"honeycomb" poems - Hello Poetry

"honeycomb" poems

Bees build around red liver, Ants build around black bone. It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks, It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, ***** crystals. **** Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls Engulfs animal and human hair. Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs, Ants build around white bone. Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax, Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire. The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations. Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down, With one leafless tree. Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way, With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead. He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on, He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor, The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum. Bees build around a red trace. Ants build around the place left by my body. I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole. He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch Who has sat much in the light of candles Reading the great book of the species. What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament, Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus? My broken body will deliver me to his sight And he will count me among the helpers of death: The uncircumcised.

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21.5k

A Poor Christian Looks At The Ghetto

Bees build around red liver, Ants build around black bone. It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks, It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, ***** crystals. **** Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls Engulfs animal and human hair. Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs, Ants build around white bone. Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax, Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire. The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations. Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down, With one leafless tree. Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way, With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead. He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on, He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor, The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum. Bees build around a red trace. Ants build around the place left by my body. I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole. He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch Who has sat much in the light of candles Reading the great book of the species. What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament, Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus? My broken body will deliver me to his sight And he will count me among the helpers of death: The uncircumcised.

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This Advent moon shines cold and clear, These Advent nights are long; Our lamps have burned year after year, And still their flame is strong. "Watchman, what of the night?" we cry, Heart-sick with hope deferred: "No speaking signs are in the sky," Is still the watchman's word. The Porter watches at the gate, The servants watch within; The watch is long betimes and late, The prize is slow to win. "Watchman, what of the night?" but still His answer sounds the same: "No daybreak tops the utmost hill, Nor pale our lamps of flame." One to another hear them speak, The patient virgins wise: "Surely He is not far to seek,"-- "All night we watch and rise." "The days are evil looking back, The coming days are dim; Yet count we not His promise slack, But watch and wait for Him." One with another, soul with soul, They kindle fire from fire: "Friends watch us who have touched the goal." "They urge us, come up higher." "With them shall rest our waysore feet, With them is built our home, With Christ." "They sweet, but He most sweet, Sweeter than honeycomb." There no more parting, no more pain, The distant ones brought near, The lost so long are found again, Long lost but longer dear: Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, Nor heart conceived that rest, With them our good things long deferred, With Jesus Christ our Best. We weep because the night is long, We laugh, for day shall rise, We sing a slow contented song And knock at Paradise. Weeping we hold Him fast Who wept For us,--we hold Him fast; And will not let Him go except He bless us first or last. Weeping we hold Him fast to-night; We will not let Him go Till daybreak smite our wearied sight, And summer smite the snow: Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove Shall coo the livelong day; Then He shall say, "Arise, My love, My fair one, come away."

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18k

Christina Rossetti

This Advent moon shines cold and clear, These Advent nights are long; Our lamps have burned year after year, And still their flame is strong. "Watchman, what of the night?" we cry, Heart-sick with hope deferred: "No speaking signs are in the sky," Is still the watchman's word. The Porter watches at the gate, The servants watch within; The watch is long betimes and late, The prize is slow to win. "Watchman, what of the night?" but still His answer sounds the same: "No daybreak tops the utmost hill, Nor pale our lamps of flame." One to another hear them speak, The patient virgins wise: "Surely He is not far to seek,"-- "All night we watch and rise." "The days are evil looking back, The coming days are dim; Yet count we not His promise slack, But watch and wait for Him." One with another, soul with soul, They kindle fire from fire: "Friends watch us who have touched the goal." "They urge us, come up higher." "With them shall rest our waysore feet, With them is built our home, With Christ." "They sweet, but He most sweet, Sweeter than honeycomb." There no more parting, no more pain, The distant ones brought near, The lost so long are found again, Long lost but longer dear: Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, Nor heart conceived that rest, With them our good things long deferred, With Jesus Christ our Best. We weep because the night is long, We laugh, for day shall rise, We sing a slow contented song And knock at Paradise. Weeping we hold Him fast Who wept For us,--we hold Him fast; And will not let Him go except He bless us first or last. Weeping we hold Him fast to-night; We will not let Him go Till daybreak smite our wearied sight, And summer smite the snow: Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove Shall coo the livelong day; Then He shall say, "Arise, My love, My fair one, come away."

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In 2005 The Piano Man was found wandering the streets of Sheerness in a soaking wet suit and tie he didn't say a word. When presented with pad and pen he simply drew a grand piano. His nurses sat him in front of a beat up old upright he played for four hours straight; for four months his hands were the only things to break his silence. Alexandre Dumas said "man will never be perfect until he learns to create and destroy." Do you ever think about how Beethoven hacked the legs off his piano so he could feel the sounds he couldn't hear in his head, through his chest? And Van Gogh heard the sounds his paintings made but kept going until his sanity was just a memory floating on a distant river under a tired Milky Way. And you see, like a Gaelic folk song blindness runs red through my family, so I know it's not much but I'm here, still trying to mould my hands to say the right form of 'I love you'. And did you know that the human heart beats over 30 million times a year, but we still have a hard time keeping our feet on the ground? And did you know that the act of breaking in a horse is actually the act of breaking it's back? Like we can't sit without sitting on broken things. And did you know that every time a mobile phone sends out a GPS signal a bee loses it's way home, and every bee that doesn't reach it's hive dies? So on nights when your pulse matches the beat of my favourite song you don't have to wonder if it's me matching the syncopation of your silence -- and I wonder if you ever found what you were looking for. And I wonder if you realise that on days you're not here I roll up my sleeves, count the beats without you, sit on the backseat and miss you. And somewhere The Piano Man rolls up his sleeves creates the Big Bang under his fingertips. And in 2005 on an April morning in Sheerness, a suited piano man walks straight into the ocean, begs the current to take him. I send you a message a bee loses it's way home. I send you another another bee dies. My chest cavity is a bumble bee crypt, my tongue a honeyed graveyard. Another message. The Big Bang. The hive. A suit. That ocean. Another back is broken. Another message is sent. I fear I am more honeycomb than heart. To create is to destroy. To destroy is to succeed. And would you just look at what these piano hands have finally done.

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Apr 17, 2014

Apr 17, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC

In 2005 The Piano Man was found wandering the streets of Sheerness in a soaking wet suit and tie he didn't say a word. When presented with pad and pen he simply drew a grand piano. His nurses sat him in front of a beat up old upright he played for four hours straight; for four months his hands were the only things to break his silence. Alexandre Dumas said "man will never be perfect until he learns to create and destroy." Do you ever think about how Beethoven hacked the legs off his piano so he could feel the sounds he couldn't hear in his head, through his chest? And Van Gogh heard the sounds his paintings made but kept going until his sanity was just a memory floating on a distant river under a tired Milky Way. And you see, like a Gaelic folk song blindness runs red through my family, so I know it's not much but I'm here, still trying to mould my hands to say the right form of 'I love you'. And did you know that the human heart beats over 30 million times a year, but we still have a hard time keeping our feet on the ground? And did you know that the act of breaking in a horse is actually the act of breaking it's back? Like we can't sit without sitting on broken things. And did you know that every time a mobile phone sends out a GPS signal a bee loses it's way home, and every bee that doesn't reach it's hive dies? So on nights when your pulse matches the beat of my favourite song you don't have to wonder if it's me matching the syncopation of your silence -- and I wonder if you ever found what you were looking for. And I wonder if you realise that on days you're not here I roll up my sleeves, count the beats without you, sit on the backseat and miss you. And somewhere The Piano Man rolls up his sleeves creates the Big Bang under his fingertips. And in 2005 on an April morning in Sheerness, a suited piano man walks straight into the ocean, begs the current to take him. I send you a message a bee loses it's way home. I send you another another bee dies. My chest cavity is a bumble bee crypt, my tongue a honeyed graveyard. Another message. The Big Bang. The hive. A suit. That ocean. Another back is broken. Another message is sent. I fear I am more honeycomb than heart. To create is to destroy. To destroy is to succeed. And would you just look at what these piano hands have finally done.

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Accountants hover over the earth like helicopters, Dropping bits of paper engraved with Hegel's name. Badgers carry the papers on their fur To their den, where the entire family dies in the night. A chorus girl stands for hours behind her curtains Looking out at the street. In a window of a trucking service There is a branch painted white. A stuffed baby alligator grips that branch tightly To keep away from the dry leaves on the floor. The honeycomb at night has strange dreams: Small black trains going round and round-- Old warships drowning in the raindrop.

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8.9k

A Dream of Suffocation

Accountants hover over the earth like helicopters, Dropping bits of paper engraved with Hegel's name. Badgers carry the papers on their fur To their den, where the entire family dies in the night. A chorus girl stands for hours behind her curtains Looking out at the street. In a window of a trucking service There is a branch painted white. A stuffed baby alligator grips that branch tightly To keep away from the dry leaves on the floor. The honeycomb at night has strange dreams: Small black trains going round and round-- Old warships drowning in the raindrop.

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melancholy eyes glaze over the old honeycomb wallpaper pattern and the mottled ceiling, paint peeling noting every crevice in your new apartment my consciousness dips in and out of every nook and cranny, catching fragments of the conversation. you should always be the centre of attention. i'd tried to entertain the notion, you'd noticed my eyes in the ceiling and ushered me back to the boring evening tea room with a gentle fingertip or two pressed to my wrist. do you wish you were somewhere else? would you read my tea leaves and tell me, what does the future hold for us?

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Sep 25, 2017

Sep 25, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC

read my tea leaves

melancholy eyes glaze over the old honeycomb wallpaper pattern and the mottled ceiling, paint peeling noting every crevice in your new apartment my consciousness dips in and out of every nook and cranny, catching fragments of the conversation. you should always be the centre of attention. i'd tried to entertain the notion, you'd noticed my eyes in the ceiling and ushered me back to the boring evening tea room with a gentle fingertip or two pressed to my wrist. do you wish you were somewhere else? would you read my tea leaves and tell me, what does the future hold for us?

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Somebody is shooting at something in our town -- A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The **** of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm ***** and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey!

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7.8k

Somebody is shooting at something in our town -- A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street. Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses. Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The **** of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory. The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles. The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds. So the swarm ***** and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree. It must be shot down. Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder. It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody. The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed. The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles. The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country. Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy. So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory. The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat. Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches. How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine. The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical. They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles. Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind. Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything. O Europe! O ton of honey!

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*Dripping honey Attracted to the honeycomb Beware! Bee stings…*

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Aug 12, 2014

Aug 12, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC

*Dripping honey Attracted to the honeycomb Beware! Bee stings…*

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What did you say to me? How did you say to be? Scent of the flowers sweet, I fell off the path; the beat. Metamorphoses buzzing creep. Bumblebee, Bumblebee Nectar pollen and wiggle-dance, Tear off the shirt and pants, Without it I’m incomplete, Rotting in self-defeat, Awashed in a wild sea, Bumblebee, Bumblebee Buzzin’ so high and flyin’ Honeycomb drunken Mayan, Falling west, rising east, The party will not surcease, While I am the Bumble-beast! Bumblebee, Bumblebee I am the Bumblebee, Bumblebee, Bumblebee I am the Bumblebee The flight it takes off and from, As flowers of life become, Praying up to the Sun, What am I imagining? (image-gen-nun) August vino de lum Bumblebee, Bumblebee Bumblebee, Bumblebee I am the Bumblebee, Bumblebee, Bumblebee I am the Bumblebee

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Jun 14, 2016

Jun 14, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC

david-john-mowers

What did you say to me? How did you say to be? Scent of the flowers sweet, I fell off the path; the beat. Metamorphoses buzzing creep. Bumblebee, Bumblebee Nectar pollen and wiggle-dance, Tear off the shirt and pants, Without it I’m incomplete, Rotting in self-defeat, Awashed in a wild sea, Bumblebee, Bumblebee Buzzin’ so high and flyin’ Honeycomb drunken Mayan, Falling west, rising east, The party will not surcease, While I am the Bumble-beast! Bumblebee, Bumblebee I am the Bumblebee, Bumblebee, Bumblebee I am the Bumblebee The flight it takes off and from, As flowers of life become, Praying up to the Sun, What am I imagining? (image-gen-nun) August vino de lum Bumblebee, Bumblebee Bumblebee, Bumblebee I am the Bumblebee, Bumblebee, Bumblebee I am the Bumblebee

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sitting here but not my insides in a twist my organs blooming, their flower landscapes rising in my solar plexus like poetry expanding its cellular shapes into light frequencies I need way more. I need the pulling off and stripping down of souls I need to meet in a depth of falling I need to be pushed off the silent gates of madness into endless sea no looking back senses piqued from slightest brush of oral butter pouring on hot cream my mouth, a searing crimson wound oscillates in contraction radar pulses ripe for intense tongue exploration aching to be filled up with your distinct flavor My essence molecular is overflowing with fluid giving me life in throbbing, raw electric vibes whipped organic, in rolling tides Somewhere, out there our volcanic impulses meet in steamy ebbs and send energyflow to a new and ancient universe, magnetic and I am a raging heaven's child wrapped in a tight little tourniquet blood pumping through these veins my longing for dark stretches of intimate caresses to soothe the spikes of snaking pain Give me those airwaves that let me breathe freedom into the fields of our skin Let me run like wild herds of the animal within and as I find myself hanging off my own edges my many-braided loops in zigzag split, a-fray my skin rips open, parting fibers that expose my very DNA helix swivel undulation hips grinding into soul reaching in to pull out fresh rebirth from between my folds O help me to allay this tender affliction undo me, already so I lose control one little shove and I am over the cliff deep into ocean **** over spliff I am beyond ready so grind it to the hilt Give me your tender-ripped heart, spill your honeycomb milk I am here, ravenous in the pan uncooked yet ripe saliva and breath steaming my own innards flushing out strife I am piquant hot pepper ready to be broiled my blood is already boiling my tender meat oiled mull me over in your oral cavity like sacred wine until I drip through your bones and down your spine Just meld with me and flow into that light tunnel of dark time and space so I can stake out my rhythms and claim my new sacred place

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Aug 15, 2017

Aug 15, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC

sitting here but not my insides in a twist my organs blooming, their flower landscapes rising in my solar plexus like poetry expanding its cellular shapes into light frequencies I need way more. I need the pulling off and stripping down of souls I need to meet in a depth of falling I need to be pushed off the silent gates of madness into endless sea no looking back senses piqued from slightest brush of oral butter pouring on hot cream my mouth, a searing crimson wound oscillates in contraction radar pulses ripe for intense tongue exploration aching to be filled up with your distinct flavor My essence molecular is overflowing with fluid giving me life in throbbing, raw electric vibes whipped organic, in rolling tides Somewhere, out there our volcanic impulses meet in steamy ebbs and send energyflow to a new and ancient universe, magnetic and I am a raging heaven's child wrapped in a tight little tourniquet blood pumping through these veins my longing for dark stretches of intimate caresses to soothe the spikes of snaking pain Give me those airwaves that let me breathe freedom into the fields of our skin Let me run like wild herds of the animal within and as I find myself hanging off my own edges my many-braided loops in zigzag split, a-fray my skin rips open, parting fibers that expose my very DNA helix swivel undulation hips grinding into soul reaching in to pull out fresh rebirth from between my folds O help me to allay this tender affliction undo me, already so I lose control one little shove and I am over the cliff deep into ocean **** over spliff I am beyond ready so grind it to the hilt Give me your tender-ripped heart, spill your honeycomb milk I am here, ravenous in the pan uncooked yet ripe saliva and breath steaming my own innards flushing out strife I am piquant hot pepper ready to be broiled my blood is already boiling my tender meat oiled mull me over in your oral cavity like sacred wine until I drip through your bones and down your spine Just meld with me and flow into that light tunnel of dark time and space so I can stake out my rhythms and claim my new sacred place

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I would miss the intensity Of your sweet, sweet honeycomb heart The endearing amber in your beard And the strong hands I didn't fear The way your soft eyes become so light In the morning bright Your warm skin against mine, Holding me so tight Your husky laugh At my joking attempts The tiny touch of my hip, The ******** stroking of my hair Gripping my ******* Thrusting hard, endless pleasure I could sit in your sensual silence forever Happiness knows no bounds Inside your concrete floors and brick walls Your open windows, My open chest

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Mar 19, 2018

Mar 19, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC

I would miss the intensity Of your sweet, sweet honeycomb heart The endearing amber in your beard And the strong hands I didn't fear The way your soft eyes become so light In the morning bright Your warm skin against mine, Holding me so tight Your husky laugh At my joking attempts The tiny touch of my hip, The ******** stroking of my hair Gripping my ******* Thrusting hard, endless pleasure I could sit in your sensual silence forever Happiness knows no bounds Inside your concrete floors and brick walls Your open windows, My open chest

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Busy bee eyeing the flowers Seduced by the bright colors Probing with the proboscis Hairy body covered with pollens Visiting the clovers and hollyhocks Also in love with Dahlias and roses Returning with the days fill Honey sac full of nectar Returning to the honeycomb They are ‘Bee-ing’ happy With all the sweetness Just Bee Happy

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Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC

Busy bee eyeing the flowers Seduced by the bright colors Probing with the proboscis Hairy body covered with pollens Visiting the clovers and hollyhocks Also in love with Dahlias and roses Returning with the days fill Honey sac full of nectar Returning to the honeycomb They are ‘Bee-ing’ happy With all the sweetness Just Bee Happy

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I'm a honeybee. You're the smoke that has molded me like putty in your calloused hands. Once I'm out of the hive that is my soul, you come in and steal parts of me I have a hard time creating and replicating over again. It was a sweet escape but it was laced with the fact you would only use me. Why did I let you in?

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Jan 2, 2015

Jan 2, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC

thetattooedmillenial

Repairing My Honeycomb Soul

I'm a honeybee. You're the smoke that has molded me like putty in your calloused hands. Once I'm out of the hive that is my soul, you come in and steal parts of me I have a hard time creating and replicating over again. It was a sweet escape but it was laced with the fact you would only use me. Why did I let you in?

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Divine Minds Transcend This life is full of circus mirrors made to distort what matters. When the ride slows down, and our mind begins to clear, we frantically try to quiet the chatter. Layer after layer we shed our fears until our ego is found, drowned in the light of a supernova, then shattered loud with glorious sound. The earth is a living, breathing body, fragile as it comes undone. This body has a thriving soul, pulsating inside a honeycomb. This body has a mind with an ego, that believes it's in full control. The time has come for our consciousness to ascend to the next level. The nether world will greet you when the last grain of sand drops, in the hourglass of fallen people, deep inside a single thought. We all must follow the burning flock, or purge our life of the ego. Will you answer if they knock, and begin the spirit walk? If you walk I shall join you and leave behind a sequel. Death ends the circle of life, soon our bodies will be vaporized. Hold my hand and close your eyes, hug me tight but do not run, for tonight the skies ignite in the glory of our supernova sun. Layer after layer we shed our fears until our ego is found, drowned in the light of a supernova, then shattered loud with glorious sound.

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Sep 19, 2013

Sep 19, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC

Divine Minds Transcend This life is full of circus mirrors made to distort what matters. When the ride slows down, and our mind begins to clear, we frantically try to quiet the chatter. Layer after layer we shed our fears until our ego is found, drowned in the light of a supernova, then shattered loud with glorious sound. The earth is a living, breathing body, fragile as it comes undone. This body has a thriving soul, pulsating inside a honeycomb. This body has a mind with an ego, that believes it's in full control. The time has come for our consciousness to ascend to the next level. The nether world will greet you when the last grain of sand drops, in the hourglass of fallen people, deep inside a single thought. We all must follow the burning flock, or purge our life of the ego. Will you answer if they knock, and begin the spirit walk? If you walk I shall join you and leave behind a sequel. Death ends the circle of life, soon our bodies will be vaporized. Hold my hand and close your eyes, hug me tight but do not run, for tonight the skies ignite in the glory of our supernova sun. Layer after layer we shed our fears until our ego is found, drowned in the light of a supernova, then shattered loud with glorious sound.

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Set me as a seal upon thine heart, for you are mine Never let me go, grip me tight like a vineyard vine. I love that pretty rose that your garden did grow Betwixt those long beautiful thighs of strength Exposing that sea shell pink jewel, I do know. Your garden is so unique, it’s a one of a kind Such parts are so delicate, that the slightest touch Produces tropical showers that fill my mind. Flowing from your meadow, and dripping from Those soft sensitive pink rose petals, Golden rain drops that taste O’ so sweet. Thy lips O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: Honey and milk are under my tongue: Causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak, Every time that they meet. I love all of your natural beauty, And I love every lock of your hair Swaying from a beautiful face, worthy of my stare. How fair and how pleasant art thou. O love, for delights! Your calm green eyes in my trance suddenly gave me visions, Of hypnotic pupil shamrock sights! I love your seductive soft lips, One kiss upon them, takes me on so many trips. My precious 1, your body is a wonderland I cannot resist, I need for this dream to come true And if so, I will forever do, everything for you. You are the Garden of Eden, brought back to life My only thought now is, I must betroth to have you, As my wife! Behold, thou art fair, my love: Behold, thou art fair; thou hast, Shamrock Eyes!

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Mar 17, 2015

Mar 17, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC

curt-a-rivard-sr

Hypnotized By Shamrock Eyes

Set me as a seal upon thine heart, for you are mine Never let me go, grip me tight like a vineyard vine. I love that pretty rose that your garden did grow Betwixt those long beautiful thighs of strength Exposing that sea shell pink jewel, I do know. Your garden is so unique, it’s a one of a kind Such parts are so delicate, that the slightest touch Produces tropical showers that fill my mind. Flowing from your meadow, and dripping from Those soft sensitive pink rose petals, Golden rain drops that taste O’ so sweet. Thy lips O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: Honey and milk are under my tongue: Causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak, Every time that they meet. I love all of your natural beauty, And I love every lock of your hair Swaying from a beautiful face, worthy of my stare. How fair and how pleasant art thou. O love, for delights! Your calm green eyes in my trance suddenly gave me visions, Of hypnotic pupil shamrock sights! I love your seductive soft lips, One kiss upon them, takes me on so many trips. My precious 1, your body is a wonderland I cannot resist, I need for this dream to come true And if so, I will forever do, everything for you. You are the Garden of Eden, brought back to life My only thought now is, I must betroth to have you, As my wife! Behold, thou art fair, my love: Behold, thou art fair; thou hast, Shamrock Eyes!

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Magnolia's and black Roses comfort me, I lay awake as you softly breath low lower- fading- wondering how I've let you get into my thoughts & now once more into my bed... tonight I've come awake at the touch of your hand, roughly you've penetrated the core of my being... softly a breeze stirs from my cracked window and the smell waffled with your scent lingers in this bedroom, Black roses & sweet magnolia's... I looked over your body too many times Your eyelashes I've counted each curly one a million times, those high check bones I've touched & caressed until my hands went numb. You never move and I hardly breath thinking it's not right but Ok- Oh how you danced with in my Vally of seduction and become intoxicated as you dranked in my nectar- honeycomb. I wanted you- I wanted this moment , I did want to love you and in a lot of ways I do but laying here now as I stare at your form lifeless on my bed I feel it wasn't just your misleading pain & your lying games that brought me to the breaking point... It was the man I finally saw who told me once.., I am worth more! tears of freedom streams down my face as I lay here watching you, watching the slight breeze from my cracked window shifts the thousands of petals all around you & all I can do is cry with a simple smile on my face. My rooms filled with the smell of you & Magnolia's & Black Roses. Always Me Ayeshah

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Jul 6, 2010

Jul 6, 2010 at 1:32 AM UTC

Magnolia's & Black Roses.

Magnolia's and black Roses comfort me, I lay awake as you softly breath low lower- fading- wondering how I've let you get into my thoughts & now once more into my bed... tonight I've come awake at the touch of your hand, roughly you've penetrated the core of my being... softly a breeze stirs from my cracked window and the smell waffled with your scent lingers in this bedroom, Black roses & sweet magnolia's... I looked over your body too many times Your eyelashes I've counted each curly one a million times, those high check bones I've touched & caressed until my hands went numb. You never move and I hardly breath thinking it's not right but Ok- Oh how you danced with in my Vally of seduction and become intoxicated as you dranked in my nectar- honeycomb. I wanted you- I wanted this moment , I did want to love you and in a lot of ways I do but laying here now as I stare at your form lifeless on my bed I feel it wasn't just your misleading pain & your lying games that brought me to the breaking point... It was the man I finally saw who told me once.., I am worth more! tears of freedom streams down my face as I lay here watching you, watching the slight breeze from my cracked window shifts the thousands of petals all around you & all I can do is cry with a simple smile on my face. My rooms filled with the smell of you & Magnolia's & Black Roses. Always Me Ayeshah

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No one else's lips Matched and Unmatched And matched Like ours did. Dripping in sweet honeycomb, They always stuck together.

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Jun 24, 2010

Jun 24, 2010 at 10:39 PM UTC

No one else's lips Matched and Unmatched And matched Like ours did. Dripping in sweet honeycomb, They always stuck together.

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The western sky sweeps Darkness to back yards The dawning east keeps Designing with hues Mornings greeting cards. Nice to see the crews Active in writing Fresh magic haikus Deep in creating Textures and sinews With unique mixing Of color and lures Interspersed musings On honeycomb verse Soft snowflake rhymings Draught on fragrant wings Beams of rainbow waves Fuse sweetness and light Deeds of Devine Inc Wrought in suntan ink Duty with delight In morning twilight

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Jan 27, 2019

Jan 27, 2019 at 10:16 PM UTC

Duty in Twilight

The western sky sweeps Darkness to back yards The dawning east keeps Designing with hues Mornings greeting cards. Nice to see the crews Active in writing Fresh magic haikus Deep in creating Textures and sinews With unique mixing Of color and lures Interspersed musings On honeycomb verse Soft snowflake rhymings Draught on fragrant wings Beams of rainbow waves Fuse sweetness and light Deeds of Devine Inc Wrought in suntan ink Duty with delight In morning twilight

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My grandparent's house ten-kid-large and sinking on the corners of remembrance Remodeled now, to ...tenements Honeycomb ...the remnants Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child She sang on the ferry He fell in love "The rest is the history of us...." Wide as the Connecticut River, grieving-- in their sunset.... ________________ This-- chair is his I am afraid of it-- of his learning of the shiny badge pinned to his coat of his dying... Golden leather of it soothes his memory-- of another continent of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth so darkened now-- where his head once rested ...his hands and, I fear-- his mind.... I will not sit in it as if he will come back, to take his place I am afraid of him-- with his chair-- all worshipful and empty like a high place, abandoned to the heart attack not for grandchild play Seat of Authority still stamped beside the standing cold-- brass ashtray Pipe smoke imagines itself against the ceiling in the words of Yates and Milton He read to them and somehow-- Paradise is Lost.... _______________ This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold Worn as only large families wear The War of waiting shadows --four brothers who were spared Anna Mae, in charge, too young, worries in abrupt dark of dinning room Her face, haunted-- an archway-- ever empty by the large and ghostly table covered by its web of lace-- a bridal veil of Catholic impossibility... Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts of darling, Sean... Aunt Lil's “breakdown” with cigarette and thorazine quaking quiet in her corner Aunt Nell, as blind as ******** hell ironing, darning with threads that thatch the wounded socks Holds it all together, scolding-- Brought the welcomed jelly donuts sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston all-- while drinking yellow ale Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely cracks nuts over a wooden bowl

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Sep 19, 2017

Sep 19, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

My grandparent's house ten-kid-large and sinking on the corners of remembrance Remodeled now, to ...tenements Honeycomb ...the remnants Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child She sang on the ferry He fell in love "The rest is the history of us...." Wide as the Connecticut River, grieving-- in their sunset.... ________________ This-- chair is his I am afraid of it-- of his learning of the shiny badge pinned to his coat of his dying... Golden leather of it soothes his memory-- of another continent of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth so darkened now-- where his head once rested ...his hands and, I fear-- his mind.... I will not sit in it as if he will come back, to take his place I am afraid of him-- with his chair-- all worshipful and empty like a high place, abandoned to the heart attack not for grandchild play Seat of Authority still stamped beside the standing cold-- brass ashtray Pipe smoke imagines itself against the ceiling in the words of Yates and Milton He read to them and somehow-- Paradise is Lost.... _______________ This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold Worn as only large families wear The War of waiting shadows --four brothers who were spared Anna Mae, in charge, too young, worries in abrupt dark of dinning room Her face, haunted-- an archway-- ever empty by the large and ghostly table covered by its web of lace-- a bridal veil of Catholic impossibility... Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts of darling, Sean... Aunt Lil's “breakdown” with cigarette and thorazine quaking quiet in her corner Aunt Nell, as blind as ******** hell ironing, darning with threads that thatch the wounded socks Holds it all together, scolding-- Brought the welcomed jelly donuts sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston all-- while drinking yellow ale Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely cracks nuts over a wooden bowl

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golden streams of sun sink, unwrap, dance, melt into the trees like honeycomb, silver the ground with their tender warmth. the day is dying but so gently that the shadows can only lengthen dreaming their dreams of the night.

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Sep 19, 2015

Sep 19, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC

beth-fwoah-dream

golden streams of sun sink, unwrap, dance, melt into the trees like honeycomb, silver the ground with their tender warmth. the day is dying but so gently that the shadows can only lengthen dreaming their dreams of the night.

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Memphis got real high in the 50's. Those honeycomb bathroom floors decided to become streets them city kids got the buy bug knocking at their knees. Problem is: They never dream. Teachers just learning to write using pens filled with interrupting ink telephone poles gossiping about the trees, they hated their branches—always loosing their leaves office administrators on Section 8 Housing while the vacant houses are out on the streets. People swarming the sewers forgetting: a bomb shelter is no home while drainage floods the alleys. If you could see this place with your own eyes and not the ones you bought at the drug store you would wish you were blind.

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Nov 12, 2014

Nov 12, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC

A Bomb Shelter Is No Home

Memphis got real high in the 50's. Those honeycomb bathroom floors decided to become streets them city kids got the buy bug knocking at their knees. Problem is: They never dream. Teachers just learning to write using pens filled with interrupting ink telephone poles gossiping about the trees, they hated their branches—always loosing their leaves office administrators on Section 8 Housing while the vacant houses are out on the streets. People swarming the sewers forgetting: a bomb shelter is no home while drainage floods the alleys. If you could see this place with your own eyes and not the ones you bought at the drug store you would wish you were blind.

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When I was young, About three years of age, I was made to stay at creche, When my parents were away at work. I used to see those yellow wasps glide, Curious I used to look at them, Elder people used to warn, Warn me of their sting. But I was still curious, Curiosity subsided my fear, Hard to grasp the idea of pains, I just wanted to grab the yellow wasps. And as I remember a curious younger myself, I was by the carpet bed of marigold at creche, There wandered a golden wasp on a marigold, I wanted to hold that puny wasp in my hands, Unaware of its sting I caught it out of curiosity, The next thing I faintly remember is its sting..! The painful sting lingered for the followup time, The inflammation on my thumb followed it, And I caught fever as well as the fear, Instilled was the fear like a dread, I used to remain fearful till ages. The fear was vanquished not long later than it, It stayed there in the crevices of my mind, It was until I was bitten by several bees, Once it was me and Rishabh my chum, We had just stepped out of the school, Someone had disrupted a honeycomb, Angry bees were stinging us there then, The painful panic inside was totally silent, We managed to get to the bike and escaped. I took anti-allergic tablets for two days, Even Rishabh took the same medicines, But I recovered soon with an experience, Seemed to have worked better with my body, Thanks to my compatibility with the medicines, Rishabh caught fever with his face swollen for 2 weeks.

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Oct 12, 2013

Oct 12, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC

How My Fear Of Wasps Came & Vanished

When I was young, About three years of age, I was made to stay at creche, When my parents were away at work. I used to see those yellow wasps glide, Curious I used to look at them, Elder people used to warn, Warn me of their sting. But I was still curious, Curiosity subsided my fear, Hard to grasp the idea of pains, I just wanted to grab the yellow wasps. And as I remember a curious younger myself, I was by the carpet bed of marigold at creche, There wandered a golden wasp on a marigold, I wanted to hold that puny wasp in my hands, Unaware of its sting I caught it out of curiosity, The next thing I faintly remember is its sting..! The painful sting lingered for the followup time, The inflammation on my thumb followed it, And I caught fever as well as the fear, Instilled was the fear like a dread, I used to remain fearful till ages. The fear was vanquished not long later than it, It stayed there in the crevices of my mind, It was until I was bitten by several bees, Once it was me and Rishabh my chum, We had just stepped out of the school, Someone had disrupted a honeycomb, Angry bees were stinging us there then, The painful panic inside was totally silent, We managed to get to the bike and escaped. I took anti-allergic tablets for two days, Even Rishabh took the same medicines, But I recovered soon with an experience, Seemed to have worked better with my body, Thanks to my compatibility with the medicines, Rishabh caught fever with his face swollen for 2 weeks.

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** In An Old Cathedral** She knelt upon a plank, plain oaken (sable cloak, her mourning guise), and sensed the breath of distant sighs, pale shades of pain behind blue eyes… While clasping close a cross-like token (holding hope for those in need) she prayed her Lord "please intercede, my woes be washed, my soul be freed"… Archangels, in the skies evoken (candles flickered, shadows shivered), through the panes, the moonlight quivered, summoned forth, the wish delivered… Forgotten words he once had spoken (dimly echoed ’neath the dome) swept sweetness of the honeycomb o'er distant realms they used to roam… At midnight's knell, in dreams awoken, memories of love unfeigned… Though loneliness of grief remained, she still held hope… hope hadn't waned… And when the dawn had early broken, by the font, in peace, she lay… As sudden as a sunset ray, the light of life had slipped away…

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Mar 27, 2014

Mar 27, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC

In An OldCathedral

** In An Old Cathedral** She knelt upon a plank, plain oaken (sable cloak, her mourning guise), and sensed the breath of distant sighs, pale shades of pain behind blue eyes… While clasping close a cross-like token (holding hope for those in need) she prayed her Lord "please intercede, my woes be washed, my soul be freed"… Archangels, in the skies evoken (candles flickered, shadows shivered), through the panes, the moonlight quivered, summoned forth, the wish delivered… Forgotten words he once had spoken (dimly echoed ’neath the dome) swept sweetness of the honeycomb o'er distant realms they used to roam… At midnight's knell, in dreams awoken, memories of love unfeigned… Though loneliness of grief remained, she still held hope… hope hadn't waned… And when the dawn had early broken, by the font, in peace, she lay… As sudden as a sunset ray, the light of life had slipped away…

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Down through the tomb's inward arch He has shouldered out into Limbo to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber: the merciful dead, the prophets, the innocents just His own age and those unnumbered others waiting here unaware, in an endless void He is ending now, stooping to tug at their hands, to pull them from their sarcophagi, dazzled, almost unwilling. Didmas, neighbor in death, Golgotha dust still streaked on the dried sweat of his body no one had washed and anointed, is here, for sequence is not known in Limbo; the promise, given from cross to cross at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn. All these He will swiftly lead to the Paradise road: they are safe. That done, there must take place that struggle no human presumes to picture: living, dying, descending to rescue the just from shadow, were lesser travails than this: to break through earth and stone of the faithless world back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained stifling shroud; to break from them back into breath and heartbeat, and walk the world again, closed into days and weeks again, wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit streaming through every cell of flesh so that if mortal sight could bear to perceive it, it would be seen His mortal flesh was lit from within, now, and aching for home. He must return, first, in Divine patience, and know hunger again, and give to humble friends the joy of giving Him food--fish and a honeycomb.

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2.5k

Denise Levertov

Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell

Down through the tomb's inward arch He has shouldered out into Limbo to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber: the merciful dead, the prophets, the innocents just His own age and those unnumbered others waiting here unaware, in an endless void He is ending now, stooping to tug at their hands, to pull them from their sarcophagi, dazzled, almost unwilling. Didmas, neighbor in death, Golgotha dust still streaked on the dried sweat of his body no one had washed and anointed, is here, for sequence is not known in Limbo; the promise, given from cross to cross at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn. All these He will swiftly lead to the Paradise road: they are safe. That done, there must take place that struggle no human presumes to picture: living, dying, descending to rescue the just from shadow, were lesser travails than this: to break through earth and stone of the faithless world back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained stifling shroud; to break from them back into breath and heartbeat, and walk the world again, closed into days and weeks again, wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit streaming through every cell of flesh so that if mortal sight could bear to perceive it, it would be seen His mortal flesh was lit from within, now, and aching for home. He must return, first, in Divine patience, and know hunger again, and give to humble friends the joy of giving Him food--fish and a honeycomb.

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Your eyes are like a window to a cave Containing all the precious jewels in the world The jewels are the reflection of our life together Diamonds sparkle in bright light of an ice-cold day Topazes glow with honeycomb fire in the evening Rubies lust for love in a dark hour before dawn Emeralds release a relaxing sleepy smile Pearls display the heart of our loving.

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Nov 25, 2012

Nov 25, 2012 at 8:15 AM UTC

Your eyes are like a window to a cave Containing all the precious jewels in the world The jewels are the reflection of our life together Diamonds sparkle in bright light of an ice-cold day Topazes glow with honeycomb fire in the evening Rubies lust for love in a dark hour before dawn Emeralds release a relaxing sleepy smile Pearls display the heart of our loving.

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BEES and a honeycomb in the dried head of a horse in a pasture corner-a skull in the tall grass and a buzz and a buzz of the yellow honey-hunters. And I ask no better a winding sheet (over the earth and under the sun.) Let the bees go honey-hunting with yellow blur of wings in the dome of my head, in the rumbling, singing arch of my skull. Let there be wings and yellow dust and the drone of dreams of honey-who loses and remembers?-who keeps and forgets? In a blue sheen of moon over the bones and under the hanging honeycomb the bees come home and the bees sleep.

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2.3k

BEES and a honeycomb in the dried head of a horse in a pasture corner-a skull in the tall grass and a buzz and a buzz of the yellow honey-hunters. And I ask no better a winding sheet (over the earth and under the sun.) Let the bees go honey-hunting with yellow blur of wings in the dome of my head, in the rumbling, singing arch of my skull. Let there be wings and yellow dust and the drone of dreams of honey-who loses and remembers?-who keeps and forgets? In a blue sheen of moon over the bones and under the hanging honeycomb the bees come home and the bees sleep.

Continue reading...