"dons" poems
Gently, she goes
as soft as a fawn
opens the window
and waits for the dawn
fireflies glow
wind caresses her face
as she sheds all the shadows
not leaving a trace
She dons velvet darkness
wrapped in its cloak
releases all poisons,
sylphlike,
in smoke
She is preparing for battle
in her own, quiet way
She only wants wholeness
as she breaks through the gray
For soon she will weave
prismatic wonders of spells
her own inner aurora
lighting heaven from hell
For suffered she has
and it's time to forgive
unlock self-made prisons
and let herself live
and now as sunrise approaches
stars still in sight
she turns the skeleton key
and glides
into
flight
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
My words are not my own,
Nor do they belong to my totem frog
Which hippity hops
His way trough my life,
Guiding me towards a metamorphosis,
From drunkard
To enlightened.
He (I) sure am taking his time,
But should/could this journey be rushed?
My poems are not the caw of the crow and/or raven,
She does not sing a song so beautiful that I am moved to purge it least it take up too much of the spare space I have inside of me.
She is my spirit guide,
Turn this way, choose that one (with the pretty smile which makes you ever so nervous),
Do not wear that ridiculous outfit,
Don't even think of-
Too late, now live with the repercussions, idiot.
A ****** of voices.
My muse tickles my lust and embraces my love
But is neither.
She/he dons many faces none of which I have ever seen.
Whimsical ***** ******* of emotional release
I do not know you!
I write your words as they come into my head.
Or I would,
If I could keep up with your maniacal laughter;
You spew nonsense rapid fire, child slaying zombies with Cheetos stained fingers,
And with all the elegance therein.
Yet,
I am thankful indeed.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
An everyday masquerade
Where each person dons
A different façade,
Yet are all the same
Because it's all
A feigned version
Of the real,
True being inside.
A sea of faces,
Pressuring you,
To be alike;
You have to be
One of a kind,
Yet those who are
Are outcasted in
Everyday life.
So all wear the
Same mask,
Masking the flaws,
The rawness of it all;
Because of the
Social biases.
A place where
No one can be their
Honest self is
"Society".
A society,
Which in definition
Is a community
Of peoples,
Is no longer so.
There are only
One type of person,
Which all souls
Take host in.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Tes pas, enfants de mon silence,
Saintement, lentement placés,
Vers le lit de ma vigilance
Procèdent muets et glacés.
Personne pure, ombre divine,
Qu’ils sont doux, tes pas retenus !
Dieux !… tous les dons que je devine
Viennent à moi sur ces pieds nus !
Si, de tes lèvres avancées,
Tu prépares pour l’apaiser,
À l’habitant de mes pensées
La nourriture d’un baiser,
Ne hâte pas cet acte tendre,
Douceur d’être et de n’être pas,
Car j’ai vécu de vous attendre,
Et mon coeur n’était que vos pas.
In English:
Your footsteps, children of my silence,
Saintly, slowly placed
Towards the bed of my watchfulness,
Approach, muted and frozen.
Pure one, divine shadow,
How gentle, your cautious steps are!
Gods! …all the gifts that I can guess
Come to me on those naked feet!
If, with your lips advancing,
You are preparing to appease
The inhabitant of my thoughts
With the sustenance of a kiss,
Do not hurry this tender act,
Bliss of being and not being,
For I have lived for waiting for you,
And my heart was only your footsteps.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
*where are women really safe?
how is it that society-collect FAILS
as humanity stumbles yet again.. and again?
our lady-folk are not safe*..
Amaya-bai finds little comfort but in sibilant-twin
as no eye of sun nor ginoo laid eye on this binukot
Olga is the silent-saint; believes in charity at home
yet chaos ensues too easily - she is wronged and just gets.. lost in the system
Zandile fetches precious amanzi in her sun-soaked calabash
her vigilant-sister falls.. roving guerrilla-men from the river's edge
Michelle, la petite belle, survives the daily-grind via low-coin
tubes to Champs-Élysées as assistante-de-pharmacie
Aadita, from the outset at 15, dons a veil hiding ****** acid-burns
she has some relative-luck to escape sati later on
Amy with downtrod-heart, grabs the tram to downtown family
wearing dark glasses and gloves on rainy-day blues
Emiko graced (yet cursed) with beauty struggles with ancient-practice
despite the ban, silent-suffering lotus-gait in the tiny village
Aisha may be alive but not well from ethnic-marking tragedy
as irugu are outcast from all-too prevalent gishiri-cruelty
*might as well take a trip to Vladivostok
or be dumped in a sarcophagus
beneath the Pyramids
safer there*
S T - 27 sept 2013 - freitag
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
It dons a hat of seeming sophistication, in the manner of a Boston gangster where cross-cultural expressions gather at Gaelic mouse-traps of East Coast dominance.
It is a heritage, my friend.
There is sophistication around Italian restaurants, and I have no regrets. Yet, I must say, that I have experienced minimal fun amidst this political Anglican black-comedy where integrity is often confused with connected colours of red, white and blue, and the colours of green white and gold.
This is a picture of illegitimate power, where brethren gnash their intellectual mandibles and covet recognition at the price of their very soul.
Delusional quests for superiority remind me of downward spiralling staircases with blazing torches, where the echoes of scorching souls can be heard to resound throughout professional circles.
As I carry this blazing torch through spiritual levels of command, I ask the question: whatever happened to humanity?
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
.
He doesn't realise...
The weight of his actions and words that pummel her to the ground.
Beating her down for every time she rises up to undo his ropes with which she's bound.
He doesn't see...
Past the darkened lenses that she dons.
She wears them,
not to shield her pride that was wrongfully taken,
but to protect him from the repercussions that would come with accusatory speculations.
He doesn't know...
Of the soaked pillow that accompanied her.
The rivulets of tears...
She had quietly shed without a whimper.
He doesn't hear...
The silent altercation between the treasure that beats in her chest and the thing that thinks in her head.
The struggle that ensues when the mind tries to rescind what the heart had wholly given and carelessly said.
He doesn't care...
To think of the devastating waves that come.
Only to erode the last bastion of hope she nurtures...
This frail wall that she prays for nightly.
Just so that it would hold up through another day's endeavour.
He doesn't feel...
The need for empathy.
For he thinks that he's god with one devout follower.
He commands her loyalty with his deluded testaments
and his fists as sceptre.
She doesn't live...
To see future suns.
For her day finally set when it all came down.
The wall she had feebly held together with her life...
Easily gave way when he came at her armed with a knife.
.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
Freedom, unadulterated freedom.
Freedom to dig little toes in the sand and run as naked and
as wild as the wind.
A freedom so complete and vast and uncensored
that it weighs like chains,
and chokes like an iron grip.
And so little hands meld mismatched links of their own,
rules and laws, and should's and should-not's,
tying little feet back to earth,
away from the suffocating sky of infinite possibilities.
Little hearts yearn for shackles,
feeling utterly exposed without them,
for a free body is one that tempts oppressors
unless he dons crude metal adornments of his own.
And so with the imprint of unsung lullabies
floating in the night air, little cheeks
nuzzle their iron blankies and doze off
under the familiar weight of confines and conformity.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
When the sky dons its robes of indigo,
I slip into a tranquil reverie where
shadows lengthen and soften,
and mirrors hold whispers of ancient stories.
A gentle breeze dances through the forest like secrets.
It’s a lullaby for a weary soul.
A gentle reminder than even in stillness,
there is movement, a world in transition.
As I stand on the threshold of day and night,
I think about all the fleeting moments
from my past self and embrace the twilight.
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 11:28 AM UTC
Time dons His thief's mask.
While we count days and hours,
He steals my stopwatch.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
Clicking their way forward and back,
Flip-flopping into or hearts
If a girl can con money
Out of their fathers’ pockets,
who’s to say
They can’t sway politicians?
Their lips kiss pictures.
Pictures of cannabis leaves, yellow and smiling
They live until they die,
don’t live until they’re married
And if they don’t find what they want,
what else do they need
besides a crowd of fellow millennials
Caring, caring?
Caring about cannabis’ rights
and the right to carry a GBF,
their money, their frame
and, above all, pepper spray
These girls are the new
honest, hard-working man,
Their sweet scent is coming.
Sweet pea and Moonlight Path.
the top-selling fragrances at
Bath and Body Works
Their battle-cry is only
as loud as their looks
Daisy dukes and Katy Perry
whispering, “What the hell is she wearing?
She dons thin, rose-gold underwear
and she’s lazy yet keyed-up
in her own skin
Her lovers are all the same
but she blames all men.
Her wings are Pink,
they protect her from catcalls.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
Never have a mermaid as a girlfriend
it is a deep sea fishy affair
she may have golden hair with silver limpets
yet she never dons any underwear
The times I take her out for picnics
it always has to be by the sea
and whilst I make sandy cucumber sandwiches
she is playing with her mates, alone she leaves me
I hate her to get into a flap
for her tail is wet and very strong
so as her land loving boyfriend
who loves her, I just have to go along
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
My poetry is not for you.
My heart is.
My words belong to the wind.
Emotions cause this volcano to explode.
A release of rhythm, of prose
Of joys and of pains
Of memories of today.
You are a muse.
That's amusing.
A tempest of a temptress,
Your touch sings maladies on my soul.
A dirge of crystal tears
Reflecting lost hope
Lost love.
This poem is not for you.
Yours is a smile that lightens
This burdensome heathen.
Whilst your scorn leaves new scars
Over old,
Like a worn patchwork cloak,
That no wizard ever wore
But this one dons with the certainty
Of the pious
And the loved.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
James Brown Wasn’t Wrong... !!!
You Have To Pay A Cost...
To... Move Like A BOSS... !!!
Otherwise You’ll Get Dropped...
Like... HIROSHIMA Bombs... !!!
If You Don't Move Strong...
And With Power Like KONG... !!!
That Helps You To WIN...
EVERY Fight That You're In... !!!
Because To Move Like A KING...
Takes... REAL DISCIPLINE... !!!
Which ISN’T Something...
That Subordinates Bring... !!!
A King Has Linchpins...
Just Like Wilson Fisk...
Or Bosses Equipped...
To RAISE TITANIC Ships... !!!
Or Flip Scripts Like CRIPS...
Whose Bloodline Is Rich...
In VIOLENT STINGS...
And BRUTAL Killings... !!!
If Their Path Is Crossed...
By... Bosses Or Cops...
Who Need To Get Stopped...
Because What They’ve Got...
Are Movements That Flop...
Like Heads Who Can’t Box...
So... Quickly Get Rocked...
When Chin Checks Connect...
Like Bullets Do Chests... !!!
You See Bosses Don’t Sweat...
When Pressures Upset...
Their Plans And Projects... !!!
They Just Use Their Minds...
As Well As... Wise Guys...
Or Made Men Whose Vibes...
Prove That They're Willing To DIE...
To Maintain Gangster Ties...
For Dons Or... " Patrons "... !!!
Escobars Or Those Known...
As Yes... Don Corleones... !!!
That’s Right Gangster Bosses...
Who DON'T Stand For NONSENSE... !!!
They Move Like Top Shottas’...
Who Fly... Helicopters...
So QUICKLY Solve Problems...
By Using SMART Plotters... !!!!!!!!
Who Stand By Their Sides...
That's Right Like Their Wives...
And Give Good Advice...
Because They Are Guys...
Who Are MORE Than Wise... !!!
When It Comes To Insights...
That Help Them... Survive... !!!
In Times Where They Face...
Detection And Fates...
That Fill MORE Than Graves... !!!
So Bosses MAINTAIN...
By USING Their BRAINS... !!!
And By Knowing That Fame...
May See Them ERASED... !!!
But Bosses Have Style...
And Have To Profile...
A FEARLESS Mindset...
When They Face Arrest...
Or Those Who Leave Heads...
of Horses In... BEDS... !!!
And Bosses PROTECT...
Their Fam’ To The END... !!!
But When They Face Threats...
That Limit Their Resistance...
An Option They'll ACCEPT...
Is To SHOOT Their CHILDREN...
And WIFE To Quell Threats...
From Their... Opponents... !!!
Right In FRONT of THEM...
And Then Say... "What's Next ?"... !!!
A REAL BOSS Moves DREAD... !!!
Or Are Those Who Express...
With TOTAL CONFIDENCE... !!!
When It Comes To Poems...
Or Spoken Words Said...
So That’s Right I’m The Type...
When It Comes To Tight Rhymes...
And Poetic Lines...
Who Does EPITOMISE...
One of The... TOP FLIGHT... !!!
Because Cash Might Be Nice...
And Can Get You A Wife...
Whose Body Is Tight...
And... Corporate Ties...
Or A Gangster Type Life... !!!
But You’d Best Recognise... !!!
That Just Like James Brown...
It’s... How You Get Down...
That Proves You’re No Clown... !!!
And That You Are STRONG... !!!
NO MATTER What Lifestyle...
Or Money You’ve Got... !!!
If What You Profile...
Is A POWER That ROCKS... !!!
That Makes Others NOD...
In Acknowledgment of...
The Fact That You’re One...
Even If You Are NOT... !!!
Who'll ALWAYS Get Props...
Because You....
... “ Move Like A BOSS ! ”...
Sep 22, 2021
Sep 22, 2021 at 9:19 PM UTC
Blanche
Perched high upon a gaudy throne
In her faded dream kingdom
Where everything is soft
And glimmers and glows
Where brutal reality is hidden
By soft colors, the colors of jasmine
And butterfly wings
Her singing
Weary and strained
Like a dying star
Turning the trick
She dons such deliberate disguises
White satin, a paper lantern
Oh Blanche
Purely corrupted
Lighting ****** candles
To hide the stains
And with wide-eyed laughter,
Uttering naivetés
Dropping virginal lies like pearls from a necklace
Clinging to hope
To unheard prayers, unseen supplications
Her restless eyes
Begging for mercy
And wandering aimlessly
Through rainy afternoons in New Orleans
Her lips whisper a battle cry
*I don't want realism. I want magic
I tell what ought to be the truth*
Truth is sin
Verity and naked bulbs be ******
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
[Life]
I
A man with no shoes
walks by with a limp.
His arms -
covered
in tattoos
and scars -
are lethargic
by choice.
The biting
winter sun
delivers respite
from late December
northerlies.
He reeks of Franzia.
Redolent, it shadows
him, haunts
him like what he drinks
to forget.
His unkempt white beard
is stained yellow
around the mouth
from years of cigarettes
and no-shave Novembers.
He dons a jacket
- faded glory -
that is two sizes too small
and his pants stay together
like a couple for their kids.
Too proud to join
the Salvation Army
on Christmas Eve,
he finds his bench,
lies down
and survives
one
more
night.
II
A man in a suit
drives home in an Audi.
His collar
is stained
with cheap lipstick
and Chateau Lagrange
from last night's
late night meetings.
Angie, his wife,
waits anxiously
at the door
of their four bedroom,
three and a half bath
Victorian.
Her eyes -
still puffy
and red -
fixated up Swann St.
She is not blinking
and barely breathing.
The kids
have been sent to Grandma's
for the night.
They watch TV -
SpongeBob SquarePants.
The Audi
drives by a man on a bench
He looks asleep -
possibly dead.
The suit inside thinks to himself:
“That poor man.”
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 9:33 AM UTC
*My unveiling means
nothing
if in transparent solitude.
I reach for a time when
my dreaming dons
the support of another,
Yet as reality remains estranged
my desires wander unworn paths
alone,
Unanswered.*
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 7:38 PM UTC
He awakes from deep slumber
to find his beloved missing by his side,
again.
Casting off the shroud of dark, dense clouds
He dons the black cloak of night and begins his frenzied search
for Her - the perpetually elusive one :
He scours the skies, cuts through frosty winds,
roves through the infinity of stars desperately seeking Her,
looks down :
at the lonesome road abandoned by commuters
that treaded upon her all day long
at a dingy alleyway where a girl solicits her new owner
for the night - to be used, abused, misused
at the young woman storming her way back home
distraught from a break-up with her Casanova of a lover -
- all this, while She trails behind him
in his quest for love, silently accompanying him
as he drifts over unknown lands,
hoping his agony abates, wanting to tell him
she is there, he could see her.
She, who lends meaning to his being,
his silvery, mesmerising
Moonlight.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
I.
verdant fingers poke
through sugar-dusted hillsides
nature dons spring thread
II.
eighteen-year old quilts
flowery detergent quilts
bed bare, without you
III.
love is dualism
the umbrella and the rain
hope and the horror
IV.
for stardust we are
unto stardust we return
soon all things shall end.
V.
my still-beating heart
torn by thorns and razor wire
never, ever, love a liar.
VI.
we swim among clouds
our planet turned upside-down
heavens full of dirt.
VII.
a whispering wind
wanders far and wide across
plains of wilted grain
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
The girls, the dames,
every petty thing.
The skirt, dress,
every pretty scene.
The way they tap toes
at the throws on the floor.
How bobbing their head
plucks doubt into the rhythm,
they miss the point,
but their clothing dons precision.
I'm up on stage.
They watch me from below.
Like the kneed posture pleated jeans,
patella to the floorboards.
“I saw your show.”
“No you didn't.”
But people saw you staring blankly
past.
hands me a drum stick.
“Can I have your autograph?”
“I'll do you one better.”
I stick the drumstick 6 inches in my ***
“You sounded great...”
“No I looked like I was fake”
I acted, I stressed, I posed,
and I played.
“Lets have ***
I say “No.”
It was just a show.
The act is done now the curtains
boast.
I don't bow.
I walk on out.
Through every living zombie
permanently in the crowd.
Put your ******* back on.
You will never mean anything to any of those stupid ************* girls.
Instead they will put your nudes on the internet and ruin your life.
You will think you did something great.
You were used.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
Untouched nature glows,
Preparing the day's nuptials,
Dons her ****** veil.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
i would have been barefoot
with cuffs not hemmed
and rolled
but its not fashion
my jeans are aged
but not from design
i wear my life
into a one roomed class
it dons a bell tower
and, post-toll
no one prays
one instructor for all
each led in divergent direction
according to our abilities
and while the greater lot
learns an appealing cursive script
i curse at the blank pages before me
in my simple way
passing them as notes
but they fall on ears
as barren of hearing
as the recipients feet are
of the callous and sediment
that make mine
breathe life into my narrative
but here no lessons are taught
however gleaned from discord
interpreted through grime
grime and rebuke
filtered through shallow waters
through embattled plains
rife with mole hills and ant piles
scattered with patches of knee high grass
spotted with blooming indigenous flora
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
I watch this bird up in the sky
I see it sail further to the high
Spreading all the love and feeling free
Looking down, smiling at every tree
I watch this bird spread her wings
She rides above and she sweetly sings
Her focus reigns down on mother earth
With a unique beauty of jewel worth
She's proud, her wings flap aloud
Her mates come gathering a crowd
Tenderly she swerves not so far away
I love solitude, she seems to say
She stops to flap as the winds start to blow
Lifting her higher, she seems to glow
The little her beauty says means a lot
I fall in love seeing how she keeps afloat
She's neither a kite, nor an eagle
Yet she dons their stunning ego
She sails above for over an hour
I'm puzzled by her super power
I watch her till the wind calms
While slowly down low she comes
I get to know her mates are gone
It's obvious she's lost her aero tone
About me everyone watches
While on a high tree she softly perches
"I know that red neck",a lady spoke
"Was all that beauty a Marabou stork?
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
The shop girl and the mannequin appear
Together in their shop front window stage -
It’s here the plastic soul gets cleaned, and here
The brand new body dons the latest rage.
The model feels the former’s hands embrace
Her own, and feels the stressed-out beat
Of heart within the arteries, the trace
Of hurried blood where their pale fingers meet.
The shop girl scrubs the limbs to blanker grace,
And twists the head to meet the staring street.
So all will see the calibrated face,
And all will search the heart that doesn’t beat.
Week coming, in the season’s latest dress,
The shop girl will the mannequin redress.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:17 AM UTC
The elegant madwoman with a golden valor.
Louder than the falling trees
stumbling everywhere around her feet!
The spiritual mother, everyone's empress,
a concrete rose blooming over every obstacle
as if she were a one-woman, 21st century dynasty
with no malfunctions in its empire.
But, there's something writhing its way out
from the cellar reserved for her scathing history.
Past the cobwebs and futile pretensions of valiance
lies this warrior queen's greatest desire:
shrouded in shame, the need for love still haunts.
But it won't some accessory amid the ninth cloud!
Hard work and minimum wage flow much more smoothly.
She's known this since she discovered the world,
since she entered a home full of broken furniture
and reeking of alcoholic breath and stagnant, bitter tensions
that were released when father's fist met daughter's face,
and her bruise-soaked body became the symbol of her innocence.
That must be why she spends so much time
in the darkest Brooklyn alleys, selling her self-respect
to any man feeling particularly kind that night,
and letting any detrimental cycle resurface
for just one rush of vulnerability.
This contemporary queen dons a crown bejeweled with more grit
than the streets of three New York boroughs,
yet all she requires of the world that she holds in her hand
like a ruler deciding the fate of her people
is someone to transform adoration from myth to reality.
Will she ever find light from the alley?
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:45 AM UTC