"foamy" poems
Too late
to turn back from the flurry
of painted snowflakes
on a gossamer wind.
In a
whirlwind they spin
up and upwards
to the timeless lands.
Frozen
specks of crystal;
perfect and unimaginable
melt on my face.
Shadows
fall and they turn
grey and the painter leaves
his canvas unfinished.
A soft
white sea has emerged
below my feet
and immersed the world in white.
Foamy
to wade through and yet
impossible to resist
spoiling the untouched.
Then sun
arrives, and he brings warmth
and light, and so
the sky’s daughters melt in all
their sweet virginity
and the ground is rendered wet
once more.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
A marvel millions of years in the making.
Where the womb of Earth chaotically meets the surface.
Under a clear blue sky, an expanse of bliss -
But beneath gray rolling clouds, an endless enigma.
The easiest world to get lost in
is one where everything can be found.
One can only build a sand castle where the sand is wet.
But where the sand is wet, the tide comes.
Will it gently lick at your foundations until you give in?
Or will a sudden wave send you crashing down in the blink of an eye?
Either way the outcome is the same.
Yet we still build sand castles.
I stand where the foam wraps around my ankles.
Where my toes squish into the sand.
The salty air is therapeutic.
The breeze is gentle, yet powerful.
I sink my toes into the ultimate boundary line, tempted by the foamy tendrils.
Turn back, and I abandon my peace to erode at the shore.
Drift forward, and I return to Earth forevermore.
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 5:51 PM UTC
how do you paint water, or clouds?
I could read poetry for the brief,
of my of remaining life, however brief,
and never be satiated, of love,
and streams of water,
never stilled, always running
in patterns that exist,
but for milliseconds,
admired by clouds born in, of,
a moment of re-formation that
is perpetuity long:
unending shape shifting,
like the freedom of flowing water
currents, forming, reforming and unthinkable, nay,
inconceivable that human eyes
or their spoken words
could capture their
shiny white foamy essence
But of love,
that we can do, paint, design, recreate its
endless loops of undulations, like the radiating circularity
of a pebble dropped gently
to its burial sight in a quiet pond.
Humans know, understand and excel at clasping and grasping
at the synapsing of human cells from differing bodies:
the exogenous erogenous of human touch that like the clouds
and the water,
who
could paint that,
who capable of capturing
said sensations that wrack
and enliven the body with invisible
interior chemical reactions. I
cannot.
Thankfully better men and women have treatised their entreaties to the powers of the universe and been rewarded with the skilled delicacy of weaving human tapestries, the milliseconds of connectivity, eclectic and electrifying of different currents and differing amperage’s forming and reforming like water moving, just like the clouds changing in response to the externalities of wind and gravity and all the forces of nature that encourage us to study
and stare at these flows,
hoping to entrance them into standing still for but a moment, and instead, mesmerizing us into standing motionless for hours in awe of their freedom.
Love’s undulations too mesmerizing, and freezing us into
place, or alternatively
caucus to run endlessly arms extending,
flying though not airborne,
rocketing us upwards while feet never budging,
but finding good wards, masterful metaphors to recreate and thus to share the fabulous mystery of this thing we know as love.
2:58AM
Friday
jul 22 (jewel 22) of the 23rd year of the 21st Century.
O.L.P.
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 3:05 AM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
The braches of the faint oak were bewitched to a dark gold under
the orange, thick silk sunset.
The wood, as the sun lowered, changed from apple green
to golden billow
which swept foamy,
rose clouds along a now cucumber, blurry horizon.
Plump plums and fruit rinds
litter ripe walkways alongside the flower beds who's tickled buds
are closing slightly as the fickle sky, gone nine, turns to a majestic
Indian blue and the June monastery's milky swirls are lit by the sugar lump stars.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
O liquid temptress of my dark dreams,
Your ****** expanse calls me
And I would sail ever on,
Were it not for the elven maid,
Who calls me, calls me
She binds my heart with a lily white tie,
Never to be broken, save by my torment
Ever to be torn between the treesand waves.
And I travel for ever, for ever,
To reach the elven maid's heart which lies,
Beyond the liquid temptress' grasp.
The elven maid in beauty basks,
Her eyes as auburn as hallow woods.
Her hair as lush as the foamy tide,
With ruby lips and honeyed words,
She calls me, calls me.
She breaks all enchantments on me,
And calls me to the elven land.
Her voice awakens the fallow lands,
And fills my heart with unearthly joy
O liquid temptress of my dark dreams,
Your ****** expanse calls me
And I would sail ever on,
Were it not for the elven maid,
Who calls me, calls me
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
'O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme,
'Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
'Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out,
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge,
It has more ivy; there the river; and there
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
'But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird;
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. [grig = cricket - m.]
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a ***** trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
5.2k
I come from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally;
I sparkle out among the fern
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
At last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways
In sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bay;
I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter, chatter as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a ***** trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To joing the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots;
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
~Alfred Tennyson 1809-1892~
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
Floating on a stream of delicate warm milk
I gather handfuls of froth udders tepid silk.
Chilled hands collect warmth on a cold night,
Fulfilled memories of past moments do ensue.
Each one descends into foamy warm truth
I pick out the choc chips going down smooth.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
*The desperate pounding
on the wall can be heard*
"Love Love Love"
I can't believe you're so shallow.
You refuse. You die.
You vanish like a burning hay,
right here, on the blackened way.
Candy peaks, monotonous points in the sea
Let me descend
Open you a bit
River,
Sun,
foamy stream,
You drown,
Love, dream, dream!
TV screens
Times square
Light-ants
Electric signals through wires
deep dark night flooding rush
Volcano erupting
Surface! Screammm!
Neons
Alcohol on glass
Old charwoman rubs it
with rag
Hands shake you
in the foamy stream
Ha!
Who was right?
The night staggers you
with thousand stars
Wolves howling
Moon
Mushrooms
Dew & violet & knights
& Mysteries
Welcome to the old days
Tomorrow you will be introduced
to the wise King of England
A rocker picks up stuff
and scatters the TV screen
bottles of liqour are smashed
in his house
Glass scattered, guitars wrecked - he's crazy,
pulling out hair, gnashing teeth
-You all killed him
and You are not even aware
Meanwhile a man strolls the woods
searches for mushrooms
on sunny autumn day
he smells moss, bark and undergrowth
He's contemplating the topics of
childhood & ******
Red lipstick smears all over her lips
She's the animal queen
All belongs to her
Thanks to her claws,
cat-moan, and the
short living
aggressive cinder
she owns.
Leather jacket be her weapon,
Night be her moment.
I am the Eye,
and what I see
is a child picking yellow petals
of sow-thistle
kneeling in the sun
in his timeless summer.
Who would know,
that this chapter
would be closed
one day
and the brown leather book
would become dusty
someday
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
She was the only lighthouse in a roiling sea of black
My rowboat upended
As the waves enveloped my screams
Gasping, reaching
As the foamy pitch swallowed me whole
CLANG mourned the lighthouse
Her yellow beam helplessly revolving
CLANG CLANG
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
Ophelia...smote egress, you are Rimbaud's:
"Drunken Boat".
The river you fell asleep upon found you a sea.
Your bones knew no seabed--poppies, marigolds,
orchids, black roses fill your eye sockets, mouth and rib cage.
You substantiate what color the sea may give your lay.
Its foamy waddle has signaled you to one too many
climes...an orison broke open.
What strain of tragedy now holds you, spine on depth,
eye sockets on sky?
You dove headlong into the Shakespearean maelstrom--
where mortal coil confounds, chin-up darling.
Great winds fish-scale your waters, only to invert their maw.
There are lines daily of sea's breadth, whereupon its
creatures come single file to kiss your bone.
Ophelia...wrested from river to sanguine sea, shedding trails
of flesh.
If bones were the eye of a needle...you've pulled through,
heir to tragedy--circumnavigating your infamy.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
Those who are conceited are like the foamy starch in a *** of pasta
That rises and billows so proud in its manner, falling over the sides of the pan
But little do they know that they are nothing special later on
They just end up being some disgusting crusty mass that no one wants to find in their gnocchi
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
*We share our deficiencies:
A haven of sorrow and fury*
Friendly - they say hello
In mischief and spite.
Warm or cool under your feet
They swerve near nonchalant districts
And foamy lips
Destructive - they leave without saying goodbye
A routine they developed
Over the series of washed up regrets
And maroon sediments
Attached - they stick like superglue
To the pang they forgot to tell you about
They leave and take a part with them
And inevitably imprint themselves onto you
*We share our deficiencies:
A haven of sorrow and fury*
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
I am soft
With a hard shell
Crack me open
And I will
Ooze out
Raw, white and foamy
Clinging to your fingers
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
"-*I think we should move him to Mallorca, or some kind of... I dunno, Carribeans? It's too rainy here.
-Oh honey, I don't think it's going to work*..."
These artificial surroundings won't heal my heart.
Transplantation went wrong.
Drip drop, the drops are falling
On leaves
Rain everywhere, soaking everything
Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom
In this garden of mine plants live their lives
Roots and stems and leaves
Lovers of rain; seekers of self destruction
Striving to know.
"-*How is he? I haven't seen him in a while.
-No idea. He's acting weird nowadays*."
The keeper of the values, the guardian of the golden shell
Believe me, I'm very well.
In this waterfall, this foamy-quick stream
Growing bones around me, the self-stems.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
The horizon glows purple beneath the muted kaleidoscope of a fading rainbow
Salt hangs in the air, thick as the sand trodden on by so many
Daylight heaves a last sigh and closes her eyes, tucking herself into a comforter of oranges, purples, and blues, resting for the day to come
Foamy crests chase each other towards the feet of the travelers, and shyly retreat back on themselves, stumbling clumsily
The birds dip into the chilly water and bob over the rolling waves before suddenly taking to the darkening sky
Here, landscape, human and animal intermingle, amid the tranquility that only the sea can bring
The days stretch on, full of lazy possibilities
And each morning is a fresh start, full of new wonders
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
The lighthouse keeper and his son, one day
Were out on the rocks, by a blue-water bay
As the sea, their bare feet was laving,
They saw a mermaid, they first thought was bathing;
With long dark hair and eyes of green;
Like the mist of a loch, that sings.
She was struggling and sick, in the foamy sea
So they took her to the lighthouse, above the lea.
She begged and pleaded, to die in the sea;
But there in the lighthouse, she seemed fated to be.
A clawfoot bathtub became her home,
And there she stayed, never to roam.
Some children taught her some words and rhymes.
To help her to pass all the weary time.
The lighthouse keeper thought she was his own,
Though from the sea, she was merely loaned.
Sometimes a midnight, would find him there
Combing her damp and tangled hair.
In her long confinement, he was the one
Kept her sane, since she could not run.
They had long discussions until daybreak,
Entirely by looks and gestures they'd make;
She taught him secrets no man had ever heard;
How she could still the sea, with inaudible word
And how she could tell by the look of the moon
If spring would come early, or winter too soon.
And how the waves, did murmur below
If the weather be rough, or the hard winds blow.
How she'd loved and lost one merman that
Had gotten too close, to a fisherman's net.
They'd had a child, by the madman's reef;
Was eaten by sharks, and how they'd grieved.
He fancied that someday, he'd like a kiss,
For kissing a mermaid, seemed like rare bliss
But something forebade him, to come that near;
So he was content, just stroking her hair.
One day he found her, dead in her tub;
Her heart had broken, all for his love.
No mermaid can tell human men of her heart,
Or else they'll spend their lives far apart,
It's a law of the sea, older than time;
So this be the end, of the mermaid rhyme.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 8:04 AM UTC
*Your eyes are like ocean
So deep blue and clear
They hold such a treasure
Yet it is all deep inside.
The ocean is calm, no wind blows
Over its divine serenity
The warmth of it is worth to dive in
And discover yet what is undiscovered
So your eyes tell me to do
I know the ocean is calm
When your heart is peaceful.
Yet sometimes I see grey
Cumulonimbus clouds have covered
The deep blue ocean and the wind
It is strong and severe I feel
The foamy tender waves have grown
And hit ashore, they do come fast
The ocean rises and some of its water
Pours out and falls down on your cheeks.
Not often is the ocean so sad
The sun is keeping it merry and blue
It can be wonder to see
When the stars come down from sky
And take a bath in the blue water
It is so bright and glittery
I can see all the radiance
Just by looking in your deep blue ocean eyes.*
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
Gone is the long, long winter night;
Look, my beloved one!
How glorious, through his depths of light,
Rolls the majestic sun!
The willows, waked from winter's death,
Give out a fragrance like thy breath--
The summer is begun!
Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day:
Hark, to that mighty crash!
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away--
The smitten waters flash.
Seaward the glittering mountain rides,
While, down its green translucent sides,
The foamy torrents dash.
See, love, my boat is moored for thee,
By ocean's weedy floor--
The petrel does not skim the sea
More swiftly than my oar.
We'll go, where, on the rocky isles,
Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles
Beside the pebbly shore.
Or, bide thou where the poppy blows,
With wind-flowers frail and fair,
While I, upon his isle of snows,
Seek and defy the bear.
Fierce though he be, and huge of frame,
This arm his savage strength shall tame,
And drag him from his lair.
When crimson sky and flamy cloud
Bespeak the summer o'er,
And the dead valleys wear a shroud
Of snows that melt no more,
I'll build of ice thy winter home,
With glistening walls and glassy dome,
And spread with skins the floor.
The white fox by thy couch shall play;
And, from the frozen skies,
The meteors of a mimic day
Shall flash upon thine eyes.
And I--for such thy vow--meanwhile
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile,
Till that long midnight flies.
2.6k
Wind whispers softly to the waves in June.
When Sun sinks low in the advancing night
And crickets in their siren song unite
A gentle tide begins to sweep the dune.
In the darkness, my love, you are the Moon.
When birds land home to nest, no more in flight,
The unforgiving shadow steals the light
And once again you’re gone too soon.
But you shall be there in the morning’s hush
To bear witness to the moment light has won.
The tide will crash in all its foamy rush;
Stones concede to softer sands under its push.
Oh! sweet and silent night your course has run.
When Moon grows pale, my love, you are the Sun.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
*The foamy waterfall,
reminds me of her floral dress,
The stones floating,
Of her helpfulness
And those precious ones,down under
Of her beautiful dead eyes
On her death bed..*
I know I should be sad,
But I need not cry,
it's her everlasting beauty
Not her body to die..
*but I felt with that immense a treasure,
One could not help keeping it same forever,
But she was too pretty,
the one too fragile to be broken,
this cruel world would make her old,
old, and with no charm like before,
Yes! She won't be able to handle it,
she's too weak a goddess,*
*I kept that in mind,
and wanted her safety,
Something she could handle,
Her death in front of eyes,
So now her beauty would forever remain,
The same forever and ever..*
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
From the tips of my fingers,
coated with a soft ivory key,
You blossom.
Flowering outwards
Like the tail of the salmon
Stark against the foamy white rush.
And suddenly it stops.
As I lift my hand,
the pearl that congealed at the tiny mouth
Slowly slides from me,
Leaving a ruby trail as he
chases something I cannot see.
His door winks at me.
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 9:27 PM UTC