quiet as you stare,
The pallor of your skin, an array of grey's and blue,
Only thirty minutes pass, since I devoured you.
I watch your body age, as bones depart your skin,
Your blackened heart remains, a reminder of your sin,
A lady of pleasure, turned her back upon the light,
Into the arms of Nosferatu, as I stalked you through the night.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
In the process of ridding my mustache of white
To pluck as many and bring black to sight
I had dug too many holes on that stretch
To present the mirror with a perfect wretch!
My missus smiled under her frown
Said, ‘you look the funniest man in town,
You could have dyed the hairs brown
And not made yourself an awful clown!
Fretting more by her pinching poke
Told her ‘it’s no time for a joke,
Help me clean up the mess a bit,
So I don’t become a laughing stock on the street’!
She quickly came up with a plan
A clever woman, she did it with élan
She dabbed her eyeliner on the mess
To restore me a presentable face!
But the story here didn’t come to a close
It yielded love’s another sweet disguise
Whole day I smelled her eyes in my nose
A strand of my mustache she bore in her eyes!
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC
When our eyes met first,
spring, my comely maiden
was coy, wouldn't raise her eyes,
to look at my face, i melted
in the caresses of her tender love
Look at her, adorned every inch,
of her supple body with new leaves,
gold hue of yellow flower bunches,
that dazzle me , a captive of cuddly winter
for long and make me swoon with love for her.
When wind, her messenger met me with promises,
I was thrilled, my eyes longed to see her face.
She has taken me to a world,
very peaceful and joyous,
she made the birds sing for me,
from the low branches of trees,
dabbed color softly here and there,
new leaves tell me stories I never heard.
Taking her hand, I walk through the paths
that look new after hiding so long in ice.
Don't leave me spring my beloved,
I dream you every night
amorous dreams you induced.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
The robin’s wings flapped up and down as sun’s first light lay on her crown.
Flying, gently flying.
The stars shined high up in the sky, a glowing comet floated by.
Flying, gently flying,
The child laughed as his kite flew, he ran through grass all dabbed with dew.
Flying, gently flying.
The dandelion felt a draft of crisp, clean air support its shaft.
Flying, gently flying.
From way down low to far up high, from dew-dabbed grass to deep blue sky.
Are gifts that guide us, everywhere, from flying birds to crisp, clean air.
And these are those that earth is drowned, that surely make the world go round.
The place where everything is always, flying, gently flying.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
*On the far horizon of my mind, suddenly it appears
on the black and white wings of silence
more as a sweep of colors, mixed and dabbed
to create a rhapsody, resonance, unintentional,
nothing other than cajoling out a feeling, so tender
vaguely in the making in my psyche.
the seeds are mysteriously sown, so deep
from a sight, a sound, a feeling or an emotion that touched,
this heart is a lyre; love, longing, desire or separation
makes me weak, strongly feel about,weep my heart out or yell
heart yearns to sing on every experience, for which I owe
to this world, some times green with pristine life
often dry like falling leaves, making everything including future look ****
I am the canvas, experience, heart break felt, the poem is all about me,
what you fill and drink is the cup full of tears, here see my blood-
copiously flowing from the wound, inflicted by my merciless life.*
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
Ought we to go in there?
Helen asked
as you both stood outside
the bombed out factory
off Rockingham Street
sure we should
you said
but it’s got
STAY OUT signs
on the big doors
she said
you looked at her
with her thick lens glasses
and her hair tied in plaits
nibbling her finger in anxiety
come on in
you said
nothing will happen to you
while you’re with me
she didn’t look convinced
what if someone sees us?
she asked
no one cares around here
kids are always going
on bombsites
you said
she looked around
her eyes seemingly larger
than they were
are you sure?
she said
yes now come on
and you took
her small hand
and pulled her through
a small opening
in the side
where other kids
had made an entrance
she a pulled face
on the other side
of the gate
and rubbed her arm
where a line of blood showed
look
she said
I’ve scratched myself
you dabbed at it
with a grey handkerchief
and spittle and she watched
as you cleared up
the line of blood
will it be all right?
yes
you said
it’ll be fine
and you walked on
across the yard
and into the bombed out factory by
a door hanging
on its hinges
and into the dark interior
she stood by the entrance inside
and took in the semi darkness
it’s frightening
she said
no one is here
you said
how do you know?
she asked
it’s too quiet
you said
she leaned closer to you
and grabbed your arm
what was that?
she whispered
a rat probably
what? she said
a rat
you said
let’s go out
she said
nothing will hurt you
while I’m here
and you patted
the toy gun
in the belt
of your jeans
she looked at you
then out
into the semi darkness
you walked in
and up the stone stairs
by a wall
and she followed
her breathing
becoming louder
as you walked up
once at the top
and along a landing
you came to a small office
where the door was missing
and there was a hole
in the roof where a bomb
had blown it off
as well as other parts
of the building
you stood
looking around
the room
where rain had rotted
what furniture remained
and on the floor
were books soaked
and rotting
Helen said
can we go now?
you looked up
through the hole
in the roof
and there
was the afternoon sun
and a white cloud
moving slowly across
a blue sky
and she moved
next to you
and kissed your cheek
but you didn’t know why.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
I knew her
Looked like she'd dabbed blush on
Her eye sockets instead of
Her cheeks
And her hair was kinda dark, kinda stringy
She hadn't seen the sun since winter,
At least
But, never thought I'd see her lips
Go bluer than her eyes, but hey
Guess I coulda closed mine
Kinda like her folks did, long ago
First time she begged 'em to,
(ma, don't peek!)
Like it was some kinda surprise
A magic trick, more like
Vanishing act
That left the whole crowd
(all seven lanes of traffic)
Gasping, guessing,
Was she real?
Was she ever here at all?
Well, I was her
I think
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:25 AM UTC
Dabbed in green and purple watercolor feelings
of the Tallahassee summer we’re living in.
Speckled with moods and lighting,
missing the components of cheap desire
brought on by a mixed tape and
deep red wine that I’ve never actually tasted.
Why write you a love letter when I can love myself?
Or when I can write about the uncertainty of love?
Why write a love letter that you’ll read,
but not understand?
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
The robin’s wings flapped up and down as sun’s first light lay on her crown.
Flying, gently flying.
The stars shined high up in the sky, a glowing comet floated by.
Flying, gently flying,
The child laughed as his kite flew, he ran through grass all dabbed with dew.
Flying, gently flying.
The dandelion felt a draft of crisp, clean air support its shaft.
Flying, gently flying.
From way down low to far up high, from dew-dabbed grass to deep blue sky.
Are gifts that guide us, everywhere, from flying birds to crisp, clean air.
And these are those that earth is drowned, that surely make the world go round.
The place where everything is always, flying, gently flying.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC