"italic" poems
Take a soft tipped brush
Dip, and trace my nakedness;
Viscous dripping rainbow streams
Clothe me here within our dreams.
Swirl my curves
With satin pink,
Let your brush flutter and sink
lower, purples, red and blue,
I'm a canvas here for you.
Paint me scarlet, paint me gold,
Paint some words
italic, bold
Stop when you begin to weep
A masterpiece, for us to keep.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
she had a heart that
could light up the sky
she had a smile that
would brighten the gloom
on a winters morning
but she hid her beauty
beneath scarves and
long sleeved shirts
she didnt show off that
beauty until
he told her what
she had
that day she learned
that not every
thing is judged by
the outside.
italic c.s
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
She used to tell me
of math and poetry
by the length of her arm
and rhythm of her heart
conversing verse and fraction
with form following the function
of communist theories
and greek philosophies.
she beat out aesthetics
with a perfect symmetry.
because no one understands
the relationship between
seafoam and shoreline
the way she does
[swimming in saltwater sorrows]
reimagining time in an hourglass,
she shot up infinities with a glance
and left me moondrunk in the night.
she emits sparks throughout my system
breaking and entering--
my kingdom under siege.
her name was an amalgam of numbers
italic1.6180399. . . .italic
and I loved her by design.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
I talk in commas and periods,
you talk in italic subtitles.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Enticing us in, sugar coated doors
for sticky fingers,
Doors of mystery, keep out, staff only
nettled in barbed wire.
Half open doors full of promise,
chocolate soft centred
Exciting doors, silk covered
in lace suspenders
Inspiring doors, Leonardo bold italic,
uppercase only
Lonely doors all shuttered in silence,
cobweb covered
Sad doors, tear stained
and umbrella wet
Happy doors,
candy striped in laughter
Forbidden doors, Pandora boxed,
best kept locked
Revolving doors covered
with the same sticky mistakes
Trap doors crocodile sprung
to catch you out
Doors that slide on tram like runners,
buffered into walls with imprint of face
Secret doors of camouflaged chameleon
Troubled doors
thunder clapped in turmoil
Doors enticing us.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
1498
Glass was the Street—in tinsel Peril
Tree and Traveller stood—
Filled was the Air with merry venture
Hearty with Boys the Road—
Shot the lithe Sleds like shod vibrations
Emphasized and gone
It is the Past’s supreme italic
Makes this Present mean—
3.1k
While the children play in the sun, it'll be all the children but one,
the shadow girl will hide away secretly decorating a place to stay.
Once so perfect, once so pure, a girl unlike others idolized by all,
Now so flawed, now so dark, a girl who hates to see the flying lights.
Everything earned, everything wanted, served in silver before her,
she wanted more, dying of hungry yet plain the dishes become.
Eyes so sweet, eyes so tender, chocolate smothered care,
lids with wrinkles, stares so bitter, a turn for a worse in smoke tears.
Love so true, written in stone, italic figures and wonderful notes,
lies so deep, they cut in more, artificial bodies and agony with all.
Drawings so neat, effects so clear, strong plus confident all in one,
scribbles on paper, ripped and torn praying 'a few pictures more'.
The reflection, the reflection its coming to me, whispering so sweet,
tenderly, it screams down my ears and looks me in the eyes, shouting "No, this can't be your life."
Broken roads, dusty concrete, nobody to be seen,
in this world of isolation, the only person I see,
is the girl of shadows and she's looking back at me.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
*Italic drumroll...
imperial cavalcade with Roman horns, eagle standards raised*;
♪ ♫♪♫ ♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪
ALL HAIL !
Ye screen-fed sacrificial citizens, seething simpletons and volatile voters:
attend now, with republican fervor, tempered by democratic zeal, to the golden-tongued orator of our epoch, gallant guardian of American greatness, avatar of avarice, the Jeffersonian gentleman, anointed autocrat and Sultan of Swell, windswept Wazir of Wonderful, emissary of towering eminence in empire, The Anti H-Rod: Donald J. TRUMP !
(Plebeians look up from their circus-bread for a second—)
And may Our Sovereign Savior & Almighty God also bless his worthy opponent and adversary *HILLARY ("H-Rod")*
(Patricians murmur, nod; a few salute)
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
955
The Hollows round His eager Eyes
Were Pages where to read
Pathetic Histories—although
Himself had not complained.
Biography to All who passed
Of Unobtrusive Pain
Except for the italic Face
Endured, unhelped—unknown.
2.3k
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!
to think, is to not narrate,
much of what is regarded as
"thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
hands with a tongue...
hence: idle speech,
hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
(tongue)...
but most people don't think,
because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
their day-to-day...
and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
i really do...
how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
really bothers me...
the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
(iberian inverted questioning
¿ ? that's the first step toward
an iberian existentialism)
said the third person,
with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
of the writer's original testimony?
if northern existentialism (french / german...
the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
encompasses the tool that's " "
then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e. ¿ ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
but aphorism 285: "worldview",
"grounding", "configuring"...
i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
aren't all the three descriptive elements /
adjectives the purposive sentiments for
originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
found in the existential tool of double-ditto " "
or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
from passing the judgement...
they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
italicI gave you my heart,
italicI didn't expect you to hold it tight,
italicBut I didn't expect you to obliterate it either.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Do you miss me?
Do you miss the way my eyes gleamed when I saw you?
Do you miss laying in bed and talking about life?
Do you miss me making you breakfast?
Do you miss the smell of my strong floral pefume you hated?
Do you miss holding my hand as we ran through the rain?
Do you miss the bed time stories we used to tell each other, although we were too old for them?
Do you miss seeing me smile?
Do you miss hearing my stupid laugh whenever you told those bad jokes?
Do you miss making me blush whenever you gave me a compliment?
Do you miss holding me as I cried during a sad movie?
Do you miss saying ' I Love You italic '
Do you?
I don't think you do.
(S.K)
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
If you ever die
If you ever die from me
Looking at my longing eyes
In guise of a mystic veil
Dead drop at the twilight hours
White longish fangs
Of the piercing moments
Will unfurl its wings of fire
Setting sail in an invisible gondola
At long last to carry you home
To the isle of your birth
Even if you ever die at all from me
I will stand upon the deck of noontide
All alone in my aloneness, all alone
Staring vaguely at the rushing gondola
Surfing invisibly away from me
Tearing apart the veil of grazing mist
At the twilight hours casting spell on me
To diminish myself into you
And with you I too diminish away
From you, all away from you
In a shroud of love and longing
As if you never died away from me
In my longing eyes for you, only for you
And like The Prophet beloved
Prophesying on the blue mountain
From his never ending well
Of wisdom depthless and deathless
I will remember you as silently
As the sound of scorching darkness
And I will remember your heart
As saying for ever to me, only to me:
“A little while,
A moment of rest upon the wind,
And another woman will bear me." *
* (The italic quotation is from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet)
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
*My doctor offered me a cure,
For my dull ill heart so pure,
He nodded his head,
And grabbed a paper instead,
Which he left next to my bed,
"Don't open it till I am gone,"
He said.
I waited for a moment,
Till I heard the cracking of the door,
He gentley slammed it for sure,
''Why would he do that?"
I said.
I took the paper to unfold,
To read what was untold,
My hands shivered,
My heart stopped,
instead,
It was eloquently folded,
Like the coffin of the dead,
His black ink on white,
His italic messed up writing,
Not a prescript, but a funeral,
Instead.
Between those elegant lines,
He said,
**"You, my dear patient,
Are lost in despair,
You are on earth,
With a lofty heart,
Pardon me,
Pardon my knowledge,
There is no cure for that,
You are a poet, cures are futile,
Medicine is useless,
Your desires are uncontrolled,
They are not meant to be,
But they are your drug,
You are addicted to that,
Pleasures are your weakness,
Such a lofty weakness,
But alas,
Such a dreadful terminal illness,
Try a poem a day,
instead.
As there is nothing to heal you with,
in my head.
A poem a day,
Keep me at bay."***
Copyright© protected
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
1316
Winter is good—his **** Delights
Italic flavor yield
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World—
Generic as a Quarry
And hearty—as a Rose—
Invited with Asperity
But welcome when he goes.
1.9k
italic
the old grist mill leans
nestled in the rocky bank
red fall leaves surreal
The swift red-stained creek that energized the mill's wheel still runs over ancient rock
on its course to the mighty sea.
Its course unchanged for eons and the use of its steady resources remain.
The red leaves upon the trees surrounding the creek will soon be spent
their usefulness for their lifetime gone.
the red sweet gum leaves
fall twirling land 'pon hard rocks...
crayfish hide 'neath red
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Bold=Chris
Italic=Tiffany
**You are darkest beauty
Hunted by this frenzy
These aging, wizened eyes
Track you through the night
Prey for the predator**
As for the creature feasts on the most unknown meal of all not the dark but thy light
**Draining the sweet innocence
Hungry for the souls taste
But you stay just of reach
The closer to thy light
It burns at this darkness**
The light shines with no effect upon thy dark but the dark shines no mercy but glory and hatred the dark predator gives to thy light
**This creature feels only rage
Consumed at he can not have
Fury at what he can never be
For he never knew the angel
Of the darkest beauty in hiding**
Thy angel of light bares to thy soul of thy darkest part of the creature of the dark exposes its true beauty and shines light on its pure light and the demon of darkness demolishes thy lights soul and the light shall stay nonimmortal while the dark overules the light and captures both sides dark and thy light both parish in a eruption of flames and disappear in a thin of smoke and never return to thy land of good and evil.
Collaboration by Chris Smith the dark poet
And Tiffany Gold
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 7:09 AM UTC
You think you're the better writer with
Your indentations,
Arrogant alliteration,
Games of Rhymation;
When You Capitalize For No Good Reason
OR TYPE IN ALL CAPS;
When you type in italic just because you can;
With thy ineffectual employment of Shakespearean formulation
Or elongated conveyance of your articulation,
When you type in
funny patterns to
better express the
thoughtfulness and
superiority behind the gemstone
artist,
And, all- your; meaningful, strategically placed' punctuation!
And perpisfuly mispled wurds bcuz yur so ironic,
And your cryptic title that's meant to come off as genius.
Dylan could crack a skull without a hammer.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
"...WHEN THE EVENING IS SET OUT AGAINST THE SKY..."
She stood
as if the world
were a mere
bit of scenery
backdrop
a prop in a play
designed for the sole purpose
of making her
look good.
Gorgeous is
the word.
She a universe
unto her self.
She spoke in italic.
Her voice changing font
from word to word.
She had a strange up
and down CaPiTaL accent
that was slightly dis-
concerting.
A simple "How do you do?"
metamorphosing into
hOw Do YoU dO
and without a trace
of punctuation
her voice a melody
upon the air
like music set free
invisibly.
She spoke excellent
French deliciously
which one
understood completely
even though one
had only schoolboy French.
jE m ApPellE mAdAmE mOrT eT
mAiNtEnAnT aLlOns y
She held out a hand
the sun itself
a mere jewel
upon her finger.
The world had run out
of itself.
I followed Madame Mort
into the nothingness
that had suddenly
opened up.
"Qui...merci!"
the last thing I
ever heard
my self say.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
*[doesn't every ugly thing
look good in cursive?]*
tattoo the image as a sleeve
like i'm too young to care
if you're taking care of yourself
vinylrecordshatteringvulnerableOHSO
it's not even summer yet
and i already know i ain't over a **** thing
love like your slender, lanky long body
large brown eyes and the smell of
smoke in your hair
hazel honey energy, making out on the balcony
promise land really is just a graveyard
of discarded lights like you and i
in the middle of a desert
and i can't think straight, not since your lips
first captured mine
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
Tony and Gpa were driving down Blue Lakes when they were approaching a construction site. The work had been going on for some time but today it was really a mess. Tony said, “why do they make such a mess of the ground grandpa? It looks really bad.” Inspiration hit me. Relate this messy lot to life.
“Sometimes things have to look really bad before it can be make into something beautiful and useful. A piece of canvas can be laying around for years, ***** a mess and then someone picks it up, cleans it off to discover it will work perfectly for a painting. The spots are covered and the artist begins the first brush strokes. Soon, what was ***** and no value to anyone becomes a wonderful work of art by the masters hand. ”
“It is much like people. They can be ***** and broken, look a mess because of drug use, not living right.”
“God can pick them up, clean them off and begin painting a beautiful picture. Where once was a disaster now it beauty.”
Granted, the above is a little more but not much more, than what gpa said to Tony that day. The italic was added when gpa wrote this.
Anger, envy, strife, and unforgiveness ( your choice here) can soil the canvas of life. Words said in anger can never be taken back. All the other hurts and hangups in life can dissolve into the background when forgiveness is granted and accepted.
Forgiveness can cover many a stain and when the light reflects off our picture only the beauty of forgiveness reaches out to others. I know many forgiven people. Beautiful people.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
A changing pillow, so soft with its yellowness.
A freshly laid outfit so fresh with the sweet smell of babies.
A cowboy swinging with the joy of Christmas morning.
The aroma of baby powder dancing in the air.
The sound of a fist banging the wall.
A cabinet filled with a collection of toys.
A white Pooh Bear smiling at the chair with cowboys on the side.
A rainforest setting singing italicrock a bye babyitalic.
Tweetie, Sylvester, Bugs Bunny, and Daffy Duck swinging on a merry go round.
The sound of a baby happily talking to angels.
A happy baby laughing as he watches angels dance before him.
I close my eyes and count to three.
I open my eyes.
Never will it be.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 12:55 AM UTC
I always get terribly nervous
Running into people I sort of knew
But didn't know
And now I just stay quiet on my phone reading morning articles past the afternoon migration
And laugh at a witty fathers joke.
The way I ate my Lays was weird
She knows it and now conversation is out of any equation
I was about to punch into an iPhone calculator
Circulation ended in my hands down.
Children are creation, lovely doves.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
*My poisonous love - A poetic soul
The modification of puckish heart- A cold - blooded bowl
full of your deviant love
stirred with the taste of your strawberry lips , I howl
Real night comes along midnight tranquility
I hear the echoes of yous, Oh cold - Breeze
drives me to your enthral heart
making me lost inside you; 'bout your spellbind heat...
.. resided to your deepen love belonged to mine
With night, you undress your flowery spirit for me, A sly
I rolled up the whole drooling persona of yours with... in the blanket
like a heart seems to be hooked up with its every salacious beat,
~ Oh My French romance & your Italian love so Italic ~
Habibi, I sing you a lullaby
Like a God blessing the whole heart, deeply
The game's made to be over, but not my love, sweetly
Sanorita, Maria, Bri-bee, hey, Nina bonita, oh honey-bee
whatever your name is; wherever you reside to, my spirit needs you completely.*
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
Recently I took a trip,
the destination: my homeland.
Such a strange concept,
For when I got there it felt
italic foreign. italic
Growing up an ocean away gave me a new culture.
A new perspective.
A new language.
A way of life different from my relatives.
It may be my homeland.
But it is not my home.
So where is home?
Where your family is?
Where you grew up?
Where your heart is?
It may be all of these things.
But I know home is where you feel greeted,
like an old friend.
Where each breath is fresh.
Where you feel at peace.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC