"haloed" poems
How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:
She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake
Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
8.6k
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and loneliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees, those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough falls to where the electric line banishes, connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 9:02 AM UTC
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and lonliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees,those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough delving where the electric line banishes,connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
sing me your inspiration,
so that words may blossom
through the rings of the tree
in my paper.
gift me your passions,
so that pathways may carve
through inked rivers
and graphite daydreams.
paint me your love,
so that I may palette
your rainbow
and color my canvas
with my favorite colors of you.
the soft pink
of the inside of your lips,
and the offset grey
haloed through your eyelashes.
tiger lily freckles framed
by sweet peach
and wallflower blushes.
rainfall wrists
and dutch cocoa silk.
all my canvas needs
are the colors of you.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
Sweet Tea wrote 3 months after I turned 15, 2018
Before you, I was a girl devastated by things I couldn’t change
Trapped in an endless bitter reality from which there was no escape
Sinking into a dark, spiraling well, from which I reached my hands and found a pool of light
You were my light, a haloed sunshine angel, who graced me with his presence for what seemed so long and ended so abruptly
The sound of your voice seemed to be honey, so sweet, attracting the bees, attracting me
My sunshine sweetheart, angel lover You’ve done your time so now you can leave
Why would you want to stay with me? I’m only a cement brick that will bring you down
A loose thread that will tear you down, a yammering parakeet who will wear you down
One time you told me that I thought too highly of you
How couldn’t I? With someone who made me feel so confident with my body, somebody who praised me, someone who thought I was worth their time at least for the time being
In a way it’s better that you left, you’ll never be forced to see what I had to see looking in the mirror hating every inch of myself, hating the way I acted, and the way I interacted with everyone and hating the way no one seemed to like me
But you liked me, but it’s better this way because I’m a letdown
It’s Like when you thought you had bought sweet tea
But it’s actually unsweetened
The new version
Sweet Tea wrote 1 month before my 18 birthday, 2021
Before you, I was a girl alone
Being molested every day by the people who said they would take care of me
I was a fourteen-year-old girl who was taught at a young age to get yourself a man to save you
So I tried everything to keep you because talking to you distracted me from the fact my fourty-year-old stepdad was touching me
But what I definitely didn’t need was a twenty-year-old man messaging me
Telling me all the things he wanted to do to me
When the law would finally unclaim me and allow me to give someone a part of me he doesn’t deserve
You made me feel so much more alone
Somebody who told me he’d touch me
But instead of giving me what I’ll need he’ll leave
“Lick me up like an ice cream cone” huh Luke?
yes I thought highly of you
Because you made it seem like you’d never hurt me
You were the biggest disappointment
You always will be
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 2:36 PM UTC
i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.
ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
only the children of the vandal.
iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
to our locomotives.
iv.
the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.
v.
somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA
and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
yet i am
not coming home.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
My hands allowed this head to hang back,
and her arms were of an awakened soul.
Sun rays haloed her body,
and so it felt Ceremonial.
She looked to me, though still, leading the way.
she'd gone, changed the day and changed her time.
so, as we prepared to walk the line
we held each other and closed our eyes.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
and even then.
when: ruby sand
rubs youths notions
from thy soft aperture.
still i knee bend
to thy: lady so haloed
in my lashes.
ever always you are mine.
and
so
to
am
i
yours
gentle
stem
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 11:14 AM UTC
"Memory is more indelible than ink."
—Anita Loos
~
*Europe, after the rain,
the sun lending warmth and comfort.
fringes come into focus.
shadow journal,
fiscal dreams,
becoming ****** lines on a page;
procession bells
for young brides,
veiled in lace.
a touch from her
outstretched hands,
this honeymoon phase
running up the thigh,
the holding quite still until
she smiles for pendulum.
at first light, breakfast in bed,
granting pastel wishes on
boxing night,
then a letting go of the kite string.
new fingers in the medicine bottle,
tiny geometries
inside a house of reciprocal numbers.
paradise in mnemonic children:
cartwheels and handstands,
coloring books of
neglected spaces,
future ruins.
one hundred violins
play to isles of ignorance,
stray embers settle
along the solemn Chemin De Fer (railway).
a catalogue of afternoons
on the bike path
thru propeller seeds and dragonflies.
arriving in the haloed flesh:
skin dive,
the place of couloir descent;
**** beach,
the place of odd glances;
gun chamber,
the room of secondary light;
all horizon variations.
an algebra of darkness,
this dense Roman twilight,
their exiles unreflected
in blind lanterns.
our brightness will become
refracting silhouettes,
a broken yolk in the incendiary sky.*
~
Aug 29, 2022
Aug 29, 2022 at 12:38 PM UTC
Somewhere beyond the hast of commerce,
where noises sing rather than shout.
I know of a place under a canopy of emerald leaves, haloed in the sun.
Creatures come to crawl and fly, soaking the bounty growing natural.
Moments of stillness blow soft, carrying stresses away.
It's a place owned by the trees, they bend to greet travelers weary of their cage.
A place I long to stroll,
where summer kisses all that lives
and wildness sprouts within
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC
I'm poring over your words...
Sophistication beyond compare
I can only savour in gulps
Such fantastic fare
•••••
Your stars are sculpted out of porcelain
Whilst mine, white washed vinyl
Your haloed moon, commands immediate attention
Mine only hovers...
As elliptical paint over stencil
Oceans of yours brim full
Catching the shards from the noon day sun
When mine suffer from receding tides
Turning into stagnant estuaries
where water hardly runs
Myriad views from snow swept mountains
You paint perfect with delicate pairings
Stuck with a view from a porthole
Sometimes all I see,
are the vast expanses of tumultuous endings
•••••
Still poring over all of your words
They all weigh much
but soar like feathers on birds
Artform fit for gods beyond compare
Drowning in the magic...
Of your incredible fare
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
You stand there in a field
Of gentle grass and daffodil
The butterflies gossip in dances
The breeze sweet as honey
Haloed sun on your head
And I feel you smile at me
So soft, so wanted
Cradling in your hands
My heart
A gory mass of muscle and tissue
Pulsating and twitching
like a nightmare struggling
To tear it’s desperate fingers through its
****** oozing womb
And I lay under you
skin gorged, ribs cracked
Wheezing through smoker’s lungs
clinging on by a few dripping strands
of fleshy tubing
And my hands claw the earth
nails mangled and nerves ragged
But my eyes fix
Enraptured
despite these things scrabbling
at my irises
As I strain
To catch a glimpse
of
your
face
Jan 13, 2022
Jan 13, 2022 at 11:37 AM UTC
In the ocean I saw her
A frail wisp of a wave
A silver bodied dolphin
That I forgot to save
I saw her in the ocean
I wish I hadn't though
A blackened hollow apple
Frozen in the snow
In the ocean I did see her
I swear it to be true
A golden haloed angel
That fell into the blue
I did see her in the ocean
So many miles away
A dingy brown eyed gypsy
That I once turned away
I look for her in the ocean
The part of my soul lost
A sickly whitened memory
That to the sea I tossed
In the ocean I look for her
A fallen shooting star
A purple midnight aster
That I left on the tar
In the ocean I found her
A crimson coated shell
A keepsake from a rainy walk
That from my pocket fell
I found her in the ocean
Grey she was to my despair
My bright lightning beauty
That had lost all her hair
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
butterflies on a beautiful boy
cling with insect intensity
they wear candy pink lipstick
he has his face reddened
with blusher
his hair is depicted in triplicate
on the cubical doors of toilets
black painted cubical doors
that possess an objective scrutiny
of an immediacy that suggests
a knowledge of expendable names
of disinterested inspection
names that are deletable with time
all that is left is a screaming solar plexus
he waits like an animated aura
a haloed head of violet rings him
as he leans against the toilet wall
with beautiful blonde ambition
the butterflies cling with insect intensity
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
They told her
That women fade out
Of the spotlight
As time
Tic-toc
Passes by
And they fade
Melt
And sag
In the summer heat
Of the ellipsoidals
They told her
That she wouldn't live
If she put on her armor
To fight off the criticism
And she donned the golden band
Uniting her with her dreams
They told her
That she would be surrounded by people
But entirely alone
And she listened
But behind her teeth
She locked a thousand biting words
And a lashing tongue
That she yearned to unleash
On their haloed heads
Instead she shrugged on her apathy
Strangely warm
And gray-hooded
Like a murky puddle
Formed on the cracked asphalt
Of an abandoned playground
But when she went home at night
What they said
Dared her to prove them wrong
So she shook off the gray
And the murk
And she did.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Harbour lights beckoning
Like saintly haloed will-o-wisps
Annointing ocean mists
Jaded haunting memories
Come surging down with tidal force
And flood all other thoughts:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
How oft' those words have plagued me,
How many moons have traced the sky
To fall from high
Reborn to die
And all in vain to answer why
The sea could never save me?
Weary sea-legs greet the dock,
Where once they brought in stoic stance
An end to fair romance
Your eyes were filled with sadness,
Beacons born of hope and kindness
Blinded by my blindness:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
Stumbling blind from shore to lea,
From tavern, inn and hotel bar,
I search afar
Of ev'ry tar
To ask of all oh where you are
But nowhere can I find thee?
A young man needs adventure,
Yet all I learned from years at sea
Was all I missed of thee
Has time unwound the wounding
Of hasty words once said with zest
With pride and puffed-out chest:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
With all hope driven from me,
I watched a sailor paint a tale
To taint me pale
As he regailed
Of maiden fair and love that failed
And torment that befell thee
Panic wove itself a wreath
Around my heart and pulling tight
It dragged me through the night
From town to shore I stumbled
And there upon the jagged rocks
Espied your ebon locks:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
The beauty wrought within thee,
Noble grace and elegant flair
My maiden fair
Beyond compare
With ***** and seaweed in your hair,
What tragedy befell thee?
Translucent as the water,
You turn with sightless eyes to see
And see but thought of me
The sadness and betrayal
Takes harbour in your haunting face
Now anchored in this place:
*"Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
And I love her more than thee"*
Through years that passed unkindly,
For all my sins of jealous pride
The truth I hide
From thee inside,
My heart and soul with thee reside
And I have always loved thee
The sea I loved has taken
The destined time we had to share
And thee in thy despair
Oh love my love forgive me,
Upon the sea I held so dear
To you alone I swear:
*Weep not for me o' mistress,
Ever my first love was the sea
But my heart belonged to thee*
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 4:08 AM UTC
a day
with contrasts faded
hazy smoke from
distant forest burnings
skylight diffused..
traffic at rushhour
a monotonous din..
such muffled appearances
invited a more
exacting look..
white paint splotches
accidental decorations
to a darkened parkbench
suggests here a distant
supernova explosion..
a motorcycle pistons'
high pitch report
self identification
in the traffic din..
an airliner's orange
contrails laced the
gray cloudless sky..
then a sudden appearance
a haloed quartermoon
light enhancement
with circular glow..
yes contrasts seemed to
speak on this day
bursting the haze...
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
These words...
They traverse the fine line between earth and sky.
They dwell not, surface-deep in the dirt.
They be haloed not, as the chorus of heaven.
They're just murmurs that swim intangible.
Like reticulated wisps of smoke.
Incapable of materialising...
Or take definite forms on their own.
They only await to be carefully selected,
rearranged and harnessed into a jar...
Before being sealed infinite with a title.
Be quiet and still...
For you will hear them.
Milling and floating in the silence
that exists between your heartbeats.
Listen close...
For they are fragments of you
and the universe.
They're thoughts and feelings that come awake
as you slumber.
*Awaiting to be selected...
Awaiting to be rearranged...
Awaiting to be harnessed...*
By you,
the conduit with a pen.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC
They flowed easy the tears of her
In her core was a kindness’ river
With a heart of gold a love too pure
Her bags were full with pains to endure!
Married at teen and a widow too soon
Her youth dark dimmed an eclipsed moon
Dragged to abyss and feasted upon
Bereft a blood she could call her own!
A wonder her life though ravaged much
Growing not hard she broke to the touch
Would come to grief at others’ pain
Her cheeks overflowing in sobbing rain!
As a child I felt at a time now far
On one short span spent with her
When my innocence could easily tell
Neath her frame was an earthly angel!
Wasn’t a beggar returned from door
A stray unfed to die on the road
She was there with a saving aid
Her own life though was left unpaid!
As I write this rebel locked tears
Break floodgates of long lost years
Reveals from the mist a haloed face
Of an angel of love and godly grace!
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
Last night I watched in silence
At the end of the road in forest deep
I hid amongst the trees watching in awe
As gypsies dance while others sleep
Under the violet hue of evening sky
Haloed by evening's golden moon
I watched gypsies dance and sing
As flames from bonfires leaped high in the air
Dark haired women in shawls and beads
Happily dancing and twirling without care
Casting their spells of magic and enchantment
Performing their honeyed seductions
Blended with aphrodisiacs of scent and sound
Gypsy men with kerchiefs around their necks
Hoops of silver adorning their ears, singing joyful songs
Children laughing, dogs barking
As if they’re singing right along
Oh, I so wanted to join them as I stood watching in awe
Envious was I of their freedom and joy
Caravans painted in bright images and colors
Tambourines jingling as velvet shadows danced in the night
Skirts swirling, gold and silver bangles on their arms
Dancing 'round the bonfire's fiery light
Accordions singing, with happy notes from a fiddler's bow
As they sang and danced barefoot under evening moon
In the coming dawn once again...
It will be time for them to pack and move on
With a last meal served...
The caravans are readied to make another journey long
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
As their wagons move along dusty trails
They'll be looking for a place to camp
A place to call home... at least for awhile
A place to hang their colored paper lamps
Until...
Suddenly- a cry rings out
"Stop the wagons, ring the bells
We've found the perfect place
The perfect place for magic spells
Tomorrow brings a brand new day!
Let's feast, dance and make merry
Come on let's get things underway"
And so...
The journey goes on
And never ends!
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on, time to leave
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
Mading relieves Manute from guard duty.
They share a meagre meal of millet porridge before
Manute returns to the refugee nation of southern Sudan.
The noon sun is a harsh sentence for a parched tongue but
they talk not of coffee or juice-laden fruit and
rice and lentils are mountain memories their stomachs can ill afford.
Instead they curse the clear skies that rain only strafing jets and
pray for their dry-breasted wives on pilgrimage to the aid station
carrying children swollen with the promise of death.
They snarl rumours about al-Bashir’s lapdogs
in Khartoum growing fat on food intended for them.
Jason waits, informed by cell phone of Laurie's imminent arrival.
He orders a wheat beer, its earth tone inviting on a silver tray and
its musky sweetness washing away a morning of phone business.
The noon sun is a warm blessing through the picture window but
they talk not of haloed hills or the light-laden river and
recession and retrenchment are market memories their ulcers can ill afford.
Instead they debate '63 cabernet versus '74 chablis and
moan about their reconstructed wives driving halfway across town
carrying children swollen with the promise of private schooling.
They snarl rumours about Key's cabinet
in Wellington while wolfing crayfish and Steak Diane.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
If I should fall a thousand steps into your arms,
will they not wait? For I
let not Cassiopeia move beyond her throne
to encroach my bed.
Let gravity
seek its master upon my feet
and warm itself in my slippers,
carry me through curtains
and clouds of deceit to reach a haloed moon
in an airless night. If I
should wait a thousand years for a single step into your arms,
will they not open? For I
let wide the gates and fiery the oil
to relinquish the kingdom and forge
against the current into the quiet distance.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
More than a cloudless sky filled with falling stars
More than a sunny day while driving in my car
More than standing at the tip of a waterfall mist
Perhaps, even more than my very first kiss,
You’re still more amazing than any of this
Out of everything beautiful, you the top list
More than the sight of a haloed full moon
More than a great date not ending too soon
More than a cool breeze on a hot, sandy coast
Maybe more than giving the perfect wedding toast
Thoughts of having you bring me even more hope
Enough so for me to discard my telescope
I know I’ve found my star I was searching for
Confident I’m the water my flower’s thirsting for
You feel better than relief from an open sore
Your sound is superior to a faultless music score
I can’t imagine you not filling my every thought
You’re everything that anyone has ever sought
You mean more than anything I’ve ever bought
Some would dispose of you without knowing the cost
I’m so glad I’m not them; I know greatness when I see it
A king is only a king once the queen has been seated
Yeah, I know my place, but I won’t remind you of yours
Though, I will remind you of what our future has in store
Our destination can be whatever we think it should
We can discover countries or explore our backwoods
Whichever course we choose, as long as it’s together,
It’s still perfect enough that only heaven could be better
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC