"glazes" poems
I don’t get feminism.
The term, that is.
When they ask, "Are you a feminist?"
I reply, “Sure.”
They nod in bobble-head approval.
“I’m also a childist and animalist”
A confounded grimace glazes over
“Huh?”
“Of course. Aren’t YOU a childist?
Aren’t YOU an animalist?”
“Uh. What do you mean?”
“Well, don’t you believe that children
and animals should be treated with love?”
“Well, naturally.”
“Well. There you go. You’re a childist
And animalist.”
"Besides, you would extend this love
To all sentient beings, I’m assuming?”
“Ummm. Yes...”
“Well, then, you’re a masculinist too,
Just like me!”
This is about the time their cell buzzes
Or their double soy frap is ready
They whisk away
“Oh, I’m also a worldist!” I belt out
Before they exit
As I resume reading
Remaining clever, and
Alone.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
His ***** tongue infuses every phrase
She glazes, spreads like honeyed butter
into the words.
Trickling slowly
Oh, so slowly
Through each stanza
This is her molasses moment
She is ready for his pen
to catch her syrup drips, to stop this slick
Becoming a pool.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.
The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on.
Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice
as is your image in my eye; dry frost
glazes the window of my hurt; what solace
can be struck from rock to make heart's waste
grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?
5.5k
Red paint dries on a tissue
Slowly
The same rush hue
Glazes imperceptibly
Gently losing shine
And carefully dulls without change
And softly hardens until dry,
When you can touch it without fear
of red fingers, red clothes, red smears
But still, wasted paint on a tissue
Will be thrown away without notice
And still dry red.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
V. Ethereal
Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.
My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).
Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.
Star light,
{lips pant--
inebriated,
heavy}
star bright,
{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}
first star I see tonight,
{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}
I wish I may,
{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}
I wish I might,
{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}
have this wish I wish tonight--
to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.
Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:
Lovely.
Ethereal.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
DON’T LET THE ROBOTS WIN
The red sun gazes upon a blue moon’s reveries
While the baker glazes over our doughnuts memories
5-9 TV talks of talcum dreams,
Suicide sweet
****** machines.
Fascist fornication with communist candy
Tastes kinda like Yankee doodle dandy
I whisper over the roar of a glazed man grazing,
Dazed, and drowned,
to the Automated telenation:
“Don’t use self checkout lines,
Don’t let the robots win!”
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 8:36 PM UTC
I've never craved the touch of another, until I met you.
You make my lips quiver as your tongue glazes over top of them.
My legs tremble as your fingertips make their way down my body.
My lungs weak from the way you make me moan and gasp for air.
My hair, messy from us being naughty under your covers.
My voice cracks more and more every time I scream your name.
You show me how much I want you.
t.h.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
The shooting stars danced across the night sky
Its tiny feet leaving behind fingerprints and memories on the scarred and broken
Shoot- bang - fizzle
It glazes the dark skyline filling every crevasse
Stars used to be my favorite thing
Now they remind me of you
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
The bodied lilly fires in ashing haze
and from her amber embers I devolve,
into a weeping candle - churning maize;
an orb at night, alight to my absolve.
Remorse suffused with jasmine glazes woe
as moonlight trailings battle hue my grief
for left no infant child to mirror so -
my lover's petals, ceasing lines of leaf.
Nor have, I flare to scribe a marbled ode
that could so hymn or bear my love that shared
nor stone as cold as grey, be just; that owed
the flaming satin, fate had not so spared.
Then let this writ incense - her newly form
until my vigil dims; to death's reform.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:54 AM UTC
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
--Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,
looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
2.2k
it drips from the bottle
and into your
mouth
which spouts words
with no regard for my
feelings
that you don't know how to address
without alcohol kissing your
lips
that form sentences
with a mind of their own
uninhibited by their flattery of me when they were
sober.
it agitates your face
as it rests in your
hands
that used to hold mine and it
glazes over your
eyes
that used to light up when they saw me
or when they heard my
name
that you can hardly stand to speak
without alcohol
dancing on your
breath
that doesn't render sounds
without cheap courage summoned
up.
it depresses your
mind
that I used to find intriguing
as it was paradoxically
kind with a quick
wit
that no longer aims
to make me laugh
but is now restrained by the liquor
label
that you plastered to yourself
without concern -
would you even stop
if your own bottle said
please?
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 5:02 AM UTC
Rising to meet the sun,
A relative of the wind and time,
His branches reach out,
Stretching from his slumber.
The forest flames awaken fear,
Into the heartwood at his core,
He gives the thought a shake.
He would like to see the spring,
After the falling snow glazes the forest.
A resident of nature,
The Redwood withstands it all.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
Eight months limp in a guilty repose,
Waking with no intent.
Clouds eclipse the routine rooms,
Societies dynamic continues
directionless I spin dizzily within it,
Cycle on high.
my eyes hold their listless weight.
But here ends the night, intermittent,
Cease the unconscious days!
Sun soon glazes the archaic temples,
February becomes July.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Honeycomb mazes
And sweet honey hazes
Thickly sweet, mind glazes
Confused, smoke blazes
Making a home unconscious races
Falling asleep in honeyed cases
Trusting those honeyed faces
Gold drips away from honeyed places
And left with confined spaces
Wax rooms, so smooth
And no longer honeyed, but true.
wake up
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #6 & 7: Live like you're dying
Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?
Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.
Live like your writing.
Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to **** in words, forgivable...
Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.
No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.
Huh?
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.
You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.
Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Honey and lies
Pour from your eyes,
Strip off your skin
And try ours on for size.
If it fits, let it sit,
Let it settle down,
Then wipe off the dirt
And watch us all drown.
Oh, how hard to be trapped underground
Don't make a sound 'cause there's people around
And they don't want to lick our wrists clean
We drink up our syrup
And don't make a scene
Candy canes and you win alone
Sugar glaze and a mind of stone
Sweeter days and you send the rats out
To whittle us down to the bone
Lavender skies
And existing to die
Another world crumbles
And the internet cries
And it fits, doesn't it,
With the human frame?
We learn
We advance
We remain the same.
Oh, how hard to be watching them burn
A crisis returns and the leading man earns
And babies bawl and the gun shots are dire
But we get a thrill from fearing the fire
Candy canes and we choke alone
Sugar glazes and stomachs of stone
Sweeter lies and apathy comes
To whittle us down to the bone.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
"She should have known better."
"She had it coming for her."
"It's just a joke."
"And you're just sensitive."
You're ignorance glazes over your words
Like paint.
Thick, glossy, and shiny
Words covered with a gentle haze
Of misunderstanding.
Hearing those words
Of un-acknowledged shaming
And saddening victim blaming
Stabs straight through my numbed Soul.
But you know what?
I'm glad you are blinded by your
Ignorance ever so blissful.
I am glad you cannot see
How misguided your word can be.
Because that means
That you have not experienced
The Horror
Of being sexually harassed.
Because if you had the opportunity
To feel that kind of
Helplessness.
Terror.
Agony.
Violation.
Degration.
Then you would have never said
She could have prevented it.
And I thank God up in Heaven
That you have never experienced
That kind of pain.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
It's the color of her hair when I first meet her
The color of her cheeks when she laughs herself breathless
The color that beats harder in my chest when her similar shaded lips meet my own
The color of her dress on our first date
It's the color that stains my cheek after every evening with each other
The color of my dress when I walk down the aisle
The color I see when I look into her eyes and see our future painted out in front of us
But
It's also the color I see dripping from her words as a bottle of whiskey swings from her hand
Its the color that paints the skin under her drunken eyes
The color that glazes her eyes when she swings at me
Its the color that drips from my cheek and her ring
The color that paints my vision as I feel the words pour from my mouth like lava
The color that I hear when she slams the door
Its the color that drains away when she doesn't return
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 10:57 PM UTC
Dear Nina, yet to be born,
my life you may never adorn,
but, I'll be your port in a storm
and your anchor at Cape Horn.
You are the blood I lose cut by a thorn
and the tear that splatters on the lawn.
And know that when salt glazes your look,
There will be me, swinging a hook,
to grab and change your passing luck.
If you ever breathe and cry,
forgive my worried sigh.
I won't lie, 'tis cause I'll be afraid to die.
Cause you'd whale and scream out, “why?”
Yet, even though, it's you
that will make me fear death,
know this is only true since
it is you who really gave me breath.
My sole reason for not wanting to leave,
ain't the silly reaper or grieve.
It's cause you make me believe.
I may not have seen your starry smiles,
for which I'd drag galaxies for miles.
I may not have heard your earthly giggles,
which I'd chase with tricks 'n' tickles.
Yet, I wanna put you on my shoulders and give you a lift.
I wanna wrap up the universe and tell you it's a gift.
For you. For being, if only in my dreams,
a supreme being truly worthy of freeing.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 3:55 PM UTC
A perfect place
A natural utopia
Snow sails down through the corridors silently
Sunlight glazes above sylvan serenity
Time will peacefully pass
Over the sleet sheltered viridian grass
How life has so deserted this paradise bewilders me
In this perfect placidity I feel so free
This landscape holds no surprises, only beauty
Just as my tongue tells no lies, only poetry
As I top the summit, in shock, I see
A ghastly sight I cannot believe
This defies what I’ve seen and cannot be
But if I can trust my own eyes on what they perceive
A terrible fire
Burns into the sea
That I have created, in my ignorant glee
The sight screams in my soul like a haunting banshee
But amidst the burning debris
Stands alone one rebellious tree
On the top of the hill, like a statue of hope
Mocking the treacherous fiery slope
With the means to end this all
I pray that the tree does not fall
As it’s placed on the edge so precariously
The saviour of paradise, the tree...is me.
Hope I don't **** up.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 2:46 AM UTC
my healing mimics my raspberry bush
a seed in the beginning the wind could’ve took
there were sunny days, flooding rains
frozen glazes that took months to melt away
still in summer the saturated berries cling to their green roof
fruits of my labour, i can never return to that pain that little boy knew
strengthened, concentrated
bleed all the frustration, swaying to the wind’s tune
my healing mimics my raspberry bush
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 9:56 AM UTC
I can't seem to get you out
Every memory, touch, place
glazes onto me
I see you in them all
And I can't seem to get you
out of my skin
You're glued on
I'm rubbing friction
hoping you'll shred apart
but just like adhesive glue
with time
you solidify onto me
I look into your eyes
to plea
but all I see
is pure adoration
I melt
I'm hypnotized
Those big round eyes
engulf me
I thought I saw love
in those brown eyes
I realized too late
that it was a reflection of mine
and I can't seem to get me out
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 12:30 PM UTC
There's a better version of me,
up, ahead. And
he loves you in ways,
I can't figure ways,
how-to. Yeah,
you cried when he
left you.
And lonely,
you screamed.
"But if he'd come back, then,"
you think,
you'd believe it? The
roads don't just sparkle, every
time that you need it.
In the poem I write next,
we're both losing games.
I press up then, catch on,
turning to flames.
In a grand winning gesture
you burst
into diamonds,
before I can remind you
about asking Simon.
In the distance, outside the door to your
basement, a crowd la-las the
Star-Spangled Banner.
From the bulkhead and foundation,
from "the Hobbit door," but,
behind me,
the Anthem goes silent.
"Not home. Headed home. Stopped
here. On-my-way."
"Where would you rather be,
than right here, right now?"
Ralph Wilson died a rich man,
with a football stadium
by which to remember him.
"Well then trace your
depression to its sources."
I'm afraid I'll never own the franchise.
There's a father, presiding
over a service,
for both of us. It's the
same priest, at every
front of the room.
Our parents are crying, regardless.
I'd say somewhere, we sit,
together,
sipping on the universe. This one
or another.
If we don't, then they do.
And they're having the best time.
But in our past,
the same one we share now,
a version of you stiffens.
She glazes her eyes, sugary.
Holds out her palm, fingers to the sky.
And he matches her thumb first,
before the four digits.
Her face bursts, all rosy.
His turns away.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC