"distinguishable" poems
Snow fell deeply on the graves that night,
falling on both the wealthy and not so,
coating with cleanliness and purity all who
do not deserve and the very few who may.
The snow descended coldly and quietly,
blanketing gravestones and statues alike.
Distinguishable only by their shadows
and heavenward thrusts and stances,
they continue to designate where bodies
lay and bright hopes are finished.
Despite the softness and the silence,
above the solitude and endless white,
the boundless rage of ended dreams
seems to penetrate upward, to shriek.
--
Sep 10, 2011
Sep 10, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
Often times I’m staring
Awing in the curves of full blooming lips
Carved jawbone covered with deepening dark moss
The journey through the damp forest after warm rain
It is all awake alive and breathing clearly
Rising and falling like the rare drops from deciduous leaves
I cannot tell you how inhuman you feel to me
Your skin darkens around your eyes from nights up
Long evenings too many and whiskey that never even made it to a cup
Sometimes I cannot break a gaze from the casement around your pupil
The pools of honey drip further toward me
My feet find it impossible to remove themselves
So much like quicksand but sweet calming and warm
Smooth and simplistic in youth the way skin drapes
Hangs over structured bones in the most phenomenal way
Just as your eyes are lavished in graham brown
You stay glowing even in the cold weather from blessed ancestry
Down to tender arteries and muscle where I’ve placed lips a thousand times
Shoulders swoop outwards like broad boulders
Distinguishable markers play connect the dots toward inked surfaced skin
Permanence of scarred lines forming a hot air balloon and anchor pulling it down
It’s from your favorite band, I’m noticing synapses collide on the concept
Elongated extended vines lead to tools that hold and create masterpieces
Strong slender hands with fingertips that press and pluck strings
Coat themselves with paint on late evening or early mornings
Tread lightly on my skin and illuminate my face with a coaxing touch
You are the rain forest from sunrise
My heart thumps to the sense of danger behind a corner
But I know such things and if they were to **** me,
I would be treasured in becoming a tall Kapok
With roots buried miles deep
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Hair the colour of an Americano,
Petite denim shorts, blue.
The scent of a perfume distinguishable, to you.
Those skin-coloured tights – pleading to be torn.
You’re everything I desire.
Yet you’re everything I resent.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
Separate proudly.
You are an entity of your own.
Incomparable we all are.
For they are they and you are you.
For I am myself.
There is space;
tangible emptiness
that sustains our independence.
And with our bodies,
with our minds,
liberated and unique,
we move forth onto the paths which we forge..
carrying beautiful,
distinguishable quirks,
true to the individual.
We cannot be concerned
with where and how others step,
for our trail escapes us then.
And on our way await our gifts
and the places where we may leave ours in exchange.
Another's trail I shall not seek,
and shall not want to find.
For only one is mine.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:15 PM UTC
DRESSMAKERS to the stars J’Aton have turned designer detectives after one of their most valuable couture gowns was stolen from a bride’s home last week.
The one-of-a-kind gown, which was stolen from Leanne Bartucca’s Greenvale residence along with other valuables, is estimated to be worth more than $40,000.
It weighs more than 18kg, and features intricate 100-year-old vintage French lace that has been carved and sculpted onto leather and layered tulle.
J’Aton designers Anthony Pittorino and Jacob Luppino, who also made the wedding gowns of Rebecca Judd, Nadia Bartel, Jodi Gordon and Yvette Prieto, wife of Michael Jordan, are appealing to the public in the hope that if it goes for sale online, someone will recognise the distinctive dress.
“We are so devastated for our dear friend Leanne; that dress has a special place in our hearts and is so sentimental to us all,” the pair said.
“It’s a dress that we created especially for Leanne, it has her and her husband’s initials embroidered into the train and we just hope that if anyone recognises the distinguishable design for sale on websites or social media, that they report it to the police.”
Ms Bartucca, who wore the dress in March, 2014, says she has been devastated by its theft.
“It’s such a sentimental thing; my family and the J’Aton boys have been checking the internet daily in the hopes that we will see it for sale,” she said.
“I had dreams of using the fabric from it for my children’s christening gowns, and even framing a section of the fabric for our home.
“[The thieves] definitely knew what they were doing. As a former fashion buyer, I was surprised how much they knew — what they left behind was just as telling as what they took.
“They could tell the difference between real and fake jewellery, they left certain shoe brands behind and obviously went straight for the J’Aton dress, which was covered in tissue paper and in a white box at the top of the wardrobe.”
Police said they were investigating whether the burglary was in relation to another in the same area.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
Preponderant enchantments written
With dawns bereft tears
Of a hircine mendicant
Upon a necromantic acorn
Thirsting times wild-wize monition
During a week of sundays
Atide sins wake awash
Clarities purification.
Natures immure debt drawing
Maledictions masterpiece,
Leys bane web mercifully mirroring
Obsidian sibilant eyes
Peccably prenouncing the portent
Languid whisper inquisitorially;
Heavens augumented vestments
Distinguishable amid eternities
Pensive shade as thuriferous
Hallowed tombs loom black
As ink, somewhere that was
Thought to be void far between
The dark hour anchoring the
Fractured talisman of loves memoirs.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
The *** with match, lit the fire
scolding kettle with burnt goaless ambition.
claiming snobbish golden prowess
paid in wanton , savage, screaming tuition.
"It is I" said ***
"Who has sent aromas of worlds
preperations in lifes gluttonous lust
smiling rewards genorously hailed
with slothed culanary trust..."
"tis true" whispered kettle
"It is I, the ***
forged in iron clad
who in laborious toil
so generously cast my sweet savory scraps
amongst your soot and soil..."
"tis true" hissed kettle,
"For I, the ***
adapt in multiple arrangement
of compliment and comfort where you lack
with singular solitary function
wailing, seared and scarred in black..."
"Tis true" whistled kettle
"I, the ***
filled in glorious substance and magnificant sustenance
praised in lifes delicate, vital, victuals and viands
in with which I do enhance..."
"Tis true" howled kettle
"Yet it is I, Kettle,
in further fashion of design
than copious function in fare
do not heed your song and dance..."
"Blah" clammered ***
"For it is I, the lowly kettle,
sing to each melodious morning
to begin the days
unknown magical soaring..."
"Pishaw" growled ***
"It is I, kettle,
bestowed in somber, modest truth of fact
nakedly express that
you too, my dear ***
are simply black..."
"humbug" steamed ***
*** humbled... kettle mumbled...
"It is in each honorable day
we serve our distinguishable stay
in detectable unadorned identicle way.
"Tis true" said ***
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 3:27 AM UTC
Somewhere after the nothingness and
antecedent to this somethingness,
Where you and me aren't two but an absolute one,
Where you and me aren't distinguishable by any means and no means,
And Where the time is unleashed from the unboundedness,
I want you to come to there with me consciously,
And that's where we will stay forever....ever...
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
I want to free fall into the Mariana Trench.
I want to watch the world become darker and darker till light is not in the dictionary.
Forms of life will become less distinguishable with every meter.
Motel rooms and apartments litter the crevice's walls-"low" income housing-
Soup kitchens begin to occur less frequently-
Replacing them are drug houses and grimy gas stations with metal bars for windows.
Every creature notices my existence.
They dart their eyes just too much,
And I know they suspect that I came here to sleep. To be at peace with myself again.
To watch them, to hear them, to wander them.
In my mind, seconds melt like ice cream cones in July.
Minutes cut through the silence unnoticeably.
Time slips underneath me as the rug is pulled out from my feet and over my eyes,
And it covers my mind.
I remember nothing of past events,
They told me to leave all behind.
As the day grows darker into nothing but here and now,
My skin turns blue. I am the ocean in this divide of magnetic silence.
I am the fish who struggle to find meaning for themselves.
I am time which does not exist here.
I am the water whose stagnancy sinks me deeper into earth and beings of past eons.
My hair becomes the nutrients, the seaweed and algae that provide for the citizens of this primitive paradise.
My eyes are now seashells which house these forgotten creatures.
My arms stretch out towards surface and harden into coral shoots, but my mind is rooted into sea floor basalt and sand.
I will never leave.
An eel approaches me.
He welcomes me with a warm embrace too far up my body.
Not an under-the-arms hug,
A beating, lively hug around the neck.
It takes my breath away,
And so I cannot help but gasp with excitement,
And I find my peace.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
You wore extra sunblock because you admired the girls in magazines
That had skin like porcelain free of any blemish or distinguishable mark
When freckles began to spread across your skin you would cry to yourself
Because you felt farther away from your idea of beauty than ever before
When you started wearing makeup to cover them up it broke my heart
Because your freckles were the first thing that I fell in love with
The way they scattered across your face like stars in the night sky
It made me feel like I was looking at something rare and extraordinary
When you said I was too good for you I thought it was just a lame excuse
I assumed you never really loved me to begin with so I decided to give up
I really wish I hadn't been too upset to look you in the eyes that day
Because if I had I would have seen the sadness and heartbreak in them
And I would have known that you really believed all of the things you said
I never forgot the girl with the freckles and a part of me never stopped loving her
Once you love somebody I think a part of you holds on forever
I wish I could tell her that every time I look at the stars I see her face
May 25, 2011
May 25, 2011 at 8:03 PM UTC
Here I sit in a shed,
fueled by an appetite un-fed.
Unfortunately not for a burger and curly fries
But a distinguishable visage who tells no lies.
But then again if I continue to wait,
everything will be simultaneously late.
So I guess it's time to get off,
of an image more fictitious then something by Boris Karloff.
Just a Frankenstein of my own creation,
seeking some known relation.
While inhaling more than air.
Taking an unformulated dare.
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 3:20 AM UTC
From the beach my group departs for a deep sea fishing excursion
Huddled in a fiberglass vessel known as the Barracuda
Captain Alberto is a burly man with dark skin and a silver tooth
Operating the motor is his young apprentice and amigo
The captain has his children’s names painted on the hull
One of them, Estrella, rings out in my mind
The boat rocks me nearly nauseous in the bobbing motions
My excitement builds as I photograph a variety of species
Fish would breach the surface, birds would swoop and dive
I even saw a whale
Distinguishable by tail
We slowed down for a better look at century-old tortugas
Circled round a mating pair, voyeurs to procreation
An engine boom and acceleration meant there was a bite
Alberto took the rod yet handed it to my party
The Mahi-Mahi swam and pulled with all its mortal strength
Its yellowish body shining and shimmering while it leapt
Our captain unsheathed an instrument for pulling the fish aboard
A candy cane shaped hook with a fine blade ending the curve
Impaled the marine dweller, pinned his body to the deck
It flopped about violently seeming to spill blood by the gallon
I found the creature’s face to be both hideous and handsome
A long bony bridge protruded from its forehead
Here, Alberto beat the beast to death with a wooden bat
It died with dignity
Fed a family
I thank the sea
For this gift
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
Apperating into the distance it flawlessly exceeds my view
Effortlessly sailing higher- transcending into the nothingness
Beyond the clouds and into the blue
Transpiring into what must of been the fabric of existence itself
A void of any distinguishable colour or shape
It's black, blue, grey aura is all that's left behind
Like lingering dreams in the dwindling morning hours- just before they fade to black and leave us in silence
Gazing out into the nothing around me, my feeble eyes hang motionless
Stricken by what was, what wasn't and by what could have been...
Only to have woken in uncertainty- Lucidity clinging on in the last dying image of pastel reveries...
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
what we fear as death is just
decor.
victorian, french country, industrial,
rustic;
doesn't matter.
the bones are the same.
some people expire smiling in
neon pink plastic lawnchairs
or pierce the veil ******** themselves on dove-grey french provincial settees from the 18th century.
we have numbed ourselves in our
endless pursuit of complexity;
walked off the precipice of that
final ecstatic unraveling
while wide-eyed and trembling
at the sight of aesthetics,
as cheap as they are fleeting.
we must garder à l'esprit that it all burns to ash, singular in characteristic, that is scattered by winds indifferent to any distinguishable feature in the
many beliefs twisted into the teeth
of sleeping behemoths dreaming of feasts they had yet to awaken to.
it, what we fear, is shapeless.
the absence of all accumulated
delusion, confusion, or fluid lucidity.
ancient.
a non-locality that is the total
sum of the All collapsing in on
it's most basic components
also collapsing in on...elsewhere?
i'm done.
please, come and sit.
tell me how you like your tea?
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
The primal cause,
A distinguishable passion.
Irrevocable truth unabided by
Beliefs expressed in dimensionality.
The fire with me burns,
It churns and rises.
Power self-contained
Is glory in it's own fate.
I enter the lair of truth
And seek no counsel.
Therefore I revel,
Proceeding with conviction
Expressing imagination
My minds eye proclamation.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
All my herbs have lost their taste,
and all my spices are now sand.
My rosemary is still fresh.
I've always hated rosemary,
it tastes like garbage.
So the question is... do I put it on my meal?
Is it better to have a blandness in my food,
leaving me unsatisfied?
Or put on the grossly distinguishable flavor of rosemary,
to add variety, for the sake of difference?
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
the earth world retains its soiled crust,
more polluted than just a few weeks ago,
meaning me is meaner, an iron irony ironic,
madness and meanness anger me more
than-ever-before turning me sour, an infection
and an self-inflection point, forgive me cause
I no longer easy forgive, starting with me, here.
it is so easy to be easier, but the creeps creep in,
what they possess interdicts the free
flowing blood of what we could be,
maybe, even
what we want to be, for some of us,
so I’ve come to display,
come to splay,
come to say,
nice has
been disposed of, in overflowing corner city garbage can,
spilling onto the street, madness and meanness,
littered and the lies sugarcoat it with veneers of
righteous, cause anyone can claim the moral
high ground, but find me the low places, where
honesty is not defined by an ism, or in only your opinion,
and right and wrong are so oft
so easy distinguishable…
yeah, soured on many things, and what hasn’t changed
cannot be shared, for too many will seek to pollute these few
good things remaining.
and the mirrored reflection of my inflection point
is my soiled infection, red, swollen,
and being this away is…new
8:04am
Sat Oct 21 2023
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 8:10 AM UTC
How can it be that
a melody can make you feel like you belong
and not, all at once?
I find myself in a composed dissolution
The world can stop, and the ground below me will give way to
the sudden awareness of a sensation
that is similar to being lost in your own room.
Suddenly, this "place" seems very raw
Things inside you open up and makes distinguishable
where you are
where you've been
and where you've yet to be.
And
Sometimes people are like that.
Your eyes are where I am
Our fights are where I have been, time and time again
and finding peace with those two rifts is where I have yet to be.
Glaciers could snap and crash with volleys of icy hell fire
Soberly frozen earth could nick my cheeks and arms
and my cold skin could remain as tout as a tuned string instrument
ready to produce sound
But,
turning inside myself, searching for a bridge to this rift produces a silence so deafening
I can hear the humming of stars
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
A moment when the spirit left the body
This happens too everybody
On this particular day, it’s a man by the of Eddie Hill I will say
Mr. Hill had been sick for quite a while
He was always active being his style
Everything happened so fast
Mr. Hill was diagnosed with Cancer
His body was starting too fade
His body is what God made
His face being a mire skeleton from his true self
Mr. Hill was distinguishable like nobody else
The family came for a visit
It was those passing moments of a limited tomorrow
After the family left
Mr. Hill felt into a deep eternal sleep
Suddenly a voice shouted, “Awake, awake”
Mr. Hill was surprised and didn’t know where he was
It was an Angel dressed in all white telling Mr. Hill he arrived in Heaven
The Angel then told Mr. Hill to rise too the occasion
“Your days on earth with your spirit in Heaven in a new birth”
This is Heaven in which you see
Chosen ones enter and that comes from thee
Your days of sorrow no more and it’s your praise that will soar
So awake, and stay awake for Heaven’s sake.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
A small thin streak
Barely distinguishable from the stinging sweat
That accompanies dedication
I suppose the current circumstances
Touched you in some way
So as to let this pioneer free himself
And blaze a trail down your cheek
Glistening in the morning light
I wish I knew what it was that
Stimulated you to shed some of your
Burden, which even now weighs
Heavily upon your shoulders
Shrouds your world in a
Melancholy gray
Do me a favor.
Call back your adventurer
If he should not answer, so
Fascinated as he is by the soft landscape
Introduce your mountain of a
Smile and block his path
For good.
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
My thirst for conversation has continued to impress me
Fills me with stories helping to shape another in my eyes
Met with friend for a mutual exchange of identity
An interview with questions directed; I asked first
Starting with the earliest formulation of conscious thought
Hers was the return of a sick father
She eagerly embraced him when he arrived home safely
Vividly describes the large red chair present
I transitioned to exchange of reflection most powerful
Searching for a single memory of hers that stood alone
Her face brightened, her eyes shining with nostalgia
Her dog’s name was Max
Max entered her life when she was one year old
On the celebration of her birth in fact
He was the runt of the pack, a ruby retriever
Grew to maturity and average size, with love
Max made his way into her writing in the classroom
His possible harm one of her first worries
He was a cherished family pet, she loved him with all her heart
Being a young child, sometimes she was too rough
Cancer took Max from this world at nine years of age
He was buried under a peach tree in the back yard
The peaches swollen and ripe make death turn to life
To this day they represent the sweetness of his soul
Her early years were full of stress at thought of parental separation
Subject to fickle fears and frozen emotions
Her true panic began in high school days
Developed into distinguishable attacks and episodes
There were never tangible reasons or focus points for fear
Racing thoughts, vertigo chills, imminent death
Creeping insanity and the dry, frustrating inability to swallow
Worsened as college approached and the familiar faded fast
Week one was worse than any panic period yet
Heart flutters, helplessness and disorienting dizzy spells
Friends were far away or had yet to be encountered
Sympathy for perceived insanity ran thin
These experiences require constant care and medication
Hospital visits and appointments with understanding ear
She shared her life with me through effect of anxiety
I shared in turn, but couldn’t help distraction
We did not record the interview so I took it upon myself
Documenting with equal force her story and my amazement
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 4:01 PM UTC
Through history are we distinguishable
What is the principle difference
Do we need a reference?
Human beings two legs
Wait what about paraplegics
Two eyes
What if they don't work?
You tell me to stop being a ****
What about arms and hands
Don't monkeys have them too
What is human about you?
A humans conscious thoughts legendary
But what is scary is that we form packs
Smoke crack
get high
and die
Follow our leaders like sheep
Morality isn't that deep
The Majorities rules ok
They say that atoms are interchangeable
But are they unique
Is there are creaking reality
Under the microscope
As we **** on our spliffs
And forget we ever thought of this
Try to forget as we spin out
On an ever changing axis
Like the earth we live on
Like the merry go round
I want to get off
My heart is beating uncontrollably
I try not to cough
For fear of being sick
Atoms between me and you
And I don't want to be a ****
I change the tv channel
On to something less learned
As my mind fashions more questions
To things I know more about
Or do I?
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
i hear the collective understanding
of dry sticks as they crack
the shock of alarm signals
like the migratory diaspora
of birds flying south
vibrates across tingling nerves
causing a necklace of choking
to grip at the throat
shivering I try to find a grave
I am watched from the summit of a hill
as a conflagration spreads
flames quiver
orange, yellow, purple, blue
there is an irregularity of thought
within me
my bones will soon
be pitched into debris
a petrified shiver
they still watch from
the summit of the hill
i collapse, gripped with a fear
of a permanent consignment
like that of dropping into a hollow
my face becomes plum stained
the income of breath becomes
a tenacious gasp
smoke swirls around me
blinding my red eyes
I become a misshapen
component of myself
standing like an effigy
hands raised in supplication
hysterically I try to
rid myself of this tyranny
find no distinguishable form
no solidified inquisitive intent
I rush and lash out
with a galvanised
inner adrenalin raised frenzy
a red sun appears
on the summit of the hill
ferocious in its heat
it lacks all euphony
and disintegrates with
debarring light
now speechless and cold
i fear the wind will find me
i move, burrow back
into a darkness
fire strokes across a green canvas
i am fault and disappear
without trace
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
If we could escape this heat
I think we would.
With a choice of geography I could see us somewhere cold,
Somewhere where our hands couldn't touch
Anything but the inside of gloves
Where our hearts wouldn't break with our fevers
Because only our memories would know what it was
Like to always be so hot.
We would never sweat next to each other
We wouldn't dare to.
We would know that each bead that dripped down our brow
Would harden into a marble, and we would never
Throw those stones at one another.
Besides, we never be so close to one another anyway
Not with our layers of fabric hugging our bodies so tight
That we would eventually forget what was underneath
And only recognize the form of each other by the patterns on our jackets
We wouldn't see each other as anything other than
A pile of laundry.
The site of piled clothing would not remind of us nakedness
But of how it felt to lay as children
Underneath a freshly dried pile of garments.
How we would feel the warmth as good at first but were then
Deceived by a burning hot brass button
That puckered the skin on the back of our
Necks, of our legs.
We could remember heat as heartbreak in our
Memories and it would be too far erased to ever recreate.
We could live for the cold, the sharp air
That would still the boiling liquids in our veins
That once made our hearts beat too vulnerable to not be hurt.
Our core would adapt to the cold
And it would harden our hot feeling and small morsels
Of memories together like a bag of peas in a freezer.
We can’t be so hot.
Not you and me, not together.
Not with mouths so dry from each others
Our bodies would have to make water for us.
Not with heads so full of steaming blood that feelings melted and
Swished together in a liquid until they were no longer distinguishable
As real things and were often so misunderstood
We added more liquid dilutions
Until they filled our bodies too full
They spilled out of eyes and burnt our faces.
We should move somewhere cold
Where everything is too solid to connect anything
And too still to break our hearts.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 6:07 PM UTC
Bouncing bubbly kooky
A bat was my teacher
Her hair all shades of fiery red
The most distinguishable feature
She would cling to Mr Russell
And giggle like a kid
He could only sit, uncomfortable
Every time she did
One day she came to class
With a cross look on her face
And cursed and muttered to herself
About the human race
We all just sat and stared
At our teacher in disgrace
While she crawled under the desk
Despite our love for her,
Mrs Christian is a shocking case
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC