"frailness" poems
gentleman
i cannot believe nor understand
but just revel in your love
your perfection compared to my frailness
your purity compared to my multicoloured past
I just cant get to grips with it
but i am so blessed, so amazed, so humbled
and though i cannot figure it out
and definitely dont deserve it
I'm letting you define me
I'm letting you rewrite me
I'm letting you determine the steps
safe
in your arms
secure
in your presence
accepted in you
why do i search elsewhere
there's only one perfect gentleman
and I'm so grateful that you have chosen me
that you have graced me with your presence
that you've picked my heart for your love
may i never stop walking beside you
may i never let go of your hand
may i never stop looking into your eyes to define me
you are perfect, i am not
i can't see the way you see
i dont know the way to go
all i know is you've chosen me as your lady
and you are my perfect
gentleman
i end this poem saying
here am i
have my whole heart
my mind, my soul
define me, redefine
lover of my soul
i will never be what you are to me
but fortunately i have an eternity to try
love you gentleman
of my heart
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
Marching, Marching on.
That Broken Soldier
Unfix-able, Never to be intact again.
After to many years of fighting.
And yet still fighting,
That Broken Soldier.
Fighting the never ending fight.
Slowly falling, still, ever fighting.
But he is crumbling,
That Broken Soldier.
Falling apart by the day.
Left in an eternity of frailness.
Becoming less human everyday,
That Broken Soldier.
Solemnly stewing on his personal madness.
But that Soldier fights on.
Still fighting,
That Broken Soldier.
Fighting the never ending fight.
Slowly falling, still, ever fighting.
But his will wavers,
That Broken Soldier.
Is the fight worth fighting?
Worth the deathly blows thrown every day.
Soon none will be left,
of That Broken Soldier.
Soon the fight will be done.
Soon the last hurrah will sound.
The last Hurrah,
from That Broken Soldier.
Giving up the fight.
While letting go, his life.
For his life,
That Broken Solder,
Is his fight.
His fight soon lost.
But still fighting,
That Broken Soldier.
Fighting the ending fight.
Slowly falling, still, Not Ever Fighting.
Not Ever Fighting,
That Broken Soldier.
Not ever more.
The Fight is lost.
Lost is The Broken Soldier
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
My mother used to bake cookies with me when I was young
Intricate designs of colored icing that varied with the seasons.
They were always perfect and looked far to good to suffer the crime of eating.
For half a century I always baked cookies for the holidays
Whilst my children grew tall and independent with no apparent
Interest in baking
As the pale blue winter light falls into my kitchens I see myself
Cutting shapes and painting colors a silhouette on the shadows of the wall.
Placing the last cookie into a Christmas scene can I
Arive at the hospital and sit next to her in the ICU
I see her frailness the alarm in her eyes as she recognises me
But is yet unable to enunciate her thoughts.
Silence as loud as thunder fills the room the seams of the walls are stretched to their limits.
The outer limits beep of the monitor acknowleging her heartbeats
Counting down each one until the last.
I miss our intimacy in that long ago kitchen
And the random thought enters my mind
I am her only child and she is my only mother.
The monitor rings an alarm a code blue
Signalling the end of her like the end of a football match.
I feel the loss of her like a razor blade cutting my flesh.
And as I leave her for the last time
There seems to be a a mortality in the measured unknown days ahead and the cans of cookies yet to be baked.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
Blue is the deepness of the oceans
Blue is the frailness in emotions
Blue is the touch of winters cold air
Blue are the colors I like to wear
Blue are my secrets locked away
Blue are the melodies of a rainy day
Blue is the color of the mellow skies
Blue is the sadness in my eyes
Blue is the soul of what is dead
Blue are the memories in my head
Blue are the damages left in my heart
Blue are the beauties of what I call art
Blue is the spirit of all my vitality
Blue is the look of my personality
Blue is my life and all that I love
Blue is all I'm made out of
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Look at your spider legs
clambering out like that
as though your crab cage
has stayed too still, sat
too long as a street tumour
spat up on the pavement.
You must miss the frailness
of the skin that sheltered
your birth, the patterns
strewn across the sheets
in blurs of stripes and dots,
colours and tones. But now
it's a sickly sight, those ribs
scuttle like limbs pushing
through a shell that suited
your broken spindles just
fine. Maybe you need a fix
of a skin to get you in shape,
web the joints in the hope
someone will hold you again,
your handle gripped in hand.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC
from this distance, the town looked like paper shaped
into origami buildings. you could tell that everything
has it's own hue of smoke and mirrors, even though
all of us are made out of the same material.
the buildings were built to fall apart eventually,
like a tooth pick and marshmellow tower, and
it's all because the fragility of these things we
don't notice. we do not notice the frailness
of these things because we are desensitied
to the idea of things lasting forever.
you could see how fake everything has became
like a fog enveloping the town from this distance.
nobody notices the big picture because the small
things are always more difficult to ignore.
everything was made of plastic and paper, and the
only thing that wasn't fake were the memories
behind this town. people don't strain their necks
when looking back at this flash frame town.
they don't feel the need to.
- kra
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
Nights like this
make me want to drown in you
to feel your surging body
flooding over me as the tides
rising and crushing down
to **** in your salt
and scorch my lungs
hot and wet
raging and rocking me about
I plunge into your ocean
lost, blind and blurred
sinking like a stone
floating like a feather
gently rocking in your darkest depth
on muffled, distant thunders
conceding
to the frailness of oblivion
wrecked
from the calm of this abyss I am
sung
like foam onto your shores
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:45 AM UTC
I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person.
I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person until the day his smile began to look like the welcome mat to his eyes, and his fingers running through my hair felt like they've never belonged anywhere else.
I've written about love before him.
I've written about hands on my skin and lips whispering the sweetest of words into my ear.
I've written about tongues that ran down my neck like honey.
I've written poems describing the motions of falling in love; comparing it to storms, and then comparing it to a summer day...
and then comparing it to pain.
I've written poems about April turning to June and winter turning to spring;
but I've never had a favorite poem of mine.
I've never had a favorite month or a favorite season or a favorite sound or even a place that felt like home.
But now I do.
We wake up to the sun slipping through the shades of his window; it's routine.
Time doesn't exist between him and I.
I turn to him, forcing my eyes open so they can trace the line of his jaw, the curvature of his lips, the frailness of his eyes slowly awakening to meet mine.
At this moment, I've found the one place that's home; and it isn't made of bricks and baseboards.
Home is curled hair, deep brown eyes, and a crooked smile. Home is the hand that holds mine. Home is his voice when he tells me he loves me.
I thank July for bringing me love.
I'm thankful for the goosebumps he leaves on the surface of my skin. I thank the sound of his laugh for restoring the life in a part of me I thought was dying.
I've never written about love before him. I've written about hands that have touched me just to take parts of me with them when they leave. I've written about the motions of losing myself in someone who destroyed the most innocent pieces of me.
Love has never been so hopeful, so consistent, so pure.
This is my favorite poem. Home has soft eyes.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
*Blame placed be seen worthwhile
Dearth of substance, forthright style.
A lightness of touch with sledge hammer grace
Paradoxically, artful, smiling face….
Anxiously generous yet whimsically mean
Frailness-ness sought ….now secretly seen,
Quandary thrown to Iraq's lost trust
Now loudly scowls with Mozart’s bust.
For be he rich or be he poor
This secret’s worth is out the door
For they, from whom this thing be kept,
Conveniently from this room…be swept.
Swallowed realizations dawn
This man, revealed, is but a pawn
A fragile lace at virgin’s groin
Torn away….to be purloined,
Acute Embarrassment’s hot blush
Now camouflaged in angers flush.*
M.
Pukehana Paradise
11 July 2016
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 12:18 AM UTC
*Like the sandgrains on the stretched palm
with the wind have flown the years
the tides rolled back the sea is now calm
It's biding time on this heavenly sphere!
Yet I've started loving this life more
more than all that spent up before
with a growing desire to have it fullest
sowing hope's seeds to reap its harvest!
Inevitable frailness though makes it hard
more than the yore I dream step forward
still seek the way to get through the dark
explore the mist on unknown embark!
I stretch my hands for the farthest shore
roam mind's cavern for still unlocked door
churn up the residues of time on this side
ride on the comeback of sea's one last tide!*
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
Hold on my lover
To the strings that bind me in your heart
I am bleeding raw without cover
Blank eyes
They won't see us wander.
Starving crystalline structures
Hunger for open minds to see them dancing
Tryptamine, entheogenic wonders
Reveal the frailness of being here
What has passed,
Well it's not gone
Just transferred
Where the stars never fall apart
Rounded rhombuses relieve my worry
Help me feel his spirit sustains the death of his body
Hope of Heaven can blind us from the present
Here he is to still be experienced
Overcome by his lost son's loneliness
But in the light of his death
He'll find the love he couldn't clasp in human hands.
So let go now, my father
To your measured idea of the souls embark
It's infinite in its immanence
Guided by what is always seen but never noticed
Rest in peace, my brother.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
autumn leaves and a monarch butterfly
if they don't separate, one of them will die
they're beautiful together, but death has beauty too
the butterfly loves fall, the way i loved to fall for you
i'm just a dying butterfly in an autumn bitten tree
the leaves are slowly dying and i will too if i don't leave
because all the praying and the crying has already taken its toll on me
but how am i to leave you when you are so weak
but somehow despite your frailness you keep dragging me down too
if it weren't for your ailment there wouldn't be such a feud
inside my mind, my thoughts are waging war
should i stay or should i go? what's a love struck girl to do?
if i stay, both our lives are lost, but if i go i will lose you
could there ever be a bigger cost? there's just so much to work through
if you really loved me how could you want me to stay?
if you really loved me how could you send me away?
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Listening does not mean learning.
Learning does not mean knowledge.
Knowledge does not mean you are wise.
Wisdom does not mean you are aged.
Age does not mean you are frail.
Frailness does not mean you are weak.
Weakness does not mean you are worthy.
Worthiness does not mean you are entitled.
Entitlement does not mean you are the one.
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 3:07 AM UTC
I want to see the beauty
Of the winter skies crashing, drowning the soft summer night waves
I want to see the frailness
Of the leaves cracking beneath the tires, the feet, the paws
I wish to see happiness
Casting it into the purple grey skies too far for me to grasp between my sleek, scarred fingers
I want to see history
From the little flag crushed in the season's frayed grass. The pink seeping into the roots of the stripes and stars. My muddied blood.And I wish to see the wishing well sparkle in my war-zone eyes, as I toss not just a penny, but a past for my future.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
“For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings.”
The smell of fresh grasses lefts stifled underfoot,
A thousand tiny voices, wheaten, bug, or no,
Can call up to the elderly trees, whose white palms
Gave surrender only moments ago to this wandering eye.
To think, I am but that hole of many in a chain
Of lattices made only by their breakage,
For I relinquish myself to the spirit or biology
Two gods my life’s work has been to destroy.
The sun comes through that shattered mat of life
A fallen crest, defining the morose bedding of
Victim and trap, so that I may hear it speaking;
Strung up and dragging on its gaunt, breathless rot
It claims a stupid animal lived in this body once,
Relinquished itself by flight to the unwavering, silky
Thread of beautiful frailness, or motionless spectra,
Thus, it deserves to lose what it did not want
Since it did not flee life, it did not flee death.
I wanted to study it more, enchanted by the hollowness
Until water came onto my brow, fell onto my passive lips
Uttering, till then, a prayer to fly from here,
Till my eyes color over and I’ve finally escaped.
But, this motif, I see, is overplayed, too trite
For secular gods who prefer the wiles of game
We, the peak of human life, I the most sufferable of them
I, the most thirsting of my image, tend to consume.
If it were boredom, then plagues would sweep hot winds
Everywhere; thus, it is not, it is the constant reminder,
We are but nothing, but flesh to die, unwitting flies
To the spider’s web.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
fillme
fill my
fill my hands
fill my hands, light.
i'll climb You.
i'll reach each
finger over
each finger over.
i'll climb you up
(if even tinly i'll shall
by minute courage expand
into quickly dying night
the frailness of my body
and i'll clamor
i'll tip
sinuously
up
into thy strayingest brightness
my cup
and it will run over with you
it will burn
and, by a thousand strokes of brilliance,
it shall teeter briefly invincible
on awkward skinny youth
it shall stumble deeply radiant folding
each star folding
manifold upon
manifold upon
manifold upon
folding each star
into the hottest crimp:
a kiss foibl'd )
clumsily boyness hands
imparting with love most earnest
that spangle will
and climbing fingers
over each
into
that hurt
will sharply round
rib after rib
till reaches
(in burning Cupid's fiercest glow)
my destroying weakness
with the strength of your inimitable lips
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
Write me a love song
to sing me your praise
it may amount to nothing
but sentiments do no wrong.
My body be a flower
to wither in the wind
to grow and bloom and blossom
frailness in each hour.
Weakness is my sigil
yet you ply me with song
and to your words at night will keep
they echo in my vigil.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
You laid there
Tattered and worn
Out of people's view
And as they passed your nearly corpsed body
Your heart became weaker still and
Your eyes turned to grey
With no one to see
Your frailness and delicacy
Your limp figure cried
And with no one by your side through the tears and the glum
You could do nothing but dread
The bag of bones you'd soon become
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
I saw a mountain today
But it wasn't real
And I found myself picturing
What it would feel like
If I ever saw them
Forgetting that there are mountains
That I have seen
But some were small
Stuck on an island in the Mediterranean sea
Others taller, overgrown by trees
Meandering a war torn landscape
Like irregular forested pyramids
In between which poverty, anonymity and frailness
Are woven in with the fabric of lost days
Azure dreams of getting away
And viridian primitive, haunting aftershocks
Of history lived by the thousands
Expelled in an endless summer breeze
But more like daze, rippling slowly outwards
All part of an endless wave
Rolling on and on folding us, our histories
Inside its arm
Once I saw mountains
Little stacked triangles of geologic history
Twice I saw mountains
Wishing these were the places that I would always see
Thrice I saw mountains
Now a mountain
Is what I'll be
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
The sea is a blue dressed mysterious woman
who has seen most things
and still she is seductively inviting
the frailness of Mankind she knows so well.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 12:50 PM UTC