"domestica" poems - Hello Poetry

Soon I will be done with the ledger of my adolescence The sun is still in his puberty, though older than me The moon is still in her perfection, a blessed queen I have bejeweled you with the sweat of my love And have garlanded your beauty with rubies and pearls…. Today you are the ocean of love, And I the sunny heat of summer. You came that day, Expecting for your arrival Sun poured shower of anguish on my amethyst Panjabi Out of the blue You appeared like an expected spring In her colorful curcuma domestica costumes. Your locks under the veil of spring’s yellow umbrella Still counting the days, the nights, the ongoing time, Sometimes my heart in quest of a Time –machine…. We took the weight off our feet under a Blessed tree I touched your hand joining my two palms The cold current of spring was soaring there My ill-fated heart could not Kiss your "Petals of Blood" I drowned, I drowned in my own made ocean……..

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Sep 26, 2013

Sep 26, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC

md-huda

My song of adolescence

Soon I will be done with the ledger of my adolescence The sun is still in his puberty, though older than me The moon is still in her perfection, a blessed queen I have bejeweled you with the sweat of my love And have garlanded your beauty with rubies and pearls…. Today you are the ocean of love, And I the sunny heat of summer. You came that day, Expecting for your arrival Sun poured shower of anguish on my amethyst Panjabi Out of the blue You appeared like an expected spring In her colorful curcuma domestica costumes. Your locks under the veil of spring’s yellow umbrella Still counting the days, the nights, the ongoing time, Sometimes my heart in quest of a Time –machine…. We took the weight off our feet under a Blessed tree I touched your hand joining my two palms The cold current of spring was soaring there My ill-fated heart could not Kiss your "Petals of Blood" I drowned, I drowned in my own made ocean……..

19

Bullace hedge haematoma blue-black against the fading, once young green, bruising for sharp winter thoughts, clean frost lines, untouched snow-blank focus but before, to swell and drop in the last pale suns, feed the field mouse, rabbit and endure the muds

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Oct 15, 2021

Oct 15, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC

drunkenkind

Prunus domestica

Bullace hedge haematoma blue-black against the fading, once young green, bruising for sharp winter thoughts, clean frost lines, untouched snow-blank focus but before, to swell and drop in the last pale suns, feed the field mouse, rabbit and endure the muds

11

We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones as a vivisection, on our love. there, she’s whispering into shells into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute. I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea always accompanied as I were with the shark-eye, death, of her looks. We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe, filled the place up with lit and lightless places, Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued. Spent hours inside, laying floorboards and then laying on them to stare at the sodium lights and discuss the inkblots on our eyes. We vivisected our lives, and splashed it on the walls and carved it into the carpets. We set alight to christmas trees when the kids were sleeping upstairs. We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror and answered the door. Valentines day was full of bone bouquets, the gripper rods grew through the carpet so on them we danced. I prayed for the first time in the first year and every one hit me subesquently like I was its anvil. I should have gone to war. Because it makes forever shorter things can only happen right now.  I watched everything in our domestica, like when the static moved off the television and played on the window gutting me of my escape. The smiles hung on our faces like lupus, We had people round, we cooked and coughed and choked And their faces peeked round from the doorframe and laughed. The domestica lives only to be a bit of fun, but in the very same span of time that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill and my children’s love for me and my dexterity. We’ve happened to the whole world too I promise you, my love, my little hospice fire, my flat tire at night at nowhere, the lie you recognise means it’s over, A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers, the brightest night when you’re hiding, your heart attack on holiday, your bloodstained bed sheet And sleep, whilst outside the sleet and snow makes every emergency harder to get to, and still the morning much more beautiful. I, you, we happened.

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Jan 2, 2016

Jan 2, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC

harry-randle-marsh

Domestica

We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones as a vivisection, on our love. there, she’s whispering into shells into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute. I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea always accompanied as I were with the shark-eye, death, of her looks. We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe, filled the place up with lit and lightless places, Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued. Spent hours inside, laying floorboards and then laying on them to stare at the sodium lights and discuss the inkblots on our eyes. We vivisected our lives, and splashed it on the walls and carved it into the carpets. We set alight to christmas trees when the kids were sleeping upstairs. We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror and answered the door. Valentines day was full of bone bouquets, the gripper rods grew through the carpet so on them we danced. I prayed for the first time in the first year and every one hit me subesquently like I was its anvil. I should have gone to war. Because it makes forever shorter things can only happen right now.  I watched everything in our domestica, like when the static moved off the television and played on the window gutting me of my escape. The smiles hung on our faces like lupus, We had people round, we cooked and coughed and choked And their faces peeked round from the doorframe and laughed. The domestica lives only to be a bit of fun, but in the very same span of time that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill and my children’s love for me and my dexterity. We’ve happened to the whole world too I promise you, my love, my little hospice fire, my flat tire at night at nowhere, the lie you recognise means it’s over, A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers, the brightest night when you’re hiding, your heart attack on holiday, your bloodstained bed sheet And sleep, whilst outside the sleet and snow makes every emergency harder to get to, and still the morning much more beautiful. I, you, we happened.

61

Today I fill my stomach With happiness and greed I use you and you use me But not just for the means I’m here because I want to be, Because you asked me, kind; I savor your lips on my lips because you asked if I would mind; The way the empty cavity within my chest is now close to bursting, You destroy me and distract me, somehow without the pain and hurting.

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Oct 13, 2020

Oct 13, 2020 at 4:23 PM UTC

Acora

Malus domestica

Today I fill my stomach With happiness and greed I use you and you use me But not just for the means I’m here because I want to be, Because you asked me, kind; I savor your lips on my lips because you asked if I would mind; The way the empty cavity within my chest is now close to bursting, You destroy me and distract me, somehow without the pain and hurting.

12

Love, what have you become? In broomsticks and cupboards and pantries, On the dust-covered stairs, In the breathless rush of faucet water, On the crumpled lampshade at night, Love is the summation of an individual’s life alone, Somehow still expressed by two across the bridge of language failing.

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Aug 6, 2019

Aug 6, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC

ChrisSaitta

Symphonia Domestica

Love, what have you become? In broomsticks and cupboards and pantries, On the dust-covered stairs, In the breathless rush of faucet water, On the crumpled lampshade at night, Love is the summation of an individual’s life alone, Somehow still expressed by two across the bridge of language failing.

7