"entrances" poems
She speaks in clouds,
her curves drink lost
words.
Her dress entrances.
This marketplace so full
of colour,
many fragrances merge.
I watch her dance with
gypsy jazz tones.
Olive skin and dark hair.
She beckons me forth, to
a flaming beauty.
With her clouds I
merge.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 5:05 AM UTC
Can I explain this to you? Your eyes
are entrances the mouths of caves
I issue from wonderful interiors
upon a blessed sea and a fine day,
from inside these caves I look and dream.
Your hair explicable as a waterfall
in some black liquid cooled by legend
fell across my thought in a moment
became a garment I am naked without
lines drawn across through morning and evening.
And in your body each minute I died
moving your thigh could disinter me
from a grave in a distant city:
your ******* deserted by cloth, clothed in twilight
filled me with tears, sweet cups of flesh.
Yes, to touch two fingers made us worlds
stars, waters, promontories, chaos
swooning in elements without form or time
come down through long seas among sea marvels
embracing like survivors in our islands.
This I think happened to us together
though now no shadow of it flickers in your hands
your eyes look down on ordinary streets
If I talk to you I might be a bird
with a message, a dead man, a photograph.
5.4k
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.
In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.
I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.
But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.
Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.
He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.
Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.
He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.
Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
the homeless are ******** in the streets,
well some of them are
the homeless have been ******** in the streets
a lot lately
when they are not getting scatological on the streets of seattle
they are conjuring the other images of themselves, because there is always so much more to this story
as they sit on the sidewalk and/or in entrances of shops, restaurants, and other commercial establishments
throwing empty beer cans in the street
at the people walking past
they say seattle is going to be the next san francisco
because that is what tech is, nothing new
forgotten already done ideas redone
same price tags same coast line same **** in the streets
they must have thought something better
was here, waiting for them
when they rode into town
from other towns
housing, more drugs, a new life
in these streets that they **** in
not sure what they heard
their tents under the over pass
their trash upon the hill
overlooking the highway
their tents always have a highway view
their trash too
i should be that afraid of my own life
of what tomorrow will be
oversharing in a voice
that is not my own
miss jean brodie in **** city style
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC
The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.
Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,
their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.
On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.
And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.
One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.
In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,
while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.
3.7k
Your elegance entrances me.
The way you carry your words
the way they roll off your tongue
and melt like butter in my mind.
The way you carry your body
like you own the world
like you own the universe.
I am entranced by your elegance.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
The legends won't tell
of Arthur when he fell in love
when he swooned for the arm that held Excalibur
extended out to him
how he did a double take
and stuttered and gawked
at the simple beauty of her flawless freckled skin.
And in this moment
I behold the Lady of the Lake
her divine completeness:
holy and whole.
Elegant sloping shoulders
a regal neckline pleading to be united
with loving lips
in an everlasting caress.
Water droplets dripping from her form--
reluctant,
wishing they could reverse the laws of nature
fall up from the surface
to bead and cling to skin again--
desiring to be as close as we
as she entrances me with emerald eyes
rivers of red hair
enchanting lips that know no equal.
She's won me over
and she drags me under
below the water
beneath the lapping waves.
The ripples on the surface
echo my farewell to the world.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
Dog eared pages
betray my thoughts
or rather the lack there of
I think
then blink
But i'm thinking faster
or is it blinking?
It doesn't matter
Nothing is working
Inspiration dances
Romances
entrances
like a cornish pixie
teases
My muse has gone
his return I await
with bated breath
I wait like fate
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
an old familiar,
an adversary of the first degree,
when we wrestle,
me and this god
disguised as an angel disguised as man,
the door to where we tangle,
clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding,
a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities,
that we are
Occupado
no stray observers permitted in,
the room entrances locked,
someone's two hands upon each temple,
(cannot be mine, for)
inside we combat literally,
"mano-a-mano"
hand to hand,
word to word,
gradually, continuously,
up close and personally,
one on
One
over the course of a lifetime,
each battle named,
famously borrowed and thus recorded,
Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú,
for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ******
historian
the rules of engagement somewhat flexible,
biting, choking, eye gouging,
kicking when down, not just legal,
encouraged, no holds barred,
when we wrestle,
the dirtier the
better
take turns declaring a victor,
for that matters little, truly,
just a record keeping notation,
the battle and its aftermath,
the waves of pain inflicted,
the casualty count engorged,
is the greatest glory,
dans une manière de
parler
though sent away the children,
our earthly goods,
designating them purportedly,
non-combatants observers,
yet 'no rules' meant
they could be accidentally drawn in,
non-combatant status does not prevent them
from being freely captured or
killed
the conflict ongoing,
no one ever calls for a truce,
for both unequal adversaries know,
no quarter will ere be given,
and though the tide shifts,
each individual battle produces as always,
a winner and a
loser
noisy affairs,
long after the battle,
the slain yet scream,
perhaps I am confused,
perhaps it is the day's survivors,
announcing that sadly,
they are still
alive
it must be the latter,
for here I am writing and recording,
and though alone,
I hear an ever growing louder,
gouging sine wave scream piercing,
daring my soul to leave my wracked
body
for though mortal wounded,
I am therefore
both dead and alive,
but which more so,
none can surely
say
this conflict remains
unconcluded
the pain in my hip, now
everywhere,
my Jacob, now, Israel,
marker
so visible even if itself,
unseen
3:59am
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
I really want to thank you.
Whether I'm being sarcastic or not,
You'll never know.
I feel like every time I write something,
It's for someone to read.
Spooky government guys,
Or girls who really like fries.
But sometimes it feels like I don't want to.
I don't want you to read about
Who or what affects me.
Sometimes I worry because my friends can read these things.
My friends, they enjoy poetry too.
My English teacher's on here.
She says she approves.
It's weird, isn't it?
How small the world is.
Yet I never see who I really want to.
I see uncles and aunts
And really long lost cousins.
I see my grandma's friends everywhere.
At weddings and all affairs.
But the only way I can see
Who I really want to.
Is through writing and pictures,
And trust me,
I do.
But it feels like it can't be real,
not yet.
I have eight months to go,
And I fret and I fret.
I can't wait to see those
Amazing blue eyes.
The upturn of blond hair,
And your shirts like the skies.
Your sense of adventure keeps me going.
It's weird,
I know,
how these words keep flowing.
You'll never read them.
But if you do,
Hi,
I suppose.
I miss you.
With your laugh,
So infrequent,
And your entrances.
Through fire escapes?
That's perfectly normal to me.
From under a table?
That's pretty normal to see.
To scare me on a staircase?
Of course, why not?
Hanging off a balcony?
Fine, but keep your thoughts.
But the one entrance you have yet to make.
Is the one I want you to most.
The one that leads you back into my world.
The one that makes the legend unfurl.
I have documents upon documents
I'd love you to read.
But you never really will,
It's not hard to believe.
Poems and lists,
Monologues galore.
But wait and look,
Here's one more.
And you ask,
What is it truly for?
A thank you,
Dear friend
For being who you are.
And simply to ask you to look up at the stars.
For I can see the moon,
And so can you.
And I just wish,
I could see you too.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
On almost the incendiary eve
Of several near deaths,
When one at the great least of your best loved
And always known must leave
Lions and fires of his flying breath,
Of your immortal friends
Who'd raise the organs of the counted dust
To shoot and sing your praise,
One who called deepest down shall hold his peace
That cannot sink or cease
Endlessly to his wound
In many married London's estranging grief.
On almost the incendiary eve
When at your lips and keys,
Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave,
One who is most unknown,
Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street,
Will dive up to his tears.
He'll bathe his raining blood in the male sea
Who strode for your own dead
And wind his globe out of your water thread
And load the throats of shells
with every cry since light
Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.
On almost the incendiary eve
Of deaths and entrances,
When near and strange wounded on London's waves
Have sought your single grave,
One enemy, of many, who knows well
Your heart is luminous
In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves,
Will pull the thunderbolts
To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys
And sear just riders back,
Until that one loved least
Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.
2.7k
The rows of backgarden fences looked much the same
Crumbling and split wooden planks, large tree roots
Dividing up the length and making mysterious entrances
Where rather dilapidated gates, latched firmly,
So animals could not stray,
Allowed for the start
Of magic.
Out of all these fences one belonged to my grandparents and
Through which our travels to Narnia began.
Love Mary x
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
Beauty
entrances every ear
every surface:
engulfs it within the
flames that were sacrificed
from one hundred lighters
****** up towards the sky
with a mite that stirs
our joy awake
with a mite that seems to consume
every fiber of our being
in its brilliance
and we connect to the power
laid before us,
given to us at the sound of a yell
--a scream so defiant
it could break anything
but the voice
and the essence
of our prayers:
the prayers to carry us away
with these lyrics,
these notes and melodies,
to carry us away
in hopes of finding something better
--something euphoric--
within these songs.
We are not disappointed
in our search.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
<>
Eye Liner
Her only adornment
as she dances
entrances
throws glances.
<>
Eye contact
Her one flirtation
as she sways
displays
shyly plays.
<>
Eye catching
Her unique attraction
as she calls
enthralls
gently falls.
<><><>
© Pagan Paul (15/07/16)
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
There was a squandering ember that climbed her spinal chord
and lit the deteriorating birchwood on the peach-fuzzed tea lamps.
When those stairwells cramped and swelled with staggered liquid terraces
in the foundational pin-cushion that cradled family after family.
Woe begone chants that railed support beams moaning under elemental abuse.
A litter of ghost kittens coiling underfoot where the rug
used to yawn before the grandfather clock,
now senile and rotting with absent-minded tick-tocks.
Inside her streetcorner, the music was that
monkey hopping to street ***** blue notes on somber ropes.
The air thick with the regal, chunky vibe
of batting eyes, flirty sighs, and bourbon.
Between the buildings again...
embraced with the same warm feeling that
entrances your fingertips, lips, and ears when within a man's arms.
In this city, Love is those two birds on that same powerline
that bowed and ebbed with summer's sweet sigh.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 11:47 PM UTC
the smell that entrances and calms the mind at heart
the beauty that draws the eye but with the fragility of withering apart
the scenery before me on the lonesome field brings me back when i was at peace
away from my broken mind where i'm brought back to the torment of seeing my reflection covered in a dark red grease
as i lay down in the field and lose focus in the vast sky i let open the gates of emotion to flood within
for being haunted by my past yet trying to move on with regret feels only like a sin
as the days grow darker my heart grows colder from suppression i've been cursed from this path i chose for myself
being trapped in this cage of isolated beauty hurts more than the cards i've been dealt
as i roam through the hills being careful to not ruin what little heaven i have granted for days on end
i think and ponder on what i have done to gain such relief from the anger but left alone to the hands of sorrow to be condemned
life seems funny as the flowers of never ending bloom show me nothing of the illusion of peace of mind
as the days go closer to a shade of black i stumble upon a unmarked stony grave which deep inside i know its mine
the flowers i've stained along the way have long forgave me but i lied feeling their false fury
for now do be it late i can smile knowing i've been freed as i'm tranquilly buried
May 19, 2022
May 19, 2022 at 11:52 PM UTC
lately //
i’ve been making a noose of my own heartstrings //
but my father is a fisherman who taught me that the best knots don’t slip //
so i carry a bowline in my pocket for security and a tangled mess of forevers on my sleeve.
But I’ve also been tying anchor bends since i realized my grip was not equal to atlas’ shoulders.
And what a cruel paradox that is //
to think that a god can carry the earth beneath our feet but our hands // molded from clay and mud in the same image //could never be enough of a last resort to anchor our hearts in our chests.
so the loophole here,
so to speak,
is the anchor bend knot //
but! //
you know what’s funny about loopholes actually?? // you see, they were made to allow arrows to be shot from an opening // but the structure of that opening prevents counter arrows from being shot back in.
such an invention is why it’s always been nearly impossible to storm a castle’s wall and my, // have many a noble men fallen at the feet of such entrances.
so nowadays, i carry my trusty bowline //alongside the endless loopholes of those old-fashioned anchor bends.
however, I’m sure you know that the bowline is regarded as “the knot of all knots” right? it’s good for tying just about anything without give.
but the first time i ever went sailing // i learned about the round turn and two half hitches. this knot is pretty cool because the more tension you apply to the rope, the tighter the knot will get //
highly reliable for most things.
i guess the irony here is that // i am personally, most identifiable with this knot.
i don’t really ever use it. i am not a sailor or a fishermen. but i do have a really bad tendency of fastening myself to things that have a lot of pull.
the tightening tension of it
is similar to the mythical 13 knots in a hangman’s noose and what an incredibly genius stroke of engineering.
to think that the masterful art of knot-tying comes down to the basic idea that a knot will hold under tension is simply and utterly graceful without fault.
but here’s the thing;
as soon as i learned to tie a knot that won’t slip,
i taught myself the hangman’s knot:
a knot that essentially slips, but still holds merciless tension around its victim.
i’ve been tying nooses with what causes me the most pain.
with what bleeds the most love //
but as the one and only descendant of my father, the great fisher king,
i am starting to learn that if the knot slips,
you cut the line and start again.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
i want to **** myself so badly,
to just disappear from this horrible life.
i must admit i'll gladly
take the devil's deal to get a knife
to carve my fragile heart out.
i'm scared of pain-
but at the same time, it entrances me.
i watch the little beads of blood again,
slowly forming into a puddle.
dancing on my wrist
Sep 6, 2024
Sep 6, 2024 at 7:18 AM UTC
Running through a day
Chatters of many discussions
Thoughts dashing in and out
Solving problems and getting work done
*Then it's like...
Time slowing down for a bit
To make space for you
Little grand entrances
Filling my head with sweetness
Happy memories
And little imaginations
And I look forward
To the times when I'm doing nothing at all
Then I'll put you in my spotlight
When I can think about only you
And smile to myself
Unknowingly
You being my favourite daydream...
Make that
my new
number one
hobby...*
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
Lush green of variant shades
cloud my vision with the hush of tranquility
There is no mystery here
only the simple drop of sunlight that can't quite penetrate
I can remember the times on this grass with you
when we stretched out in Nirvana
and I'm not certain where you've gone
but this blissfulness entrances me
enhances me
so I am one in essence with this triumphant fertility
that makes not even the slightest rustle
And here in Nirvana, I can crawl on my belly
keeping to myself
avoiding the bright sun
until I reach the newest dream
that whispers tales in the ripples
But here, ignorance is reflected in the disturbance
of a shimmering pond as a snake enters the water
and slithers across my face
There have been no creatures here before
and all I can think is what a beautiful thing
Leaves fall down and wither at my feet
branches brush my shoulders
and I am annoyed that they try to hold me back
All I want
is to glide my hand across those scales
to stroke that body before it goes
and I am left wondering
So I bend down before the pond
and I can't hear my peaceful song
and its' tongue flicks out to greet me
so so sweetly
and I can't understand why the snake is now laughing
or why I'm sweating
or how I came to notice that I'm feeling captured
not enraptured
So I creep back, and I run towards the brightest sun
and the snake is gone
as I break through the ferns that snap and whimper goodbye
and I see the edge to the unknown land
Maybe I could choose to strut forward or sink back
but I'm forgetting
I can't image the soft greens
The pond seems muggy in my memory
and your face is blocked, now we'll never meet
And I'm so fearful of the colours that I don't remember
so I plow into the mist
and I never truly "know"
but I can feel
as I lose my Nirvana
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
~
*gone to earth
left for dead
everything is tickety-boo
forget your iron-on measures
and scuttled installation
your life is a bakery
that cake is like your head
bittersweet
and full of regret
what am I reading these days?
a book across the stars
where dreams in the throes
of giddy aerosol cans
**** the passersby
and sleep against
the exit sign*
~
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 10:32 AM UTC
[Dedicated to Horace Sheridan-Bickers]
A vision of flushed faces, shining limbs,
The madness of the music that entrances
All life in its delirium of dances!
The white world glitters in the void, and swims
Through the infinite seas of transcendental trances.
Yea! all the hoarded seed of all my fancies
Bursts in a shower of suns! The wine-cup brims
And bubbles over; I drink deep hymns
Of sorceries, of spells, of necromancies;
And all my spirit shudders; dew bedims
My sight -these girls and their alluring glances!
Their eyes that burn like dawn's lascivious lances
Walking all earth to love -to love! Life skims
The cream of joy. If God could see what man sees,
(Intoxicating Nellies, Mauds and Nances!)
I see Him leave the sapphrine expanses,
The choir serene and the celestial air
To swoon into their sacramental hair!
1.9k
I tip my hat to the Poetess,
the Word Witch whose spin enthralls,
with language arranged in patterns,
and verse that often calls.
Her art is to conjure images,
the Sorceress whose quill entrances,
with phrase beautiful in texture,
and a word that often dances.
Her creations are her offspring,
the High Priestess whose rhymes capture,
with stanza's keen in construction,
and meanings that evoke pure rapture.
© Pagan Paul (24/07/16)
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC