"embellishment" poems
"Do you have a lighter? Am I dancing **** yet? Are you watching me because I move alone?"
Well, look a little harder, because as glass reflects on me I reflect back revealing the other side of me.
Two-sided.
She dances with ease.
Do you feel the pain because it's pain that I unleash.
I am the inner workings of your mutability.
I switch up as I am never at true peace.
Look at me, watch me...
Feed on me as I feed onto you.
The perplexities of my intentions are at it's core when I move.
Lost, but just a crazy ***** with the master ability to play with your mind baby.
Do you see it?
I do.
And she's nasty.
Taste her, lick her, **** her.
She's the dark side of me and she's waiting to play.
Tear me up like I'm your doll and grasp onto my insides like the strings have been attached so the grip cannot lose itself in your sins of your sinful embellishment.
Dress me up, move me.
You are my puppet and I only want to tease your mind.
**** me like a twist of your mad insanity.
Play with me.
Taste me, and watch me because, I move alone.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 8:05 AM UTC
a love poem, of new & old,
why I am the summer-man!^
summer is winding down,
sky’s multi blues freezer safe stored in ziplock see thru bags,
marked and named by hue, the where and the when,
so when the eyes finally fail, when the squinting don’t help,
when the good things those good blues aroused,
poems, lush and morning thanks for being alive come-not-at-all,
quite the opposite, these cold blues
may help, to recall why it was worth breathing
summer is winding down,
so am I, the synchrony no accident, time,
the Pharmacy kitchen calendar
claiming another victim, willing or not,
those cars and the blue eyed models,
are now but blurred wishes and hopes, even these words, spoken,
not finger scribed, for the keyboard a
jumbled jungle of alpha-numerical
of confusion hellish and
my sons don’t come to clean up my pathetic messes, sending
their little children, beloved concubines of my heart
the daytime watcher, spanglish her native lingo,
tho single words she’s pretty good at too, but that don’t help much;
the grands, toddlers to pre-teens, the eldest a womanly eight,
tries but soon frustration bored, slips away quiet like
replacing her with her two year old sister, who knows her alphabet
which ain’t an exactly a help, but her five pencils stored^ nearby,
tagged with her name, awaiting her poems, her one true legacy
try to imagine her as a grandmother, farseeing the day when she
occupied this too too hard to-get-out-of-by-myself “easy” chair,
making rhymes with her next-next generational descendants,
faint remembering the silliness sorcery that I secreted in her brain;
zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo,
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes, gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!
which she acts out with giggles galore,
adding a teacup embellishment,
a creme fraiche pearly teeth smile topping,
the day watcher agrees, verrry verrry funny,
but time to me *** and take a needed morning *****
no poppy! no poppy! no poppy!
no nap, no *** no *****
thinking the call out is for her,
stomping her feet in an alternating rhythm and rhymes
I, happy poppy, ecstatics drooling out,
foreseeing the rhyme is strong in her,
get wheeled away crinkled and crackling,
*zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!*
a new genre me of gibberish summertime love poems
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
Dread the free time
But still can't wait to have it
To seize peace and quiet
By my force of habit
And flee far away
From a central locale
Of a jobless, impoverished
Human garbage pail
Full of wasted potential
Unutilized power
Another kid lost to disease
By the hour
Devoured from inside out,
Parasitic
A malnourished mortality
Fated statistic
Accounting for little more than
A UN
Detrimental development
Index embellishment
IMF, World Bankers swooping in
Heaven-sent
Millions lent
Never spent
Back on the people
Just keep them like sheep
Marching on to the steeple
And reap what they sow
How so little they yield
Until cityscapes swallow up
Forest and field
And behind their most opulent
Optic facades
In their decadence festers
The graces of Gods
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
land's moniker
mulls utmost care
Kalinga
branding the ox
of men with glaringly
immaculate chiaroscuro,
atop hills flourishing
with the fruits emblazoning
reticence.
chase angel-ward, the synopsis
of meaningfulness,
jagged, indelible accoutrement
akin to the brand of
chaste heritage,
galvanizing this epitaph
with aesthetic nativity,
gallant mambabatok - fill my bones with the ache of your past,
carve in me what the rippling
shrill of air has toppled
in the highlands
you have us shaking the blood
of this archipelago like boughs
breaking free from water's ebb,
frenzied by the river-warm
serpentine embellishment
the strike of the thorns
mints in our untouched bodies!
altogether in this numerous hike
we go in pursuit, hunting the
nibble from flesh to bone,
revealing the rebel, body
to soul.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
I was raised in a house that seemed big on the inside
With a garden that was larger than the rest of the earth.
My bedroom was shared. But there was more than enough room.
So proportionally, I always felt small.
The curtains were vines in a furniture jungle
The bookcase a tower of riddles.
I used to spend my days inside the wardrobe
Because I heard there were whole worlds inside of them.
The sofa was a cloud, I liked to sink into it.
The bathtub an ocean, that I was constantly floating adrift in.
The TV screen might as well have been
A stage compared to me when I was younger.
Even the cupboard was a cavernous place, my sparrowbone limbs
Would fold up only slightly, but still there would always be too much space.
Space blank as a bullet hole
Like the gaps between stars.
An absence you're constantly falling through. When you're so tiny,
And surrounded by nothingness, its easy to forget that you're not nothing too.
I was compressed in the classroom behind a scrawl splattered desk
The lines of graffiti looked mammoth.
The teachers were giants
And I was just jack
They ground up my brains to make alphabet stew
And gave me only a handful of A, B's and C's back.
The playground was Olympus, I was acting atlas
I felt as though the whole world was on my shoulders.
See I was a really loud kid, always shouting out
Because I thought that was the only way to get anyone to hear me.
Lungs like an opera singer by the age of just nine
And in the habit of using embellishment.
I've been where you've been kid,
I've seen it all.
I know exactly how the sight of a bullies hand-down button-up
Can be enough to make you choke...
Sometimes it still is enough.
And I know I don't look so tiny now
I expanded as I grew more constricted.
Trying to compensate for the empty place,
I had made a habit of occupying.
See I understand, I know
But I promise you, one day you'll stop standing under things
Find your feet and grow.
The leaves of your family tree do not define
Who you'll be
You do not have to hold up those branches all alone.
And I know I look so small right now
But in here, in here
I'm mammoth.
And I promise the world is not so nothing filled
When everyone is giant.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
Come to me.
your inscribed
slashes of verse
branded upon
the juice of
my tongue
a specter
of the ultimate gift
as we allow
the magic
to rise
and peel off in
swathed, aching
layers,
undone
Each stratum of
dermis shed
is a prayer for
our succulent
redemption
Each shadow of
silky cuttlefish caress
a plea for sanctity
or perhaps simply
being loved
into a frenzy
of sanity
healing in waves
of electric eyes
You open me
like a holy book
and I am suddenly
filled with light
as you unlock
the blessings
from my spinal fluid
and I am a priestess
on her altar
arms raised,
love braised
into slick-lit wonder
a spiral cone rising from
ground to crown
chakric palette pulsating
phosphorescent ripples
on deep-sea creatures
Your ubiety
slakes my naked,
somatic anatomy
a mere shelter
for our souls
a working
of muscle and skin
with heart strings pumping
the essence within
Our brainwaves
sizzle in
glandular fire
as pheromones
envelope us
like incense
This goes far beyond the
wet cuntflush of desire
beyond the embellishment
of moistened sword
It is the sacred dance
of souls that merge
before even touching
pre-verbal animal
first light of mankind
in ancient swells
of earth that
rise like sparks
the constellations
of firework chimes
in arcs of
chiseled
dark
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
she
(*her 2am moods
were monotone
dialogue
on the receiver*)
is at her loudest
in sepia photographs;
fake smiles,
like shotgun blast;
her shrapnel days
fall silently
in-between
cheap perfume
bottles on the
night-stand.
in the drawer is
every memento
she seldom mentions
(*empty, jejune...
hushed
frustrations*).
with each exhale,
her pillow fills with
crumpled words
(*embellishment,
a waking hour's only
comfort...
an insomniac's
internal monologue*).
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
He served his country
With the will and might
But only he forgotten
No one fights alone
Many medals and ribbons
Piled neatly across his chest
Honor and Valor was a waste
Carrying himself so foolishly
Disrespecting our Flag
How could he be so boastly?
As he walks the desert shores
I've drawn my bow
Releasing with ease
An arrow whistling through the wind
Feasting upon this corpse
Another traitor
Retribution
To a vulture's embellishment
Nov 29, 2009
Nov 29, 2009 at 10:33 PM UTC
All my life
I’ve endured a weight of exclusion
never the one who can
always the one who can’t
never the one with
but constant without
Standing afar
a stranger
in a whirl of happening
where my would be
never could be
The birth of desire
gifted in grief
ability almost visible
but before my hands could grasp
the thief came to steal
crushing me down
It’s time to wipe the memory
shake my head and say “no”
that I will submit and agree
to every thought declaring
“this is who you are”
This is the end
of the exclusion road
a termination for the could or would
no more stranger
wishing from afar
the negative rejected
because in these days
I truly can
and I know I will
Exclusion
where are you now?
Your mighty weight
has been discarded
from my fortified bones
the embellishment of your name
erased
from my beautiful skin
today
my revolution is real
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
*We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been, must ever be.*
William Wordsworth
stunning and stunned,
perhaps even life momentarily,
stunted angry but enraging confusion
this notion, stirs a commotion,
primal sympathy, spawns poem
not a broken totem
not a stolen token
hand writ, inked in pen,
no golems in a modem
to assist
this just pure human spoken
an omen giving,
notice total,
this is one true ether,
or either it is not!
this primal essential assertion
a conditional propositional
that it is natural for man
to be deep sympathetic to his kind,
*for which having been,
must ever be*
in Syria, snipers shoot children for sport,
in Nigeria, young girls to slavery sold,
the list, matter of many facts, well known,
needs not embellishment or addition,
the history books teach the children well
so vaunted primal atmosphere,
in these places,
are you absent, non-existent?
when primal was pre-creation,
spelled first as primeval,
in the era before the appearance of ratiocination
of life on earth
Prime and Evil,
was a combustible fuel of necessity survival
primeval became primordial,
man essayed to improve,
aging onwards himself to enlightenment
yet rooted in this prime number of humankind
is a cellular tissue that springs to life
in those who allow it, residence of the remnants,
original origin of the evil that can subsume
and assume
do not allow it
I can tell you I
will not lay quiet
for the murderers of children,
I have primeval hatred
the rage of primal sympathy denied
unleashed ten times greater
be wary when the best of us rises up
the snipers and the enslavers will die
by their own weapons
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
I
Fold upon fold
your origami letters
map thoughts,
images and moments
of three days,
two nights.
Now to unfold
the creased trajectories,
intersecting space,
following time:
bird-like flightpaths
on the radar screen.
Each coloured sheet,
placed on this desk,
becomes a tessellated diary,
and grows beneath the hand.
So generous a gift.
So readily received.
II
Ah, that's your secret:
the power of the list;
this, then this,
then freedom follows,
knowing the necessaries
dusted and done.
Peaceful now,
and watching the clouds
cross the skylight,
Bach decorates your soul
with his meditations
on the possibility of everything.
How did you guess
I love the detail of life-
lived, up to the hilt:
the embellishment of dreams
pulled from the ether,
sound and sense in tow.
III
I travelled North
in the seat opposite.
You didn’t notice me
as you gazed
through your reflection,
sighting the past.
When you look at me
you rarely blink or
glance away (as people do).
Poor nature,
She hasn’t a chance, has she?
Never a mote missed.
As my passenger
I shall care for your silence;
to let you loose on
unbidden thoughts
as they rise above
the scrolling hills.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Elope me in your thoughts and all this mental pain.
Like a rope you seem to choke me and cut me off from my brain.
I can't make sense of it, nor can I explain it.
I tried to paint the picture from the window I was "paned" in.
Sprained mind thought I still want to reach you,
Teach me to love you, don't preach that I bug you.
Release my anxiety, I "Leach" on to propriety.
Sobriety is getting harder by the day...
Society is watching me, I'm not sure what to say...
I'm sitting in my rocking chair, typing away a blurred array,
I still write about you everyday,
you haven’t read a word I've saved.
I still think about you every night,
Your closeness is what I crave.
When I talk to you I cave, man I don't know what to say..
I feel less intelligent, but hell your smile, I relish it...
It shines so bright no need for embellishment.
I want to see it all the time, so much I feel so selfish..
It's pure happiness in it's prime,
but the crime is that it's for a lie.
You hurt inside, I seem to help.
I'm on your mind, and you're on mine.
That's fine with me, you're divine.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
as soon as she sees it she wants it is entitled to it while she is stealing it she begins elaborate lie everybody knows if she truly wants it she has means everybody knows she is gorgeous movie actress celebrity starlet awesome accessory genius she convinces herself she did not steal it the darling delicate chain with finely crafted handcuff clasp and accompanying key she wears it effortlessly just another imperial trifle hanging around her exquisite throat she has no idea how it got there she may have a drug problem a little dizzy even careless but she is no thief what with her magnificent beauty idyllic body prominent discography why would anyone accuse her she is submerged in deep denial why with so much to lose and absolutely nothing but tiny shimmering embellishment to gain why do tell would anyone point a finger at her she probably wasn’t even ever there at that dicey store she never tried on the astronomically overpriced bling it may have been her dodgy handlers or stylist’s suspect mismanagement and subsequent loan hypothesis she is positively not a thief it’s too insignificant an item to squabble about a mere gold necklace the whole incident ridiculously overblown cruel in fact she hates the miserable paltry piece of jewelry here take it back she insists it never graced her illustrious neck if anything perhaps a cheap ploy by Venice Beach shop to enhance it’s value oh the genuine necklace that she stole
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 12:12 PM UTC
I've asked myself why my scarred heart still beats.
Why, after long neglect, does the blood flow through it, still giving me life.
It's been shelved for so long, dusted on special occasions, evidenced only by the embellishment of a smile.
Sworn upon the moon's promise of a morrow, to never gain momentum within me.
Until one night, you entered in, and placed upon my cheek the sweetest nectar imaginable - tender kisses.
I live again.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
my eyes are heady **** bloating
from within the sun
white embellishment lasers out
lending provision
setting life to the organic cog and clock
provoking muted growth to retch a bloom
leading
spending
seeding
my tread destroys nothing
each step frictionless
patterning little hovering eddies
a fraction above ground
minimal is my disruption
enough only to promote a deeper observation
tender fanning of the life that i am fawning over
how to feel this spritely at all times ? t'would be a spell
a fondled thing
it’s from our night of shared tether
our infection threw out an extra pleasurable souvenir
it carried its energy into the ensuing day
i am launched affection
beckoned into the true employment of my surroundings
carrying my socks and shoes in one hand
and my heart? it is a possession of the senses
i am truly led
i am emitting
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 9:44 PM UTC
An old friend invited me to his lake house, surely to get away he mentioned.
A dock leading to a pristine lake, not a ripple in sight. He left spare keys on an island table. Said he would be back in a few hours, apologized, and instructed me not to go into the boathouse, something or other about it being repaired. His headlights hit the home and by the lake until it hit the gravel ahead. I walk to the pier to get a better view of the lake. To smell whatever it is that you smell at times like these. The pier is maybe fifty feet. The boathouse is at the end towards the left, not exactly hidden by shrubbery, at least not maintained in a few years. Surprisingly the door opens easily. Light is scarce. Water is beneath. I'm not country nor wealthy enough to know that not all floors are solid.
A switch is to my right. It enluminates a workbench. Tools are absent, besides some rope to tie boats, I suppose. Instead it is covered with pictures. All of a boy. Possibly seven. I'm intrigued, delighted being a lie or an embellishment. Many photos are taken at this location. On the pier or besides the house, as others are taken at places I'm not familiar with. There's a photo with a boat, the boy is sitting and smiling, saying cheese with as much force as a wave. Under the workbench is that very boat. Flipped over, but still kept. I stand still for what seems like minutes. I'm walking toward the house pulling the door shut behind me. I make my way to the kitchen. Married couples always have notepad and dry erase boards hanging around. They did.
I decided to head back to the city. The air here is too clean for me. Also, I went against your wishes and went into the boathouse. I'm sorry for your son. Your loss. I haven't touched a thing in my boy's room for six years. I keep the door shut. I'm afraid I'll drive myself crazy, ya know, just sitting on his bed and he runs in to grab and go. It's completely irrational, but so is burying a child. I know that I won't be all smiles when you return, possibly you as well after reading this, but I felt compelled to act and explain. Call me if you want to talk, I'm not sure I can give guidance on how to cope, but sharing stories is always good for the heart. All the best
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
New mantras yoked around their neck.
Songs of sorrow and embellishment.
Some with smoke filled mouths, twisting through their teeth just like their mothers warned and taught to chatter.
They gurgle and blow,
steamed tops.
Secretly afraid of the iron fist,
Fair weather anarchists.
One day domesticated, but not tonight.
Raging against the machine in the moonlight,
cocksure the sun would never rise.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
I am the remains of you.
a crater in human form
from my limbs smoke erupts, snaking through pores
filling the air with the scent of shame and
discontent.
I am the impact point.
of a thousand glass shards spiralling
through air, sea and raining down into
our eyes
I am ground zero.
cracked and flaked islands of forgetful comments
compliments within razor wire conversations.
I am your living breathing monument.
painfully decorated and sculpted
to remind you
we imprint what makes us, us
and the worst is sometimes
What we see clearest.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
Out beyond the distant freeway
Way beyond the wave lapped shore,
Far across the ocean, green….
You people fly to my back door.
Penetrating shrouds of weather
To slice through storms which wrack the sea,
Across those deserts dry and windblown
You lot send your thoughts to me.
From tenements in bleak Chicago,
Harbour side from old Hong Kong,
Across the ancient steps of Naples
Expression from thy pen doth throng.
Through the moonlight, softly filtered,
Past the beastly glare of dawn
Far across this tortured planet
Screeds of poetry, here, are borne.
Howling, gasping, dancing laughter,
Heartfelt words of loss so clear,
Sadness in great love’s demise…
Then anger, jealousy and fear.
Spontaneously across the spectrum
To materialise fantastically….
An embellishment of manuscript
To heights which brim an ecstasy.
Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
29 November 2014
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
we wrote our names on the sand
filled it with hearts
and shells for embellishment
you wrote with the thicker end
of the stick, made deep marks
on the white sand
but you wrote it near the edge
and it was washed away
as water filled up
the spaces we made
we had no choice but to look on
and when it was over
you sighed,
i cried
our love was swallowed
by a whirlpool.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
He took a heart and he plucked its
Strings recklessly to compose a second quartet -
Of love! Of passion! Of chaos! -
With sounds dredged from a hollow
Box inhabited by his masterpiece - Kamila.
Not the young, flattered, other man's living wife,
But the manifestation of his desire to depict
Longing;
An artificial, delicately moulded, fervent
Wanting.
One of the great classical passions -
Up there with Dante and Beatrice -
Tarnished by a most deceptive
Embellishment in exchange
For radiance.
His melody - although bracing a lie -
Sings to the fizzle in your chest and
The tingle in your fingertips --
A lullaby to the desperation he required
To convince us it was at all possible.
"And in your withered heart you know it's crap."
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
I never was one to swim
And now I am an Olympic diver
Ready to splash into your skin
And collide with you
I never was one to sing
But I find myself belting out tunes
Because they remind me of you
And your voice is the sexiest thing I've ever heard
I never was one to swallow my pride
Yet the embellishment of your words
Entangle me in humility
I never was one to stop to smell the roses
But the fragrance of you stops me in my tracks
Like a lion on the prowl
I never was one to feel good about myself
Yet you show me everything I am
And everything I could be
I never was one to love
Yet you make it so easy
You make it so effortless
That now I can say
I can't help but love you
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC