"decorates" poems
Her master towers over her with his hefty might.
His eyes pierce through the shadows.
Commanding and bold, he startles her.
However, she capitulates to his aura.
She succumbs to his will, a willing slave.
Confined by his power, she cannot behave.
His words are tender, his touch like a feather,
she pines for his control, her soul in his hand.
In the dungeon of rapture, they explore their appetite.
Her master, like a bat, hovers over the dim light.
Sweeps her with his wings to a waltz of submission.
And takes her to the ride of darkness and delight.
A coating of fear decorates her face.
He surprises her with acts that leave her afraid.
She is hesitant to continue her master’s calling.
But her body is dissimilar, peachy, and pulsating.
Her master takes her on a trip of ****** events.
Where she gasps with fright, moans with pain,
and pleasures herself to the sound of the rain.
He takes what he wants; she surrenders it all.
He puts her in her place with words of degradation.
Then showers her with warmth and affection.
Her master kisses her, just like aftercare.
In each other’s arms they find solace in times of despair.
May 24, 2024
May 24, 2024 at 3:56 PM UTC
There's this special seed inside of us
That glitters, shines, and grows
Planted by an equally special person
One that everybody knows.
The one that woke up early this morning
And downed their coffee for the day
While you dig out your favorite shirt
And they keep their nerves at bay.
The person that decorates for new children
Hangs up posters and note cards
Tacks up the yearly alphabet trim
And clears the weeds from the school yard.
Stands and greets equally nervous kids
Hands them name tags and a book
And hopes that their anxiety melts away
To be excited like they should.
The history and math books open
Pages are assigned
They're there to help you through it
To make problems easier to find.
To journey across another dimension
Of equations and butterflies alike
That prepares you for ACTs ahead
And tests that you'll probably dislike.
Well, that's all fine and dandy
All these books and passing grades
But what's more important is the seed inside
That's planted in your brain.
The seed that fuels your drive to learn
Creates a light to help you grow
Makes you crave another book
Acquire everything there is to know.
And I know a certain farmer
That specializes in these seeds
Who wants to make you reach the top
So you'll realize everything you can be.
These farmers go by 'teachers'
The most amazing you can find
Because of them, I try to be my best
So I thank my teachers for their time.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
I would cover you head to toe in the most dazzling darkest of lace
but you shine so brightly that even the darkest of fabrics and cloth
could never sheathe your radiant glow and contain your luster
I wish I could hide you away in a place so very dark, so secure
I'd bury you in a billion rose petals to blanket your eyes, your lips
to keep you from the world of temptation, lust, and sins
If only I was selfish enough to take you a million worlds away
away from this unworthy and inadequate life of insecurity
fear of losing you takes over my being, I fear someone else will see
all your beauty and light seeping from the flower beds
glowing from under all that lace and spilling into the world
filling all those tainted people with thoughts of stealing you away
but I can't keep you to myself, I'll not allow such selfish actions
I can't keep the sun, the moon, and the stars from the earth
you are needed for warmth and sustenance, to control the ocean
You are the light that decorates the night sky with illumination
as if the sky was kissed by glitter, you make up every constellation
you are my shooting star, safe to view and wish upon from afar
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 10:57 PM UTC
In the background as I walk
Her voice decorates the scene
The soft spate of her breath
In the background as I walk
All falls serene when she talks
‘Twas an honor unforeseen
In the background as I walk
Her voice decorates the scene
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way
The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights
Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know
Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college
And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go
Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti
His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”
The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times
Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary ************
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder
I say that’s ********
Distance makes the heart suffer
Distance took my heart and plucked its petals
one
by
one
It holds me tight
Too tight, until my breath gets short and my legs go numb
Distance built a nest in my mind out of fragmented memories
I will never let go of
Memories that are now so distant I can no longer cherish their brilliance
or remember their fragrance
This distance is a cry that cannot be silenced
It is the side of the bed where you should be lying
It is the dial tone when you hang up the phone
It is the dreaded groan of waking up alone
Distance is disappointment
The hollow echo of loneliness
My vacant arms
Distance is sorrow
We have no choice but to be bold
Distance is the strength found where hope was lost
Distance decorates the wings of the butterflies that
f l u t t e r
in my stomach when the distance disappears
As the miles between us fall apart, distance falls quiet
A moment of reunion
A moment outside of time
Building bravery in our cores
Steadying us for battle once more
Mounting our horses, drawing our swords
We are bold.
Distance keeps our memories close to home
It is the struggle that taught us how to be brave when we are alone
Distance is the challenge
To determine how much we can handle
Distance pushes our love to its limit
Distance is brilliance in the tragedy of our goodbyes
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
she hovers over the handwritten letter
with maniacal grin gripping her face
as she devours his texted words
with weeping eyes
and she sings in unnatural tones a child's lullaby in some
forgotten french dialect
delightful reflections in song of the garden gate
leaning broken onto the rough hewn path
where the soulless cherubs cherish their seed
in haphazard rows cherub faces sling silent tears
and labour at the desires never felt and
the dark soils never fertile
seeking redemptions in the rebirth of the harvest moon
which decorates the far wall of the tomb
the cherubs brief delighted laughters
soon sputter and fail
as in the dying light of day
reveals that they must labour yet another day
to no useful end
she lives in this place
a cottage of straw with dark windows
and a wood stained door
she sits on its porch with knitting in hand
weaving futures for her beloved cherubs
weaving pasts for her own
she devoured him like she did his words
and came home to roost
like her innocent faced dragoons
she will someday march forth with this army of doom
but today she is content to be contrite
knitting porridge and whey wall hangings
from the tables of the
steampunk princess
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
beauty is the beginning of beauty. a man and a woman wait together for a stripper. you know the man like an intimate thought. like a toddler covered head-to-toe in blue body paint stepping in front of a blue door. the woman is an unfinished stranger whose son comes home to be with war and whose husband rests until laziness subsides. the man is aware he’s the devil and this makes him god. the woman is unaware she’s the devil and this makes it easy. the stripper is watching a horror film and it makes her want to have a child. she decorates her home then tries to remember moving a muscle. the blood you don’t see is fake.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Draped in bridal red
Amidst widowed landscapes she stands
With her veil swaying gently in the breeze
And blossoms tinkling at her feet
Fractured light decorates her
Revealing rubies hiding in her tresses
She brings forth her veil
Shading weary scorched souls
An oasis
Amidst desolate desert sands
The forest fire rages
Against fate which brought upon us this drought
Rekindling hope
Of new birth and mercy
And rages
Until it's time for gentle showers and soothing greens
Then tired
Sleeps until the end of spring
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:36 AM UTC
Clear, simple blue skies.
Unnerving negative space.
A girl decorates.
She stitches and glues.
Flying machines of all kinds.
A girl must create.
Colors shade sunlight.
Wind gifts them the breath to dance.
A girl must hold on.
She pulls a heart string,
Knots this to her creations,
A girl unravels.
To the skies, she goes
Free in flight, she whips and spins.
A girl, so rootless.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
The ear is an amazing tool. Subtle invitation,
subtle beauty, and the jewelry that decorates it!
I saw your ears before the gauges, and even then
they were small, delicate, and open to me.
If I could be any object, knowing what little purpose
I would serve, I would be the decorations, hanging,
from your earlobe: I would be satisfied being worn
on your body, your bright body, your beautiful face
sparkling from the lights you liked to daydream in,
placed near the delicate halls you’d always embraced me in.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
Sand covers the land from border to border. Flags of different colors and people are raised proudly in cars and throughout the streets. Buildings that once held happy families have lost their souls as their inhabitants have left them behind with empty promises of return. The occasional rubble is in the streets and beautiful towns are only remembered by the people who once walked the streets. The martyrs are the beauty of these towns now as their blood decorates the streets. The plants bloom with the tears of mothers, the blood of children, and the sweat of soldiers. War is such a horrid thing yet some still find the beauty in it. I've always been nostalgic for a place I had never been.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 11:59 PM UTC
i have known nights
where men walk the sun
and the stars count people
sheep huddle together
in grassy fields
dreaming
of fences
worn down
see, the funny thing
about nights is
at some point
you can’t tell the difference
between the first
and the last
(And hey,
****** ******
The cat’s lost his fiddle
Orion’s got a belt
Round his neck)
the lass
on the moon
plucks planets
from the blue
and decorates
the tangles in
her hair
see, the funny thing
about dreaming is
at some point
you can’t tell the difference
between what hurts
and what doesn’t
(The cat’s started drinking
Orion’s stopped thinking)
dawn
decides to sleep in
for just
another hour
or two
see, the funny thing
about nights is
i have always known them
but know nothing
of you
(And the fiddle has gone out of tune).
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 6:56 PM UTC
My bones are shattered porcelains
And Dr Frankenstein is recreating
My body from the toes up
I have more screws than tarsals
More plates than fibulas
More scars than cracked paint on derelict homes
Greens, yellows, blues, blacks and purple
Dye my leg in splendid hues
Plaster decorates my toes and pokes under my knees
Pins and needles tingle constantly
But these are made of steel as well as
Peripheral neuropathy
My hospital discharge form
Reads like poetry
Displaced tibea
Goes on adventure and brings back
Swollen instead of souvenirs
And crushed ligaments as testament
To broken steps they have fallen on
Perhaps it is not as profound as sunsets or romance
But I am finding beauty in pain
Intricacies in injury
And the limits of my creativity
To distract from nightmares
Of how this happened
And to drown out the hungry goblins
Deep in my guts demanding opiates
Like drunken teenagers
They loot my stash and trash my viscera
Legal or not I'm still a ******
Writing poetry rather than sleeping-
Confronting demons with stanzas.
Over screams I am armed with the arsenals
Of metaphor, personification and symbolism
Whatever the pain, my posse of poetry and prose
Has always got my back
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
lofi hip hop decorates my brain
notebook formulaic and profane
anxiety seeps my malleable mind
latching onto anything it finds.
Mar 17, 2021
Mar 17, 2021 at 8:24 AM UTC
I
Fold upon fold
your origami letters
map thoughts,
images and moments
of three days,
two nights.
Now to unfold
the creased trajectories,
intersecting space,
following time:
bird-like flightpaths
on the radar screen.
Each coloured sheet,
placed on this desk,
becomes a tessellated diary,
and grows beneath the hand.
So generous a gift.
So readily received.
II
Ah, that's your secret:
the power of the list;
this, then this,
then freedom follows,
knowing the necessaries
dusted and done.
Peaceful now,
and watching the clouds
cross the skylight,
Bach decorates your soul
with his meditations
on the possibility of everything.
How did you guess
I love the detail of life-
lived, up to the hilt:
the embellishment of dreams
pulled from the ether,
sound and sense in tow.
III
I travelled North
in the seat opposite.
You didn’t notice me
as you gazed
through your reflection,
sighting the past.
When you look at me
you rarely blink or
glance away (as people do).
Poor nature,
She hasn’t a chance, has she?
Never a mote missed.
As my passenger
I shall care for your silence;
to let you loose on
unbidden thoughts
as they rise above
the scrolling hills.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Open your eyes
“...”
Look at me
and tell me what I have become.
I cannot see for myself
My reflection melts mirrors
and turns puddles into vapor
I glare into the abyss
Hoping to catch a glimpse of my own pupils
I don’t know what I look like
Tell me,
How will my eyes look
when our stares meet for the first time?
“Empty”
Yes, I tore out the soul
Behind the doors of flesh covering my eye sockets
I have scraped my nails against bone
As my fingers pressed into my eyes
and carved out the consciousness that possessed me
Open your eyes
“...”
I need to know how my skin pulsates
What undulating form has it taken today?
Can you hear it?
Gurgling restlessly
My shape refuses to remain consistent
Tell me,
What will my body look like
when you lay eyes on me?
“Damaged”
Yes, I am wounded
The color crimson oozes from my pores
It sticks to my flesh possessively
I collect chunks of the liquid on my skin
As I imagine it decorates me nicely
Open your eyes
“...”
I need you to describe my limbs
For I always feel that I am reaching
for something I cannot obtain
My fingers squirm
into tight crevices and holes they are unwelcome in
Like curious, thoughtless insects
Unaware of the consequences for prying
Tell me,
What will my limbs appear as
when you set sight on me?
“Demented”
Yes, I have fought against conformity
by twisting my bones out of line
Listen. Hear each splintering cracks
defining how I am different
Open your eyes
“...”
You have to answer what my expression looks like
I can never seem to sync my face with my emotions
It’s tricky to coordinate such complex ideas
Tell me,
What will my expression be
when you finally gaze upon me?
“Grinning”
Yes, I’m afraid I can’t change that
I carved my smile with a butcher’s knife
from ear to ear
So I wouldn’t have to fake it anymore
Now open your eyes
“...”
Tell me what I have become
Shackle me to my image
Let me stare back at someone
who sees me for the first time.
Look at me.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 10:25 PM UTC
You visit this place
You do not stay long
There’s nothing here
that speaks of settlement
Everything you do has an edge
of intensity wet by the weather
sharpened by the clock
If you try to be still
in what passes for shelter
the wind will find you
seek you out
So with the camera your primary tool
begin to collect - image after image after image
Point and click : view and share
Eventually the mark-making begins
though fraught with difficulty
it seems just hopeless this testing out
of the body’s response to what passes
before the scanning eye
Blink
and the image shifts
There is this fierce and on-going campaign
between the near : between the far
What lies at your feet : what decorates the horizon.
After a few hours wrapped round in nature’s vortex
the eye and brain are exhausted by the profusion of it all
wearied by the press of wind, the touch of rain, the glare of sun
Always the problem of what you do
with what you’ve seen
and touched with cold hands
pulling out metal objects from the sand
whose rusted and distressed forms
will lie exposed on the studio table
The place marks you Rain and wind on the face
raise new freckles there’s a salty veneer to the skin
the rub of sand : a wash of seawater
the grasp of pebbles : wood’s chiromatic grain
The lexicon of texture expands under your fingers
changes of temperature : degrees of saturation
and further uncompromising perspectives
unimaginable yet in two dimensions
Beyond beachcombing this is seacoast surgery
Away from it all (and out of the wind)
your memory stretches to the corners of recall
Wandering through a home-centred day
as in a waking dream
knowing you’ve already gathered
all manner of sensory matter
held and stored in the pineal gland
flowing free in Meissner’s corpuscles
Even absorbed in conversation’s company
as you turn away to fill the kettle
you are on the beach back in the wind
scanning the memory tin : priming the future.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
<>
***"having found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings"^***
the computer tablet recognizes as I essay,
the "tomorrow" word
as possessing a reality, with time sensitivity,
please, somebody help us, almost
an inevitability
the possibility of a realizable event,
as if the poem composing was
the future's assuming a 99% probability, right ready for scheduling
offering me two choices:
create event or view calendar?
as if the next shooting, bombing,
and my glum apprehension thereof,
as if ''tomorrow's" tidings were mine own doing
of my undoing,
somehow my fears create or anticipation of
the "next one" makes me a guilty part
my heart cracking with despairing moans
knowing that this is foolishness
but
not to me
for as we think upon it, that tiny extra precaution,
'tis already the small death of me
each death a cut in the same spot,
and the pestering wound ground deeper, bone closer
find myself
jailed in a place with no view, insecure and unprotected
no view, no window to crack, no window no view
no to letting in fresh air, hope or something good,
and yes to no,
I know about this and that and words
intended to offer up optimism,
albeit on a small scale
I am careful not to mock
the words and those who offer up
but seriously,
don't
I came to,
I came to this place to write
only love poetry silly love songs
and some black angel sideswiped me in the left lane
writing now in stead of ways I'm dented and unforgiving
feeling stoopidly foolish even as
I try and I try to find the seed germane to the connectivity between the horror hallmarks of these times and the ******* window is just stuck stuck stuck
I'll think I'll change my name,
honestly,
only love poetry? cries out ridiculous
this is no poem, more a teacher's note of surrender,
come back with a new identity or just a new field of endeavor
so I put that on my calendar for tomorrow
and it appears right away, right after:
6:00 am Check on Glum Apprehensions
and it appears that I'm too late
confirming I've missed my appointment so too late for my kind of tomfoolery. and that white seam, glimpsed but not grasped, illusion noxious,, I can't seem to locate it anymore
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
her maudlin ******** clad emotions
moved across her vivid motion face
she paused to fumble with the settings
but her steam engine heartstrings are
trying to re-write themselves
like a derringer she carries both smoke and fire
concealed in her compact chrome adorned form
i kiss her deeply with adoration
i kiss her with loves longings
she denies such things have realities
she says that its only the oily taste of aftersex with an unclean woman
that is real and good
i cannot wish away her versions of reality
she caged her fingers
with pewter rings in the shapes of skulls and dragons
but the real danger lay not in her blades and devices
but in the lingering i would do admiring her
so used to the vestibule of her carnal delights
i would venture no further
into the amazon jungle of her forbidden fruits
and i would forever one of her
treasured trophies in the neatly appointed sitting room
with the ticking clock and chipped fine china
with the blurry photographed crying faces
and a carpet adorned with images of plagues rampages
death is no mere stick figure
with some wicked blade
he's a carpetbagger selling cheap potions
in the twisted carnival of life
her thick tears are slow to escape her eyes
as she looks off into the oncoming night
and the face of the unbearable
her maudlin emotions vivid to me
as my hand holding hers in empathy is to her
she decorates the flawed image she sees in her mirror
and with mock flair unleashes herself
into the alleyways silence
she turns back to me and without a word
pulls delicate fingers across my cheek
in a gesture almost intimate
smiles and walks into the shadows
she is a figurine in the circus of night
a danger of delights
a mouthful of wonders and razors
she walks slowly back in
the thick grey of dawn
her step weary
her gaze downcast
i hold her in my arms trying to restore
but you cannot fix what was never whole enough
to get broken in the first place
i kiss her deeply and with gentle adorations
she looks into my eyes
and remains unseeing
this is not how love is supposed to be
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
I see her in the morning.
I think of her in the night.
And all the hours in between,
She enslaves my very sight.
Her shiny black hair
Is like silky waves of night.
Her deep blue eyes
Are portals of mysterious light.
Her smile is magnificent.
Her teeth are always glimmering.
Her body is phenomenal.
Her laughter is always ringing.
She has a corner office.
I have a corner store.
I await the moment every morning
When she opens up my door.
She is perfect
In every single way.
All she has to do
Is everything I say.
She's married with children.
I'm single with none.
She seems so intense,
But maybe she's the one.
She'll be here soon.
What do I do?
I've absolutely, positively
Fallen for Sue!
I'm a fool!
I've fallen into a trap.
Help me find my way.
Can you lend me a map?
She is intoxicating.
She's out of her mind.
She follows me home
And tries to be kind.
She rearranges my furniture.
She decorates my house.
She adores this little puppy
That looks like a mouse.
She whispers and gossips
And whistles and prances.
She sends everyone into
Their own kind of trances.
She tasted better
Than Blueberry wine.
But she sure did crush
This little heart of mine.
Written by: Andrew D. Robertson
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
the words are crisp in my mouth
but by the time they hit the door
they are stale as my hand
they are gone like wisps of smoke
their scent decorates the room
and brings a parade of memories
feasts with laughing friends
and a long footpath with her blue dress
it makes my sunshine weary
and drives clouds into my souls parklands
she is one such long misbegotten memory
she was a true love of mine
she is gone like a wisp
of smoke on a beach
she....
she makes my time pass slow
and leaves me wanting to repaint
the moons difficult changing colors
as it waxes and wanes thru the seasons
like her deep eyes
but she mends with love
and she nourishes with compassion
and she makes cut out stars and comets
that we pin to the ceiling
she makes breakfast
we eat it laying in a open field
listening to the fall wind rustle the trees
i master this lame beast
and contrive to march it slowly through the night
while it seized and sputtered
to the edge of light
the edge of forgiveness
there i lay down
but the world has no further use for a broken old man
potions and notions antiquated
she with a woman's gentleness
gathers up what remains of me
chiding me softly for having wandered astray
knitting the pieces parts to semblance
she admits beyond mere frowns
her reasons for being here
that my words reach her
that my soul enraptures her
my humor embraces her
and unlike many others she has known
my heart hears her every word
and thirsts to know her mind
love affairs are more than in a bedroom
they are in the heart and mind
i will have my lover and know her
because everything about her matters to me
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
Golden brown, a lush trickle
Flows like curly, hanging moss
That tells its own story.
The creepers latch tightly, before two caverns
Black contours surround them
Darkness in the caverns, out flies an angelic flare
Into the wild.
Mountain peak rises, a ridge
It supports a twin fork crown
Down below, it gallantly holds a steed down
Red rivers, a soft powder
Decorates the salient structure
It shines and draws an infectious smile
Raising my ears and lifts my eyes.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC
Apathy washes over me
A cold, numb tide.
And I sit here and ask why,
Without really caring to know the answer.
Scar tissue decorates my heart
For all the times I cared.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC