"hardens" poems
i have loved,let us see if that’s all.
Bit into you as teeth,in the stone
of a musical fruit. My lips pleasantly groan
on your taste. Jumped the quick wall
of your smile into stupid gardens
if this were not enough(not really enough
pulled one before one the vague tough
exquisite
flowers, whom hardens
richly, darkness. On the whole
possibly have i loved….?you)
sheath before sheath
stripped to the Odour. (and here’s what WhoEver will know
Had you as bite teeth;
i stood with you as a foal
stands but as the trees,lay,which grow
36.8k
Blow out the candle
Let it go they say
Watch the smoke dance up in the air
And the flames leave
with a simple dance
As the wax hardens leaving a warm spot full of scented memories
But I don't want to let go
They can't make me
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
'Why is it so painful to grow?'
A seed.
Just a seed buried under the ground.
Under the pressure of the soil,
It fights to grow.
The seed cracks,
such a sturdy little seed,
opens with a painful snap.
A sprout coils out.
Out of the cracked little seed.
A sprout now crushed under,
Under the pressure of the unforgiving ground.
Yet still... It grows.
A little sprout,
Now reaches up.
Up and away from the little seed,
and up to the light of the sun.
Pushing and groaning it bursts out.
Out from the unforgiving ground.
Yet now new dangers are to be found.
Will it be trampled
Or eaten alive?
The possibilities are endless,
The ways it could die.
And still.. it grows.
The sprout toils endlessly,
always stretching and growing
Reaching for the crimson sun.
The rain falls down
beating upon the sprout.
Pelting it's skin and whipping it about.
It skin hardens painfully,
and sprout becomes stem.
And still It grows.
The stem keeps reaching,
Stretching to the sky.
The stem then splits
It rips in two a bud appears
A little bud,
With so much to do.
Then the bud breaks
A crack appears
a petal unfurls from within.
Then it's a bloom.
Such a sweet little thing.
Until the crack stretches
So the bloom can grow
In to the beautiful rose
We've all come to know.
And still.. it grows.
Thorns burst free
Breaking out of the stem
And petals billow and grow in the breeze.
Then you see me,
And my beauty delights you,
So you wish to see me every day.
And your scissors encircle me
To give you your way.
They cut me in half.
They slice me in two.
being a rose,
There was naught I could do.
You carry me with you,
Your hands coated in my blood,
I'm dying slowly,
All for your love.
And now... I can't grow.
So as I bleed and wither in pain,
You place me in a vase
Or press me in a book,
All to save the bloom for another day.
And as I gasp for air,
Among your dry pages,
You leech me of all life,
Perfectly preserved
just so I could last the ages.
Or else I am drowning
In glass and water
My beauty wasted
hour by hour
Day by day
All to satisfy your whimsical ways.
And now all I wish to know,
'Why is it so painful to grow?'
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
Before the gate has been closed,
before the last question is posed,
before I am transposed.
Before the weeds fill the gardens,
before there are no pardons,
before the concrete hardens.
Before all the flute-holes are covered,
before things are locked in then cupboard,
before the rules are discovered.
Before the conclusion is planned,
before God closes his hand,
before we have nowhere to stand.
7.7k
MY LONG TREK ON WRONG LEGS, BEG DYNAMITE FROM HUSH DUDS
DAMP CANNONS BILLOW IN THE EAST WIND, LIKE FLACCID DRAGONS
GAGGING ON IRON APPLES
I SURGE IMPOTENT IN MY WRATH, SUNBATHING BY AFTERGLOW
HEROICALLY CONTAINED.
DISMANTLED...
I CRAFT THE WITHERING OF MY FURY
WITH A STEADY HAND; AND A JADED HEART
STARK BLIGHT, DRAINS MY CUP OF THUNDER, WHERE MY LIGHTNING CLOTS
WHERE SOLID DARK
HARKENS
MY YELLOW SUN HARDENS; LIKE AN UNSTRUCK COIN
BLANK IN MY POCKET
SHARDS OF DULL ACHE... UNSHARPEN
MY RED SEA
DEPARTS
MY KELP BEDS
DISMAYED.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
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
the ice breaks from above me
as sunlight streams in
i feel its warmth
kissing the hairs against my arms
i would swim
to the top
to bang my fists against the frozen sheet
to pry each shard away
to pull myself out
but my blood hardens beneath the flesh
and i sink
watching the sky from the cold currents.
Oct 11, 2022
Oct 11, 2022 at 9:11 AM UTC
Your white bosoms releasing that white serum.
That curvaceous mound feeds humanity,
That makes the biggest humanity via motherhood wisdom.
Your pink ******* arousing that tempest blood.
That soft hill becoming hard,
That hardens which heightens the adulthood.
Your black ***** taming sin.
That concealed shape popping out to provoke,
That provokes to **** feminism in mean.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 12:43 AM UTC
beasts made out of pieces of clay
my God is an artist
the reason he makes these beasts is to play
with the clay when it hardens
angels feel no danger in the throes
my God is so fearless
don't try to look his almighty in the toes
when his steps are so careless
Jul 31, 2022
Jul 31, 2022 at 2:35 AM UTC
Walking barefoot down rocky dirt paths.
Kicking up clouds of dust with each step,
testing the thickness of my soles soul,
I found comfort in the pain of each sharp stone,
digging deep. Comfort in pessimistic understanding.
Knowing, the next wouldn't hurt as bad.
Wounds turn to callus. Hardened skin, hardens within.
Each weathered scar, reminder of hard earned strength.
Ritual of self inflicted mutilation by choice, rocky dirt path
by fate. Walking, walking, still. Still barefoot
down rocky, dirt paths.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
Without the April wind to send their song,
The mourning doves of Middlesex are singing
And will be heard never again from long
Away, if graduation bells are ringing
And now November rains erode the nests
That mourning doves assembled in the gardens
From where their mild and wind-warm coos caressed
My ear, to quiet earth that cools and hardens
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
The injustice
either hardens or breaks the human mind
The mind
must choose how to fight against the injustice
The choice
of non-violence is not a sign of weakness
The knowledge
of why you fight is more important than the fight
The strength
to suffer is the time between despair and triumph
The ability
to turn the other cheek is the holiest weapon
The act
of vengeance is the weakness of a human being
The love
for the wounded is the reason they follow you
The memory
of the dead is the passion to believe in the vision
The revolution
in you ends when you no longer hate a stranger
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
Volcanic Poet
Molten words, ash chokes the air
Hardens by the Sea
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
When you reach for the cold wooden board
your hands begin to decay
your skin peels back then hardens and falls off your scarlet bones.
A bright midnight flash struggles to push through to the other side of your mind
revealing that you passed years ago but are stuck in an actuality that doesn’t belong to you.
Life is all just a disorder, dead but you keep on living
a distorted mind trapped in an unborn child's head.
Or it could be a game from the further future that they play
controlling little beings within a screen.
The words engraved on the board now lay in your flesh and you cannot let go
from the reality within reality
but is the concept that hard to grasp?
You believe in God but not your own insanity?
We are the dead ones that are only able to perceive
they are makers of our madness
the creators of an urban fantasy
and they try to speak to us from millions of years in the future through a sharp birch wood board
but the lies we are told and the truths that this “world” withholds
does not compare to the unknown universe outside of this screen.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
Trill of beak into birch. Dawn spooks
the graveyard into silence. A heart
hardens at God’s withered finger reaching
but not reached for. I trim the hedges
and the whir of weed-eater disturbs
a nest of yellow jackets into tornado,
dust devil, of translucent wings and sting.
I walk among the dead three times a week.
I am learning their language. They relearn
the mundanity of white noise above
and quietly forget, quietly forgive.
This hill is the crest on a wave of coffins,
each one a boat through the world below.
Submerged in a bloodshot morning
I listen to a woodpecker in its throes
of building a home out of the depths of bark.
In the chill, the soft fog rolling, it pecks
and it knocks. The doors to these lives
long closed, I hush. I do not believe God
will visit these grounds to reclaim his clay:
I plant flowers in it between the plots,
each name engraved of marble a blank stare.
The flash of red flushes from budding branches
and I return to work. No one answers.
I relearn the dead’s language, their silence,
relearn every day how to repair stillness.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
I am made of infatuation, shame and forever gloom
You could not fall
This is not the chessboard of your dreams
No pawn makes—
No bishop makes
The queen takes, is taken an equal
This is not an aisle of rebirth
Or some sombre remembrance
It halts, it halts
The numbers lessen
I did not abandon, I am still here
Yet, a halt lingers
Like death stuck on the precipice of throat
A life of a single lifetime of a thought
I am energy, a little restless
But restless so out of the nature of self
Like the eye of a rook
On the king through a rook
A stupor unblinking
Like the sharpening of a dream
The knight-slide like an Arabian sword
The king scuttles
Rook takes rook, king takes rook
I fancied myself a manly dream
But it doesn’t work like that, does it—
The game writes, and children play
Now I wait the shameful minutes away
(And I watch your hands, so patient, simple
Say, are you dead or pleased?)
And I watch your hands
I should’ve looked up when I had the chance
Now the brooding leaves
And my eye hardens
Father, you have won
With a dream so well, you played just right
I should have not worshipped the pawns like that
Oct 1, 2022
Oct 1, 2022 at 6:09 AM UTC
Summer’s time has come and gone
The walls, floorboards release a yawn
With nine months then to recoup, recover
From being a home, just for the summer.
Eloquent memories freshly remain
Of friends who nestled within her frame
A cabin of bunk beds, cubbies, fresh air
Where girls unwound with little a care.
Her crevice now holds a left-behind letter
Whose parchment hardens with winter’s weather
Yet the season’s sleet knows the warmer reflection
Of late night secrets and encouraged imperfection.
Spring has sprung most slowly for some
The evergreens exclaim a harmonious hum
Her wooden steps defrost, and patiently await
The coming of campers to the cardinal state.
Fall, winter, and spring all pass
Warm rays have woken the mountains at last
Each cabin’s frame stands taller, *****
While girls, all ages, reconnect.
Anna Blake
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC
We loved them because
they loved to create.
A tailor and a builder.
made art from nothing.
Left a legacy.
Constructed beauty
from seemingly nothing.
Oh boys,
Our tailors and our builders,
Without you, we’d be sleeping just fine.
He blew her mind
Made her consult
With her old dear friend
Jack
(Daniels)
At hours unmentionable to civilized people.
Who indeed made her feel better
but also made her feel
Worse in the end.
He could talk real pretty things around my head
And I was hooked like a fish
It’s been 4 years and I’m still not free.
I’ve never met anyone so broken
And yet so comfortable with his millions of pieces.
He taught me to take the lenses off
And embrace this life, this love, this way.
Everything that happened before
Is over.
Tomorrow is just what we’re calling 12 hours from now
And oh, won’t those 12 hours until then
Be ******* glorious.
He molded her
Into a volcano.
The kind you see in middle school art class
That the kiln hardens
and it becomes supposedly unbreakable
Until one day, you find it has been chipped all along
[You did that to her, you know.
Broke a piece off her without even knowing it.]
Now that we’re older
they suddenly saw us
When before we were just the backing cast.
Made things that belong in the deep
Accessible to us without fishing lines
Now that’s just a cruel game to play.
It’s funny that it was
a tailor and a builder
who gave us the courage
to not need
to be built or tailored
anymore.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
Without worry I sit and wonder
When the next batch will come.
Dough rolled out, stretched and pulled,
Broken into pieces and stuck in the oven. Without the confines of an cookie cutter; natural in every way. An free form of emotional bliss laid flat on the pan.
I patiently wait, green plate on the table waiting for the oven to preheat.
The dough rises becoming smaller.
I only hope you understand
How lovely it is to be near someone you love.
Without the concealment of air tight bags they are free, the cookies that bake in the oven soon to be placed on a plate, devoured.
Introduced to the seduction of crumbs that come together; sweet, delightful
Before it fully hardens.
Soft, delightful.
Skinny dipping in an pool of cookie dough.
An illusion of things whole until broken apart by lips in full desire.
Drenched in saliva of deep need
Simultaneously becoming an memory
As well as a part of smiling lips.
The mistletoe that hangs above the heart.
Waiting for another batch made by your hands
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
The Autumn missal has arrived,
A fall reminder of the coming cold,
Strange slanting light to shift the maple
Greens to furious red and gold.
High above the myriad travelers chant adieu,
As on their sky-road paths they sing,
A chorus glorious to southern waters blue
Where winter marshes serve a warm retreat.
A liturgy of highest order drives the world
Beyond the ken of time-old cycles round;
Hibernal instinct now in feral life unfurls:
Flogs squirrels outward on their oak-corn bounds,
Plushes wealth of wolves' warm winter fur,
Hardens bone and antler, deepens feathered down,
Adds harvest fat to beast and fish and fowl,
Drives sap below old Frost's attempt to burrow down.
_________________
Unspoken paen unheard by almost all,
A careless shivering passerby may dread
This ritual changing of the Fall,
But never mind, the liturgy is read,
And Nature safely tucks herself into her wintery bed.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
when a candle burns the wax melts into itself. then the flame gets blown out and the wax hardens; then the flame gets relit and the wax warms up again, tenets and takes more of the candle with it everytime. the candle does this until the wick is gone and the candle is no more. so do not let your burdens or your past be candle wax to you because it will eat you alive until you are no more. instead, when your flame is lit, blow out the match and glow on your own.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
You hear the vocals of my pores
Calling out for your ecstasy
Baby, will you answer me?
Annihilate my suspire
I'm craving for you to sojourn your lips unto my dermis
Floating in passion, your love takes me higher
With annimalism
Your death grip on my waistline severely quenches my skin
I feel your thunder storming on my frame
Being pounded by my waves
Of this flash flood you made
I NEED YOU
To come and swim deeply into my ocean
Contain my legs from this uncontrollable wavely motion
Surf my waves at each convulsion
Your breath trickles down my spine
You haven't even reached your peak yet
And I have came here
And
Came
4
Times
This visit, I do not regret
I WANT YOU
To make love to me
Like there is a war outdoors
With nature and valley
A war between temptation and flesh
But wait
Not just yet
Because your cinnamon skin
***** my tongue passionately*
Constantly
I melt, into a puddle
Full weight on the floor
That you lick up until no more
I travel my lips up and down your masculine build
You feel my exhaustion
Invading your spine
Interrupting your concentration
At this hour, in this moment
You are mine
And I am yours
Finally tasting those lips I've always adored
My succulent tongues takes a moment and travel down your chest
Leaving my mist dwelling on your buff
Down to the strong man hood you possess...
You grab my neck
As you explore the soft walls
Of my saturating portal
Your head inclines back in full relieve
As I continually, savagely feast
You then explode in great fury
We collapse as if an earthquake violated our terrain
And then we lay....
But,
This is not the end
Welcome, to foreplay
With gratitude, your excitements hardens
And your eyes paint me, you feel extremely lucky
You begin to fill your lips with thanks
But NO
Baby don't thank me
*Just **** me*...
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
sacred
silent season
wrapped in silk
in your tall towers
imposed
with the
ambling sense
of reason
and ripe blossoms
bathed in ***** milk
never again
left to wonder
the aimless
riches of yesterday
and the golden
hopes of tomorrow
such are the joys
of a Norseman
pillage and plunder
I will rummage
your sweet gardens
let your woven path
lead my feet
free of chains
to your doorway;
and the Viking
stirs and hardens
alpha breath
against moist
misty white skin
my cobalt aquas
revel in the seas
of your chastity
now ablaze with
nordic sweat and
archaic sin
Let the games begin
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
I find myself offering to the death of cold.
Your love is inhospitable.
Prolonged exposure to your love
has caused numbness in my body.
I’ve learned to handle the bitterness,
But each layer that kept me warm has been stripped.
Inside of me,
the same stinging chill is found
that your heart was frosted in.
And now I understand when the sorrow became frozen.
The icy heart hardens into a glacier
when the agony remains in a fixed spot,
forced to recrystallize.
I’ll burrow myself in the comfort of snow,
stabbing myself with ice spikes I've sharpened,
knowing the only amenity
is my death tonight.
That everything I could’ve endured,
was the frost mounting against my flesh.
Sep 5, 2024
Sep 5, 2024 at 11:20 PM UTC