"imaged" poems
I remember the day you told me your job.
I was over joyed at the fact that I can have pink grass,
A colour that represented me so perfectly.
I was a princess and that is the colour to represent me.
You laughed at the thought as I continued going on about glitter and lights in twined between each blade.
I smiled as I imaged you and your crew working on my yard and I lean against the house admiring the movement of the muscles on your back.
I remember the first time we called,
We had just met the day before as I was enthralled with your imagination and I wanted to play.
I was nervous but you didn't know.
I don't remember what we spoke, but I remember your laugh,
I remember the teasing and I remember your infatuation with my breast.
No, I wasn't offended.
I am a ***** and I appreciate the flattery,
Can you get in my pants?
Yes with a price of your daily attention.
It has been months since the mention of pink grass,
My grass welts now and dirt scatters my yard.
My skirt is pulled up and I stare at a screen,
Waiting... waiting...
How is your grass? How are your needs? How are you and me?
I never hear from you anymore and I come to my conclusion,
I will never get my pink grass.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
Dragonfly o Dragonfly
framed against a lazy summer sky,
you'll hover and ponder out yonder,
like an acrobat you fly.
You'll dance and dart, hover and peer,
Touching, stalking, feathered walking.
On pond shadows dark and near,
onto sunbeams sparkling clear.
Casting imaged reflections,
on a mirrored surface of life's crystal pond.
Where ever-diminishing dainty rippled circles,
disappear onto a distant misty shore beyond.
You'll ponder and peep,
through dark secrets your pond might keep,
captured images of animals & bees,
scented flowers & soft young trees.
About political boundary bursts,
and agonizing desert thirsts.
While strife-torn agony song is being sung,
at the scorching heat of the searing Sun.
Witnessing a climate change,
Industrial, Oil, Air & Waste pollution.
With no workable cleanup program in site,
to warrant a solution.
Our planet's resources stretched,
to its limits by human misery & industry untold.
Life's habitats are disappearing,
the beginning of Earth end is nearing.
It is inevitable that soon, to soon,
after million a year, on life's crystal ponds so clear.
You'll too succumb to man's industrious endevours,
and for eternity disappear.
Andreas Strauss.16 June 2007
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 4:16 AM UTC
One day the skies opened up with snow
And one lost elf did not know where to go
He kept going in circles, around and around
But the skies kept putting more snow on the ground
He found himself in a Winter forest, dark and deep
He thought he heard the dead trees start to creep
He imaged eyes gazing like a terrifying light
Or was it the reflection where everything was white
The poor little elf was starting to get very cold
He wish he had stayed home, like he had been told
As more snow fell he began to shiver and shake
So scared that snow monsters might come awake
Suddenly a sound made the poor elf start to yell
He had heard a ringing, a sound of a bell
Then he saw a jolly fat man dressed in white and red
With reindeers that pulled him sitting on a sled
He offered the elf to come and sit by his side
Then they shot up into the sky, it was a special ride
The jolly fat man took the elf home to his mother
He was so happy when he shared the story with his brother
So every year he leaves mince pies and a drop of red wine
Something special for the jolly fat man to dine
He now stays in when it snows, whenever he can
And the once lost elf always remembers that jolly fat man
copyright Chris Smith 22nd December 2009
Merry Christmas to all on Hello Poetry
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 9:17 AM UTC
To death in love!
The eye of ones heart closes for their beloved, their most precious treasure of them all clouded by emotions stored for them deep within
Unanswered love leads to a stinging mind of the subscocious, caught and rose by a burning ember of feelings, turning into an inferno,
Blinded by it, they will not acknowledge the falsities of their partner, nor their mistakes or even their treaciousness, as for them he is perfect, conciously imaged as the ideal and the best they ever had,
But no! God forbids, they learn about the art of blinding love while they sink to the bottom of a sea of passion and affection, in a last remote of a courtain call to simple yet manifest carelessness,
Small lies lead to grand falsities overlooked by a noncaring closed eye
Rekindled in a dream they rather follow their instincs than the truth,
Illusions cast by embers of love deep within the unconcious, like a courtain to be blocked from all light, holding on to dear of what is loved and cherished, praised and adored, an emotion leading stray,
The philosophy of a hated person, would be to never close the open eye of ones heart, so you fall not too hard when you begin to love,
But when all falls apart, realisation is like the thorns of countless roses
It is the heart sign of selfless love.
~ Umi
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
That smile of his
Held the beauty of the world
It was ever so charming and undeniably sweet
Entrancing all those who lay eyes upon it
There was a time where I once imaged
I could even sell my soul if need be
Whenever I saw his precious smile
Then I came to see
The true colours behind that smile
Twas like a poisonous flower
Blooming and vibrant
Luring in its fragile prey
Bewitching it within its spell
Intoxicated by the nectar
Unable to ever leave
Upon revealing the truth
That lay so evidently to preying eyes
He had already long abandoned me
leaving nothing but a memory of what was
And a forever lingering taste of honey
A sweetness upon my tongue
Though it is best to end this longing
This yearning for that man
Who's smile warmed my heart
halting my breath but for a moment
As if encased within a time
When my entire world was composed of
Only him and that devious smile
Yet my mind refuses to forget....
.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
“Don't you miss being in love?”, she asks.
I simmer, gathering myself and my thoughts.
No, I don't, because I have not been in love;
Not in the manner I imagine it.
I have loved - beautifully, might I add -
But never have I been in love.
How can I have?
At my best, all I knew was to compel, persuasively,
someone into loving me -
the best possible way I knew how.
I revealed just enough of myself,
the beautiful of myself,
the parts of me that drew butterflies.
Hidden were the broken parts of me,
those which keep me awake, sleepless -
'til the moon kisses me goodnight,
in the last hours before dawn.
I am not, by any means, denying ever loving.
I have loved, blindly and beautifully.
All I have ever been good at was loving -
loving someone into loving me,
the best way possible.
But, all of their love was inadequate.
A love which always fell short of loving me,
the best way possible.
Love; inadequate:
Unable to express loving me,
unable to express themselves of loving me.
In turn,
I was slapped with sloppy efforts of loving me -
Vague inadequacies of love.
It was never enough, not remotely close,
to what I had imaged loving me would be.
It was short of ever arousing me internally,
short of wits to spiral me into being in love.
And so, how can I miss being in love,
when it has always been a feeling that eluded me?
How can I miss being in love, when in love -
I concealed the broken parts of me?
How can I have been in love when I was lonely, in love?
*How can I have been in love,
when all I knew of being in love was to love myself -
by loving whomever loved the aesthetic parts of me?*
Loving me has always been an infatuation -
an infatuation of the broken pieces of me,
coming together to create an illusion of a love -
an unsatisfactory love for loving me.
How can I have ever been in love when no one has known,
expressed, conjured the best possible way of loving me.
All of me.
Once more, up at the last hours before dawn -
awaiting the moon to kiss me goodnight, I tell her.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
Somethings wrong with me
I lie in bed
with building angst
I close my eyes
and the imaged emerge
Their hands on my body
A man who loves to roam
He takes my body
And collides it with his
I desire it
I find myself aroused
But I've been there
done that and I know
If I remake this
Into reality
I will live
To regret it
And hate myself for it
Still I can't escape
The desires urges and images
They are what control me
and they never plan
On letting me go.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
it is warped, a flash, altered fast,
a hummingbirds heartbeat
glances in mirrors reveal
what couldve held elegance,
but now holds no potential.
a rose stripped of petals,
cities smothered in fog,
we are hurling questions into canyons
hungry for echoes, imaged answers.
on february nights I discover
tight smirks and smiles.
vampires to paper,
my thoughts hold no reflection,
I could capture syllables
dripping like acid from your sick, posioned lips.
loud apologies, pleading, forgiveness,
and yet, I sense no guilt.
love stories of bruises and scars spell beauty,
murals, pansies of purple and yellow
flourish, fill the curves of my hips.
sighing at the blades trail,
you kicked and shamed me.
six months pass, marks splatter your arm
needles now plant promises, whispers,
lies you starved for.
fingers dance against the pistol, never pulling.
empty shivers, applause from the crowd,
twisted approval only you could hear.
eyes that once wept at my sickness
glaze and fall heavy, water beaten, eroded valleys.
syringes drain the handprints I left.
three a.m. brings shaded skies
your cries for help glow, a crescent moon.
but I am asleep.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
Finite space within the palms
Of two celestial halves
They brought their hands together and cursed our eyes, and mouths, and hearts
Imaged us in self-belief
Perfection in the unity
Of lesser mortals, incomplete, forever searching for the second piece
She paced the gaps
Spun and leapt
A half circle
Slipping through the cracks
An arc entwined
The empty divide
Too short to reach
His side
Incomplete in death as in life
He tied a tongue around
To make a noose of himself
So when the noise finally died down he’d found himself within a crowd
Laughed the loudest at the end
With no breath at all
Attention at the precipice, from misfit hearts. A lifetime gone
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
leave me
to precious illusions
moments of bliss
love imaged
momentarily eases the thirst
the dreaded melancholy
until
i am awaken
re-remembering the gnawing thirst
even at busy intervals
never a stranger
how i wish providence to come
and quite me of melancholy
impatient i am
resentful, for unwanted experience
that lacerated deep
weak and regretful
but always interchangeable
never constant
she has alluded me in youth
i wonder
in age
have i
atoned enough
will she finally find me worthy
uncertain of my fate
i drift
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
I dreamt of draupadi,
birthed by fire
foot on black coals
smoldering
face smothered
soot
an offering vengeance -
mocked, name soiled
a scapegoat for war
because of a purpose
dictated by her father,
for laughter imaged from her lips
a blame only a man or five,
a few producers, even,
can shift to a woman.
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC
It's so complicated to explain
We went from love to fun to pain
And found new people to love
But yours didn't fit like a glove
Mine is going strong
But yours is going wrong
She doesn't want you anymore
You don't know what for
I feel bad, I really do
There's always been something different about you
I know you like the back of my hand
I lay in bed listening to your favorite band
Reminiscing
We thought we had it all together
But I found someone for the better
You remind me of all we used to do
Like making out in dressing rooms
God we were so young and naive
But still we don't know what we need
The comfort of talking, warm like a fire
I imaged more than this eight years prior
Jan 12, 2024
Jan 12, 2024 at 3:40 AM UTC
**Imagine, if you will, a swirling energy
Dancing around a core
Forever compelled to enter one end
Of a doughnut-like hole
Converging, traveling up and
Flinging out again in a creative burst
Spreading in all directions
But pulled by an irresistible force
To follow semi-circular paths
Back to the base
There to be reunited, renewed and then
Flow up and out again
And around and back
And up and out
And around and back
Again and again
And --
Can this Torus imaged energy be universal
Both encompassing the cosmos
And small carbon units like myself
Did my atoms arise from the core and
Manifest in a splendid journey
Through colorful space and finite time
And will my spirit go back
To coalesce in the core
And spring up again
And again and again
And --
Are black holes in space
Magnetized entrances into a doughnut hole
where compressed energy races up the core and
Spews out in a sprawling light show of universes
Until it is all called back to the base
To be fused again, transformed,
Recreated and sent up and out
And around and back
Again and again
And --**
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Was that the landmark? What,—the foolish well
Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink,
But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink
In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell,
(And mine own image, had I noted well!)
Was that my point of turning?—I had thought
The stations of my course should rise unsought,
As altar-stone or ensigned citadel.
But lo! the path is missed, I must go back,
And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring
Which once I stained, which since may have grown black.
Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing
As here I turn, I’ll thank God, hastening,
That the same goal is still on the same track.
1.3k
Snow softly falls
Forming a white downey blanket
Upon the cold ground
Where it finds a woman
Looking down
Upon a single tombstone
She weeps
Like she has done
For 5 long years.
Her loving husband rested there
Cradled in the earth
Along side her daughter
Who barely had begun her life
Now rested with her father
Un aware of the dark
That lurked in the world.
In her hands
She held 4 roses.
Each red and lush
Full of life unlike her heart
Which cries infinite tears.
Her world shattered
In an instant
As the truck hit the car
Claiming the fathers life
The daughter singing in the back
Now screamed as the car rolled
Until it stopped
And silenced her forever
She placed the roses on the stone
Gently in the soft downy snow
One day she would join them
But until then
She would visit
Everyday
And carry roses
Into
The cryptic,
cold place.
The only color
That mirror imaged her inside
Her lost heart
Mirrored by
The Gothic Rose.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
River, that rollest by the ancient walls,
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me;
What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!
What do I say—a mirror of my heart?
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
And such as thou art were my passions long.
Time may have somewhat tamed them,—not for ever;
Thou overflow’st thy banks, and not for aye
The ***** overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away.
But left long wrecks behind, and now again,
Born in our old unchanged career, we move;
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,
And I—to loving one I should not love.
The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharmed by summer’s heat.
She will look on thee,—I have looked on thee,
Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne’er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!
Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,—
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow!
The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.
But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,
As various as the climates of our birth.
A stranger loves the lady of the land,
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood
Is all meridian, as if never fanned
By the black wind that chills the polar flood.
My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne’er to be forgot,
A slave again of love,—at least of thee.
’Tis vain to struggle—let me perish young—
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne’er be moved.
1.2k
Aristotle at my fingertips,
not locked in soliloquies I may perform,
but heard from an Oxford don I have
in my pocket,
as I lean into each lesson and trudge
up and down my morning
constitutional,
where the firebreak meets
chaparral alive with cottontail
this morning, when I almost said, "it's too hot."
C'mon, walk a mile with me… like
on the road to Emmaus, but Christ, no;
this character,
a soldier in me, about to salt out, bids me,
walk a mile, "not two, one
does the trick."
The thought comes
as a dare from the Ralston Purina guy,
and I stepped onto my trail.
I dare think Aristotle's thoughts after Plato's,
thinking
I could have known this when I was younger,
but not to this degree,
if I had not dropped out, and never knew,
by rote,
to pass a test, that
"All men by nature desire to know."
This is
Curiosity, right? I suspect it is a gift.
The joy we find in sensation, proof
offered the gainsayer,
I say again, that which is good for nothing
never
never
naturally exists, so
what tool forms an eye to notice that…
see, through the window
of my poetic-pathetic e-thoughtic soul
a feathery
family of phoebe birds, flits by,
if that is the proper name
{Tufted-Titmouse, my AI replies},
tails reflecting a smokey blue hue,
they swoop and flutter past;
I see
in a non-imaged flashpast pattern
from a time in the summer of 1969…
Disneyfied trails
from Cinderella's dressing room
scene, not seen, but reminded of seeing,
the pattern, in this phantomind dance,
being witnessed now, as
this old soldier once saw it
performed by bluer birds than these…
Time skipper
shifts to another bubble intersecting mine
and
I hear a worried neighbor fret about the fire.
I almost say,
"One of the benefits of being
backedup to the cloud,
nothing to lose."
But I remember, she collects purses and shoes.
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 12:16 PM UTC
*Cruel Summer
It’s a long cruel summer
since you’ve been gone;
starless skies
greet dreamless nights
and shadows eat my sight.
I thought it would be easy
not ever seeing you,
but everything I do
calls me to unsaid words
unwritten
unspoken
in many colors, but mostly blue.
~~~
Life is mostly hard,
filled with pain
abuse that makes no sense
and leaves us hollow sometimes.
Whether it’s at the hands
of those who raise us,
or the one who promises
to love us forever.
And worse, we sometimes lose
the ones we love the most-
gone
like mourning dew
on a warm summer’s day.
~~~
I know all this,
honestly I do.
Yet I never thought
it was you I would lose.
Don’t ask me why
I can not explain
my Daliesque dream
that you would remain.
Perhaps it was my penchant
at windmill jousting;
or reading too much into
Cervantes’ and his chivalrous
Dulcinea desires
that imaged you
dancing from chandeliers
or around those gypsy fires
on cool spring nights;
teasing me into submission
and confessing my “sins”
of falling for you.
I have no words
or rationale for any of this.
I just know
it’s a long cruel summer
since you’ve been gone,
leaving me all alone.
~~~
Maybe today,
while it’s sunny and warm,
I can find my sanity,
the rationale
to get out on my own
and sing some silly
80's songs.
Aztec Warrior/redzone 6.26.16*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
his eyes were arrested by her
B
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E
A
S
T
S
her ******* stood out with great
Z
E
S
T
he imaged how nice it would
B
E
to ****** them
L
I
B
E
R
A
L
L
Y
as she sashayed down the
S
T
R
E
E
T
he caught sight of her lovely
H
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P
S
he imaging running his
H
A
N
D
S
over their delightful
C
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N
T
O
U
R
S
she had his eyes
S
N
A
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D
with her sensual package of
W
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S
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
This is more of a rant
than a rhyme
more of a shame
than a crime
A corporate hypocrisy
lying too the rank and the file
selling an imaged philosophy
like feces dumped and compiled
It rattles in the eves and gutters
what they say but will not do
adding up the liberal numbers
monies just passing thru
Austin's HEB's no way no how free bags
in all of the towns that surround
you'll find that bureaucracy lags
given away plastic and brown
No greater bow ****** liberals
than to cave and give in too fools
that bags given free without doubt
took up less in city landfill
than the ones you pay for
like tools
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC
For millennia awaited when appeared crucified
For millennia warned when appeared worshipped
The voice of history, prophetic truths, if perceived
Past and Future, symmetrical, and mutually imaged
A thing and an anti-thing, similar but opposed
Not repeatable science nor philosophical dialecticism
But a reversal of time, a humanly difficult reality
As we look only ahead as we walk the same way
Forward and backward, each way different to the eyes
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 12:19 AM UTC
a green screen,
the imaged voice
in my head.
all is
but
what it is.
and when
spring comes,
wounded trees
bear a blossom
in their own blood.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC
AWHILE, withdrawn in secret fields of thought,
Her mind moved in a many-imaged past
That lived again and saw its end approach:
Dying, it lived imperishably in her;
Transient and vanishing from transient eyes,
Invisible, a fateful ghost of self,
It bore the future on its phantom breast.
Along the fleeting event’s far-backward trail
Regressed the stream of the insistent hours,
And on the bank of the mysterious flood
Peopled with well-loved forms now seen no more
And the subtle images of things that were,
Her witness spirit stood reviewing Time.
All that she once had hoped and dreamed and been,
Flew past her eagle-winged through memory’s skies.
As in a many-hued flaming inner dawn,
Her life’s broad highways and its sweet bypaths
Lay mapped to her sun-clear recording view,
From the bright country of her childhood’s days
And the blue mountains of her soaring youth
And the paradise groves and peacock wings of Love
To joy clutched under the silent shadow of doom
In a last turn where heaven raced with hell.
Twelve passionate months led in a day of fate.
An absolute supernatural darkness falls
On man sometimes when he draws near to God:
An hour arrives when fail all Nature’s means;
Forced out from the protecting Ignorance
And flung back on his naked primal need,
He at length must cast from him his surface soul
And be the ungarbed entity within:
-By Sri Auro,Book I,Canto II
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
only i can get me higher than this lowest place
but i imaged you held that power
no sanctuary, no saving grace
what's yours is yours
what's mine is ours
two hands i have
three feet away
too weak to reach
you see right through me
i can't forget your scent
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 10:05 PM UTC