"decorating" poems
They put me in the oven to bake.
Me a deprived and miserable cake.
Feeling the heat I started to bubble.
Watching the others I knew I was in trouble
They opened the door and I started my life.
Frosting me with a silver knife.
Decorating me with candy jewels.
The rest of my batch looked like fools.
Lifting me up, she took off my wrapper.
Feeling the breeze, I wanted to slap her.
Opening her mouth with shiny teeth inside.
This was the day this cupcake had died.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
Endless stains of blood
On white t-shirts
On nights that scatter blue trees over black earth
Alight by shooting stars
The mother tells her child
Unwilling to unlock the truth
The truth those stars
Don't grant your wishes
They grab them
With scarred scratching hands.
Alight,
The damp stitches in the soil
Cemetery symmetrical to hospital
Those shooting stars circling
Like a vulture
Speeds towards dead carcasses
Still, the murdering star will not cease
To break bones
That have already broken
To take lives
That have already been taken
To burn
What is already charred
Today
smells like burnt muddied skin
feels like gnawing on your own fingers for feast
sounds like tired, howling machines
spurring and sputtering, never-ending their onwards trek
Swallowing distances and with it, nameless faces
countless places
Today the earthquakes of death
Don't make the land shake anymore
For it has learned to cope
With the desolate cemeteries filled with mute bones
Today burns like gasoline
Looks like intestines decorating destroyed doorways
Today it rains curdled crimson
Tell me shooting star
If the child liked jam on his toast
Did he snore?
Did he like math? Or english?
Shooting star doesn't know and neither the bombs.
As bodies fall from trees
like rotten plums.
The world was born in blood
And has not ceased to suckle its wounds
Endless blood thirst, Endless war
But not endless skin to bleed.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:41 AM UTC
Sweet is the village home
With the overhanging trees
With the open well on the east
With the kitchen adjacent to the well..
The coconut trees giving shade
The Jack fruit and the mango trees
Decorating the land beside
The peacocks roosting on the trees
The red Mangalore tiles
Giving protection from the sun and the rain
The green chillies and the bananas
The drumstick tree and the climbers
Ginger and Curry leaf tree
The Coccinia and the Turkey berry
Plants and climbers
Giving all the vegetables in-house
The long verandahs
The corridors
The wooden stairs
The large dining hall
It is not just a home
But a life itself
With nostalgic memories
Which will never die at all...
The house that has seen
Various happy moments
Various sad events
Which has seen birth and death
It is not just a home
But a life itself
With nostalgic memories
Which will never die at all.....
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
See the emblem waving
Proudly, touted in the sky.
We walk among our brethren.
We recourse, resource the reason why.
All, in trepidation...
We cry out for separation.
Could it be our own downfall,
Equality, but not for all -
But, not for all?
Citizens of the nation,
Before humanitarians,
First comes clicks of locking doors.
Equality does not endure.
A man of any land should be my brother.
The whole earth, to us, our mother.
Could it be our own downfall,
Equality, but not for all -
But, not for all?
See the burden being carried
High upon laden backs,
Tautly stretched, with shoulders bending.
Each fear the other will attack.
The words have been the same,
But for intent that's not their own.
For too long, have we been believed.
Equality is just for some -
Is just for some.
Freedom is only for the free.
The lines that keep the captives buckling,
The doors that keep them let them go.
They have no where to escape.
Always there is tyranny
For the landless refugee.
He is no man as worthy as you.
Equality is just for some -
Is just for some.
All the lessons that teach us to love
The home of brave and free
Are based on notions that could not be true,
If all are not the same as you.
And, are they not the same as we,
Who are decorating for our holidays.
Living in our plentitude,
Singing songs of charity and caring -
Charity and Caring?
Gifts are given and received.
Do we remember the lessons taught
About the kind of men we are,
When another is in need?
Do they not rate the same concern
As the presents and the tree,
As we pray in Holy Spirit,
Singing songs of charity and caring -
Charity and caring?
See the emblem waving
Proudly, touted in the sky.
We walk among our brethren.
We recourse, resource the reason why.
All, in trepidation...
We cry out for separation.
Could it be our own downfall,
Equality, but not for all -
But, not for all?
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
**let's admire the stars decorating the night skies,
looking for a shooting star,
in the sea of constant stars.**
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
First glance, I’m a good Christian girl. But dark purple flecks decorate my neck.
In leather and lace I forget to pray and let you do what you want with me
because pain is complex and melded with pleasure.
Do you know what they say about girls that enjoy ***
They never dare to say it to my face but I can feel them staring from the pew
at the dark purple flecks that decorate my neck.
Your hands, more powerful than God, make the earth of my body quake
while I draw fault lines down your back with my nails under the broken
crucifix above your bed. The pain is complex and melded with pleasure.
Deep, growling voice shakes the dusty rosary on your nightstand when we ****
Your handprints are left on my flesh and the hand around my throat
leaves the dark purple flecks decorating my neck.
Coffee in the narthex and I’m labeled a harlot. Sinner. Sacrilegious. Branded as freaks…
Brush it off. I know what you like and how you like me. God will have mercy.
Sensations blend because pain is complex and melded with pleasure
and I can’t have one without the other. To reach our peak
you leave me red, marked and breathless, gasping, “Oh my God.”
Questioning my beliefs with dark purple flecks to decorate my neck,
I know pain will always be complex and melded with pleasure.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
Dear father,
I still remember the last time I saw you
It's funny, because you looked just the same as you always did
Like someone
Who was never really mine.
Like a stranger in disguise
Who's reality only exists
When I close my eyes and fantasize about you being in my life
But I guess
When you heard you should live your life without
Regret
You mistook that for my name
And I wonder if you will ever understand the pain
Of knowing someone only when you imagine them
Or loving someone who thought
Never talk to strangers
Was a lesson best learnt by example
But they say actions speak louder than words
And you became so consumed by your own self worth to really give a **** about who you hurt
So you became the expert
At manipulating words
Like turning
I love yous into sorrys
And
Tomorrows into yesterdays
Until it was safe to say I couldn't count on you
Dear father,
Because of you
I constantly found myself falling in love with things that could never love me back
I became infatuated with sandcastle and snowflakes
Addicted to temporary moments
Addicted to broken
Thought if I learnt to fix things
Then somehow
I might find the manuscript
To piecing the shattered part of my being whole again
Because of you
I spent years trying to cover this skin that you left me with
Tried decorating these scars
With tattooed hopes
To remind myself
That sometimes
Some things
Were made to last forever
Because of you,
For years I avoided looking into the mirror
Because I never truly knew
If you could love someone
You only ever met in passing
You see
I mistook your ***** for water
I never realised I was internally drowning in your poison
I thought I needed you to stay afloat
It took me a long time to realise
That ***** was just your way of relieving yourself from blame
You became a box full of things
I packed away the day you left
But I've stopped trying to hold on to your burden
So I've taken out my smile
And I'll wear it with pride
And Dear father,
Did you know
That if you repeat a word enough times
Then eventually the word will start to lose it's meaning?
And I've stopped wishing I was still young enough to understand
What the word father meant
And now no know
That if I ever see you again
Then you will look just the same as you always did
Like someone
who doesn't deserve to be mine
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
a lake of blood is promised
homes fill with fiber optic prophecy.
"put away your lenses children and sleep under the lamp's shade."
our purple rice growing
Vishnu mumbles and stirs in his sleep.
by the crystal pond, a poison frog sings.
decorating the sand and reeds are skeletons of the old wars.
nearly dust now.
unable to make decisions for the weak or young, the strong or the old.
four seasons yet to pass
attention given to the wolf's lonesome cry.
place your head in sand,
witness the scorpion.
she is
emperor and admonisher.
the tiger breathes in and breathes out its final breath.
lay your belly upon wheat and remove hunger.
an angel's velvet wing cools the fever,
the old sickness of Old Salem.
onions, apples & lemons are sprouting.
there, just underneath the horseman's hood.
quickly, look.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
Nostalgia of flying into my dad’s arms when he arrived home,
Nostalgia of decorating the Christmas tree as a family,
Nostalgia of driving around my Barbie jeep,
Nostalgia of wearing my cat costume everywhere,
Nostalgia of being friends with everyone,
Nostalgia of being naïve,
Nostalgia of a healthy family,
Nostalgia of camping,
Nostalgia of pokemon cards,
Nostalgia of insecurity
Nostalgia of blindness of boys,
Nostalgia of playing dress up,
Nostalgia of being with my best friend,
Nostalgia of family get togethers,
Nostalgia of having hope for something better,
Nostalgia of not fighting,
Nostalgia of stress free mornings,
Nostalgia of that one family vacation,
Nostalgia of my innocence,
Nostalgia of those summer runs,
Nostalgia of rebellion nights with new friends,
Nostalgia of a healthier me,
Nostalgia of getting along,
Nostalgia of knowing what I want,
Nostalgia of time.
Let’s see where it goes from here.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
I lived my half dictionary life before I could
comprehend compulsory compromises.
Collectors arise, disguises and devices beeping,
chastising my blindness.
Gather geography from Afghanistan and Myanmar
graciously growing gold gilded gift horses,
gleefully gloating about floating far away.
My hoof beats above concrete match my heart’s defeat
across borders and mountains
embroidering cardboard cut-outs
calling deserts, decorating front covers.
Exhaling handcrafted letters for my missing half,
half demanding highest caliber commanders and half commanding completion.
Jade jays joyfully lay arrays of bouquets
fragile flowers decay faraway
in jawbones and jail cells.
Begging farewells in a hotel’s lobby
began my hobby,
early morning coffee and carbon copies
concurringly cocky around his dead body.
Gang ciphers for cartels are
Christmas bells hissing at collars,
half dollars embellishing bar crawlers
godfathers hollering at car haulers.
Atrocities across cities attack,
attachable atrophies audibly ambush arthritic anthologies.
Anomalies begin apologies between apostrophes,
advancing autonomy arousing ancient animosities.
All eluding Antarctica,
giant frozen crests, multi-coloured ice
hidden in my illustrations
anxious for my distant half.
Friday cassettes and cigarettes
deliberately making bets following “M”.
Breaking bindings and finding “beta” in alphabet,
may feasibly end in debt.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
my father sat in a pool
of mid-morning sunshine
on the raised patio
overlooking the garden
an open book in his lap
the dog asleep at his side
the lightest of clouds
decorating the horizon
and a whisper of leaves
his only distraction
as i rushed to the kitchen
for a hastily made
better-than-nothing version
of a flat white
that i wouldn't even enjoy
only ten minutes to spare
before yet another meeting
i paused for a moment
to take in this scene
resplendent as he was
peacefully present
behind the radiance
of diaphanous lace
breeze-rippled curtains
suffused with sunlight
a pertinent reminder
of something which
i didn't have time
to consider
Aug 3, 2023
Aug 3, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
Your thoughts are like paint dripping off a canvas
Decorating the floor with your ideas
The reds and blues
A thousand hues
But one color always seems to be missing.
The museum is filled to the brim with your art
A rainbow of pain and love
An ocean of wonder
Every color you could come up with.
All but one.
You paint the sky and the moon
The stars and the forests
You draw out the sunsets and silhouettes
You’ve painted a galaxy.
But you think it’s incomplete.
You are my favorite artist.
I could stare at the pieces you create forever
And hope that I could be the color you need.
That one day,
You could paint me pink.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
This.
This is decorating my living room, and only my living room,
With every available piece of holiday cheer.
This is sitting by the fireside, drinking apple cider and listening to the woman who can recite Twas the Night Before Christmas by heart.
This is shortbread cookies.
You may ask if you can have one.
You may, but not the one who looks like a man.
His legs have been broken and icinged back on. He is special. .
This is not enough wrapping paper.
Too much wrapping paper.
My dad will never learn how to use wrapping paper.
This is managing not to fight with my sisters on the darkest days in winter.
This.
This is skating on black ice in winter boots,
Using icicles as lollipops,
This is mittens, hat, scarf, forgotten on the snow man.
This is the fort you couldn't knock over,
This is making lists.
Breaking lists.
Writing and rewriting.
This is advent calenders.
This is candycane addictions.
This is pleasant smiles from the grumpiest holiday shoppers.
This is the reason I love Christmas time more than Christmas day.
And this,
This is not a miracle.
This is a tradition that is older than I am.
This is the family I can always count on.
This, is home.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 9:20 AM UTC
I'm tired of being judged.
It's simple.
You do not know me.
You know nothing of my life,
My struggle.
The pain,
The Joy I feel.
Nothing of my journey through the burning pits of fire.
Nothing of my lips caressing the one's I love.
Until the moment I say, "hello, it's nice to meet you," you know nothing of me.
Not the color of my eyes,
Nor the freckles decorating my skin.
The feelings and emotions flowing within my veins, are not yours to judge or own.
Keep your backward opinions to yourself.
I know who I am;
A strong, passionate woman draped in the color of red.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:16 AM UTC
the lines on our hands
mingle with the
roughness of the fibre
of our skins
*talking of touches
long spent*
-
there are grooves decorating
our feet
our soles are flattened
only reminders of the places we've been
-
crinkles beside our mouth and eyes
*they speak
of smiles
to faces
whisper of tears
in air*
-
sometimes
we forget
we drift
*and just like the last time,
we're drawn into the story that never finished
- a story never told*
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
fortunate dreams, folded within security and affluence
a laundry pile of capital
you’ve tried and succeeded
prosperity, wealth, Constitutional rights in abundance
American dreams lay thriving, slithering between your fingers like sludge
nice sludge though
snow crystals rest upon the sludge, decorating it for the holidays
barren attempts to take hold of opportunities, you didn’t really try
efforts lay unmade, like the bed he shared with you
penniless
inferior in the corner of the kitchen
last night’s events crawling across the tile towards you
running over stains and chips, creating unshaped perfect squares
a city on fire; flames stumbling in the breezes
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
once is enough
to form an addiction
and that is why
the collection of scars
decorating her hip bones
grew and grew.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
She kisses the boys and girls
that pay the most attention.
The boys play with vapor
and her girls play with tension.
I wish I was the only one
that she will decide to touch
but I am who I am
and, in a way, that is too much.
Sawblade-sunflower petals
wrap around an earthy cushion,
and the humidity hangs in the air
as her beige body is crumpled
and I feel too sober, pushing.
Baby yellow falls apart,
in her hair the flower starts
to trickle onto sheet and pillow,
decorating the absences
that define how hollow
she and I have felt before --
******* like an endangered species
on the killing floor, I whisper once,
I whisper sweet, "Don't you wish
that we didn't meet?"
She kisses the boys and girls
that give the most attention.
I played with vapor
and she played with tension.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
It was not love at first sight. When you walked into the room the rest of the world did not slow down. There was no movie magic moment where our eyes met and I knew that you were the only girl I was ever going to fall in love with. Instead you were longing at first glance, yearning for a love that I never could have imagined before. I couldn’t picture our wedding or growing old together but I could vividly see the two of us together. Cuddled under blankets reading on a Sunday night. Decorating our apartment for Halloween. I could see Indian takeout in bubble baths with three cats curled up beside the sink. You were not love at first sight but you were better, you were real. You made love believable. I never had faith in finding a fairytale romance but in you I found forever. A reality of two souls bound together by a force neither of them can explain. You may not have been my love at first sight but you’re my love in every glance since. It’s heartbreaking that I can only look at the world through rose coloured glasses while you live in a world so far from make believe.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 8:55 PM UTC
While the children play in the sun, it'll be all the children but one,
the shadow girl will hide away secretly decorating a place to stay.
Once so perfect, once so pure, a girl unlike others idolized by all,
Now so flawed, now so dark, a girl who hates to see the flying lights.
Everything earned, everything wanted, served in silver before her,
she wanted more, dying of hungry yet plain the dishes become.
Eyes so sweet, eyes so tender, chocolate smothered care,
lids with wrinkles, stares so bitter, a turn for a worse in smoke tears.
Love so true, written in stone, italic figures and wonderful notes,
lies so deep, they cut in more, artificial bodies and agony with all.
Drawings so neat, effects so clear, strong plus confident all in one,
scribbles on paper, ripped and torn praying 'a few pictures more'.
The reflection, the reflection its coming to me, whispering so sweet,
tenderly, it screams down my ears and looks me in the eyes, shouting "No, this can't be your life."
Broken roads, dusty concrete, nobody to be seen,
in this world of isolation, the only person I see,
is the girl of shadows and she's looking back at me.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
tired of hearing "potential" in reference to me
cause i only hear it when i'm being squeezed
into a box by those who think they know whats best for me
its a wonder i haven't gone ****** from all the pressure
writer, lawyer, realtor, travel agent, hair dresser
i don't know yet, i don't know! yes i do want better
but how am i supposed to plan a career when
i can't see as far as my hand in front of me
i love everything! how am i supposed to pick one passion?
is my passion divided among a hundred interests lesser in value
than someones passion focused on one point?
i can't help but think so. and it discourages me even more
and its not just a career, job, and school
pulled in all different direction i'm everybodys fool
i have to be a different me for just about every person i see
selecting aspects of my personality to fit the scene
its not fake its not phony. its reality.
i have friends in all circles, family in a whole separate ring
i can't share all the aspects of me or i'd spend my time
defending my thoughts, beliefs, and interests.
i am so tolerant, why can't people afford me the same luxury?
the worst thing is the fake smile and polite subject change
whenever a parent of a friend asks what i've been up to
when i can SEE it in their eyes, they are all thinking the same
that i've thrown my life away, that i'm not a good influence
anymore. nevermind that they've known me for years,
that i've set dinner tables with them, celebrated birthdays,
and survived puberty alongside their kid, my best friends.
all they can see is another college-dropout who is going nowhere fast
i lied... the worst thing. what hurts most is that they are right
i AM going nowhere fast and it kills me everyday.
and its more salt right in the wound that i know my parents
have the same conversations when they run into neighbors,
friends, family, and the "how are the kids" comes up
how did a 3.7 G.P.A. and a 1410 S.A.T. turn into a
20 year old with a P.O. and a record.
i know they love me all the same but i can't help but feel ashamed
i know they wanted, i know they expected... better
i've been decorating the same mistakes in different frames
so i can pretend they're not the same
but who's the fool when its you fooling you
and me hurting me by playing fast and loose
with common sense
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
Jingle Bells and Mistletoe
Christmas songs galore
Plastic crap marked down again
Sales in every store
Santa Claus in Shopping Malls
Photos for the hoards
Teenage girls dressed up like elves
Looking rather bored
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
Get me through the Christmas Craze
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
I can not take much more
Christmas shows and pantomimes
Put on by theater groups
Old actors who we used to know
How low will these folks stoop?
Boxing Day and crazy crowds
Houses lit up like the park
Even when the power's off
They're still glowing in the dark
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
Get me through the Christmas Craze
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
I can not take much more
Charity is on the wane
People confuse want with need
The population's gone insane
They're full of Christmas greed
Snowmen out in the front yard
Decorating Christmas Trees
Carolers from up the church
...that is Christmas Time to me
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
Get me through the Christmas Craze
Hollydaze, Oh Hollydaze
I can not take much more
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
I found these flowers on sidewalk
Someone have thrown a way
I don't know why and how
Unneeded beauty
Other mans trash is my treasure now
Decorating my table
Until they die
I see beauty in things
That others just pass by
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC