"glossing" poems
**† † †
A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.
A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.
A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.
A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)
A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.
A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.
A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.
A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
walking from A to B,
no this is not geometry,
but it might as well be,
as with your eyes, see,
well what do you see,
unless you live in BC,
you won't see me and
I in turn won't be free,
to see you.
with your eyes, that first glance,
take a risk that is hazard's chance,
don't step closer or bend down,
log it away in your card file brain,
before it is washed away to the drain
or picked up as treasured claim.
use your eyes, with that first glance,
no glossing over, might miss romance,
call it flirtation, or orchestration, you
are the maestro and the other, the ensemble,
well, conduct yourself accordingly but tumble
safely.
those eyes so beautiful you have, can find words,
to clear the tears off your cheeks with the
new merino wool sweater sleeve and
that intense emotion that has
you locked and loaded as
someone goaded you
again,
and again,
and again, if this was *** that would be fine,
but it is not and your vexed
at how poetry rocks
your world but
also rocks the boat,
whenever you take
the time not to memorize by rote (that would be too staight forward)
take the technology out for a walk,
instgram your photo of your poem and share it on facebook, and
twitter while showing your interest on pinsterest, how is that *******
working out for you?,
or dot those eyes and cross your teas,
take ink or graphite, and write about
your sorrows, your joys, your day, your dreams,
what you saw,what you thought saw, like a puddy cat,
you did, you did and that Bugs me I forgot the color or was
it just me and invisible over there?
You get conflict, at that first glance at your notepad,
or keyboard or mumble "I need to write this down,
before I forget". That first glance you take, all else fades to black,
until you write.
©DWE012014
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
The waitress sends signals in neon code,
through Christmas illuminations stretching across
the car-park, and straight into my ***** orange.
She laughs through awkward platitudes,
and all the beards that comment on her skirt.
She's working to make a living,
somewhere down the line.
I watch as she scribbles poetry on old receipts,
eyes glossing over the ketchup stains,
and into the passing of the moment.
I hope that she is writing of escape;
of better times and better sleep.
She will smash the glass ceiling,
and save us from the greenhouse effect.
Baritone singers lure her into art,
into the promise of soft-hearted men
with a resilient chest.
The waitress waits for a signal
to restart her life. There will be flares
on the horizon, there will be new lovers
leaning on their cars in the sun.
She will finally get to sit.
She will thank the waiter for her drink.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
We are all selfish creatures
shellfish lurking in the depths of the sea
wanting what we know is wrong
lying about the shallow depths of our emotions
signing forged signatures and forged lies
forging these words that come out of our glossy covered up lips
glossing our covered up stories
our tall tales of princesses and fairies
in fantasy land, these are whimsical creatures
in reality land, we are nothing but human beings
that forged signatures say are whimsical.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
*The sweet smell of
smoke rising
eyes glossing
mood swinging
focus weaving
attendance falling
development arresting
high school dropping
in our country's acquiring
teenage wasteland.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
A sadness haunts that town.
stuffed between the cracks
of dilapidated matchbox houses,
and in the grit of rusty trailers.
Even below the green carpet of government buildings,
And the marble courthouse floor.
Poverty stares Wealth in the face from across the street,
his haunted, empty eyes
lit by the embers of discarded cigarettes.
Wealth is good at glossing over the cracks,
setting up the chain link fences and rail road tracks.
Iron curtains that could be stepped over,
if anyone knew they were there.
But no matter how many fences,
there's still that nameless sadness in the soil.
A potent concoction
of dead dreams, harsh realities, and broken hearts.
With a dash of Cherokee tears and lead from the War.
All stirred by Monotony,
who lights her cauldron fire
with electric bills and dollar store receipts.
Like a curse, it spares none.
Though they've learned how to smile
with tears in their eyes,
above moth eaten scarves or pearls.
It's permeated everything, down to the roots.
But not to leave the glass half empty;
Some still find happiness,
some are still sad.
That's just how it goes.
Hope and despair are but two notes in the same tune.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Into a damaged heart
a temporary fix
of one night stands,
maybes and what ifs.
Glossing over cracks,
but the temporary rips,
widens in time,
gapping holes yawn
an infinite scream.
Vortex,
bottomless swallow
hungry to be filled.
Waiting for love's builders
to swoon with steel and solid bricks
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
These kids,
They look so
Derelict,
They look so
Full of ****
Like they could
Ever skip
The river styx
Crossing.
So rather
Than glossing
Over their eyes,
Maybe these guys
Should start
Flossing
The wrinkles
Of their brains
By tossing
Back a few
Infected grains,
It's Ergot that
Brings
What you forgot;
As in your face,
As big as
Great danes
Made of waves
Of color.
If fluorescent
Grays
Ever
Deliver me asunder....
It's so dull
Under
This counter,
My mind starts
To flounder
As I flip the
******* flounder.
Or is it
Tilapia?
I wonder,
Could I be
Happier?
Probably, but
Don't you know
I like it
Sappier?
Is that a word?
Who gives a ****
Not this bird,
Thats why she's flying away,
Not toward
The veneer covered
Ways I say
"Come here."
"Go away."
"2 for fives two for fives,
****** got garbage around the way."
The way I pray
For acid rain
To melt my clothes,
My skin,
My muscles and veins,
My mostly drained
Trays of grease;
Popping.
Bubbling.
Please.
Please
Give my
Knees
Some ease
From their pains,
I've been begging
For weeks,
I need to sleep.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:59 AM UTC
soft acoustic plucking
reverberating strings
buzzing tones flutter
freely creating visions
differing from space to space
occupied between my ears
twists whole majors into 7th quarters
altering the landscape from within
bleeding fingertips hide broken verses
note for note we lie to the sound
expressing pleasure in the mundane –
gently strumming with loving caresses
melodic to the point of melancholy
old tears sit on a stained floor
eclipsing the smiling children
that hide just beyond the glass pane
glossing the pain with symbolic imagery
a crucifix dangles
swaying to and fro
barely audibly tapping the fat statue of an enlightened oriental
in the shadow of a dream catcher
made not by native americans
but instead by undernourished brown waifs—
bending tones for a better view
I shed the physical and go incorporeal
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
This is the river of Nainital
and this the sun glossing over the water
and this is the sound of risen voices
from chestnut trees along the road.
The bells of the shrine are bronze bells,
they walk the water into music,and
night arrives with the great stars,
cupping them deep in the dark hills of Kumuon.
A child cries out; all is not well
a sail, leaning across the water.
is ivory on jade and the herons glide over;
yet something is wrong in Nainital.
But not too wrong -a little thing,
like the slight fever in the small shack
though an old man coughing out of sleep
can send his daughter into mourning.
To Nainital, by train, by bus,
by car,on foot the travelers come,
nothing can keep them from this life
no stranger's death, no foreign pain.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
Sometimes I've had about enough
All these ******* buttercups
Puckering up
At the first scent of gruff
It's disruptive
To my mustering
I mean
Must we
Smother trouble out of ****
Must we malfunction
Into a skit
A script
Skipp-ed
To laugh tracks
Pre-writ
Until the last laughs
Where the curtains close
To fading claps
All the cards
Are all on the floor
Little adorable torturers
Peering through the doors
Afforded by our tor-mentors
Over it
We will get
Even get on with it
Cuz all of this
This is that and that is this
Is ******* ridiculous
Is worthless
It is foulness in its stench
The bowels of our regret
Unkempt and ******
It's ******** soaked in ****
Where the credits never roll
And the patrons only stroll
On outta here for a beer
And a night on the town
And all this
Flapping of the gums
And slathering of spit
Is glossing over my ****
And it's all we will ever get
If we would just submit
Wipe the sand from our *****
And remove the ******* sticks
We might find
We have loosened up a bit
Just don't be such a little *****
And other inflammatory ****
[That's it]
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
Do you know me?
You see me everyday
Bustling in the street
Answering the phone
Sexily glossing my lips
Do you notice?
I’m trying to catch it
But your approval
It’s so hard to snare
Like a firefly
So I starve myself
In hopes my thighs
May shrink to acceptance
Can you tell?
Fishnets curve to my legs
Maybe business slacks
Or a plaid jumper
My eyes can’t hide it
This longing, deeply cut
Like my shirt’s neck
Do you see me?
Hypocrites
To tell us we are free
To be anything
Liberated, ******
Powerful, worldly
Who are they to say
We are free?
Only so long as we give
Relinquish emotions
Harbor no expectation
In favor of carnality
Unchained, as long as
We seek not to be loved
Will you love me?
Will you try?
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC
enraptured was he,
enamored and taken aback,
eyes glossing and fingers trembling,
effortlessly pouring his soul to top her glass.
she was wild and equally fragile,
strong in her vivacious convictions-
stubborn and quiet and barely content,
sharing a love of fiction and faith and fire.
they danced and watched the skies,
tangled together in hopes and dreams,
tossed to the world by the winds of their cities,
trying desperately to get a grasp on growing up and getting out.
her favorite memory of him:
he had headed into the fields to gaze into space
half shivering, half dead,
holding out a rose to her-- his favorite scent.
night fell and so did they,
nodding off with heads in the weeds,
nurturing each others' wounds and bruises,
nearing dusk with new determination and confidence.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
" different from the first one. "
her fingers are glossy.
glossssssseeee
glossing. n
classy. i stand gazing.
like uh, a primitive, eye
she tells me their sensitive
and i believe her. because I
am quite the gullible guy
for sweet.. pretty..
cute.
.innocent. looking
things
ZAM.
she magnetically slapssss
and caresses the back of my dome.
tap tap... tap
' hmm a heavy stone, '
tap tap... tap
'it has a lot of content'... tap
tap tap .'oh'. tap tap tap
.
.
...
She begins her
journey
from the top of my head
slowly…
tippy toeing
down….
My
body
moving
her fragile nails
Like a
rehearsed fantasy..
she's been wanting
to do.
she closes in
and rests her
index finger
across my neck like a
scythe shape sun....
she approaches breathes.
in...and... whispers..
..
“What are you thinking?”
And within that.
my eyes smile.
[i don’t really know, some sort of brain activity..... ]
“I think”
[your pretty, inside, outside,worldwide, ]
[and ]
“I think”
[_<(^.^)> <(^.^<) (>^.^<) (>^.^)>]
“nothing”
She still keeps going [ it’s a long walk…………]
down,
slowly
maneuvering
in
elegant
moves.
before
closing in
....again.
this time in a more arrowed position across the more pronominal areas.
‘Why are you hesitant ?'
on being religiously
silly ?."
"Like if
you dislike
the idea of
being bright?’
[because
people are ......... ]
“Wait What???"
That’s not true.
only sometimes...
lol!@#!$!.
but still
“that's so wrong
And misleading. "
but please go on”.
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 9:32 PM UTC
Sitting,waiting in the bus shelter,
the mind is led by roving thoughts
from the now and here
into fields often not explored
whereto the feet hesitate to stray.
I sit there seeing the world hurry on,
not really looking at the people all around
but thinking back;thinking about those
who used to walk these same streets
who used to hurry off just so.
The roads may have forgotten their tread,
their faces blurred by time,
their voice masked by life's din,
soon to be faded into memory;
our love glossing over their faults.
But what of their stories?
What of the things left unsaid?
What of the questions unanswered?
What of their talents not passed down?
What of the bonds,the people undone?
Are their stories lost?
Never meant to be finished?
Small and unimportant enough
to be cut off,be discarded?
Lives destined for the void?
But what of those left behind?
Stories tainted by that void?
Hearts burdened b their absence?
Eyes wearied of waiting?
Dreams filled with longing?
The bus arrives with that sureness
of the things that come and go.
Boarding it,I sit next to a window
and let it carry me away like I've let
those things that come and go.
Gazing out the window,
I see life rushing past me.
And a desire takes hold of me
for this journey to go on,
to keep moving while immobile.
I think of those stories unfinished,
stories seen through a man's eyes,
read with a man's wisdom.
But what if that is not all?
What if there is more?
What if some questions are
never meant to be answered?
Some things be left unsaid?
Some talents never to be passed on
but define the person lost and him alone?
What if the stories left behind
are meant to be tainted that way?
To bear a fragrance like no other,
the void marking them for perfection.
What if people are meant to be undone?
What if the stories are not lost
but merged with the living ones?
To fuel them,to further them,
to be a muse to spur them,
be a core in their shaping?
Wistful thinking all,devised to soothe.
The mind awash with torrential thoughts
still hears a small voice of hope,
holding on to it while hanging
above a chasm of decadence.
Every night we go to bed
trusting the angels guarding us
to let happen what is right;
slipping into peaceful oblivion,unsure
whether we will wake from it again.
All these thoughts,these stories float
as leaves on that river called Life.
Whether we be afloat or under,
it flows;the grand story goes on
crafted by The Great Writer.
After all the broken hopes
dare we still hope on
as did Abraham of old,
hoping where there is none,
seeing life where there is death?
Dare we still dream on?
Dare we hope our stories
will not be left unfinished
thinking,wanting to believe that
Life is Hope is Life?
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
He perches on his black-crate bandstand,
stationed between the payphone and postbox.
The view from his seat never varies:
a restless audience of briefcases and knees.
He closes his eyes, concentrating
on breath becoming buzz becoming blare,
and he pictures his notes glossing Manhattan’s
thunder-colored walls.
Each tone fills the pavement, square by square
until the sidewalk is a harlequin filmstrip,
colored by notes coaxed from his brass mouth.
Passersby withhold their gaze, because giving a nod
obliges giving a dollar, and no one is inclined
to employ this trumpeter. But he pays no mind;
his own eyes secured until song’s end.
As long as his fingers are jumping,
he doesn’t have to be Gerard Wall–
who lost his wife to cancer and mind to the War;
he can be Louis, Miles, or Pinetop Smith.
When he looks up once again,
sun and spirit have faded,
and he watches the evening embers
drift out of his horn.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
All my things fall away like the loose satin of a slip
Endless in its descent and completely free of conviction
Mindless in its priorities and forgiving of the moonlight
Sleepy in the silence of the twilight of the night
Who gives the prayer to the dark of the day
Who tells of the travellers that come sneaking up my way
Who takes the shame, burns away my sight
How in the endeavour of the endless I will fight
Diamonds in the rough I take with me in my wound
Glossing over the sunny sands of the eternal dunes
Cry to the ravens, cry and cry me over
Speed in the tightest spaces of the greed of cover
Sap me in the daylight and perhaps one day it will
Crawl me in the yonder life and keep me ever still
Race me and chase me, dire in all my needs
Frightened and silenced from all that I may see
Grip my heightened perception undulating in the springs
Amass me the corporations and the grit of insomniac swings
Trite in the hive groans, implicit in their destruction
Give me all the room to take in these emotions
Flat and back, flatten the back,
Tie in the seashores and pull in the ocean
Fight for the sunrise and take in the sky
I need nothing more than to see that winding light.
Apr 26, 2011
Apr 26, 2011 at 5:56 AM UTC
Interwoven through the decades
Like a dream fragmented
Recalling the laughter
Hiding the tears
Small talk, no mention of sorrow
Paths crossed by chance
Yet fused together in a past
Updating the similarities
Glossing over the failures
Not eluding to the passing of love
Love! What of its spoils, it's loss
Now coveting the richness of maybe
The longing for perhaps
To capture a time lost
Then by good grace and fortune
Re start the clock
Like a caravan crossing the desert
To a destination hidden to all but the chosen
Where the weave becomes tied, knotted
The richness of lifes tapestry completed.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
It wasn't until my physical pain
met my mental pain
that I knew I had to surrender.
I wanted to remember,
so they finally crossed paths
shaking hands with
another
as my body was a bloodbath
turning to scarlet color.
Glossing, my eyes
poured out the lies
as I started to cry,
I couldn't resist the fight
of my fist
to speak of this.
I know I know,
I know.
Once again I had let go of
you
you
& you.
And my mental pain said goodbye
to my physical pain
and so did you & I.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
Cancel me to work the everyday,
gorgeous and made as if by money-
for money. My body glossing
for the lifestyle it represents
all its own.
The Curvature of my eye
shadowed behind the silk
of my hair. God
made the beautiful
for something else
than donning the same shirt and shoes
to grind another blue sky day
through to its ashy undertone.
They could call me madness
and I would rise up a dirt devil
over the scrub of the mundane-
all glimmering darkness
and suggestive dirt.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
Coming upon the supposed realism of the place
in all it's artificial glory - shining like polished plastic
Where in the glass cage; them without eyes sit, motionless
& tapping on the base of the spine - handing judgment
shouting their mad disease into the air
In the contamination of the surrounding, nameless faces
barking out for what they think they need
They scream for food, food, food!
Food and the televised delivery of words
the milky film of burned retinas
staring out as if it see anything shining with the famous names
& the electric screens all around, reinforcing their stride
& fatten them with words
Mothers, fathers and children - all young
misplaced and arguing painfully
about who is where - how they are - & acting
No relief from the bombardment
& stark reality of those people
glossing over magazine covers - top row - never bottom
& system of image delivery
Serving only in the false world
where all is hideously pretty & cold
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 5:35 PM UTC
Newly painted house,
Clouded windows between us,
. . . Flowers in glass vase.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
I have a question burning:
. . . . What's the point of living?
My heart is pounding
I'm heavy breathing
My blood is boiling
My face is melting
My hair is pulling
My skin is itching
My nails are hurting
My eyes are clouding
My mouth is drying
My mind is waning
My voice is wailing
My hands are cracking
My stomach is churning
My strength is failing
My care is mortifying
My existence is joking
My work is freezing
My delusions are multiplying
My thoughts are racing
My life is dying
My hopes are groaning
My dreams are poaching
My will power is cooking
My mind's eye is glossing
My mood's-a-changing
No cylinders are firing
My desire is diving
The cycle is beginning
My peace is nuking
Beauty is crumbling
Life's code is encrypting
. . . . No key for decrypting
The way out is blinding
And I'm feeling
. . . . The top of the ceiling
. . . . No more flooring
. . . . Left falling, none for catching
I'm wasting
I'm choking
I'm running
The demons are searching
Me they're consuming
Me they're chewing
Me they're spitting
Me they're crushing
. . . . Causing
. . . . A raining
. . . . Hellfire reckoning
They want me deadening
Me they're taunting
Poking me, torturing
My debt not paying
. . . . It's me they're charging
No recourse, left standing
Consciousness is maddening
My enemies looming
. . . . Gleaning my soul, they're feeding
They're biting
I'm left crying
Hope is fleeting
Friends are fleeing
. . . . This nutcase entertaining
I'm stopping
Left looking
No one is caring
. . . . To grace my being
They see me fading
Cast into the void, they're jeering
Strangers are laughing
There's more I could be saying
But I'm still left wondering:
. . . . What's the point of living?
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
The rising of a sun,
glossing over every dewy leaf,
and my heart had been broken by a thief.
Blue skies illuminated by a golden god,
proudly hanging above,
and she starts cursing love.
Gently wisped clouds gliding,
cumulating and growing,
and my happiness is slowing.
Eagles soar higher,
animals prowling low to the ground,
and she's above water yet still she's being drowned.
The sun is setting,
the sky starts crying,
and my poetry is dying.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
i want to write down everything i feel i haven’t been completely honest about with you. i feel as if you don’t see me clearly and that it’s been made foggy and indistinct from all the wrong conversations, lack of moments, and too much alcohol. i worry that in an effort to grapple with my own insecurities i’ve made myself out to be a woman that is not quite real, that’s not quite me. i haven’t said the words that i couldn’t quite force out and i want to say them to you now. i want a do-over, a restart. i want to introduce myself to you all over again without the hesitation and avoided eye contact. i want to explain how unbearbly awkward i am when it comes to texting. i want to take back that sorry excuse of a joke and how i didn’t end up returning your call immediately. i should’ve called you right back and gone on that walk with you through the humid louisiana night. i should’ve not been so fearful. i want to tell you about my beliefs in god all over again because it didn’t come from a deeper part of my soul like it should have. i want to explain that i am not usually that cranky as i was that last day we worked together and that you unfortunately saw a bad moment within myself that was the inevitable meltdown of weeks of not sleeping, a poor diet, and the shadows of a past love clinging to my every move. i want to tell you more about how i grew up without glossing over the entire decade i’ve tried to mentally wall off. i want to re-do last night not just because it was wrong but because it was so perfect, so perfect on your part. i can still feel the burn of your five o’clock shadow scraping across my bare back and i want to go back and tell you what that did to me. i want to have said your name more. i want to have told you how nervous i was without trying to act like i wasn’t a little over my head with how much i wanted you. i want to go back and tell you how much i enjoy talking to you, however mundane it is. i want to be able to say all of these things but i am worried it may be a little too late and that the world is spinning faster than i can handle.
13 february, 2014
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC