"dressings" poems
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond’ring at the present, nor the past,
For thy records, and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste:
This I do vow and this shall ever be:
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
3.3k
The gaunt brown walls
Look infinite in their decent meanness.
There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle,
The fulsome fire.
The atmosphere
Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist.
Dressings and lint on the long, lean table--
Whom are they for?
The patients yawn,
Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin.
A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles.
It's grim and strange.
Far footfalls clank.
The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged.
My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . .
O, a gruesome world!
2.1k
forgot to button up
veils,scales, umbrellas
see this dragon rained
couches where dreams are cats
no body
just discarded fur and echoes of purrs
after reading the label it rubbed off
maybe its tasty
pretend until the last drop
apologies repeated sound like dogs barking
attention slowly goes missing
a chair to block anyone from entering
holidays celebrate themselves easily
the grocery aisles let them be known
No wristwatch no calendar
window dressings tell parking lots their stories
faces bloom less then flowers
secret coffeehouses for shameful breakfasts
phonecalls peppered with obvious lies
surprise its your turn
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 10:09 PM UTC
Be Not Bitter in Thine Writings,
for They Be Most Wondrous Things;
Catacombious Monstrocities,
Though You May'st Conceive Them.
Words Stray'd and Pluck'd into Near-Woven Dressings,
Gone Fade with Thine Temperament—
These Things that You Shrug and Forget!—
Shall ****** Adventures unto the Intrepid,
Kind Caretakers as yet Unknown to These Days.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:20 AM UTC
64 squares and 32 pieces
white and black or black and white
pending your thesis
whether your black or white
they all have the same features
8 pawns, simple creatures
8 x 2 is 16
infantry disguised as peasants
trying to get above the 7th
to the 8th and replace
their meager form for something more severe
2 rooks, sitting on the edge
2 crooks robbing everything perpendicular
to the perimeter provided the king
doesn't falter in his pledge
When the night rolls through,
the knights roll through.
Puffing green goo, these squares or cubes
will move an L make a 7 and ***** you.
The bishop will say a blessing
as he stumbles across the board.
Moving forward diagonally,
these drunken priests drink towards
a leader hung with dressings
The queen? That greedy broad
thinks everyone is a pawn.
constantly placing her place
in the face of those trying to take her place.
The king orchestrates the beat
carefully placing his feet before god.
His feat is living, no great givings,
giving up the wrong square will make his crown your treat
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
Tammy,Tammy,call your mammy
daddy's run away.
Buildings built of stilton cheese and Wilton rugs,bugs that run round in my head,silver diamond ten gauge thread to tie my eyes up.
Tea leaves tell no lies,
I've seen them in a broken cup where broken people all look up to watch me fall.
I call the Master of Ceremonies,also made of Stilton cheese,eaten slowly by the mice,made from chocolate covered rice cake crisps and baked in ovens,gas mark seven and ask him,
where did daddy go?
he doesn't know and never did and slowly drops off from the grid,
in hidden thoughts behind veiled red eyes where riots run with teddy boys,who ride Italian imported scooter bikes,
twenty thousand Facebook likes for what,
a **** *** underneath the bed?
more bugs that run wild in my head,
another silver,sugar coated thread to wrap me in when I am dead,
but I'm not there yet
I've got to shift the fuzziness,the interfering laziness,be blessed twice by his Holiness,undress the dressings I am wrapped in,bleach my skin and reach inside to clear my mind.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
A Simple Walkway
By this device just an old ordinary taken for granted side walk there is no place it doesn’t lead
Hops scotch any one key skates on your shoes how they let you zoom oh the prints left there
A bike for Christmas feel daddy’s strong hands hear his feet running to keep up ever feel so freed
Remember when you were there playing mother walked by her perfume caused womanly fantasies
Up town on Saturday shopping day take the sidewalk get a haircut one two Jims the other to Dressings
Montgomery wards that great wide white stair way sports one floor clothes on the other
Get dolls toy guns all kind of assorted toys at Ben Franklin if not there find Woolworth’s full blessings
Whatever, hurry you know the Roseland will be starting the afternoon matinee action packed thrills
Live out the movies Carl Wessel Western Auto arrows fifty cents Coast to Coast BB guns
Can’t afford a bow take a mop stick and cut an inner tube into a strip nail on both ends watch her fly
If you’re not allowed to have even an air rifle use more inner tube a forked stick wa la slingshot what fun
Grocery shopping great on second St Piggly Wiggly or Wempen’s on the alley up from Bryson’s garage
Need shoes Summer’s store or Duez get a pair of Buster Browns this follow the side walk your welcome
If you just need a repair Ray does fine work Pen well’s store has all the dresses guaranteed no guessing
Hustle and bustle going on all over town activity nonstop great foot traffic go to town the past will come
You will stir up endless memories in this new time that could use those sweet happy times at the five
and Dime
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
Beyond the cracked lens
of your minds eye
the worlds bitter anger has gone
past without pause
i try to confine this mad fluttering of thoughts my head
and as the sun set i thought id be here forever
in this moment here in her waking dream
her scent lingers on the humid air
and her soft form is still marked there in the sheets
her young lust was a sweating beast in my bed
her need to rush blindly thru left me alone in the night
with the song ringing in my head
imposter...her flesh gripped me like the hand of accusation
but her soft wispers are comforting
this is not what i should have done
i have made a terrible mistake
rain pours slowly from the gaping wound in the sky
forever trying to fill the voids between heaven and earth
between the dawn and dusk
well into the night i stand here with the redhead wrapped around me
like the funeral dressings of some long lost ritual
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
These memories are like wounds,
and even though they are old they still feel fresh.
You never said you were sorry,
you never stitched up my gashes,
so every time I am reminded of them,
they start to bleed again.
In flashes I watch them, the memories,
like old-time movies on cinema screens,
in black and white, so monochrome,
the least my mind can do,
at least spare me from the colorful detail.
I am trapped in that theater,
forced to watch through ocean waves,
until a boy comes with a golden key to unlock the doors.
His smile comforts me,
covers up my cuts like bandages.
His voice, my morphine,
makes the pain fade.
But like every medication, the relief wears off,
the boy disappears,
and I am alone again.
Left to wonder when the delicate dressings will rip,
and when the blood will pour down my chest,
infinitely.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Am I bitter than
The sour taste of grapes
Fruitless
Is my well being
To an end result
Measuring the true meaning
Before I fail
Into a salad of green spoiled leaves
For no mixture
Is capable
As my dressings is sealed
With an unclean hand
May the tongue of thievery
Wash my mouth dry
As germs settle in
To bask upon the glory
While conquering
My thoughts
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 8:03 PM UTC
What do you drink to get the purple out of my tongue? What do you take to forget? The picture
of white lady on the mirror chanting ****** mary. The video of being spanked. The layout of the patterns. It is all made into a trail. Wishing to cloak, I thought it worked but it was only a blanket. The blinking lights of the window. It manages to ***** me and remind me of competition in traffic. The list. Lists. Numbered. Keep scrolling. Will it affect my life?
Needing to fit the box of a ten-year old, I sleep. Then, I post. That was not myself. How did this whole page about me belongs to someone else? I never drift before. Why, I wonder. Here comes the businesses. The banquets. Watching a flute get Tarzan'd by a piece of rope hanged across the room. Out of the blue, I found myself touring with a foreigner. What does he want from me? Is it wrong to think this way? He only asked me where I live and how I am. I stop. I feel the chills burning through my hands to fingers. The bones get cold, but do not when plugged by nerves.
I-I'm addicted? I need to sleep more. It's healthy, they say. It's fun.
When was the last time I had fun?
The more I see the light, the more I hate it. I bring the shutters down. Relaxing. Freeing. Pink flower keep falling. Peach flower keep shimmering. How come I never thought of it before? Now back to sleep. Wait, I can't sleep anymore. But everything's so festive. Are the photos not alive? But they frequently chatter. To me. And you---no me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Branded into these pixels of prizes and sporks full of dramatic dressings. What is meaning again? I kick the blanket out of the bed. I threw my pillows on the other side. It's hot. Everything's so hot. My air conditoner is on max---what's happening?? No, sleep!
It does not take long for me to gasp for air. I keep denying it but it is always in the back of my mind.
The only answer is to get out.
I try by slowly lifting my legs and down to the floor. Do I really? Now? This is the only answer. I repeat thrice. I'm getting old.
A wind caresses my cheek. I forgot I was even in a house.
Dream's over.
May 15, 2021
May 15, 2021 at 6:05 AM UTC
I'm your dark reflection
Hear the people singing
Fighters, lovers
Lonely women on they'r own in the cool spring time air
Look me in the eye
In this mirror will you see me
Deteriorating?
Come miss, let's go outside and go for a walk
Golden sunshine, starry night time
Afternoon rush hour, it is crunch time
I am doubtful next to my boyfriend
Walk me to The Grand Canyon
Where my secrets can fill it's spaces
Salads with dressings of kings
Licorice candy, water of plenty
Sleep in my bed he said to the sightseer
Calling her attention to his desires
I'm leaving now
You are to forceful
My body is temple
It's not yours it is mine
Give me your goose
Your golden egg laying goose
I'm down on my luck
And need a karat or two
Walking the highway
All by myself
I am in transit
There are no pit stops
Look in the mirror
Lady of fortune
I am what you see
But not what you are
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
How do we judge
Patterns of love
For I have found myself
Trying to look
Past the water wrinkled pages of my tired book
Having just used it as cover from the pouring rain
Stepping into this crowded café
And immediately being struck
By the sight of you
I quickly divert my glance away
Yet finding my sight slowly circling the room
Slowly coming back around to
The arresting sight of you
Having realized that I had already given my order
Defaulting to an autonomous response
Showing that my mind was currently preoccupied
I hastily hand over a five
Having missed the exact price
As I walk away I look your way again
And of course I don't pursue
Sitting myself across the room
Viewing the setting in which I would be resting
Insuring it was visible by you
Quickly looking at lighting
And the surrounding set dressings
Of a slightly worn couch in front of a hearth
I set my book down
Making sure it was obvious from across the room
Hearing my name being called
I turn to gather my mindlessly ordered coffee
I see a glint in the baristas eye
Having seen me organizing my setting
And my quite obvious glancing
She called another name
And rising from her seat
The girl I had been admiring
Arose and let her eyes rest on mine
Bringing this suddenly heavy question to my mind
How do we judge patterns of love
And if it's possible to achieve at first sight.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
Annie Chapman, the maiden Smith,
******* daughter of a soldier born,
Parents entered joy of wedlock,
When ******* girl was still a baby.
Got married herself in 1869,
Had three children sweet,
First sweet daughter Emily,
Captured by meningitis bug,
Stole their eldest gal away,
Second child was a lad named John, born tragically disabled,
A third daughter born 1884 who ran away with the circus seeking some fun, when grown.
Marriage crumbled,
Due to sorrow,
Loss of daughter,
Destroyed all tomorrows,
Son was put into institution,
So they could not go on,
Drifted apart on a tide of drink,
Only way not to think,
Separated fell apart in 1884,
Lady 'Annie', with sorrowful heart and hair of brown,
Known as 'Dark Annie'
Maybe because she wore a frown,
She was the victim blessed with civility,
Until the drink contorted her,
Bending her mind,
Early as the daylight rose,
She had found a dark haired fellow,
Wearing deerstalker,
Maybe a friend of Holmes himself,
Although it's sadly doubted,
Probably a client, looking for her wares,
Body slain, lain on the floor,
Not far from her gate,
Throat slashed, viscera scattered around,
Coating her shoulders , with blood spattered dressings,
A neckerchief in situ,
Had he maybe provided a most unpleasant gift,
No financial donation for this poor lady,
Asphyxiation for the lady, she didn't take her daily pills,
Queer perhaps,
Her murderer knew what to do,
Maybe vile ****** man was medical in origin,
Some speculation hinted,
The ****** weapon was an autopsy knife!
This is the story of the second Jack the Ripper victim.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
How can a hollow ache?
Or a poet write?
When the part that felt is cut away
Excised with a razor of reason
Bandaged with the dressings of the Sensible
To be healed, so it is said, with time
Yet like the morbid curiosity of the child who picks at the scab
Or perhaps more akin; the itch of an amputee's phantom limb
There is still an ache
How can that be so?
How can a hollow ache?
Or, come to that,
A poet write?
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
I met you in the night.
And a Danish prince came.
He a rolling dream. Us a waning curve.
My blood boils to a grand hall. Russian dressings on the walls.
Lucid and incarnations, say surreal: advantageous.
As my grandfather grins from a good, far away.
And in spots of light we sleep among the hills.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
Harvest old love letters
Separate timid words like seeds
Save those for Spring planting
Passion's bulk pull out as meat
Provisional muscle is for roasting
Adjectives become good gravy
Stamps and envelopes licked
A dessert of dearest's DNA
This savoring of paper junctures
Recaptured affection, even agonies
Wooers of commodious cursive
Pen pushed to olden days
I relish reading your languid thriving
Though you are long gone
Reacquainting these letters habituates
Deliveries of your love
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Pupils Fixed and Dilated
He was not permitted to die in peace
The only mercy granted was release
From fear, and mortars falling from the sky
There was no possibility of saying goodbye
And the river water stank, as did the night
His end was as flickering as the light
Pale gaspings, a fluttering pulse, dead sweat
D5W, battle dressings, and yet
The only mercy was in his release
He was not permitted to die in peace
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
Wake up, wake up, from deep slumber,
waits the land, for warming up,
beneath, hold its hidden treasures,
push forth, proud heads erupt.
All dance and kiss spring morning,
colours wave in gentle swale,
purse their lips, all delightful,
nectar scent ore hill and vale.
Flora fauna finds its rhythm,
young arrive on nature’s breast,
a touch so fine, enchanting wisdom,
behold majestic, times request.
Hearts are rising, cobwebs lifting,
hopes course through a brighter day,
eyes are opened, more observant,
her dressings for this growing phase.
This emblem flies for minds impression,
paints a picture for all to see,
kissing spring in all its glory,
igniting energy, pure simplicity.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
He said "don't shut your eyes, don't close your mouth, don't hold your nose, this is what life is all about"
Start waking before sunrise, count your blessings, enjoy your favorite salad dressings
Count the sheep before you sleep,
Repeat positivity before you weep,
Make decisions with no regrets,
Chose choice C on every test,
Don't hold your nose, don't close your mouth, don't shut your eyes,
I was told once, I was told three times, "keep your head up, don't stop trying".
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
Pushing out the daughters of older woman words...
~
it's almost May Day,
and the only niece,
husband towed,
all to a springtime glorious
drop by, dinner come,
......and there is poetry in their expectant eyes
a pronouncement,
predecessor to an announcement,
spring blessings uttered over melting smoked mozzarella pasta,
sweet balsamic fruited salad dressings of
of the unripened fruit of newer life,
seeded, deeded and coming,
soon enough
we act not shocked,
shocking them
oh yeah,
we figured dropping in sudden,
needed a really good excuse,
and a good one,
a new life,
a **** good one
old man granddad and now sooner
to be dubbed grand uncle'd,
children bejeweled cherry garnet carbuncle'd,
decorating his
red cheeked face,
redden a happy heart,
duly recorded, his thoughts,
twine cord wrapped and delivered,
4am punctual
we toast with three wine glasses Spanish Malbec,
one just air-filled, sorry Charlie
we all review the rules,
garnered from our
personal histories,
lore and the gore and the endless more
of raising children,
stanzas that never rhyme quite the way you planned,
and blessed is that good enough is
plenty good enough
am I excited, they inquire?
long pause, no, not excited,
thoughts quiet, paused,
words needed,
and in time,
drafted, recruited
something different,
more pleased in a way,
that comes so rarefied,
a distancing sense from the normalcy of life,
the taste
when life's hard work.
is justified,
yes,
justified
~~~
may first four and twenty ante merry-diem
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
History in the making
We make history because our love isn't basic
Basically we're going to grow branches on our family tree
Just to clear up any historicity
And/or animosity
You know what's catastrophic?
Love isn't logic!!!
So you can remind yourself
But if you don't align yourself
You can find yourself by yourself
So look what's behind yourself
If it has always been your fault
Then shift in your ways
And hope that you can escape the aftershock
Enough of the lessons
Back to our blessings
We can travel a thousand islands
Or we can live on a ranch
And for our dressings
Vests and dresses
Suits and knee-high boots
Overalls; we can be free as the nevertheless too
That's artistic ****
I'm a simplistic dude
Simple beauty is what I'm into
Your mind and your organisms
Your smile when your stomach tickles
The way in which you sneeze when your nose sniffles
When you're coughing you always act like you're headed to your funeral
Then I have to tell you to stop being so dramatical
Love and history is grammatical and non-fictional
It's true
So truly historiography should only be studied by those who love biology
The study of life and living things
Human beings with cells and rib-cages
Meant to lock themselves up with attached strings
To shoot bowing arrows
Loving each other all the way down to one another's bone-marrow
She said I'm gonna miss you so I used my thumbs in act for tissue
Our love will be on the cover of the book of love, volume 1 the first issue
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Yes I am, and this is my stature.
I’ve acknowledged humanity‘s expansion and extention.
The burden of proof is theirs and not on me,
To disprove me or dismay me otherwise.
But I tell you I am.
Regardless of the exterior and superficial ,
Of the mere sight that speculate and perceive.
Try and pierce through the dressings and you’ll see.
Come and remember the bare fundamentals,
Of similarities that binds us as one of a whole.
Like an outcry for silence in a sea of angry voices.
That begs you to feel and listen without prejudice.
When wounded I feel pain, like the likes of many.
When happy I exalt joy, like a child’s cry of glee.
When hurt tears burn behind my eyes,
yearning to be comforted by someone who gives a ****
I am because I am,
A mind and a heart that pumps the desire to live.
I wake with the same sun and sleep under the same stars.
On the same ground, same air, you and I try to survive.
I am you when I look in the mirror.
I am because what sustains me sustains you.
That when cut will bleed the same color.
So therefore you are the intricate and pure just as I am.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
Sailing Night Queen
He cast and she luffed, her trestles ablaze gently caressed on a breath of summer’s breeze,
Held spell bound she shimmered and shuddered in moons gaze
Her crown seized diamonds above in endless cosmic miles sprinkled with translucent dusts,
Across the scattered velvet horizon, as above so below diamonds flowed,
And emerald Aurora’s feasted upon a distant lonely night rise
Brilliant white decks and curvaceous bow, lovingly slicing glass voids below
Mysterious and silent, her hull embraced yins cool labyrinths
Her keel a perfect balance, dancing deeply down in sweet sea juices
Stainless rails glittered around her frame, dressings for a queens’ gown
Sheeting tight, he watched his love sail on smoothly, entranced by the endless sparkling void,
His body still,
── immortality is, love bound
© Arnay Rumens / AN T2014
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
From the vault of my popcorn ceiling
the widow was swaying on a strand
and striking at her master net,
tweaking its barest glint,
all to lure death closer
to steep it in glue
well enough that she can wait now.
,,
It happened in my head
as I listened to her legs
that I would die,
if I could only look down
and find her sneaking in my palm.
,,
I know she is far too beautiful
to be waited on like this,
to be stranded on a string
in the thinned air.
I think I make her miserable.
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC