"darkle" poems
Hip hop, gonna stop
on the bright blue square.
Run, jump, fall like a lump.
on the green ground bare.
Laugh and dash, and water splash
in the sunshine sparkle.
Smile and giggle, toes they wiggle
in the black mud darkle.
Playing silly, warm and chilly
dusk is setting in.
Wandering home, all alone,
in the tub again.
Splish, splash, clean in a flash
jammies on real quick.
Bedtime story, oh the glory,
on a dreamland kick.
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
So graceful it flies with wings if silver
Few have glimpsed it we've yet to discover,
With kind gentle eyes and a horn of gold,
It's story is yet to be told.
With a gleaming white coat and 4 little hooves,
You can't catch it whenever it moves.
The twisted horn which is said to sparkle,
Never had the need to darkle
It lives where the season is always spring,
And where it can rule as king.
~The Pegasus
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
do you remember one
morning when it rained,
chrysanthemums then lined the streets
and each petal whirred to the sound of your passing?
you were too, a flower
in my hand. deep underneath the ground
you murmur, letting the twilight darkle
into twinight. it was the dawn of your becoming.
the sky’s panging brought you here.
you suddenly filled all the mouths
that waited for you, with the marine of your name.
because we were joined by haunts that revisit us
in this river of life
and that is why the unperturbed stone,
the incongruent leap of water,
the bodies that sprucely lay adrift with the fluminous ways
of the world all know you and i
because we are but from one source
surrounding them in their laughter and silence
when we are apart as though
they cannot sing when we do not make music
they cannot wake when they darkly wait for us
in their homes, trembling with unlit lamps of dust and sleep
they cannot lift in the moonlight when we strip
them of their fear
as though they cannot love in the midst
of spring when we are but two separate leaves
falling endlessly – finding each other in the Earth.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:44 AM UTC
Are names telling of something?
When you were young, you were taught to name shapes,
count figures with your tiny, slender fingers,
read text like creed, memorize facts like incantations
so that when it is time that you are already raw
and machinated into the fullness of your body,
you are ready. Ready like the gull darting
into the deep blue to filch the marine.
Ready like artillery to fray.
Ready like genuflected children
in contrition – left the peccadillo aloft, canopied
by a thumbed down word of prayer;
Are names telling of something?
What do they delineate? A sense of ownership?
A demystification? What machine does
it pledge allegiance to? Sage of old?
A frantic fretting of sensibilities? Erudition, or at the very least, obscurantism?
If we leave a thing without a name, what will
that thing be?
It cannot be held – to what extent?
It cannot be owned – for what reason?
It cannot be classified – for what? to saturate it with comprehension
to ensure a fate underneath a conceptualized bent
of attestation and abomination?
If I left you without a name and only held you in my hands like
a thing waiting to be used, to be fondled,
what will you make out of it? Will you darkle and then dissipate
in the thinnest air? Or will you remain? Are names exacted so that
when a thing leaves the body, when an abstraction leaves a moment,
there is a device we can use to drone it into coming back? So that we know
that in addressing it, there is a sure claim that it will move back
and retrace tractable errors? So that in the aftermath,
we are certain of the weight it casts upon our sorry and aching
bodies that refuse to make love? So that there will be words to be written
and voices to be launched in form of song
with identities assured to match the thirst?
Why does this deserve a name? Why are these hands undeserving
of territories? Why is there dissent when there is desire?
The answer lies in the silence of every passing day famished by
evidence: this thing that has no name will remain
as punishment for being – so that when it is time to
prosecute, there will be no
firm basis for eulogies.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
Puddle of shade, both
cool and damp,
I darkle
in the dwindling day.
But a shadow,
is all I am.
Cast forth
by the sun,
as it sets on the man
I once was.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC