"disrobed" poems
Healing leaves are now disrobed branches
on the edge of this wilderness.
Many tall Douglas Fir stand sentinel
over 100 foot tall amazing grace — the fleeting leaves
expose the beauty of the moss clad scaffolds
adorned with a lime-grey lichen lace
Nature is my refuge — solid ground to stand
in this harmony and peacefulness.
Jesse Stillwater — December 2018
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
the bus poets
we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!
once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases
we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!
no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw
books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers
if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you
tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC
Id love a big fat ****
Or a wrinkled up old bag
An ugly looking hag
Who wants a ******* ****
If I had a big fat ***** with a big fat bucket
I'd lay between her fleshy thighs, and definitely **** it
My thrusting **** inside her **** is where I'd like to tuck it
Spunking up would be sublime, when I lick and **** it
When your about to **** the fat, it takes a certain knack
Stuffed up fishy **** ***** or **** ******* round the back
A nice piece of chunky **** with a big long sweaty crack
Fatty *** holes make you hard ,my **** would not be slack
I would ride a big large Gal, just like a waterbed
Bathroom ******* would be fun, as well as in the shed
Spunking up between her legs, cream cheese would then be spread
When both holes are full of *** she can **** my **** instead
And after I have finished, with all of those fat *******
Something different I would want, maybe some old wrinkled witches
All wearing apple gatherers, and big large ******* britches
Older ***** long overdue, scratching long lost itches
A lot of fun I could have, in an old folks place
Disrobed willing grannies ***** stuffed right in my face
At least eight bits of gristle ****** a display of my disgrace
With each granny ****** in turn, if they can stand the pace
As I lift their skirts up their knickers I would sniff
I'm hoping that old fannies good, and they don't smell or whiff
The smell of old used granny **** is probably just a myth
But I won't let it bother me, as long as I get stiff
I wouldn't even care, if they wore crap NHS glasses
As long as I could **** and *** inside there wrinkled arses
I would **** them old ****** , all from different classes
Some of them in wheelchairs and some with heart bypasses.
It's irrelevant how fat you are, I really do not mind
As long as you are willing, and your pussy's wet and kind
And if you like it up the **** then I'm that way inclined
******* ***** is quite fine, so is ******** from behind
So come on girls fat or old, all slags are a possibility
Your sexuality can flood out, there's no need for negativity
I'm willing to **** who comes along, to the best of my ability
Just make sure that I stay stiff, and maintain my agility
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
The Story
by Kamal Nasser
translation by Michael R. Burch
I will tell you a story ...
a story that lived in the dreams of my people,
a story that comes from the world of tents.
It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror.
It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees.
Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them
and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels.
It is the story of the suffering ones
who stood waiting in line ten years,
in hunger,
in tears and agony,
in hardship and yearning.
It is a story of a people who were misled,
who were thrown into the mazes of the years.
And yet they stood defiant,
disrobed yet united
as they trudged from the light to their tents:
the revolution of return
into the world of darkness.
Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser.
Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people.
Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
A swansong of the Indian Partition...
Kal humaare ghar ke diye bujhe rahenge,
Kal hum kuch rishton ke liye rote rahenge...
Tomorrow the lamps of our home will remain put out,
Tomorrow we shall keep crying for some relations...
Rishte un bantwaara hue kheton se,
Rishte un bhatakte hue jawaanon se...
Relations with those partitioned farmlands,
Relations with those misguided young men...
Rishte us chamakti Multani mitti se,
**Rishte us damakti Pakhtunkhwi **** se...**
Relations with the glistening soil of Multan,
Relations with the bright snow of Pakhtunkhwa...
Rishte Ganga ke us Bangali muhaane se,
Rishte Sindhu dariya aur samudr ke us mel se...
Relations with the Ganga's Bengali estuary,
Relations with the confluence of Indus and the Sea...
Rishte us Balouchi kapaas se,
Rishte udhde un kapdon se...
Relations with that Balouchi cotton,
Relations with those clothes torn away...
Rishte luti us izzat se,
Rishte mari us bahu se...
Relations with the disrobed honour,
Relations with the slain bride...
Rishte jo sajaaye the mandap mein,
Rishte jo likhaaye the jannat mein...
Relations decorated inside the temple,
Relations written in the paradise...
**********
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud
Two of us, alone, as one
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin
Your slender legs, columns that taught
The Greeks in Helens age, touched the water
And the sky. I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes
I hold your skin, my Selkie
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance
In the country of the sun
We end at the house in Umbria
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
[[ ****
blood pooling around her
there she lay sprawled
eyes glazed,motionless with no stir
she is another victim to succumb
to this heinous inhuman act
the mission is accomplished
the criminal thinks
freely he walks
head and shoulder held high
among mortals he laugh
life goes on ,another life gone
my sister,mum and aunt
the daughters of eve are endangered
my brother,dad and i
the all sons of adam
are the perpetrators
fear exists among our female species
they fear to be stripped off their
coverings
they live in a nightmare of being
stripped off their dignity
unwillingly be disrobed and be
robbed
they fear being deflowered and
defiled
out of her will she was forced
naked and spreadeagled
vitruvian man style she lay
her case was a repetition of a biblical
story
dinah and the sons of shechem
blood freely trickled between her
open pelvic
life seeped out of her misused shell
did she really deserve this???
who will end this atrocity?
who will fight for the girl child?
toddlers and grannies
shamelessly chauvinist male defiles
them
its against the word
its against the unwritten codes
it's unafrican
it's evil
my anger is frothing
like a volcano the lava is heating up
my pen is crying for the female child
i will shout this from rooftops
on the skyline i will write it
this battle is ours and we have to
fight
protection we've to offer
[[the chronicles of the dumb speaker]]
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
Fenola watched
as Eileen bathed.
She took in
the hand
moving
the lathered sponge
over the contours
of the body,
moving between ****
like some
venture ship of old,
moving down
the belly,
beneath the soapy water
to the pleasure dome,
then out again
around the neck
and under chin,
then whole body
over once again.
She knew that body well,
each inch of flesh,
each orifice,
each smell,
each loving touch.
Even the thought
pleased her
overmuch.
Eileen looked over
where Fenola sat,
on stool,
in bathrobe,
with feet
on mat.
Come on in,
she said,
room enough for two,
you rub my back,
I’ll rub yours
and other places too.
Fenola thought awhile,
took in her eyes
that gazed,
the smile
that spread,
the memory
of the afternoon
in bed,
the positions held
and played,
the *** ensuing.
Eileen pointed
to the soapy bath,
come in,
she said
with **** laugh.
Fenola stood up
from the stool,
disrobed,
set it aside,
stepped in the bath
and sat down,
the water engulfing.
Somewhere
from the other room,
Ravel played
from hifi speakers,
Bolero
or some such piece,
the sound touching
the bathroom walls
with steam and scent.
The girls rubbed
and scrubbed
and laughed
in soapy water,
each one
like a siren
of the sea
or Neptune’s daughter.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
Gray Owl hearkens
the dappled daybreak knell
echoing through
the wildwood forest stand;
rock doves and frosty stones abide,
where a marooned heart doth dwell,
disrobed by the longest night's frigid touch
Timber stand grips tight
red clay and bedrock of ages,
postured tall and strong
as eagle's spirit throne
Pine cones hide
in the low drifting clouds,
ripe acorns tumble down alone
unto a windblown
shallow earthen grave,
hillocked beneath
the sky-high canopy
Bones of branches,
furrowed bark from burled oak,
wood-grains of pith,
natural gnarled achings
peeled by the shivering
wind's breath
Paling autumn memories
grow dim as the receding sunlight,
recollections of ebbing Jasmine's
mellowing fragrant balm
waft aloft in a favorite fading fantasy,
the edge of winter metamorphosis
bears down with a prodigious weight
of a different kind of retreating light;
brindled Queen Anne's lace
hold sway across
the tawny frostbitten meadow
imbuing the poignantly
whetting breeze
The blink of an eye winks,
to catch sight of
an intimate glimpse,
an unspoken
solitude holds forth,
the mesmerizing coo of rock doves,
reverently mirroring
the sanctity of the forest wildwood
lingering amongst the frosty
ferns and stones
The harmony of tranquil silence wanders;
only the bowing resistance of the boughs
manifest the shapeless wind’s
whispered breathe
swirling above the labyrinth threshold;
therein lies an unfractured fault line
rooted deeply beneath
the earth’s crust
like the sonorous heart
of a sanctuary hearthstone
Hence there is symmetry
felt in silence that only whispers
in the deep toned consonant
of our own harbored sighs
a holy human blood link
born of heritage wilderness heartwood
beats keenly alive
written by: harlon rivers ... December 2017
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Heaven whispered your name,
Lavender silk
Smooth upon lips,
****** to the flavour of destiny.......
Your tongue passed through mirages,
Tasting the warmth of my soul, like
Unexpected breaths washing upon
The shores of thirst;
Your white smile irising the sky...
I held my breath
...for, I needed to relish yours
Deeper than my sighs,
Into the depths of ache;
The pause in my heartbeat, lay tenderly
Balanced on the edge of your soul...
I dreamed the night's mist,
An omen of silken-soft, upon velvet petals,
An immaculate flower,
Conceived in the poetry of this delicate awakening;
The sweet intimacy
Pressed into the dark of my heart...
Your voice, became the
Hands that stripped me bare,
Wrapping around my essence like a myriad of
Forbidden elixir's, from fountains beyond the
Flinch of fingertips that
Traced the pulse of my thighs...
And your lips fell upon my body
In creases...
...those secret places...where
You arced the light of me,
A coruscation of eyes, beyond burn,
Changing darkness to blossom incandescence...
My pelvis, captured moistened moments
Quivering
Beneath the power of your descent;
Where I held you hostage
Upon this pillow of my heartbeat,
Levitated in the hush of your breath...
You painted me beautiful, in moonlight
With the brush of your lips, and
I needed you,
Needed you...
Alas...only the
Soft of shadows remain,
To light disrobed hours, where
Perfumed winds whisper
Precious echoes of your words;
Tracing the patient hues of roses, that will always dream
To sway in the twilight of your arms........
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
There’s a clumsiness
to the way I unbutton my shirt,
hoist it over my head
and let it snuffle to the floor.
I stand there, *******
and unkempt armpit hair on display
but you’ve already almost
totally disrobed,
the light from outside
licking your spine,
dribbling down a leg
like melted sunflower petals.
We catch each other’s eyes,
except you don’t catch eyes,
you see the other person
looking at you
and you know what’s next,
the standing ****
dry skin and bellybuttons
viewed only by a fortunate few,
a bunch of names
like grapes squashed
into bed sheets
we won’t touch again.
I think this is supposed to be sexier,
my underwear flinging off,
boxer shorts champagne cork
towards the window,
your bra sunny side up
by the foot of the door.
Rather I watch you
peer at the skin I’m in
waiting for a shrill buzzer sound,
a number out of ten
and a spatter of applause
from a conjured-up crowd.
I think you look glorious.
I go to say this but my brain feels
as though it’s been whisked.
You walk over, slink your hands
towards my face,
put an icicle finger to my lips.
I’ve no idea what I’m doing
but you’ll show me the way.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 11:34 AM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
**Because the beauty of your ****** is not a sin.**
I saw you in the twilight
Disrobed in the state of nature
And I gaped and gasped in awesome delight
Spellbound and elated in rapture
As I beheld your voluptuous features
As I gazed upon your priceless treasures
From peak of the mountain
I went down to the fountain
In the valley of your mons veneris
And holding on to your alluring pillars
I have been transfixed at the altar of your estuary
The estuary of your conjugal sanctuary.
I saw the falconer trading his falcon
With the bounty hunter for his gun
Lost in their lust for your connubial offerings
Spellbound by the allures of your charms
And I came in the fleeting mist of the fleeing night
To behold you even before the Aurora Borealis
And saw you embracing the heavenly light
As Father Heaven kissed Mother Earth
And you were enchanted in heavenly mirth
Oblivious of my winking mortal eyes
Hypnotized in the ether of celestial bliss.
At the unveiling of the beloved daughter of Eve
Made perfect in the bowels of boundless love.
Let the fire be kindled in my heart
The eternal flame of my spirit
The breath of eternity
The ether of life formed in purity
Born bare and born free
As my enchanted eyes can now see
Freed from the chains of pains
The pains of natal travails
Oh! Woman! Thou art the vessel of motherhood.
And in thy mammary gourds abound our first food
How much every man in bound to thy *****
For from the canal every man is born
Through the third eye of Eve where love flows
From the seed sown the fruit is grown
The sweetest fruit of love is found in the ******
To behold your naked beauty is not a sin.
~~ Orikinla Oosinachi, 2006.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
~
as she poses
for the boys
her irony is
on display.
the naked truth
not easily deduced,
it’s not just they
that's being seduced.
her looks they’ve bought,
no heart nor touch,
a stage, a pole,
for them disrobed;
“just leave your
money please!”
mum says, *“ladies
don't act that way!”*
but mum ain't seen
hard times like these;
*“com’on mum,
let’s get along...
you gotta know,
its juxtaposition!”*
behind bars,
for driving cars;
stolen sweets
were such a treat;
*“com’on Judge,
rich guys got
more cars than sense,
what the difference?
if i take just one,
for just a spin,
the only joy
i'll ever ride...
and besides, he
left his keys inside
my valet shack.
those miles and dents,
that i put on, surely
ain't deserving this.
sweet fruit was
hanging far too low
for my resistance.
not my fault, you know;
it’s juxtaposition!”*
he sits high atop
a silver tower,
set beside the ocean fair;
existence storied for
he climbed every floor.
they call them shares,
it's what he sells,
but this brand of
sharing ain’t
what his mamma told.
it's a shell game by
a different name;
for it's more his soul
that he has sold.
you could say,
*“for a song his soul
sells short sales
down by the seashore.”*
or, you could say
just what he says,
“it's juxtaposition!”
~
*post script.
what prompted this? the city in which i live has the dubious and insidious distinction of having the greatest number of strip clubs per capita in these United States; not exactly something to be proud of. and yet i realize there are many ways to sell one's soul.
truth doesn't have many sides; if something does, then we can't call it truth; for truth, like gravity can be called many things, but under any name we still fall...
and come up short!
but then... that's just-my-position!*
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
Miryam meets you at the bar
of the base camp in Madrid.
She has an orange juice
and cereals
and a coffee chaser.
Did you sleep o.k?
you ask, sitting beside her,
with a coffee
and toast and cigarette.
Sure,
she says,
afterwards.
Her eyes light up
like lights
on a pinball machine
when it's played well.
You? she asks,
you sleep all right?
Sure, but the ex-army guy
wasn't too pleased,
me getting back in the tent
at that hour,
you say.
**** him,
she says.
No thanks,
you reply.
She sips the juice,
her lips hold the glass
as she drinks,
her mouth is fish-like
as she swallows.
You talk about
the ex-army guy's moans
about his mother's boyfriend,
how they don't
get along(he
and the boyfriend),
and how he feels
left out and how
he got thrown out
the army because
he was suicidal.
She sips,
and you watched
her eyes feasting on you
as they did
the night before,
and you recall her
********** in
the small space
of her tent,
the girl she shared with
off ******* some guy
she'd met on the coach,
the tall guy
with an Australian accent.
You watched her,
as you disrobed yourself,
the space throwing
you together,
each touching each,
kissing and **********
and kissing.
He still feel suicidal?
she asks.
Guess so,
you say,
tried to talk him
through it all,
laying there
in my sleeping bag,
half asleep,
listening
and talking to him,
eyes closing,
and his voice
becoming a drone.
Anyway,
he seemed happier after,
snoring not long after,
as I was laying there
thinking of you.
She eats the cereal,
talks about the girl
coming back
just after you left,
well ******
and happy,
glassy eyed,
giggling
and stinking of *****
You sip the coffee,
take in her small ****
pressing against
her coloured top,
flowers and balloons,
patterns, eye catching.
She begs a smoke
from your packet
and you nod,
and she takes one out
and lights up
from the red
plastic lighter,
the cigarette,
held between her lips,
kissable lips,
lickable.
Yes, it had been
a good night,
you and she
and someone
strumming a guitar
from the bar,
nearby,
loudly singing,
not far.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
Morning:
My taken place at the faucet, a peer
Staring into eyes, not sworn to me
And I was standing, looking in the mirror
Speaking as my reflection
Spoke back to me.
I was shocked when he took my hand
Starting speaking about identity
I was shocked he knew so much
More of me
Than I.
He talked about my too-long hair
Or how good I looked in green
Or how messy my morning face could be
Or whether I was feeling smart or lean.
He knew it all:
I’d go so far to say more of me than I.
Evening:
Look to the east! A sun set
—Bravo! At least consistent and THEN gone.
Me? I’ve no such liberty
I couldn’t even tell, bereft a mirror,
The thing I like to call me.
Walking the roads, lined with lights
Bustling, living,
Lined with sights
Constituting the parts of me, invisible
—Added to nothing, they’re indivisible
Closed, exposed, fall and drizzle
Without the gall keep hold
From doors and boughs
In the windows—I’m there now
And THEN I’m gone.
Night:
The stone church’s door where
The righteous moor their souls
Piety flows
In its golden veins
And I’m there no more.
Their God does hate me
Without presence in the
Pews; I’m dross
Since the saint I chose
Was Saint Me beatified
Confirmed from the sinner Laity Goss
—So I turn
To the school affording play in my words
And a tact therefore
But rejects
All but their templates in blue shoes
Who sleight my for company
Only when within them
Or drowning in *****
—So I turn
To the wilderness
Blooming in virginal grapes
Disrobed save the skin
Unfamiliar,
Self-aware but only on a whim
And whirlwinds that blow
Ice and shrapnel and
Exile me to the country
Where not but dearth may grow
In a single season of mine
—So I turn
Too afraid of that winter
So much more the fall
And me in the mirror
Knows it all, knows it plenty
A casual drop in a casual chat
About identity
—So I turn
Back to the mirror
Back to it all
With showers and pictures in its wall
Staring into eyes, sworn not to me
Speaking as my reflection
Speaks back to me
I was not shocked he knew so much
More of me than I,
Since he strides alongside mine
And only in a certain climb
Telling me
It’s almost time, I’m almost there
But it’s not clear in which direction,
Or where.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
"Don't try too hard."
Beloved mantra for today's people
who are so scared to be disrobed.
What ugliness are they hiding?
When there is a chance of failure,
to try is to be naked.
I forget this memo occasionally.
I'm the one who makes passionate love
to my attempts, embracing ******
and this, sometimes, I come to regret.
But there are times when
my results are beautiful,
and worth every inch of shame ridden.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Piercing the shrouded sky
They fight against surrounding black:
Like flowers breaking through sidewalk cracks,
The light seeps through the darkness.
Between the leaves
The stars reach for the eyes…
But now thought reaches away:
I escape myself through abstraction
As the past violently asserts itself:
Remembrance induced by a careless focus
On a memory flowing from a present vision:
The tree
now
Clothed in leaves
Beckons forth remembrance:
*Autumn leaves,
Trundling into legs only to move past
As they ride the restless winds
Whispering their own poems
Of meaning only experience could collect…
They rush
Through fallow ditches
And enclosing brush which
Form a pattern around
The tree that beckons forth
- With disrobed branches glistening
White under stars,
Dampened by the still-settling dew-
A Self-realization that obliterates all boundaries
And encompasses no thoughts,
but the One
which gives them:
The One which gives a breath
Held together by the moments
Which trail the first puff of white
that joins the airs that wrap themselves
around the tree reaching up to the stars
which do not reflect the one who sees them
but give the light
towards which thought now reaches.*
All these memories induce
The longing to feel the openness
No words could possibly posses
As slowly the months fade
Into the dissolving moments it takes
For the eyes to reach up to the light.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
Quirks
of fate
make nonsense
of us all
Shipwrecked
on a vain reality
we stand naked
— before the Queen
(Dreamsleep: October, 2025)
Oct 12, 2025
Oct 12, 2025 at 11:37 AM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
*A New York City state of mind
stagnating a pretty face,
one in a crowd of thousands
had big billboard dreams
dressed to the nines
in expectation's
high class perfection
barefaced realizations'
disrobed an illusion - -*
'neath harsh spotlights of reality
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
Your fate was woven in the silence of time.
Embroidered with dread and pain.
Made bearable with bonds of friendship and love.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
Disrobed in the darkness, the sky freckled
with the light of stars, shivering.
Never will we forget the undying.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
For fate is something twined in a misty veil.
Ignore the flute that sighs a sweet melody.
For you, Noctis, will be bound to your threnody.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
Born with the Storm's Blessing,
in all it's strength and might and glory,
all that will be left for you is a ruin
of crying waters, deathless flames, and
flooding song of the Oracle's lyre.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
Her hair of spun gold; a primose in white,
and pearls around her slender wrists.
In her hand, a sylleblossom, bent low
in your final kiss.
Your final promise.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
She stands strong, her trident in hand,
knowing that she is a phantom of
transient life.
She looks at you.
In a field of flowered ice.
Standing as days of harsh sun and rain pass by.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
It haunts you.
The memories of where you dare not
tread.
Yet.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
Give yourself into the song of the sweet summer bird.
Give yourself to the Oracle - the Morn's Star who
fears no sun in her wake. For she was born
to die in the light.
As are you.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
No need to be afraid, Noctis.
Your corona is a crown that befits no other.
For all shall witness it's splendour and glory
as the Chosen King.
The days are waning.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
The nights are burning.
Alive with daemons and weeping plagues.
The Sun and Moon reap pain sown
from so long ago.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
It's alright.
Because you will be beyond our world.
Where you will no longer be weary.
Where you will no long be pitied.
Where you will finally be free.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
Where Love is sweet and Sleep is kind.
To you both.
The Storm was always yours.
It blessed you for good reason.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
Where the moon is full and the sun is high,
Where the mountains stand so strong in vain,
Where the meadows chant and greet the light,
Where the roses bloom and sylleblossoms cry dew,
Where the wind carry joy and not whirls of sad.
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
There you are,
The King of Kings,
Noctis Lucis Caelum,
and his consort,
Lady Lunafreya,
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
I see you there.
Swaying and drifting off to the sound
of sweet chimes.
Under the Sky of the Light's Night...
~ ☾☀️☽ ~
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 4:04 PM UTC