"glassiness" poems
If only
I could put the corners of your eyes
Into words
They would be like
The skin that sits on custard
And crinkles
Or they would be
The shattering of sunlight
Over leaf-spears
That toy it apart into
Forkfuls of sweet butter
Or they would be
The winkles around the heart
Of a daffodil
One day growing,
The next dying
But always yellow
I don't much like the colour yellow
But there's a richness to it
And a glassiness
And an optimistic up-swing
That I see in the corners of your blue eyes
If only
I could put the corners of your eyes into words
Because we've all sold out
Of happy poems.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
The unimpeachable glasses are fogging,
as they tentatively ignore the premonition,
while ignoring the suppressive partition,
that defends themselves from submission.
The eyes detect,
with unreasonable rest,
the hazy, shadowy terrain,
that prevents them from pain.
If the mugginess stays,
and the heart embellishes the fade,
then the glasses maintain,
their authoritarian reign.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
Looking away from your eyes,
I realize the size of the rising situation.
In your eyes lie no lies
that give rise to despise or desperation.
I dare to compare anything unfair
with that glaring stare you wear.
Bright and full of wrong-less right,
their bright white glassiness contrasts the night.
Sincere fears rearing near tears
by the mere peering on clearly seen "dears" of yesteryear.
Eyes despising the realization of past situations.
Be bold and unfold your reservation.
Only good truths shall be told.
No lies spoken.
Old molds broken.
Sympathy and empathy and things causing the heart to flee.
Breathe.
One...two...three, lift your lids and see.
Hates once realized,
words you once despised,
glances once causing your very demise,
shall not be recognized in my own eyes.
If we again allow our eyes to close,
and the world around us slows,
and our instincts move us nose to nose,
we shall realize a sizable rising situation just arose.
by R. Craig David-Copyrighted 1998
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 7:10 AM UTC
I spent my life waiting for you.
Tasting your flesh on others, I knew the smell of your sweat before holding your physical face in my mind’s eye. But this does not matter.This was nothing but the feeling that aroused my being when looking into your eyes for the first time. This was simply the line in the water that attached my soul to yours and everyone else’s.
I held my breath and then, I saw you. light sparkling, aura burning. Your astral self floated around in my day dreams. I prayed. Listened harder than I have ever had to, because I had to. And in you came, galloping on a horse bright white. Like the gods themselves descended, and allowed you a few minutes to enter this dimension. To hold the hand of the lover(s) you never felt, but felt.
Soft, and gentle. Your skin reminded me of the house I grew up in, and longed to never leave. Your pain glistened like the glassiness of your eyes as you held me in your heart, terrified that I would leave you. That somehow your beauty would be taken for-granted, with the vision of me drinking your cup greedily and you having to refill and refill, until there was nothing to fill it with. And, I did. I drank, fearfully. That veil hung heavily in my eyes, wrapping my body tightly and you begged me to take it off. Let your face be seen, you said. I asked which one, and pulled out my heart. Stood there with it in my hands, letting sticky, smelly blood run down my calves and stomach, and you smiled. The first real smile I had seen, in what felt like decades.
Now, dissect. Rip it apart, you said. I argued that it may never look the same, that it would it would fill every nerve with pain. But just you smiled that smile, and took my hand. Tried to stitch every stitch, every slice, every position possible. But it kept slipping, the way you slipped around inside me. Moving, shifting, making space, rearranging my soul so it may fit you. So we may fit inside each other, in this life that was no longer ethereal, but a physical thing. Too physical for my soul to understand, it seemed. Relentlessly circling my small intestine around your throat, like a snake with no eyes left. Trying hard to go home.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC