"freckled" poems
Nothing can compare to the feeling of
caressing just blossomed sunflowers.
They reflect their warm gaze upon my cold,
freckled cheeks while their golden hue
searches onward for other souls to bless.
Nothing can compare. Except for you.
They remind me of you and your warm gaze
that always seems to settle upon my eyes.
They remind me of your hands and how they
feel when they’re pressed against my face.
And how our faces press against each other’s while
our lips are safely locked together.
No feeling can compare to freshly blossomed sunflowers.
Except for the feeling I get when I’m with you.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 11:57 PM UTC
her hair blows back in the breeze
as she strolls down the sidewalk
between all the trees
with a smile that reveals
every one of her teeth
and the dimples
of her red, freckled cheeks
she's an angel, i think
her divine, secretive lips
shine in their glossiness
begging me for a kiss
i stand aback, watching
mesmerized by her beauty
only able to muster the words
'dat booty''
- jared huskey
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Her lips, tight and curved,
Ready to string up an arrow
And launch it to the sky
To explode into a fine dust
Where a myriad of stars congregate
Just to kiss your freckled cheeks
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
She was a thrifted sweater and denim and jersey knit sheets
Pizza breath and red wine and toothpaste
Alabaster skin and knotted hair and freckled shoulders
A tangible dream and my favorite good morning
She agreed to let me kiss her and I agreed to let her slip my shirt over my head before she became
Blood and tears
"I trusted you" and "I’m sorry"
Midnight poems and a drunk "I need you"
I’m afraid I loved you like the way I wrote
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 3:07 PM UTC
The Redhead.
The little auburn braid
wrapped across a freckled forehead,
revealing the natural orange and blonde streaks.
The china doll face,
with porcelain skin.
Pale lips, pink cheeks.
Eyes like the sea,
turquoise with speckles of green.
A crooked, imperfect, perfect smile.
A constant smile.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
The bullet flew so quickly from the pistol it felt like the blood in my veins stopped for a moment
As if quantum physics were just a mere myth
Of random laws and physicists
Each individual cell and atom in my body stopped and rushed to abyss
Thump, thump.
As the bullet reached the end of your skull, I swore I died instead of you
But instead of dying and leaving the realm of the living I enter bliss and happiness
Flowers scattered over bright green grass for miles,
Soft and whispering wind rushed past my freckled skin
The trees swayed with the wind
It brought an epitome of perfection, only your carcass brought death and decay
Snapping back to reality, your eyes rolled back, and your jaw opened wide
I wanted to tear it open, to give you a somewhat permanent evil smile
Your body hit the ground so hard, the sound vibrated across my body, giving my heart the ability to beat normally again
You looked so peaceful for a mere moment
I swore I could have kissed you even though I despise your very being
Your skin quickly went colorless, and you laid there so still
I burst into panicked laughter, and covered my filthy mouth
It was definitely rude to laugh at someone's death
My stomach growls, and my hands shake with satisfaction
I've finally done it. I killed my insecurities
After a short moment of freedom and what seemed to be like genuine tears of joy...
Your eyes roll back to normal, and they focus me closely
Rising from the ground, you flick your hair back as if the wind blew it out of place
You fix your shirt, as if the blood stains weren't there
"It's so silly to think you could get rid of me so easily," you say.
I'm never going to feel alive ever again
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
i. the curly, green-haired
leo with the cry-baby tattoo
on her left calf; fish net stockings and
loud guitar playing and
menthol cigarettes. driving through
the park at 9 pm, ***** shots,
the white house with the a-frame roof,
hugs that made your heart feel as warm
as she did
crying as i left my room again to be
intertwined with a girl who did not love me, but i wanted to;
months pass, lonely car rides with
one-sided conversations and
seven years gone,
quiet disconnection
that made you feel as cold
as i did
ii. brown eyes, brown skin,
round glasses and chicago streetlights.
holding each other close on the subway
lakehouse parties in the beginning of spring and
pisces season and tarot readings and
soft kisses on the train.
holding hands at the aquarium,
sweet poetry and calm and
a sense of oneness that made you feel
important
hurt for the third time
a panic, a loss
i held their heart in my hands and
let it fall
harsh
unimportant
i still carry the guilt on my fingertips
iii. short hair. freckled cheeks, i
fell in love with the way the skin
crinkled around her eyes when she smiled.
an apartment, a home built
around our lips touching
wrapped in blankets on the couch,
dense smoke and her hand on my leg while she
drove. chinese food and
waking up against her chest and
laughing so hard
my ribs hurt
crashing. her anger withering away my
heartstrings; pain and
crying alone in the bathtub
moving away
drunk tears on the interstate
punching my thighs
in place of the way her
words made
me hurt
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
Forever beautiful until I saw you in raw sunlight
and realized you didn't shine anymore
you told me you would always love me
and ever since then I can’t believe anyone
I hate April now
it’s one of my least favorite months
and I blame you for that
One of the last times I saw you in your
beautiful tall pale freckled naked frame
you were inside of me and
you looked somewhere at my chest and
said you loved me
But you could not look into my eyes
And about ten minutes later when I was
resting my hipbones on yours
I started to cry
And instead of holding me close
and drying my eyes
you pushed me off
pulled on your pants
and left
and that was when I realized you are a
fox with a stone cold heart
incapable of caring for anyone
Much less loving them
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
1737
Rearrange a “Wife’s” affection!
When they dislocate my Brain!
Amputate my freckled *****
Make me bearded like a man!
Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness—
Blush, my unacknowledged clay—
Seven years of troth have taught thee
More than Wifehood every may!
Love that never leaped its socket—
Trust entrenched in narrow pain—
Constancy thro’ fire—awarded—
Anguish—bare of anodyne!
Burden—borne so far triumphant—
None suspect me of the crown,
For I wear the “Thorns” till Sunset—
Then—my Diadem put on.
Big my Secret but it’s bandaged—
It will never get away
Till the Day its Weary Keeper
Leads it through the Grave to thee.
8.2k
Dimples
Are simple
If watched
By red freckled Nympho's.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
The taste of my teeth is repulsive
All my fingers are jammed.
Blood should not be leaking in his head.
That red headed, freckled face kid was only doing the work of his god.
That broken nosed saint laying in his hospital bed.
I wonder if he wonders where his god went.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
every summer, your freckles come out like a broad Irish galaxy.
the planets are summer days that I wish I could waste with you.
and there is a star for every single dance I wish I'd have had with you.
an asteroid belt of insults and haphazard tweets.
but I slide on, a lonely astronaut,
skimming your freckled universe.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
she had always said
her favorite color was yellow
for the girl with buttery skin and crystal eyes
it seemed rather fitting
yellow was the color of sunshine
and the color of her hair
after it had been bleached by summer
it was the color of the bumblebees
that drank from her favorite flowers
flowers that now
line her grave
she told you
her favorite color was yellow
because she knew you needed someone
radiant with light
to ease the depth
of your own darkness
so she said
when autumn arrived
you could watch the ground
become littered with yellow leaves
together
when you asked what color
lie beneath her skin
she told you it was yellow
she made herself believe
her body was freckled from stardust
and not from the amber glow
of cigarette burns
she still said
her favorite color was yellow
so she could continue being the light
in your colorless world
soon enough
your favorite color was yellow too
but not for the same reasons
she fell in love with it
you only saw yellow vaguely
in the form of teeth
stained from tobacco and too much coffee
smiling grimly through cracked lips
dripping poisoned honey
you guilded the word ¨love¨
with muted ochre lies
and now
she no longer feels the warmth
that once emanated
from her favorite color
she no longer tastes
the sweetness of butterscotch
and papaya on your lips
for you left her with nothing but
the sour residue of lemons and bile
as your gentle breath
extinguished her golden flames
and reduced her heart to ash
and now
she realizes that bumblebees
can also administer a piercing sting
and as she watches the sunset
with its amber hues
she no longer sees
the color yellow
x.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
ALTHOUGH I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, "Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'
5.4k
You and I would stand in front of my bathroom mirror and
just hold each other, naked, acquainting ourselves
with the strange, biblical union of joints and hair
and skin and crevices and curves that we make
together...
Fingerpainting reverently on your chest,
I'd kiss your freckled shoulder, eyeing your reflection as it melted,
falling for me again-- and you'd
tell me in return
that my eyes are beautiful, and that they are green,
just like yours.
They are brown, I'd say, and
laugh and
leave
you to
confront only yourself
in my mirror.
Every day that I stand again
in front of my mirror alone--
a similar but emptier amalgamation of joints and curves--
I could swear that my eyes
look a little bit paler...
like if I
point my nose up to the high hat on my ceiling,
with the fluorescent light spilling into them
the color could certainly pass
as the same green in your eyes and
I wonder,
and I hope
that being wrong all this time
doesn't mean I was wrong about you, too.
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 11:19 PM UTC
stop apologizing
stop apologizing for being yourself
stop apologizing for being sad sometimes
stop apologizing for the way you look
or act
or talk
or kiss
so look at me
up
blue to blue
and tell me you're not sorry.
not sorry for who you are
unapologetic in your beauty where hair falls on shoulders
next to a freckled face that resembles my vision of true art
you
you are what happens when the moon rises above the horizon
pushing and pulling the tides
like heart strings
mine stings at your absence.
the moon is not sorry.
it simply is
as you should be.
fractured during times but pieced together in the sky when together with the sun
it mimes to us
without words moving the planet ever so slightly
lightly kiss me under it
and stop
breathe.
stop apologizing.
be who you are.
bold, beautiful, smart, **** cheeky, funny, loving, warm
these words and more, in my own mental dictionary have your face plastered permanently next to them
and so i understand these words not by definition
but by example.
but by you.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
There is some genie
in our house, curdling poisonously.
I stay in the house
with a freckled old lady;
we're roommates,
unlucky enough to meet each other as life abated.
He does not live in the attic,
like a ***** ghoul; or in some
rubbing bottle like an amnesiac.
But we call the spirit lady, because the genie is vicious.
She comes to the house and says we need to move
things
around.
Her eyes are circled by some creamy mascara
into these black, skin-tight, **** rings,
like absurdist ****** targets.
Things are moved,
the genie stays, gets more vicious.
The mongerer is blamed
for bad things:
broken pots, fights over rent,
**** on the toilet seat,
lost keys.
We call the spirit lady,
this time her fingers jingle with golden rings,
her wrists sing with wrought-iron rainbows,
and says rain will send that sucker running.
So, we build little smoke pits in our house,
and take the most important things:
bills, and alumni letters from my school,
and birthday cards for her,
and burn them until it rains.
The genie calls us falsifiers.
The spirit lady comes back,
a necklace of grimacing clams around her neck,
and knocks around dancing, dancing,
a frenzy, a wildness, a knee-knocking,
throat-throtlling, dismantingly,
limb-ecstasy,
until she poops out and,
breathing heavy,
saying finally:
"there is nothing I can do for you,
I don't think I ever could,
some things are just bad luck."
She turns,
walks away,
and one of her clams drops from her necklace,
it says made in America on the inner lip.
The genie left a few weeks later.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 10:58 AM UTC
In the twilight night
That casts shadows to the day
The cold creeps at the October edges of my single pane windows,
And seeps into my cheaply heated home with newspaper insulation
It catches my toes, and walks up my white hands and grabs my face and nose
The cold grasps firm and goes deep
And in the chilly dieing light
I found a picture of you laughing, tucked into a book I was going to give you
Suddenly I am dragged back to the moment when I fell in love with your soft native eyes.
And your freckled cheeks drawn in an eternal smile
I loved your black hair and your carefree way
The cold is not cold enough for this,
I open a window and the back door.
I finish my drink to the whiskey sharp bottom,
I cast off my blanket and sit as wind comes in.
The cold is not yet cold enough
I add ice and ***** to my glass
Hoping for Russian absolution
But in the freezing flesh core of my sad meat suit,
As the temperature drops to negative numbers
My stupid heart still beats for you
And the cold is not cold enough for this.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Freckled smile
Laughing eyes
Midnight locks
Expectant lips
Sarcastic kiss
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
once worn with pride
eat the wearer
up inside
they have wrinkles
lines of care
but a person isn't
what they wear
wether pink
or brownish lace
wether russet...
freckled face
wether taupe or
still ecru
wether me
or wether you
we all wear colors
on our bones
it matters not
their depth of tone!
let's take the rags
and by God's grace
make a quilt
of Jesus' FACE!
instead of hate
and wishing harm
this manifold quilt
will keep us warm!
wether you're
old aged or a youth
you're part of the quilt
and that's the TRUTH.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/8/2016
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
Your bold green eyes with flakes of gold keep me hypnotized.
I can't do anything without worrying that one day your eyes will turn cold.
I cling to every word you say as if any of them will be the last ones I hear.
You've kept me like this for months now - I admire you, I do, but please.
Let me go.
I'm dangling by a thread over the life I had before I laid eyes on your freckled face.
Just let me go I plead, I can't keep doing this.
You give me that big smile showing your bright white teeth.
My heart melts at the sight and sinks because I know I will always be under your spell.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
What's usually blemished considered a sin
Your accent marks on porcelain skin
Each crafted by caring clean hands
Crafted like a Persian Carpet
Each imperfection intended
So imperfectly perfect
Rich, pale, silk tapestry
Lily pads that dot a foreign river
Falls last leaves on Winters first snow
Paint splattered on white canvas
Each inch speckled
Every crevice freckled
I'll find each one you wear
The Astrology of your body
Making constellations with my finger
Your back is Gemini
Orion on your shoulder
Leo for your inner thigh
Serpens, Sextans, Ursa Minor
Late night skies for lonely eyes
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
Every weekend at summer camp the
Memories of the midnight walks we made,
The rushing of the silvery creeks
As well as the daily art and games,
Entertainment as well as molding clay,
The mountainside at night gave good
Presence, the moon offering her halo,
With the memory of endless essence so,
During this time of adventurous fun,
A story telling we campers would all go.
Her raspy voice, I can remember well,
Those cute sparkly playful brown eyes,
We walked side by side, she told me that
The truth was being denied, she was a
Girl in disguise, how I dream of her
In Garnet, Alexandrite. That feeling of total trust,
Now I will probably never be close to
Anyone I love again, already grown old,
To old to ever dream, but what a dream,
A lovely bliss to know that she was my friend.
One day, when the time is right, we'll find it,
This feeling again, of wild spirited joy, campfires,
Of following the forest path, now innocence lost,
A time that is long-gone and past, and if it
Never happens again, the darkness of night
With quiet whispering, story time moon light,
I will never forget her, never will I forget that
Beautiful freckled face, those beady eyes,
No, never forget you, not for all time.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC