"envelopes" poems
I want
To fall in love with someones smile
To swoon under their gaze
To become dizzy with their touch
I want
To crave someone like an addiction
To nestle up to their warmth
To get an adrenaline rush from their scent
I want
To hold them and never let go
To tell them how much I love them everyday
To keep discovering them like it's my personal quest
I want
To give them my heart
To love them for all that they are
To keep them from the tainted world
I want
But what can I do with these contaminated hands?
How dare I try to hold them close with these hands of mine flowing thick with lies?
To tell them sweet nothings with my corrupted tongue?
My love
Is like a wildfire
Sudden, quick, and innocent
Without my permission my little spark turned into a flame
And consumed everything that contained a letter in your name
My love
Is like a wildfire
Untamed, ephemeral, and dangerous
It destroys all it touches,
Breaking barriers, burning bridges
It envelopes everyone in its warmth leaving no option but to run or turn to ash
Beware of my wildfire love
You cannot leave unscathed
I leave a scar
Beware of my wildfire, love
Because I'll burn enough for us both
I'll keep you warm on cold nights and dry on rainy days
I will set your heart ablaze and love you with all the force of my wildfire
Beware of my love,
It can't be forgotten nor replaced
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 1:08 AM UTC
Those who lash out when the heart speaks
avoid the many mirrors reflecting themselves
For in this rippled dream,
where perfect does exist
and mistakes are long gone like a Milli Vanilli song,
they fail to see that we are all human…
errors come with the package (batteries not included)
Sidewalk footprints, back and forth
pacing past the entrance to that world
where words have no meaning,
regardless of how they are spoken (or written)
Self-absorbed deeply in the waves
of that ocean tide of fantasy
crashing in white foam feelings, disappearing by sunset
What is it that makes us who we are…
our smile, our fingers, our brand of cigarettes
shipped in plain brown envelopes,
our thoughts, our dreams, the poetry we write
when we need to get it out…good or bad
When lack of judgment drips from the skylight
illuminating courage to do what we shouldn’t (even in darkness)
Wrong, I was wrong…regret, more than I could have known
I have looked in this mirror, then I looked away quickly,
Ashamed of that face, fell three stories below my heart
slipped on the disgust splattered at my feet (by me)
sunk up to my knees…bent, folding, scraped and bruised
but I require no sympathy, for I am not that devil Jagger sings of…
at least I hope not…please allow me to introduce myself…I am sorry
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes
shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit
brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times
barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now
an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze
i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge
free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation
floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun
you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound
you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul
dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly
©2016janetaylor
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
Quiet mind, immersed
in palest, warmest yellow.
Molecules within
find alignment
with infinity.
Silvery mercurial fluid
paints my bones
with gentle light.
You have come back.
Abundantly, warm salt
water envelopes me.
Even in this chair,
in this empty room.
On dry land.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 3:04 PM UTC
burn the light of fire
and wax the ears of injustice.
chide the moon
and bid ado to the reckless sun.
count the blessings of misfortunes
and wave verbs in the air--
breathing the hopeful breaths of married sandals
Label the pains of a billion rain drops and fawn the feathers
of a nightingale over the glory of failed
triumphs known as yesterday.
break the hands of a wristwatch and make a ******* of time--
for through the God in Satan was how Earth was won.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
The basin drains her polluted blood as wine envelopes morose
Every minute is a memory, onset of her blanketed comatose
Vying in a fog of icons and myths, words always fail them
From every misread evil that is disposed of improperly
From every neighbor or friend eternally mute again
From every gilded pattern that leaves a cuff for the eyes
From every fetching barroom, where all such nadir lies
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
HE GIVES THE BEST HUGS
"you like long hugs don't you"
he knows i do
so he envelopes me in his warmth
and squeezes me till i feel giddy like a little girl
and sometimes
he even rests his chin on my head
and i wonder if he is memorizing what my shampoo smells like
and it's for this exact moment that i push through my workload each day and
it's for this exact moment that i walk through the rain each night
his evening smile is tattoed in my mind so i can dream peacefully
and he never fails to follow up with a simple love you snap
HE GIVES THE BEST GOODNIGHTS
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.
Rushing,
mother and child ride along.
Greasy, ***** malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.
Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes
His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…
He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration
I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.
He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.
I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.
I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.
He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.
The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.
What do you do,
what can you do?
The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat."
It goes straight to my heart.
Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?
That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…
Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…
What can you do?
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC
At night-the light turned off, the filament
Unburdened of its atom-eating charge,
His wife asleep, her breathing dipping low
To touch a swampy source-he thought of death.
Her father's hilltop home allowed him time
To sense the nothing standing like a sheet
Of speckless glass behind his human future.
He had two comforts he could see, just two.
One was the cheerful fullness of most things:
Plump stones and clouds, expectant pods, the soil
Offering up pressure to his knees and hands.
The other was burning the trash each day.
He liked the heat, the imitation danger,
And the way, as he tossed in used-up news,
String, napkins, envelopes, and paper cups,
Hypnotic tongues of order intervened.
5.9k
How long the day,
Delivering letters to friends,
And cranky, bald dog feeders. Home
Is forward, past those poplars.
Always I’ve been in love with
Their almond scent, just as I catch
Past, dragging feet and who knows
How many heartfelt "Thank-you's".
Home is... where the wife is sitting.
She's not keen on laundry, but,
I’m an exception.
Always are my blue shirts blue,
She likes to make sure. Just in case I meet
With him; that carrion shaker,
Mr. Reaper.
“Hello.” I'd say, and tip my cap,
Along my silent nightly rounds;
Perhaps he'd humour me, if he could
See me. He's searching. For me? No.
That’s not right.
The lamps are thickest
In the dark, and that's just how
he likes it.
Even if I tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe around
Him, he'll still turn his hood toward me.
A courteous, creaking greeting.
That chill I get.
Matches only the fear
From losing fingers, as I push envelopes,
Catalogues, and restless dreams
Through many metal slats.
But even I, can't quite see,
When the sky turns milky-grey...
That perching, questioning hand
Placed gently on my shoulder;
Pushing down as I bend my back,
Kicking over milk-bottles, sometimes
accidentally. I shake it off.
Get to bed! I say to myself, mostly
Always, to myself.
Slap on some cream
And
Get to bed.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:56 AM UTC
There is no one, other than you
Who think of you,
There are no memories, only
Your own mirror image,
This loneliness is born out of infidelity
I found empty envelopes in my letter box
And you can find words running through my nerves
Now I can fill up the sky with verses
But beloved soil,
I have lost your address
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
Our future starts now,
have we forgotten somehow?
The pain that we endure
somehow makes us impure.
To live and let go, to love and learn...
To accept one another; expect the same in return.
To reach out to someone hurting and to try and understand, this helps us grow... After all, wasn't that the plan? Why else are we here, why else are we breathing? It's only just begun and soon we'll all be leaving.
To leave something behind that is worth your life or mine would show that we have made it, we rest with the divine.
The planets all in balance,
The souls points all aligned,
That's when the peace comes
That's when we can unwind.
We dream and we discuss a way of living that we must, but if there is no action then why all of the fuss? We have to put it out there, to live and love our best the way that we know how and spread it to the rest.
On earth there is a sadness and men with cruel intention, many of you notice what I shouldn't have to mention. At this juncture we are falling apart, forgetting our talents, neglecting our art.
We feel the end approaching, pain envelopes all... We reach out to our brothers when we are feeling small. If you feel alone, you have to figure out- who are the people that are filling you with doubt? If it is inside of you, you have to cast it out and if it is surrounding you, find another route. Our future starts today, have we forgotten somehow? Don't let it be in vain, make a change now. ~ ©KD
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
Peter Pan said Wendy -
There's something I want to tell you.
I am neither straight nor bent
But what you might call bendy
Captain Hook stopped reading his e-book and eavesdropped more intently.
Peter knew what his flexible friend meant and spoke to her quite innocently.
Wendy - I am as vanilla as Manilla envelopes in a creamery with whitewashed walls
And identical twin albino Godzillas fighting snow leopards with cue *****
No gimp suit in fifty shades of grey for me.
I am pretty much hormone-free,
More than happy with asexuality,
Playing pirated computer games on one hand
And others' loves that dare not speak their names which fewer understand.
In my world of dreamery certain flights of fancy pass me by.
I love to fly and you Wendy.
And I love you too Peter - Not Everygirl's Ideal of A Real Man.
But I can understand the attraction of Lost Boys and their toys in Neverland.
We've known each other for all these years,
Shared too many troubles, thoughts and fears
To be anything other than in each other's hearts.
If I never visit Neverland again
I know you will always be my closest friend,
What, where, whenever happens
To the bittersweet end.
May we both be dying for an Excellent Adventure,
If not together then separately.
There is nothing better than to know
That you will always be there for me
No matter how we might grow
Into this 21st century.
And one day I may straighten out
But
That's
Not
What
Life's
About.
Captain Hook put down his e-book and Facebooked a friend...............
And that is where our story will end.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
The darkness envelopes the night,
the stars in the sky dissapear.
Leaving a stranded knight,
with nothing to fear.
He's all alone in this world,
with nothing but a sword.
His hopes are curled,
for he thinks there is no lord.
But right as he is about to give up,
a lightness embraces him.
It fills his almighty cup,
it takes away all his sin.
He feels like a god reborn.
He throws his sword to the ground.
His world has been torn,
never to be found.
He is the only ruler now,
Only he can judge you now.
The knight in the sky,
the one who learned how to fly.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Every brush is a first as a spark to a fire;
though the ashes still fall from limb and leaf,
each blaze sizzles an original melody:
forever unique and soulfully sole.
A delicate comfort envelopes me,
wreathing my pieces with a gentle autumn breeze,
mending me whole when I was never broken.
Her ambiance dances as rays of shattered moonlight,
slipping beneath a sky of the arctic dawn.
She gathers my fragments,
even when they had never been chipped away.
I lay unprotected, yet entirely safe.
She bends until the space separating us is airless with tender yearning.
I taste a thin sea-foam of maple sugar.
Dyspnoea remains fluid in our slumberous desire.
When I close my eyes, submitting to the quiet rush,
I am welcomed by an island universe.
Stardust spirals as the cosmos beams above our heads.
A sylvan petrichor swirls about the fall
as I am consumed with pure euphoria.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
I live in the wilderness
The Sun shines on the trees and through the leaves
Warmth envelopes my sanctuary
Until darkness approaches like a fog
The darkness is pregnant with sounds
I hear animals snarling while bones are breaking
Whimpers turn into blood curdling gargles
As the darkness renders invisibility among predators
And the darkness engenders vulnerability among prey
I desperately want to help but there is a darkness barricade
The darkness follows everything
The darkness swallows everything
I can hear planes crash
And the passengers scream
From within the darkness
I can only see muzzle flash
And the barrel's steam
Creating hardship
The darkness converts men to shouts of agony and rage
The darkness blinds us from the writing on the page
The darkness makes us believe
That it's our reprieve
Darkness has us in it's sight
When we choose to live in light
Even when we do what is right
Darkness takes flight
Becoming our plight
We try to fight back with futility
The darkness' bite has more utility
We are engulfed by negativity
As we lose all connectivity
And our mouths begin to foam
When the darkness is our home
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
As a writer,
Pictures inspire the emotion:
The journal acting as the canvas,
And the pen being the brush,
And as a writer to an artist,
Black and white had never shown more beautifully.
Though as a writer dating an artist,
To view meaning within the basic lines of the world
Compares not to the placing of meaning atop the ones given.
For as a writer dating an artist,
A blank page envelopes more than unfinished work,
As any unfinished work soon becomes accepted beauty.
And as a writer dating an artist,
Seeing emotion in color no longer feels foreign,
Evolving old metaphors into nothing shy of the neanderthals.
Thus as a writer dating an artist,
I've begun to learn the way of the trade,
In fear for when my words run dry.
As an artist,
Words inspire the feelings,
The canvas acting as the journal,
And the brush being the pen.
And as an artist to a writer,
Silence had never been etched more enticing.
As the writer dating an artist-
I have become the artist in love with a writer.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
i look at you and hot blood rushes through my veins,
making me weak,
thrumming with energy, excitement,
thrilling me to my core,
warning dangerous dangerous dangerous
the sensation envelopes my body as thoughts of you envelope my mind
you're dangerous and not good for me, but
my heart melts and I can't help but want you
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Oh, what a horrible night
Definitely not late December back in '63
These are the Frankie valleys of my days
Night is always black
Night always comes back
Night envelopes us in the abyss
And makes us cherish light
Heightening our senses
To help us handle the unknown
When my days are filled with stimulation
The stillness of night sinks me
Into quicksand mixed by
The current of my mind
Overflowing into the sands of time
And reminds me
Of the stillness of my eyes locked on you
Or the stillness of my actions as you walk by
Or the stillness of my heart when you call me a ******
My frustration boiled
Night's black tar
So I bottled it up
Placed it in a syringe
And medicated my love with darkness
I worked my first job at the local Kroger's
People would leave with everything they wanted
And I'd push their empty carts back into the store
The artificial lights of the street lamps
Lacked warmth
Their hypnotic buzz highlighted
The stillness of night
Making me wonder if there was any way I could be happy
Similar to when activity would die down in rehab
A pitiful wretch left to his faculties
I'd stare out the window
Into the concrete chasm
And wonder if happiness could be found by someone like me
Night continues
Night confines
Day comes
And goes
Night returns
Night reburns
Night relearned
I really hate to see the day come to an end
It'd be alright if I was on the bay with a pen
But I live near sulfur vents
Inside a searing tent
Where the hellacious temperature rises rapidly
Despite the absence of the sun's warmth
The hellfire of night
Reminisces of those
I have thoroughly failed
And my overwhelming remorse
As I stare out my window
Into the bramble ravine
I wonder about the possibility of contentment
The stillness of night answers me
But at least now I can open the door
And charge into the night headstrong
To search frantically
For someone who
Erases my history
And writes my future
And makes me wonder if I could ever be happier
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC
I buried him somewhere…
When I go to bed at night,
I checked the closet and he’s not there,
I tried under my bed and he’s not there.
Surely he’s dead for I buried him somewhere,
I am a woman now and not a frantic child,
It’s been a long while since I have not visited his grave,
Pray then, why must he appear now?
I tried hard to move on with life,
I persevered to love and accept myself,
I opened my heart to forgive my own,
My being is as wide as the skies.
I found solace in the plateau of my existence,
Why must he visit now?
Truly, I buried him somewhere,
And I swore he’ll never see me again.
He’s there trying to taunt and torture me,
He’s the one who mocks me,
He scoffs me when I search for happiness,
He laughs when I try beating myself.
Nightmares haunt me even at day,
He was the devil himself,
He, a vile and a disgusting man,
Who touched and fondled me in my innocent years.
He violated my freshness to rotten,
And it took me years to pick up the pieces,
Now that I’m almost whole I couldn’t understand,
Why must he resurrect in my dreams?
I am a woman and I still live,
Yet fear still envelopes my being,
I can never forgive and I will never forget,
But surely, I buried him somewhere…
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.
Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.
You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
(for John and Teckla Clark)
Ours yet not ours, being set apart
As a shrine to friendship,
Empty and silent most of the year,
This room awaits from you
What you alone, as visitor, can bring,
A weekend of personal life.
In a house backed by orderly woods,
Facing a tractored sugar-beet country,
Your working hosts engaged to their stint,
You are unlike to encounter
Dragons or romance: were drama a craving,
You would not have come.
Books we do have for almost any
Literate mood, and notepaper, envelopes,
For a writing one (to "borrow" stamps
Is the mark of ill-breeding):
Between lunch and tea, perhaps a drive;
After dinner, music or gossip.
Should you have troubles (pets will die
Lovers are always behaving badly)
And confession helps, we will hear it,
Examine and give our counsel:
If to mention them hurts too much,
We shall not be nosey.
Easy at first, the language of friendship
Is, as we soon discover,
Very difficult to speak well, a tongue
With no cognates, no resemblance
To the galimatias of nursery and bedroom,
Court rhyme or shepherd's prose,
And, unless spoken often, soon goes rusty.
Distance and duties divide us,
But absence will not seem an evil
If it make our re-meeting
A real occasion. Come when you can:
Your room will be ready.
In Tum-Tum's reign a tin of biscuits
On the bedside table provided
For nocturnal munching. Now weapons have changed,
And the fashion of appetites:
There, for sunbathers who count their calories,
A bottle of mineral water.
Felicissima notte! May you fall at once
Into a cordial dream, assured
That whoever slept in this bed before
Was also someone we like,
That within the circle of our affection
Also you have no double.
4k
I feel it surround me
holding me in my place.
It hovers around me
like humidity on a hot day.
I take deep breaths
but that never seems to help.
I try not to succumb but the
deep
burning
anger
envelopes me until I see red.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Sometimes I watch
the man in the benign pastel shirt
and the drab khakis
with the receding hairline
and the thick glasses
cross the street
with a package in his arms;
And I think to myself,
"There goes a good dad,
mild mannered, loving -
trying to make his way
in this savage world."
Then, almost instantaneously,
the doubt creeps in:
"Or, he could be a monster,
who beats his kids,
or his wife,
or sets fire to homes,
or has adolescent prisoners in his basement."
From then on I question everyone I see.
That lovable looking old lady
with her sun hat
and disabled parking pass
might shout racist obscenities
from her balcony
at poor black kids
playing in the park across the street.
The clean-cut young man
in the shirt and tie
with the papers in his hands
may spend his weekends
filling envelopes with anthrax spores -
one for each name on his list.
I can no longer see
the father whose arrival from work
is anticipated by a loving family,
or the grandmother who delights in
handing out the most Halloween candy
to every kid in the neighborhood,
or the industrious young professional
striving to make a meaningful contribution
to society.
I wonder if the darkness I see in them
is a magnified reflection
of the darkness I know
that lurks inside of me.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:30 AM UTC