"glaucous" poems - Hello Poetry

Cockcrow harbour: the gulls whining like tethered dogs about rooftops paliophobic cars and grounded vessels.. Look: on the hoary horizon a glaucous strip beguils with backwater. Not putting on a show the frigid sea benumbed.. Easily, with a tail of emerald jelly skim a vanishing lane off that lustrous sheet and watch the trailblazing mainland scuttle. Now, Only scattered dreaming is possible. In it's bachelor pad, cradling over crinkles, away from the meretriciosness of validating the real by sharing it, THE WIND blusters off any veneer. Here, stale but spry, fare your way around the inoffensive isle to it's most shyest of harbours: a mouth full of silver saving it's breath. The windows facing the sea seem black & white, their wooden frames hooked to the wind, the splattered gulls meow your name in a way that's personal. Of course comes to mind. The pines are demanding a visit, They're whispering so you can hear them, each as different as every snore, these pines know how to grow in the sand and still reach for the Nimbostratus with heads in unison. The spaces between their trunks illuminating the blazing needles raining down painting the ground familiar to your lover's skin texture: Feel her closeness from jilted borderwatchtowers as she speads her mire like no one's watching: weedy and sugared with bellflowers, the waves in her shallow armpit billeting a pair of white swans: demurely they float sometimes as pillows and sometimes as question marks.. Go ask the seasoned locals, they say the bones she parked when she let her ice sheet melt are portals to her noble underbelly. Hidden in the woods reminiscent of your heart, the red tank-sized stone is sealed, but what the lighting reach cannot the rain shall sluice apart dumbly. And though her hair has come to be the moss black and hoarse as sailor's beard, there is still time. The void says her noisy neighbour is nothing to die for. The theadbear car with absent doors incites to drive her in reverse gear to the first few days of holidays: her golden locks a-blaze, her arm around your hind-sighted doppelganger.

0

Jul 20, 2018

Jul 20, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC

arthur-habsburg

Cockcrow harbour

Cockcrow harbour: the gulls whining like tethered dogs about rooftops paliophobic cars and grounded vessels.. Look: on the hoary horizon a glaucous strip beguils with backwater. Not putting on a show the frigid sea benumbed.. Easily, with a tail of emerald jelly skim a vanishing lane off that lustrous sheet and watch the trailblazing mainland scuttle. Now, Only scattered dreaming is possible. In it's bachelor pad, cradling over crinkles, away from the meretriciosness of validating the real by sharing it, THE WIND blusters off any veneer. Here, stale but spry, fare your way around the inoffensive isle to it's most shyest of harbours: a mouth full of silver saving it's breath. The windows facing the sea seem black & white, their wooden frames hooked to the wind, the splattered gulls meow your name in a way that's personal. Of course comes to mind. The pines are demanding a visit, They're whispering so you can hear them, each as different as every snore, these pines know how to grow in the sand and still reach for the Nimbostratus with heads in unison. The spaces between their trunks illuminating the blazing needles raining down painting the ground familiar to your lover's skin texture: Feel her closeness from jilted borderwatchtowers as she speads her mire like no one's watching: weedy and sugared with bellflowers, the waves in her shallow armpit billeting a pair of white swans: demurely they float sometimes as pillows and sometimes as question marks.. Go ask the seasoned locals, they say the bones she parked when she let her ice sheet melt are portals to her noble underbelly. Hidden in the woods reminiscent of your heart, the red tank-sized stone is sealed, but what the lighting reach cannot the rain shall sluice apart dumbly. And though her hair has come to be the moss black and hoarse as sailor's beard, there is still time. The void says her noisy neighbour is nothing to die for. The theadbear car with absent doors incites to drive her in reverse gear to the first few days of holidays: her golden locks a-blaze, her arm around your hind-sighted doppelganger.