"guising" poems
Eddie takes care of me.
Our heads laid neath
street lights, a wild sky,
turned wrong, then right
across the bend
we haven't seen —
just experienced.
Forgotten flock
with no stake,
who solopsize only
while hugging and kissing.
Getting old.
Craving more.
The harmony
of shucked
clothes guising
vulnerabilities
**to someone
who will listen.**
With peeled eyes,
and closed lips,
his hands ride my hips,
soft flesh meets tough skin,
collapsing in.
We look at the other.
Please the other.
Stroke the other
with cupped hands,
dead before bloom,
fallen,
uprooted.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
how odd, how rare. eyes connect,
and the irrelevant falls away, so,
to the end of the beginning we go,
how odd, how rare, she tired of
players, gamers, inevitable disappointment,
so she assays his
approach, snd speaks first:
What are you after?
no hesitation no guising, no uncertainty, he states with surety,
product of grace added to sadness of series of serious accumulations of
disappointment,
"A shared understanding..."
Equals in their shocked surprise,
both stare, hard, then harder,
examining faces and rising heat,
suppressing the intriguing intensity,
imagining outcomes, not endings,
futures, not casualties, and the
assessing silence, not uncomforting,
indeed, the silence soothes, the
attraction stirring and they answer
the overhanging questioning answered simultaneously, with a
yes, a simple supposition, an agreed upon proposition, a mutuality
calming, and the ending of a
shared understanding...and the beginning of a who knows untold
possibilities
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 3:39 PM UTC
Does everyone deserve my honesty?
What if I speak against what is wrong, when everyone else keep quiet because of paranoia
Should I mould the words in a way which appeal to the masses
How cruel the world is, subjugating one's feelings to feature in other's good books
Won't guising ourselves violate our personal authority
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
Winter winds charm the ancient oak trees
whipping through branches,
reverberating down spines.
Their secrets freed
stretching out in the aching creaks.
Flurries of icy daggers
(beautiful devils)
whip across my face.
Ripping by my eyelids, they tempt tears to come out and play.
I’ve been here before but
the frigid tears streamed down my face for another reason.
How clumsily we display our emotions,
guising one in the veil of another.
We cry to say I am happy, sad, unable to go on.
We laugh because we are free,
or because at times we feel so bound it is all we can do.
I say nothing,
do nothing because I miss you too much,
but play it as though I never really cared.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
Life’s poetry isn't flowing like before;
Metaphors growing stagnant and leaving stains on the pages, like pressed flowers in my blank diaries.
No longer is my mind a sweet adobe to the psychedelic abstractions, running wild, stumbling off the cliff and dissolving into the mundane reality;
Which burst into sober hues here and there, painting my everyday.
I wake in this everyday, healed and scarred;
I walk in this everyday amidst beings of beautiful mien guising grotesque entrails.
Icy criticisms pierce through these ears, melting on this burning flesh, sipping through every tissue, and embedding in the bones.
Is it not painful enough to own these fatal inner conflicts, mutating into lethal thoughts, fabricated into reality.
A sort of pitiful nothingness is bedewed upon all the pages of life, I turn.
I’m stranded on this blank page;
I’m running out of words, i’m running out of ink;
Just with the somber sanguine streams flowing underneath this ashy skin, with which I intend to fill this void but fail.
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 2:42 AM UTC