"frilling" poems
A woman crying has the same smell of cherry blossom buds,
leaping from small thing to small thing
everything is raked, unleafed the summer cobblestone.
Of her ex-season she may ask –
oh, autumn, did you wear a taffeta wedding dress? With pearls?
Because her husband left when she did too,
that silk is such bad luck, frilling slightly as a broken rib
so now the days have slits last winter’s snow was meant to fill.
A clock of seasons and the last time they slept together,
spring sprung an ******** any time she wept, fertilized by salt
these crystals, the pits on a strawberry
and folded a laundry load of wedding season clothes.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
a perhaps summer wilt with hands maybe
like cups or bowls o' laughter running over
what drizzles o'er the numerous human
stuff by a pondsome quick pretty water
glittering succulently its most cool grasp
o'er her body from it gallops the crescents
of her lush formidable query i tousle
with my tongue like last winter i was
walking in a garden when the frost
stung my nose real hard and i was
just almost inside when i noticed how
absolutely demure the snow was
clutching the soil it like a lover it from
whom it nay would release except for
that same afternoon it rained and
all was unfrozen and loved no more
the snow the soil like this terrific
droplet of her skinny strength stabbed
with youth and running out her wounds
the ablest *** dances rushing on sturdy
limbs to snare over the cuirass of flickering
electronic flesh (my chest) and drape
supreme fair fairy dust inside each
nostril and straight to my dithering acute
brain and tingles abruptly her
belated fingers unday brushing the eaves
of cobalt with purple frilling the
edges and we repose in the cracked
bucket leather seats of my drab yellow
volvo and
and
and
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 3:28 PM UTC
it seems to me that the child is beheaded –
there is not much to look at in this paling weather.
moderate climates douse their bleak, blank face-ovals,
their frigidity has no relation to stone,
their silence, loveless as a fabric is torn wild
by a rabid dog, dragging it senselessly against the furniture.
outside, the whiteness bears no reputation of laundry
impaled to clotheslines: frilling at the collarbones,
fringing at the high afternoon, distinct flutings
of iridescent night-gowns,
they want the life of some lovelorn progeny.
the scald of water is his trademark – it seems innately natural,
those who, someone else lauds the **** verdigris
of trees, able to tell how immense the stasis
of the darkness is, outside when all homes bellow
a concatenation of absences:
it seems to me the child is guillotined at this
moment, verily, in moderate climates.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
DARK FOREST
I am the dusky woods.
Deep darkness is my core and zest.
Dark forest, someone's life is happening there.
To get themselves lost is there only fear .
Everyday i see huge fire flying in the air suss !! its the fancy imagination.
Carved is someone's own creation .
Hue winds are frilling around .
Neon is the world round .
S s s !!hey !! I m there in million colors , i m there in every imagination , i m there in deep sea , i m in you .
To get me there are only few.
If you get that dark, deep forest in your core Dancing is your inner being in me, its the addiction of nature trance.
As , THIS CREATURE'S SOUL IS ADDICT OF NATURE TRANCE .........
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 2:04 PM UTC