"intermingle" poems
Tiny wrists.
Tiny rivers of blue.
Translucent.
I'm thinking about making myself a home
Beneath your pale skin.
I'd float along your lazy blue river
Until I make my way to your ghost chest
And burrow myself a tunnel
Deep inside your heart.
Light myself a campfire,
And pitch a tent.
Looks like I'm gonna be here for a while.
I am rocked to sleep with each beat:
Onetwo. Onetwo. Onetwo.
And my heart-house dreams
Intermingle with yours.
Maybe if we dream hard enough,
We can create a world of our own.
Where red blood cells sing like angels
Housed in four chapel-chambers,
And each artery stretches up far
Like a rainforest canopy
Riddled with exotic capillary-flowers.
Can we be safe here?
The heart has tender walls
But it is a soldier.
Though it may be kicked down,
It forges on
And picks itself right back up again.
Always beating,
Always winning.
Your heart is a soldier.
A fighter.
A protector.
I think I feel safe,
For the first time in a long time,
Within the home I've made for myself
Inside of who you are.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Tea Talk (or Taking Tea)
Jam comes first
And then the cream
Said the scone from Cornwall
To one ‘n’ all
Taking tea
Milk jug blinked.
The teaspoon gasped,
Who would have linked
The layers of bliss that sweetly kiss
With their order between the halves of a scone
From Cornwall
Where one ‘n’ all
Know that the milk is churned
Until it’s solid
Then we say the cream is clotted.
The teapot looked at the scone from Devon
Who knows that cream and jam is heaven
But only if the cream comes first
And then the jam . . . . .
My thoughts exactly said the ham
From between its sandwich fingers
Where it lingers
Until it’s time for tea.
‘Are you sure?’ the teacup said
To ham within its breaden bed.
Saucer asked the cucumber salad,
‘Should jam come first?’
‘But does it matter?’ said cucumber salad.
‘It’s a ballad
So red and white,
A symphony of taste
Into which to bite.
It is so right
For those who are taking tea,’
‘Jam then cream, is what you do,’
Insisted Cornwall’s scone who
As we know likes cream to be clotted.
But tomato blushed and quickly said,
‘With cream from Devon I am besotted
Because we know it’s clotted. . . . .
Too.
Onion, hearing Cornwall and Devon
Knows that cream and jam are heaven . . . . .
But jam and cream are bliss
Sealed with a kiss that is heaven . . . . .too.
The dilemma of order fuels onion’s frustration
And onion’s tears lead to prostration
For those who are taking tea.
What is to be done
To solve the question of order
Jam first . . . . . or cream?
The issue borders
On the ridiculous
As the layers sweetly intermingle
Like the lovers’ kiss
As those who are taking tea
Bite . . . . .
Ouch! said onion
The scone from Cornwall
And the scone from Devon
‘Either way is heaven.
David Applin
Copyright …David Applin (2015)
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
leave room for progress
planning out my dreams laying on your chest
life is so sweet, so perfect
life is so good, am i deserving?
ive been hurt before, ive wished for more
but right now i am content
i am no longer drowning in my head
no longer wishing on candles for your hand
to intermingle with mine, to rewind the times
to when you got me high
once upon a life, prince and knight
oh our love story
was clearer than blue skies
Aug 7, 2022
Aug 7, 2022 at 6:23 AM UTC
The horizon glows purple beneath the muted kaleidoscope of a fading rainbow
Salt hangs in the air, thick as the sand trodden on by so many
Daylight heaves a last sigh and closes her eyes, tucking herself into a comforter of oranges, purples, and blues, resting for the day to come
Foamy crests chase each other towards the feet of the travelers, and shyly retreat back on themselves, stumbling clumsily
The birds dip into the chilly water and bob over the rolling waves before suddenly taking to the darkening sky
Here, landscape, human and animal intermingle, amid the tranquility that only the sea can bring
The days stretch on, full of lazy possibilities
And each morning is a fresh start, full of new wonders
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
I don't know how one becomes complicated, but we do.
Our lives intermingle with others who like to make things difficult.
We allow ourselves to be walked over and used and abused and
I don't know why we put up with it anymore.
Our hearts are such a sacred thing, a blessing and a curse all in one.
And when even the strongest of souls can be wounded in the battle of life,
You know you must always strive to be stronger.
Because hearts do not heal themselves on their own.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
24 hours without.
Strip off the clothes that enveloped you
And have been my armor for the past day.
I try to convince myself I'm not washing you away.
That I'm not sending the sensations
Of your soft skin on mine
Down the drain.
I turn the water temperature up high,
Because maybe the heat will burn through a layer of my storm cloud,
And I wait a while before stepping under the flow,
Hugging my arms tightly around my aching frame.
A song comes on and then another and another
And my tears intermingle with the warmth surrounding me.
It's hard to always be on the verge.
Makes it difficult to speak.
So I close my mouth
And I lock up my heart.
You once whispered to me:
*"It's hard to feel this sad and this happy
At the same time."*
What a paradoxical feeling.
When the water runs free of shampoo and bubbles,
And I fear you've gone,
I curl up into a towel
Which is soaked in the scent
Of fresh lilies.
My darling.
Guess there's no way I can get rid of you that easily.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
It started out as a flame
Flickering
Dancing off a matchstick that was an idea.
It kindled an idea to help renew,
To regenerate what was once lost.
The fire grew
And with it
A passion that could not be extinguished.
The warmth was welcomed by her body
A body so cold
So helpless against the dangers of the world
And herself.
The fire gave power
And with the power there grew an inferno
Once ignited, could not be smothered.
The fire whispered
Through smoke and cinders;
It whispered
To encourage the distressing ideas that flowed through her.
She was frozen
Frostbitten to the bone without the fire
And so
To stay alive
She stayed close by the hearth.
When friends became concerned
They tried to call her back
But she was too attached to the blaze.
While the smoke tangled in her hair
And coursed through her veins
She drew in ever closer.
She huddled towards the light
That was leading her to her dangerous desires,
Cutting everything off
Except for the sea of flames.
She clung to her damaged thoughts
And kept the fire steady.
Going almost unnoticed
Her skin turned red and warm;
She was too happy to embrace the heat.
She understood she was too close,
Yet she rose from her perch
Roused by the incandescence
The feverish luminosity.
She
A mere mortal
Drew within reach of the alluring fire.
The flames licked her face
Her hands
Her hopelessly lost mind
As she dove in
Headfirst.
Everyone she had turned away watched
Unable to help.
She registered one single thought:
It's too hot.
But
It was too late.
She couldn't step away from the furnace;
For suddenly she was bound by ropes of her own doing
A funeral pyre just for her.
She was stuck within the depths
Of the scorching fire she had so arduously cared for.
She tried to call out
To those just outside the fireplace
Watching
Witnessing
But the fumes enveloped her
Stifling her pleas,
Her cries for help.
She couldn’t breathe
The embers burning her lungs as she inhaled,
Silencing her voice as she exhaled.
She flickered for a second more;
The life left her eyes.
She collapsed
Leaving ash and bone to intermingle into nothing.
What she had once mistakenly perceived
As an idea,
No larger than a matchstick,
Was something she could not control.
But no one could control a fire that destructive
Or
Deadly.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
Words hang from twisted emotions like blossoms from a garland,
Dropping, then gathered into sentences to be delivered as expressions.
Discussed and considered, feelings form, fear or confusion arises.
Happiness, delightful excitement is offered.
To be taken and sensed, or dismissed and forgotten there's always the choice between trusting or suspicion.
Belief is difficult when experiences are dampened with pain and hurt, not fulfilling.
A chance for happiness perhaps, amongst the chaos that is reality.
Respite from the toughness, see the lightness offered through kindness and love.
Non judgemental consideration and beauty, helps the pain and emotional restriction.
To give is wonderful, to be able to accept is incredible.
Too many words have been spoken in early excitement, from the heart rises love, desire and need.
The head overflows, logic disappears to be replaced with more of the same, belief forming.
The sense of being, confused by the strength of the connection and depth of feeling.
Joined in natures embrace and pleasuring touch, joy, happiness and deep, deep emotion intermingle
Searching for understanding, a meaning, is there one or is this just how it is for now?
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
Another chance
Night sky resurrection
Bruise then
Soothes
You choose
Through whisky blues
Cheap tattoos
Busy streets
Teeming life grooves
To strange beats
Existential speakeasies
Proves
Electric existence
Is Heavenly
A strange bohemia
Resounds, crowns
Road side cafes
Girls with belly
Button rings,
Sing
In different hues
Multicolored moods
Hipsters, weirdos,
Freaksters
Congregate in this
Urban delight
Torn jeans,
Worn boots
Christmas lights hang
From baristas roof
Eclectically surreal
Is how I feel
Cars passing by
Intermingle
I drop my dime
And head on
To my next
Crawl
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
Maybe someone sits up there
Puffing a cigarette
Blowing out whiffs of dense air
Creating clouds of smoke
Strands of soul
Filling them with lives
Making them swindle
Dance and intermingle
Entangle
Dance together
For their short while
Filled with life
They dance
Hand in hand
In twos threes and as many as they can
And then drift apart
Fade out
Into the oblivion
Calling an end
To that while called life
While they danced
Like creatures conjured
Out of his puffs
That dance together in groups and in a pair
Before they scatter away
Like mist in the air
Maybe,
Maybe someone sits up there
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
O peaceful moon, shining gently o'er the fields,
In your soft light I see a tree, a hedge, a glistening pond;
And the soft night sounds of rustling reeds and swaying boughs
Intermingle with the nightly warfare of a million creatures.
But hark! From the new housing estate across the park
There comes a rather different sound. Through an open window
Comes the healthy thwack of flesh on flesh and muffled shrieks of joy
As Isaac and Wendy Bumsenfotze indulge themselves un peu.
Isaac's got his gasmask on, and his rubber flippers too
And (speaking candidly) looks an unattractive proposition
Especially now his skinny chest towers o'er his massive ********
All four mighty manly inches of it from tip to curlies.
Lying trussed up on their bed, atop its needed rubber sheeting,
Lies Sam, their well-trained patient pedigree crossbred donkey,
Upon whose good-natured, hirsute, unsuspecting person
Nameless atrocities have often been performed in Eros' name.
What are they going to do tonight? I bet you'll never guess.
Well, Wendy's strapped her ***** on and intends to use it first
On Ikey's waiting well-lubricated back end
And then it's Sam's turn and ***** the R.S.P.C.A.
And while Sam is getting poked by loving Wendy,
Old Ike will not be idle: camera-phone in one hand
And mail-order sjambok in the other, he'll record
Their motions and lacerate them both simultaneously.
Underneath his gasmask, Isaac gets a bit sweaty and excited,
And once their party's over all three will doze off:
A truly lovely scene. But they will be soon by woken by
The morning sun glittering on Wendy's cast-off legirons.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Nature’s ebb and flow
There is something about a country road time slows the soothed mind intensifies. Then border it with a line of trees in this wooded strength picturesque purity flows through the eye gate. This flood of soft
emotional stirrings cast the hustle bustle of the modern life across the air like a fly fishermen easy floating fishing line follow it float along on this suspended timelessness you will find yourself
unconsciously holding your breath in anticipation of the cast as it lays down on the water. A fish strike would be icing on the cake almost anti climatic not quiet though when the trout jerks his head back and
forth putting his whole electrified cold stream lived life into the fight.
In this wooded chill a campfire ignites the smoke rises the kindling releases energy its inner life warmth
pushes back the cold. You set look into the leaping flames transfixed deep moody thoughts begin to enter your thoughts the most extravagant furnished palace does not compare the tame and wild intermingle
you truly at that moment are the true lord of the wood not only brawn but the mind comes to full
potential. You’re not trying to solve problems you’re a great spool the soft darkness does the pulling
knots kinks disappear you wonder about all the apprehensions you thought you brought it must have
been foolishness parading as actual problems.
When you thought it couldn’t be any more perfect there they were the night sky with silver points
overload begins when they stretch so far you feel the very weight of heaven as it asserts its supremacy the
night air filled with a tangible burden of weight this is only the blanket that was stored during the day now angels imperceptibly have rolled it across the four corners of heaven. The night wind speaks
mysteries at their center a stoking fire of its own not a fire of heat and flame but one banked just the
same. The drifting sifting sand that mortals find impossible to resist soon in deepest wool like
sheepclothed you sleep while the Sheppard stands beyond the fire light keeping watch sleep my child no harm
will disturb He rules the mighty sea and harder the egos of angry men to you he will be your peace is he not the prince of peace.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:35 AM UTC
is it strange then to long for wild mountains that spring from all angles?
and stretch to the a sky filled with clusters of white
which escape from view quickly with an ocean wind
to see the unordered grass trompled over by livestock
on their way to the sole tree in the pasture
seeking a brief salvation from a stark ozone-less sun
no bureaucrat planned, manicured this land
he did not sit in a lofty office, feeling the cool breeze of electrically chilled air
it was not voted on, the way the waves are to crash
he did not need the approval of his lay out for pebbles on the beach
corruption did not intermingle the trees, making it cumbersome for humans
or the reclining alp's angles
they were left to the law engrained in movement
the unknown dispersion of marbles across the ground, scientific wonders
now they sit, in their building, living monuments of time
springing up from the ground like ant hills
not understanding
standing on the previous lives of men
entitled
my land
my city
my country
and i long for, my archipelago
stretch of green, a harmonious chord
pining after the days
in D.O.C camps
barefooted
gritty
the feel of sand in the bottom of my sleeping bag
and the wonder of no-man's-land
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
a red velvet cupcake wrapper casts shadows on the desk while
abandoned crumbs still cling to a dainty mouth.
a rose dress worn by rosy cheeks and some pink thighs,
pink thighs that stay petite to match that flawless, porcelain stomach.
a stomach he wants to grab, and pull, and hold.
fleshy lips and rough tongues.
pleasure on the lips, on the hips, on the tips
of the fingers
that intermingle, and intertwine
that trace the perfect buds of a budding girl.
stark white snow ******* the life out of the frozen ground.
stark white sheets ******* the life out of men.
gloves that come in neat little packages signifying
love?
lust.
trust?
a gift given that can never be returned.
she can never return.
yet the bumping and thrusting and heaving continue.
sweet smelling sweat and sultry sighs.
roses are not innocent.
they conceal thorns, they draw blood.
blood the color of the last remains of a cupcake,
frosted with secrets and assumptions.
a pleasure on the lips, but
never on the hips.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
I want to be
wrapped in your arms
how the tree's branches
intermingle with the wind;
how the peaks of the hills
tumble over
one another's shadow at dusk;
how mist clings to dew
on grass wisps
whistling a good morning tune
back to the roosters' song at dawn,
the silent clap of two hearts
high-fiving
amidst the storm's handshake
with forest fingertips,
complimenting eyelash bats
and butterfly kisses
under the Moon's pupil;
how the stars trip
over their two left feet
and come crashing down
into your atmosphere
intertwined with mine.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 4:40 PM UTC
Could it be that locked in memory
Ancient thoughts are held in store,
Passed on by Neanderthal man
Who's origins we may recall.....
Ape like in physique and frame,
Prominent prognathus jaw,
Burning eyes intense and sharp,
Intelligence to seek for more.
Telepathic thought transference
Little need for guttural grunt,
Massive strength in hand and thigh
Stinking pelt to back and front.
Rushing through the reed and long grass
Casting lance with lunging throw,
Mastodon with roaring bellow
Thrashing trunk with thunderous blow.
Darkness in the smoky cavern
Clustered at the flinted flame,
Family and others warming
Squat encircled, chewing game.
Listening in the chill of moonlight
Listening to the wolf pack howl,
Out across the snow clad forest
Out beyond the hooting owl.
Chewing pelts to soften leather
Massive teeth in massive jaw,
Wary eyes observe the weather
Southern winds may bring the thaw.
Luscious she with scent ascending,
Luscious she with hairy maw,
Bent to me in sweet surrender
Downy hip and coaxing paw.
Roar in rage and beat the earth
Blazing eyes and heaving chest,
Invasion from the **** Sapiens
Seeking females for their nest.
Skies descend with fire and brimstone
Rock cascades and burns the earth,
Mountain God has vent his fury
Scamper hard to cave’s safe berth.
Cold, so cold this bleak snow weather
No retreat from Winter’s ire
Brother, sisters, sons are huddled
Frozen dead in blue ice byre.
Few, so few now to migration
Trek to southern food and heat,
Starving, wet and hypothermic
Staggeringly trudge the weak.
Few, so few to intermingle
With the **** Sapiens here,
Serfs in ******* low and squalid
BUT SURVIVORS..STRONG AND CLEAR!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
13 August 2011
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 12:39 AM UTC
There is something about a country road time slows the soothed mind intensifies. Then border it with a line of trees in this wooded strength picturesque purity flows through the eye gate. This flood of soft emotional stirrings cast the hustle bustle of the modern life across the air like a fly fishermen easy floating fishing line follow it float along on this suspended timelessness you will find yourself unconsciously holding your breath in anticipation of the cast as it lays down on the water. A fish strike would be icing on the cake almost anti climatic not quiet though when the trout jerks his head back and forth putting his whole electrified cold stream lived life into the fight.
In this wooded chill a campfire ignites the smoke rises the kindling releases energy its inner life warmth pushes back the cold. You set look into the leaping flames transfixed deep moody thoughts begin to enter your thoughts the most extravagant furnished palace does not compare the tame and wild intermingle you truly at that moment are the true lord of the wood not only brawn but the mind comes to full potential. You’re not trying to solve problems you’re a great spool the soft darkness does the pulling knots kinks disappear you wonder about all the apprehensions you thought you brought it must have been foolishness parading as actual problems.
When you thought it couldn’t be any more perfect there they were the night sky with silver points overload begins when they stretch so far you feel the very weight of heaven as it asserts its supremacy the night air filled with a tangible burden of weight this is only the blanket that was stored during the day now angels imperceptibly have rolled it across the four corners of heaven. The night wind speaks mysteries at their center a stoking fire of its own not a fire of heat and flame but one banked just the same. The drifting sifting sand that mortals find impossible to resist soon in deepest wool like sheep clothed you sleep while the Sheppard stands beyond the fire light keeping watch sleep my child no harm will disturb He rules the mighty sea and harder the egos of angry men to you he will be your peace is he not the prince of peace.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
You know they are goyim and
they realize the Jews
want them
as subjects.
Claiming birth right
to conquer.
Well Jew
ha-shem says
give you a chance
to mind your business,
or we can conquer you.
Jews still shaken
by the Holocaust.
Make comparisons with their non-supporters,
so as to make the world
viable for them.
Antisemitic attacks,
on their Arab neighbors,
labeled as hate crime-
-defiling international law;
because they are ha-shem.
Calling changed,
now they can intermingle .
Wish come true,
they are now more gentile
than Hebrew.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
It’s the gold that is fused through the years a different fort Knox it is powerful it is all consuming and
Refreshing its buying the best earth has to offer with never entertaining the idea of selling it is secure
The stronghold of lovers the pen marks and distills adoration captures the enthralling
Qualities showing one to be a true prince and a true princess it is spellbinding creates the flow
That alone allows two separate beings to intermingle fused as one leaving a testament more
Enduring than marble can anyone match or make such facts that endure through the mapping
Of one’s person the details of their humanity revealed in the most loving description never to
See hair so gorgeous lips so luscious eyes that you only want to linger in their gaze for ever
Arms hands and fingers for the bliss of touch that melts your whole being the surrender that
Defines cozy to the ultimate excess what wonder is experienced by couples who through
Committed love have found the fragrance of the rose it is the rarified air they alone breathe
From these dizzying heights they draw themselves back to earths plane when they pick up the
Pen and with honesty born from delirium they write with utmost tenderness I love you a gush
Of wind is set in motion pleasure captured as it describes rapture of being held in your arms
When you speak it is nature breathing you hear coursing water the tree branches are swaying
You have entered a gulf that is fixed there you both are suspended the drifting clouds soften
Your brow is smooth the painter would and follows such sites to create masterpieces and this
Is Common among you all things are in harmony truly the cooing of the dove forlorn exquisite
Brooding enlarges your hearts you drift among the sacred forever without effort the enhancing
Advancing years what abiding how far can wonder be stretched it is between these two pillars
That lovers know the pen and the rose wakefulness is for living the dream sleeping is for
Magical conferment boundless endless twist and turns of greatest delight thanks for your love
My dear what joy and happiness you have made in my life how fortunate all of us are that are
Loved and love and His love for us will never end in this we are in a mighty fortress first we have
Each other then it is all enriched and made alive by pure love from above
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
A symphony
of harmonious flighted creatures
that sing
at the rising of the sun.
Ever changing
are the finite spirit forms,
gracefully gliding
through the sky and beyond.
In start
of every new beginning.
Clouded hues
segue into one another
as dawn
approaches the morning sky.
Eyes peer
through half opened lids
waking slowly
with the powerful stretch of
rejuvenated muscles
to honor the presence of another day.
Flighted creatures
make home in the tall
green bushes.
Together they greet the rising world.
Waving branches
bid 'good morning' to the passerby's,
in hope
that the earthlings below
take notice
of their majestic beauty.
Green hairs
blanket the moist earth
and intermingle
with fallen teardrops from nearby
tall bushes.
Forms without spirit dissolve into
chocolate sand,
that is food for the non-traveling
ground dwellers,
so the bushes may shade, house, and feed.
Deep breaths
are heard as the atmosphere exhales
fresh air
into the lungs of all nearby earthlings.
Tiny monsters
make home in the green covered
chocolate sand.
They crawl with many feet
through jungle
that is, to us, sprouting green hair.
Sky dwellers
have many feet, and many wings.
No feathers,
but tiny, contorted, aerodynamic bodies.
Wind gliding,
to travel far across the land
fulfilling destinies.
Sky dwellers
are food for the flighted creatures.
A cycle;
a synergistic food chain for all life.
Blissful beauty
in its absolute finest.
Formless spirits
serve as infinite energy for the finite
earthly masterpiece.
A world of divine forms,
living harmoniously
under the glee of the rising sun.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 4:26 PM UTC
Life can find no substitute
when the end comes to love.
Two hearts intermingle
and become the one
they always were.
The hope that flourishes
underneath the lifeless games
create an everlasting spark
that subsists the reason
to keep on with life.
On and on
the cycle goes,
creating art with every breath.
An art that reveals
Passion,
Pain,
Joy,
Love,
Dreams,
and success.
Anything
that demonstrates
anything less,
shall not be deemed art.
Art is in the living,
as only the living
can see the beauty
that exists in everything.
In my hand,
and in my soul,
I possess the ability
to create.
To bring to life
the imagination
that dances
so freely within me.
To experience the art of creation
is a treasure;
The treasure
that every pirate
was looking for.
Live, and it will be found.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 12:30 PM UTC
Old car batteries, jumper cables and a squeeze toy
lay strewn about the playpen,
saliva and battery acid intermingle there,
a jagged-toothed mobile slowly revolves overhead,
the arc-welder spits brilliantly as we mend teddy’s arm.
The walls shudder from pounding machines downstairs,
the scent of spilled hydraulic oil and grease waft in,
is dinner cooking?
Teddy’s arm is healed,
the weld a rippling scar,
we take him by the arm to the forge
and draw a bath,
climbing in we turn molten again.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
52 Weeks: Whitman
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
52 Weeks: Mullein
The Red-Tailed hawk swoops by and catches just a glimpse, he tilts his head Dionysian style mouth slightly agape.
I too am a wild thing, I too am untethered,
And I sound animalistic in the dining halls of the tamed.
The final missile thud holds me in a sweet caress,
My likeness rockets earthward … tried and true and tired and truer,
I am coaxed into existence once again.
I maintain my aetheric ties as I know this is the roadmap back to you,
It’s nice to be enmeshed in the living once again even though they drain,
To drain is to live, one gives eternity to be mortal - it’s the only thing that ever made sense.
I won’t depart, I dig in my heels,
And I turn my back on the organized.
I am of the earth because I understand my antecedents … my mother’s mother’s mother …
And because of this knowledge of ante’s I can set prece’s, hopefully precisely.
I hardly know who I am or what I mean (on a good day),
But I am good for you none the less,
As our tastes and sounds and smells and touches intermingle.
And always I wait patiently,
for me for you,
for us.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
towels mingle toss tease
in an unforgiving rush of water
merrily tumbling through waves
rich with detergent
meanwhile dark fabrics twist
in an angry climactic surf
while lighter colors undulate elsewhere
in a wet frivolous frenzy
dainty lingerie -
in yet another machine -
gently sails in a delicate ballet...
whites, pinks, muted yellows and blues
intermingle playfully as they wait
for the cool rinse cycle to commence
and perform its own unique magic
finally the dryers prevail
and the folded garments rest on a table -
the warm spent players basking
in a glorious afterglow
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
#*Caught in the mundane
Imagination escapes my thoughts
Wilfully plant themselves someplace alive
Joyous trees in the forest thrive
Not a word
Written nor spoken
Some emotions best buried underneath
Not to be watered never to sprout
Crossing paths and boundaries too
Rain meets summer, seasons intermingle
Flowering blooms spring stays bold
Leaves of colour, turn to gold
My thoughts like silt and sand
Awash and Washed ashore
Emerge and submerge
Wavering like the waves
The mundane rose and raved
Common its place
Not a day with or without
Every day life thrives*#
Jul 18, 2023
Jul 18, 2023 at 2:38 PM UTC