"helene" poems - Hello Poetry

For Helene. Ashes on the water, now. Love's bones like dust downstream. At least it got to see itself in our eyes, Feel itself between hand holding hand And whispered caresses. From pillow talk to fists raised at Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine On her balcony to the sound of magpies We named our neighbours. We were beautiful. Began beautifully. Ended gracefully. I open hands that held hers and see Nothing but skin worn by labour, And air. Ashes on the water, now. Embers without a chance against rivers Cold with melted mountain snow and Unyielding differences. Some loves drown with lungs too full To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre- Longboat into the night, ablaze. King and queen, hand upon hand. Crowns tied from fresh flowers, We were beautiful. Began beautifully. Slid apart the way a glacier parts from The hills; slowly, but with the force Of its thousands of tons. Ashes on the water, Where the ghost of our union rests Underneath the surface of our memories. I will remember you. Until the stars burn out, raining the Dust of themselves like snow upon These waters that always are moving.

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Feb 28, 2016

Feb 28, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC

sgholter

These Waters that Always are Moving

For Helene. Ashes on the water, now. Love's bones like dust downstream. At least it got to see itself in our eyes, Feel itself between hand holding hand And whispered caresses. From pillow talk to fists raised at Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine On her balcony to the sound of magpies We named our neighbours. We were beautiful. Began beautifully. Ended gracefully. I open hands that held hers and see Nothing but skin worn by labour, And air. Ashes on the water, now. Embers without a chance against rivers Cold with melted mountain snow and Unyielding differences. Some loves drown with lungs too full To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre- Longboat into the night, ablaze. King and queen, hand upon hand. Crowns tied from fresh flowers, We were beautiful. Began beautifully. Slid apart the way a glacier parts from The hills; slowly, but with the force Of its thousands of tons. Ashes on the water, Where the ghost of our union rests Underneath the surface of our memories. I will remember you. Until the stars burn out, raining the Dust of themselves like snow upon These waters that always are moving.

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Up here it is more temporary; the Sun has already turned. In six months, the only light will be That of the snow piercing through the Darkness of a 23 hour night. Words such as swimming and Barbecue have the same taste as the Cardboard of the box you are provided With when being told to Clear out your desk immediately. And the winds pick up from Closer to north with promises of Ice cold rain in them. Then just ice. I fear not bullet nor blade, but look Down and shiver at the thought of having A brief, bad summer Such as this. I spent a week on Helene's parents' Boat in the fjords, fishing and eating Cod still wet with salt water, but yet; The skies were grey; the breezes Ungentle; unsoothing. But I read. I wrote. Saw viking sites Where the ground still Smells of sacrificial blood and Mead, and there I shrugged the disappointment off as I Closed my eyes and imagined paddle Sounds and Norse grunts from a Thousand years ago; rugged Travellers returning after months at sea Under a fierce foreign sun, finally home. Thinking nothing at all Of the weather.

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Jul 21, 2015

Jul 21, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC

sgholter

Summer in Norway can be not one at all

Up here it is more temporary; the Sun has already turned. In six months, the only light will be That of the snow piercing through the Darkness of a 23 hour night. Words such as swimming and Barbecue have the same taste as the Cardboard of the box you are provided With when being told to Clear out your desk immediately. And the winds pick up from Closer to north with promises of Ice cold rain in them. Then just ice. I fear not bullet nor blade, but look Down and shiver at the thought of having A brief, bad summer Such as this. I spent a week on Helene's parents' Boat in the fjords, fishing and eating Cod still wet with salt water, but yet; The skies were grey; the breezes Ungentle; unsoothing. But I read. I wrote. Saw viking sites Where the ground still Smells of sacrificial blood and Mead, and there I shrugged the disappointment off as I Closed my eyes and imagined paddle Sounds and Norse grunts from a Thousand years ago; rugged Travellers returning after months at sea Under a fierce foreign sun, finally home. Thinking nothing at all Of the weather.

36

A traditional western Norwegian lullaby, sung by my girlfriend's mother to her in her earliest years. Directly translated from Norwegian. It was a lovely, lovely day, and now That day is over. All the children that are good Are sound asleep and dreaming. The heavens that were happy blue, With a thousand smiles within'em Will only start to laugh again Sometime tomorrow morning.

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Dec 11, 2015

Dec 11, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC

sgholter

Helene's Mother's Lullaby

A traditional western Norwegian lullaby, sung by my girlfriend's mother to her in her earliest years. Directly translated from Norwegian. It was a lovely, lovely day, and now That day is over. All the children that are good Are sound asleep and dreaming. The heavens that were happy blue, With a thousand smiles within'em Will only start to laugh again Sometime tomorrow morning.

9

all my poems are unique general principles ~for Helene Mendelsohn~ “A general principle never comes to life in my mind except by exhibiting itself in various special forms and in crowds of instances for each form": R.G. Collingwood each a construct - an arch-i-texture, each a crowd of a single instance special forum, a dialogue differentiation, a conjugate particle, forming up, in marching order, a singular troop, a base case singular, a soldier especially demanding, “Of Me, Write, Write” for within my insight, a one-off sighting, one glinting wave reflecting, its one millisecond exactitude of existence, reforming unseemly, a new but not! a seemingly similar shifted shape, but no wave is a precision repetition, perhaps a passing familiarity of its precedents, antecedents, at best an instance borrowed and paid back to the generosity of time for a fully developed statement of a general principle, even a primary secondary textual emendation, requires a unique naming definition being born and dead dying while you are blinking, does not understate absolute value, a principle exists to give absolution, so the moments resets, perpetually, but its own resolution is n’err forgotten do you see the crowd of inferences herein contained? the principal unique, poem plucked from passing sun ray, a tickling hair of a brazen breeze, one wave, one wave reconstituting a millennium of preceding lives, deriving its abbreviated genealogy of droplets of prior principles forever reinterpreted so I gave you back words you knew but in a new combination establishing this poem, its constituents, as a unique general principle there is a prior poem, new, unique in everything

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Jul 21, 2019

Jul 21, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

all my poems are unique general principles

all my poems are unique general principles ~for Helene Mendelsohn~ “A general principle never comes to life in my mind except by exhibiting itself in various special forms and in crowds of instances for each form": R.G. Collingwood each a construct - an arch-i-texture, each a crowd of a single instance special forum, a dialogue differentiation, a conjugate particle, forming up, in marching order, a singular troop, a base case singular, a soldier especially demanding, “Of Me, Write, Write” for within my insight, a one-off sighting, one glinting wave reflecting, its one millisecond exactitude of existence, reforming unseemly, a new but not! a seemingly similar shifted shape, but no wave is a precision repetition, perhaps a passing familiarity of its precedents, antecedents, at best an instance borrowed and paid back to the generosity of time for a fully developed statement of a general principle, even a primary secondary textual emendation, requires a unique naming definition being born and dead dying while you are blinking, does not understate absolute value, a principle exists to give absolution, so the moments resets, perpetually, but its own resolution is n’err forgotten do you see the crowd of inferences herein contained? the principal unique, poem plucked from passing sun ray, a tickling hair of a brazen breeze, one wave, one wave reconstituting a millennium of preceding lives, deriving its abbreviated genealogy of droplets of prior principles forever reinterpreted so I gave you back words you knew but in a new combination establishing this poem, its constituents, as a unique general principle there is a prior poem, new, unique in everything

53

Lucious storm , outburst the gut , grinding my peaceful turmoil Bringer of chaos , unrestrained sensuality you say , heaven's promise you are Disgusting yet admired , craving like the beast I am , for the fleeting moments you have Inmeasurable pleasures bought by simple touches , Helene , Narcisse , Venus , witches Enough and tired did I say , more and more do I beg , bodies mixes skins and blood ... Spits and fluids bathing the parts of it's wepons , nectar and sweat pouring as vin Plain ******* , pores ignites the arousing cold , yet taming the hell's fires ******* honey , first sweet you taste, wishing the encore again and again Waist , slick as milk drowning my desire , tempting snake smithing my burning flame ****** aching , flowing , first sight , mesmerising my hands , commanding this filthy tongue Glutes , savoring my hips , setting the pace , correcting my core , by it's simple precense Legs , where I lie , pleading for the feel , for my want , unconceled lust , unavoidable gluttony , just for it ... Demonne , illusion , godness , so many words for it , none enough to paint it

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Nov 6, 2018

Nov 6, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC

Whiteshade

Lust ...

Lucious storm , outburst the gut , grinding my peaceful turmoil Bringer of chaos , unrestrained sensuality you say , heaven's promise you are Disgusting yet admired , craving like the beast I am , for the fleeting moments you have Inmeasurable pleasures bought by simple touches , Helene , Narcisse , Venus , witches Enough and tired did I say , more and more do I beg , bodies mixes skins and blood ... Spits and fluids bathing the parts of it's wepons , nectar and sweat pouring as vin Plain ******* , pores ignites the arousing cold , yet taming the hell's fires ******* honey , first sweet you taste, wishing the encore again and again Waist , slick as milk drowning my desire , tempting snake smithing my burning flame ****** aching , flowing , first sight , mesmerising my hands , commanding this filthy tongue Glutes , savoring my hips , setting the pace , correcting my core , by it's simple precense Legs , where I lie , pleading for the feel , for my want , unconceled lust , unavoidable gluttony , just for it ... Demonne , illusion , godness , so many words for it , none enough to paint it

13

Remnants of Helene are in the Northeast with gray skies and rain September is saying farewell Poet’s walk must continue Until she came upon an imperfectly placed artwork by her feet Mother Nature’s wonder Amber Canary Honey Sunshine Biscotti Sepia Fawn Ruby Burgundy Cherry Currant Rose Mixed in with good measure Splendidly arranged in Mother Nature’s Mosaic

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Sep 28, 2024

Sep 28, 2024 at 10:18 AM UTC

Maddypb

Mother Nature's Mosaic Masterpiece

Remnants of Helene are in the Northeast with gray skies and rain September is saying farewell Poet’s walk must continue Until she came upon an imperfectly placed artwork by her feet Mother Nature’s wonder Amber Canary Honey Sunshine Biscotti Sepia Fawn Ruby Burgundy Cherry Currant Rose Mixed in with good measure Splendidly arranged in Mother Nature’s Mosaic

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It seems like pain and regret are your best friends because our nights together seem only to lead to them. We’ve been lying to each other about our nights spent apart, hiding the evidence behind plastic smiles to spare each other another broken heart. I know what you did when you left my company for a girl you’ve claimed to have missed. I will not get jealous and call this thing between us quits, but tell me, does she touch you here like this? I see that she is beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful by far. I see that she makes you feel good about who you are. So tonight, I will **** you until you are too tired to leave because although she’s what you want, I am what you need. I guess she found out about our secret rendezvous and now she doesn’t want you anymore. Here you are crying and pleading to spend the night on my floor. Begging me to shelter you from the emptiness that presents itself in these cold, lonely streets have to offer. So, I step aside and lead you to your favorite place, entangled in my satin sheets. But I must warn you, these nights, past, present and for however long we have left mean nothing to me. I’ve been doing this for so long, I promise you I’ve seen it all. First, you’ll hate her, then you’ll want me; then you’ll miss her and you’ll hate me. I know you so well. I know your routine. This is all just a game to me. We mean nothing to each other. This is nothing new. I told you, a long time ago, not to get involved with a girl like me because you are solely a means to escape my present reality. So, don’t promise me that you won’t regret me like doing a line of ivory, like the tattoos on your skin or like taking the wrong pill. Don’t promise me that when you go back to her that you’ll remember me. So, I’ll own your soul for tonight only so that each time you **** her, it’s my face you’ll see. Written by: Helene J.C. Armbrister

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Mar 25, 2020

Mar 25, 2020 at 12:49 PM UTC

whoiscristinajxo

Wicked Games

It seems like pain and regret are your best friends because our nights together seem only to lead to them. We’ve been lying to each other about our nights spent apart, hiding the evidence behind plastic smiles to spare each other another broken heart. I know what you did when you left my company for a girl you’ve claimed to have missed. I will not get jealous and call this thing between us quits, but tell me, does she touch you here like this? I see that she is beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful by far. I see that she makes you feel good about who you are. So tonight, I will **** you until you are too tired to leave because although she’s what you want, I am what you need. I guess she found out about our secret rendezvous and now she doesn’t want you anymore. Here you are crying and pleading to spend the night on my floor. Begging me to shelter you from the emptiness that presents itself in these cold, lonely streets have to offer. So, I step aside and lead you to your favorite place, entangled in my satin sheets. But I must warn you, these nights, past, present and for however long we have left mean nothing to me. I’ve been doing this for so long, I promise you I’ve seen it all. First, you’ll hate her, then you’ll want me; then you’ll miss her and you’ll hate me. I know you so well. I know your routine. This is all just a game to me. We mean nothing to each other. This is nothing new. I told you, a long time ago, not to get involved with a girl like me because you are solely a means to escape my present reality. So, don’t promise me that you won’t regret me like doing a line of ivory, like the tattoos on your skin or like taking the wrong pill. Don’t promise me that when you go back to her that you’ll remember me. So, I’ll own your soul for tonight only so that each time you **** her, it’s my face you’ll see. Written by: Helene J.C. Armbrister

12

A reflection on his rippled crest The Moon lays lightly down upon his chest she answers him Paris, on the Jersey shore distance like Helene lore Will your ship sail to her then? Harrowing Hectors have sent their horses before and she'll have no more. he is an ocean still silent blue passion, like undercurrents striking him through she would sail over him, in her craft fragile like a paper boat a waxen heart temple afloat to catch currents in her shafts her siren call is piercing shrill the ocean then bends to her will and then, in waves as oceans do it saturates and wets her through and if cleansed, then stripped bare and bathed in moonlight kiss... if she hides it is because she wanes in waxing love and to give her silver light she must appear at night spin coptering fall a nocturnal dance in poem's thrall Look up! she sees him now he wants to catch the moon, somehow she hides in the sun when night is done but she kisses his face at night kisses it with Lunar light the curve of her crescent heavy present. in his hands he can sense the moon has no defense.

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Mar 15, 2018

Mar 15, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC

virginie-guillemette

Putting the Moon In Your Pocket

A reflection on his rippled crest The Moon lays lightly down upon his chest she answers him Paris, on the Jersey shore distance like Helene lore Will your ship sail to her then? Harrowing Hectors have sent their horses before and she'll have no more. he is an ocean still silent blue passion, like undercurrents striking him through she would sail over him, in her craft fragile like a paper boat a waxen heart temple afloat to catch currents in her shafts her siren call is piercing shrill the ocean then bends to her will and then, in waves as oceans do it saturates and wets her through and if cleansed, then stripped bare and bathed in moonlight kiss... if she hides it is because she wanes in waxing love and to give her silver light she must appear at night spin coptering fall a nocturnal dance in poem's thrall Look up! she sees him now he wants to catch the moon, somehow she hides in the sun when night is done but she kisses his face at night kisses it with Lunar light the curve of her crescent heavy present. in his hands he can sense the moon has no defense.

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