"hazed" poems
Never what you were,
my retina dulled your rays.
Optics adrift in poetry, prose,
charity shop sweaters.
I spoke of dreamed ambition.
You nodded, morose.
Eyes chasing space.
Never what you were.
Bookshelves, potted plants, a bicycle bell ringing.
Coffee steam clawing New Zealand winds.
This and more flickered in our hazed tethering,
only snuffed when the tap of illusion ran cold.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:38 PM UTC
**** me like the ocean would the moon, Dear Amaranthine.
Teach me as you would any abecedarian, slow with pace.
My pallid arms are spread, and feet are crossed.
Crucify me, like one of your French girls.
Your endless frame arched over mine
a vaulting testament to the heat
of your front against my back.
This scene should have been a chapel.
Through hazed musk I can taste the saline
as it tumbles from your dripping brunette tendrils
forming brooks and lagoons the color of flesh
in the glens and about the islands of my spine.
I wish I could write about you in me
while you dance a contemporary beat
ceaseless, indeterminate, untold are
your feats within and upon my person.
For a split moment, seconds shattered in two,
I am completely and totally permeated by you.
I whine for you to vacillate me, I am ******* begging
to be occupied, satiated, by a rhythm akin to the sway of trees.
Love me fast and kiss me slow, Dear Amaranthine.
My palms are red, and feet bloodied, too. I moan.
Call me your poetaster but don't come on my chest;
There's far too much weight there already, my dear.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
He watched as the tears flowed down my face
But I turned away to hide his disgrace
I took my heart and held it tight
held in the pain with all of my might
I took a breath
Sharp in
Cut out
As a felt his hand on my shoulder
But I was already filled with doubt
when I turned around to meet his gaze
Mine was hard, and soon his was hazed
I yanked away from his desperate grasp
But I think I already knew we were done and past
I heard his voice crack with sadness
"Please stay, I love you, I'll miss you, I need you"
Choking on sadness, but holding the rest down
I whispered back, with an emotionless sound
"You may have forgotten what love meant, But my love is something where rules cannot be bent"
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
I walk on broken glass
Barefoot and white dazed
Jagged shards dig my skin
Life is all hazed
I walk on silent streets
Fog filled and long sorrow
Chills curl my blood
Sickness is to follow
I walk on fearful dreams
Closed eyes and scare
Head buried in pillow
Weakness is my faire
I walk in worn out shoes
Bruised and battered story
Step inside my mind
Alone is my glory
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
his lips would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons made for coffee and falling apart. he never really kissed with so much intimacy but he kissed me nonetheless, and maybe those were enough — those steady, demanding kisses, until all i'm left with are sighs and shoulders carved with his name. my fingers, lost in his hair, like withered roses catching fire. my lips, swollen and red, like sunsets begging for the night to come home. my heartbeats, carelessly, hastily stitched inside the hem of his sleeves.
but i stayed in his apartment, slept in his bed, and wore his clothes; like an incoherent word misplaced in a haystack, like a poem, half-naked on the kitchen sink, unraveled by the faintest brushes of skin. slow and claiming. fast and rough. he never really held me close enough, tight enough, but he held me nonetheless, and for a while — just for a while, i could pretend that he wasn't the embodiment of all the things i got to hold but could never get to keep.
he never really looked at me with love or with an intensity that burns, but he gazed nonetheless — almost lost and lust-hazed; calculating and restrained, like i was every poetry he wasn't supposed to write but had written anyway. and i gazed back, at my hands resting against steady movement of his chest, at his dim-morning eyes, at the slight part of his lips.
and his lips — i know they would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons, made for coffee and falling apart. and i know that it wasn't love.
it wasn't love,
but it's pretty close.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 7:29 AM UTC
My Prize for Waiting
~
*tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able
my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping
no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests
but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction
the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps
the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^
woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry
so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete
and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place*
3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019
~
last nights scrap
***cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration***
inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
Moonup, shades of sangria
hazed in mothwing
dust
motes. We wrap in
flannel, tartan Seattle
warmth
accompanied by smudging sticks.
Batteries never charged-
defibrillator
shock. Flatline.
You said no violets (you
didn’t
mean it). Moondown takes
time- scores of swaying shadows
to arc
the parsecs. Inherit starlight,
bank it, never blink; wet stones
echo
in the noise of stars.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Under silver wing
San Francisco's towers sprouting
thru thin gas clouds,
Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure
Berkeley hills pine-covered below--
Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence
Declaration
typewriter at window
silver panorama in natural eyeball--
Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese
dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed
State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields
to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's
blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands'
brown wasteland scratched by tires
Jerry Rubin arrested! Beaten, jailed,
coccyx broken--
Leary out of action--"a public menace...
persons of tender years...immature
judgement...pyschiatric examination..."
i.e. Shut up or Else Loonybin or Slam
Leroi on *** gun rap, $7,000
lawyer fees, years' negotiations--
SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez'
paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol
Dylan silent on politics, & safe--
having a baby, a man--
Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked,
Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher,
blood splashing down the mountains of bodies
on to Cholon's sidewalks--
Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor
Murderers advance w/ Death-chords
Earplugs in, steak on plastic
served--Eyes up to the Image--
What do I have to lose if America falls?
my body? my neck? my personality?
June 19, 1968
4.5k
You’re frightened but, there is no need for fear.
Your eyes are barely open.
Your vision is blurred beneath your thickened lashes.
Blinded, you are.
Hazed, you are.
Sick, you are.
Lying on the minted tile floor,
back arched and your cheek pressed to a faded rug,
you roll on your side.
Tilting your head up, you moan.
The vicious pulse begins pounding your wounded head.
You roll again on your shrunken stomach,
bubbling over with an ocean of alcohol.
You drag your eyes up to the piercing light above you.
Adjusting yourself slowly,
your hands fumble for the floor beneath you.
The muscles in your arm strain as you push yourself to sit.
No strength.
The stained bathtub provides something stable to grasp.
Smeared makeup.
Hair stuck to your hollow face.
Memories scattering in the wind outside.
More pounding, but this time it isn’t in your head.
It’s booming outside the door.
Screaming and movement is caving in on you,
suffocating you.
Who’s outside?
What’s outside?
"It's okay”, he says “You’re fine now.”
You turn and stare.
How long has he been here?
He’s been watching you the entire time.
He knows something.
He’s done something to you.
That’s why your in this frightening room below the ground.
He stands and walks towards you.
You must stay strong.
Don’t flinch.
No weakness.
A gentle arm glides just under your leg
and the other behind your waist.
He lifts you up and a small whimper escapes your lips.
There’s pain.
He carries you into a familiar room through another door.
The pounding from outside grows softer.
Shoulders relax.
Forehead cools.
Sleepiness comes.
He sits on the bed with you in his lap.
Suddenly your alertness fades and you feel comforted.
“How much did you drink?” He asks timidly.
You lean your head back.
Funny.
“Just a little”,
your words slur from your swollen tongue.
You start to giggle.
Arms begin to sweat.
Stomach tightens.
Puke.
Tears.
Hushed.
“Shh now. You’re fine. It’s alright. Breathe. Breathe.”, He coo's
and slowly strokes your spine.
Tensions released.
He stands and walks to the door.
“No! Come back!”, You cry.
He’s leaving.
Why?
You reach your hand out,
like a child,
but draw it back quickly.
“Haven’t I always come back? This time is no different.”
Only a second passes and you’re out.
Not all the way.
Eyes closed.
A window opens.
The fan goes on.
A blanket covers you.
He’s there.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
Lazily, a boy with silvery hairs muttering requiem aeternam
lifts his neck at the piercing radiance skimming off the eyeglasses rim,
and there looms the glory, the spotless sea of blue,
varnishes of spring gloss fuming out of the French coronation robe.
The still-brisk branches hung bent at the weight of vivacity,
sight of maidens whose eyes and grace bath in the full warmth of light,
the kisses on the face of the river by the shower of half-bloomed petals,
just as the stillborn thrills of the beating heart to the splintered fingers of Moirae.
The time of adieu,
the season of life.
The mourning procession amidst the lustily caressing May breeze.
-Primavera, thou name be the sweet irony of the dying flowers
The evening wades in, and the coy face of the mountain blushes;
Thence strides away the man whose gaze speaks of premature nostalgia
Here the wind whispers the rosy delirium from the sakura tree at the far side,
the faintness lushly hazed away by the cloudy veil of bittersweet grey.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 7:13 AM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Bougainvillea flowers flutter
In the faint echos of the past.
For,
the artist's palette
fails to hold
the clandestine shades of the night sky
or
the embryonic legends earth camouflages...
Silent stars
still fall
where remaining fantasies
crumble.
An ancient verdict lasts,
cobwebbed and leather bound,
left in time's fraternity.
His verdict hazed, but bright:
It shall rain when April comes
and you will cast your mind upon
the flowers left in the dust.
Open your chest,
and I will greet your eyes
once again.
It's been long...
It's been long since you saw more
than a Bougainvillea flower's flutter.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;
And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day--
And the countryside not caring:
The place names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat's restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;
Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word--the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages,
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.
3k
Bundled up and toasted
Stare to the exorbitant heavens
A dimmed electrifying spirit world
Leaving only one trifling light on
A slight single frozen tear
Rides the broad frigid air
To the glaring reality below
The silky cotton takes time
Flowing through a lingering life
Of chilled floating bliss
It taps the up turned nose
Tiny frozen feet make a stand
An intense tickle flows through the pumping veins
Leaving a feeling of pricking cherub kisses
Nervous life lungs squeeze
Releasing a single reclined breath
Concrete relaxed steam
Rubs the tufted sapped lips
Dissolving into the hazed sky
She has arrived
Mother Winter
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 5:09 AM UTC
I sit on a droopy windowsill and gaze out
at the stars above me in the stately sky of coal.
I let the smoke fill me, pollute my corrupted lungs,
‘til it plugs me, completely consumes my sticky soul,
and midnight sorrow blanket hugs the heart in my hole.
I sit and I consider the sky
with its million-and-one jewels
that adorn the vast carpet of night
and its one, lone cloud that slowly drools
fat, drippy drops of deep fed'ral blues.
The ashy, burnt taste is still in my throat;
it lingers- a dull, cloying candy cane.
The muted flavour chokes and jabs and pecks
persistently, in the back of my brain
and leaves a steel blue/gray trailing stain.
Vague memories of fourth-grade English lessons
take me with a deep sigh to forgotten thoughts
of Roger McGough and unrequited love-
dazed recollections of school poetry taught
in obscure slate-blue classrooms, littered with blots.
It seems feeling unreturned affection
isn't quite as great as I’d thought after all.
I must've been wrong, all those hazed years ago,
when I yearned to feel unrequited love’s fall,
convinced it would be a wondrous, dazzling ball
Instead, I'm just ******* in the pale-ing sky
that seems to be growing into lighter hues-
the navy’s turned to electric, to powder,
matching the sapphire in my soul of glue.
I'm suppose I'm feeling somewhat, slightly blue.
.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
The sand hides the sun.
Through a fog of particulate silica.
Distorted.
For the first time in my life,
I may look upon that glowing
bearing, for minutes straight.
Innards swallow,
That rock it flings,
Paints on the light.
Now the water vapor hangs,
Amongst its spiny rays,
Creating a mist of cloudy haze.
My eyes must seek to,
Penetrate.
Alas they lose this skirmish fray.
The sun cannot hide its specter.
The doppelganger image always,
Dapper and prim.
Amongst the thoughts in rift entrails of brain,
I think i am my brain. I don't think that when, head cut from body,
Shall my soul reside where my heart was;
Instead I may see, conscious, from where the two parted.
Creating a scar from which to view this hazed sun.
Ever notice,
How the eyes,
Are the only,
Place,
You can,
See from...
I can be an Ammonite with many chambers calcified.
Ghost fossil human head.
A ghost in a shell.
My eyes will carve shapes from the clouds.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
Night filled glittering skies
Cloud bright trimmed in lines
Sloe-eyed music pops and fades
Drones straight edged across the lies
Drugged up players in a lit up world
Smooth cries fill the ears of hardhearted rituals
Flashbulb strobes beat the pace
Fist raised groups of hazed out praise
Rushed up feints in the days of the lost
Last light shines as sloe-eyed music pops and fades
cc2011
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 8:53 PM UTC
Do not call after me; I am gone.
Just like the tumor of hope
Which once rested on this man's
Weak spirit: now crushed.
Not harmed by sound nor sight
But woken by this troubolous world,
In which man's opinion serves only as
Folly for this totalitarian hierarchy.
The hierarchy of needs: the needs of pigs and
Swine who rob us blind and order cuts only
On those who cannot speak for themselves.
These vultures target the weak.
Not us who call for what is right; but those
Whose sense of right is blurred and hazed
By these high positions of power and praise.
Such zeal for the wrong cause; such a shame.
Be gone such parasites; be gone.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Hazed by the dire rope of death
A subtle incandescence flickered
A white light glimmered like ****
Whilst hushed peaked a snicker
Her smile an adequate sedative
Terminating vivid estuaries
A moment equally competitive
In other eyes deemed honorary
Mi corazón happened upon felicity
Blessed be this origin of jubilee
Freeze we shall in fair amenity
Beneath this fine cherry tree
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
EMPTY
A VOID TO FILL
*****
SUBSTANCE
NUMBS THE HURT
*****
CAN'T WATCH THIS
WON'T
YOU FLY
I STAY GROUNDED
FILLED WITH REGRET
LOST AND HAZED
IN THE NEVER ENDING STRUGGLE
TO TRY AND GET AHEAD
AND THE LAST PLACE IN THE WORLD
I WANT TO BE IS
HERE
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
Intertwined lovers
hands discovering new skins
lips locked and hazed eyes
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
My anomalous trip thus far has been dichotomous.
Harbingers motivate my advent: a chorus.
Acceptance of frolic ventures sent: a quest.
My sneakers meet familiar soil at last.
Designed to be a panacea, yet I fall ill.
Sleets of rain impact my soul: a slight chill.
Hazed trance, awashed clean of all acrimony.
A lurid stroll, downhill, parallel, perfunctory.
I, a stoic mercenary, avenging my ties tonight.
Arcane magic flow through my veins, my sight.
Moisture sparkle, glistens through my mental maze.
Resistance, control: I attempt to regain ablaze.
Synaptics fuse, burn, misfire, discombobulate.
Higher functions remain: calculus, formulate.
Veritas! Visual focus be on 2D layer sharp.
Disintegrated data sung with melodious harp.
Laissez-faire slayed by Communist meritocracy.
Mental hierarchy arise from wayward sorcery.
My affection for her nets only melancholia.
The amity cease... yet reborn by spying cornea.
Upon a hill from sea to sea brings forth diplomacy.
Lively lads, enshrouded in black; they be prodigies.
Persons of worth: one stranger joins their ranks.
If my creed offend, beg you pardon pranks.
Silent drizzle softly sings of night and majesty.
Lament under moonlight, behold gray sanctity.
Ne'er shall dreadful turmoil befall our facilities.
Literature conceals such divine secrecy.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:15 AM UTC
Oh sweet boy, Angel of God
on earth you have completed your task.
To other world’s you now must fly to,
we are keeping your feathers
as you begin your ascension .
Oh sweet child of God
Such clear vision at your tender age,
to serve and protect was your end game,
but now we are left…with a confused and hazed
apology to a shroud of teddy bears and lit candles.
The spilled wax is a reminder, that
deep inside we are all cowards
and we forgot that you were the prey
and needed protection.
The burning wick is not for you –
it’s to remind us of your light
and that humans by nature are dangerously dark…
I am sorry Junior, for we have failed you.
I am sorry that it was fear that came to your rescue,
I’m sorry your eyes witnessed the malice of creation,
I’m sorry people recorded instead of calling the operator,
I am sorry your cry for help did not connect…
You know mijo…the line was ringing-but the world is deaf.
!Oh, sweet child of God!,
Some called you Junior in life,
You were an angel with wings so wide
that in these concrete streets, you could not fly.
The Bathgate would be your access to heaven
you’ve left us your wings in a city corner,
so that we can remember to look up above
and find surrender and forgiveness in clashing clouds.
I don’t know what to say,
your departure causes so much grief and pain,
yet, you did not die in vain…I think you are still
working with humanity from far away;
You woke up a community that had been sleeping,
you woke us up from the anesthesia, the numbness
Is no longer acceptable, our youth need a BEACON.
A new door we must create so
that our youth’s future is not slain
in the mumble jumble of irresponsible adults.
Makes space for youth in the world,
So that every Junior in our lives,
can live without fear in their backyard.
Oh sweet child of God,
We are not there yet but with you..,we’ll RISE again.
Thank you for every day you arose,
for loving your mother so much,
for inspiring a movement of love,
for showing us courage and hope,
your sweet little face will live in our hearts.
Oh sweet child of God,
your name we will not forget
I think you set the stage,
we must act and rise again.
© LeydisProse
6/25/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse//
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
Self emotional abuse
It's I against I and it is I who will lose
in this game there are no rules
Just loss and confusion, a game of fools
As my shields break
I break down on my knees
nervous breakdown that is
no mercy no pleas
Dazed, hazed, and confused
rip my heart out and throw it to the sky
launch a rocket and make the country cry
make us free give us life
cut my life with a knife for victory I thrive
My end is my victory
my end is my loss
look down in shame
look up in pride
I don't want to die
\
\
\
\\\yet
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
.
*One day at a time
swings the pendulum;
only love awakens senses
too ephemeral to be restrained,
like the magic of a phonograph stylus
in a vintage vinyl groove
and the sensual touch
of skin so new
It's not easy to watch
a flock flying away
in the distance,
seeing the expanse beyond
reach of a wandering mind;
heed distracted
by the slow sway
of the treetops hypnotic careen
Doves dive on feathered canter,
silent as the winged wind,
broke free from the gravity
befallen the weight
of the world
Looking up wondering
beyond the sky,
the passing clouds
crawl across
palliating the dusk hazed horizon
Synchronicity transcends across
an immeasurably deep river chasm,
into a wordless abyss
ensconced unthought
between
here and there
Silent silhouettes
glide across
the valley void below,
wings to the sky
and, if you listen to a moment breathe,
you can hear
the silent peace .............
you can feel the prevailing wind's direction
blowing through your soul*
Jesse Stillwater
December 2017
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC