"lacework" poems
See my spiral for how she rendered it
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXXXVI)
Ya. Lean upon the porch rail as night's dense
Black--does it twinkle with ah, stars? nor hail
The mirk none pass through, just my brother. Pale
As Au Revoir where all else sleep from hence,
Lo, how--what ist? Hark! For the train calls thence,
Its whistle breaking this cold silence' tale,
And think now, of how I'll lose all ist? frail
Against the metal lacework, sans defense.
Turn back indoors to clean the mess we'd stir
In babysitting. Wooden tracks a crew
Of Brio traincars clattered oer in tour
Half like what deeply rumbles past, aye to
A fault, my brother saying "a real train--" Were
I numb too long oer Mum? Or swear I knew?
01Apr17b
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
For many reasons, December is a dead season.
The fields are painted in purple and grey, with
blackbirds rising into the sky from distant tree-lines.
The give of summer earth is a hazy memory now,
stored somewhere deep, frozen down in the pores of the soil
where seeds have drawn themselves tightly into themselves.
Trees bend to the ground under their own naked weight.
And this is the season of the christchild?
With a wind that seeks the softest curve of your neck,
slapping your face and drawing water from your eyes,
with nights that go on with only brief intermissions of day.
Is there comfort to be found in the darkest season,
hidden away in some corner of some wood or in a
box to be torn in the rush of Christmas morning?
Open a citrus fruit and let its oils blossom into the air.
Crush a pine needle and spread its syrup on your fingers.
Watch the yolk of the sun break over the horizon through
the smoke of your breath and the breath of the frozen earth.
Get up early, stay up late when the lights come on and walk
out under them. Feel the heat from the open doors of the
department stores but don’t enter; keep this for yourself.
Once, I drove through the predawn blues on the bank of the
Mohowk River the day before Christmas. In the timid dawn
the frost was lacework, birches bowed, the blackbirds jubilated.
And somewhere ahead, a pine wreath hung on a porch for me,
a door was unlocked, a bowl of citrus fruit was being laid out.
December is a dead season, a sleeping season, but from
the darkest night of the year hangs a simple string of lights.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
would have known her in a crowd of a thousand
******* and genitalia had been carved with elaborate care
these are the gods who have been forgotten
their last priests died without passing on their secrets
ideas are more difficult to be killed than people
like pebbles dropped o by o into a deep
n n
e e
w e l l
they navigated the green sea
by the stars
by the shore
when the shore was only a memory
the night sky overcast and dark
by the faith
the sun as distant and cold as a dull silver coin
ice crystals on the asphalt
glittered like diamonds in the morning sun
the world in the mist had become a pencil drawing
executed in a dozen different grays
when the shadows are long
that is my time
and you are the long shadow
the moonlight drained colors into ghosts of themselves
take the leap from the leafless
and dance on nothing until the dancing was done
we travel a spiral where
the quickest way is sometimes the longest
at night you're rubbing yourself against wormfood
slick as a snake in a barrel of butter
patches of white against an iron-grey sky
each a lacework of fractal art
touching your tongue with cold and winter
kissing your face with its hesitant touch
before freezing you to death
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
Blue eyes
Hold mine captive.
Sweet scent of sunshine
Mutes the light traffic as
shadows play in the vibrant green
of the overhead maples.
His laugh
sudden though musical
Fills me with satisfaction
This boy with the blue eyes
and the pondering lips
Harbours a magnetic pull
The north
Which attracts my south
His mind a lacework
Of thoughts thought far too much
Far too often
But always real, always true
which is rare, in any blue eyed boy.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
A jump rope lisping
Through loose gravel and rhymes.
Resembling orchestras and rapidly
Scratched-out novels,
Evolution of an indifferent ******
Delicate lacework stitched
Beneath the youthful
And frail. Disintegrating
Like a bird’s nest, once
Air conditioning expires.
Scampering between markets,
Wavering while waiting
In redundant lines, as you
Carelessly caress outerwear that you
Waited in line for yesterday.
Placing yourself professionally
On seats, beside plainly colored
Briefcases. Quivering arms
Tingle, as the blood
Relinquishes.
Wordless entities fill
Empty rooms, as pressure
Builds from the exterior and in.
Tarnished sneakers sink and slip,
Amidst cunning quicksand.
Mangled and thrashed,
Fabrics that used to be
Accustom to merry-go-rounds, and dry
Eyes. Gently laced hemming,
Lacerated at the seams.
Stroll down whimpering sidewalks
That sting for vibrations, fixed
By a stranger’s oblivious feet.
Jerking outerwear closer
As no emotions pass.
Synthetic joy overcomes
You, when droning
Minds think alike.
Wriggling and skulking
To cease the crunching of time.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
Does blood smell like burnt rubber to you?
Now nothing but a stain on the highway.
The windshield cracked like a finely cut crystal,
it was glass that opened the animal’s sorry neck.
Is that why you flinch at the sight of tomatoes
in our September garden, rotting while
beetles make lacework of the leaves,
do they remind you of flesh bursting at the seams?
Do you remember being scared drunk and praying
that the deer was an angel or hallucination?
While steam rose from the broken bodies
of your vehicle and the animal like incense to God.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
people watch themselves, eye to eye, in the mirror
so ******* afraid, if they turn away,
that they will put the knife down their own spine:
‘it is your fault my heart is dying’
they would say,
‘it is all your fault I am so alone’
so, everyone neglects their profile,
their victorian shade decays,
so, all humans now are, in silhouette,
as hideous as their engorged sense of vanity.
such is the nature of our society, narcissique.
but you, damp heart,
where the rain falls and makes
sweet sap, under that arterial lacework,
your side, lit by heaving sun,
took all that beauty and bound it
under and over your skin,
cheek palette like slow fire,
eyelashes like aching needles,
you keep stealing,
in all those moments between,
stealing me.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
seventeen slimey slugs,
lay drunk and dying,
in the beer bath.
but not before,
their skullduggery,
had been done,in amongst the lettuce and silverbeet.
now made lacework,
by the snipping of slug teeth.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
the night brings
with its glittering sky
cricket choir
lightning bug
The light breeze
wakes the sleeping palm
the orb weaver
spins its lacework
A cat sits
tail wrapped
sniffing the dew
of the night-blooming jasmine
In the center
eyes closed
deep breath in
slow breath out
legs one under
the other hands
to the side
eye open
He soars above
the chirping chorus
the solitary cat
above the weaver
Over the palm
with the lightning bug
the scent of jasmine
ignites his aura
He is one
with the stars
He soars
Free
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
WHEN I SLEEP ALL I SEE IS YOUR ******* FACE
IT'S BEEN THREE YEARS AND YOU STILL WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE
YOU'RE BARELY A VAPOR BUT I STILL HEAR YOUR VOICE IN MY HEAD STOP TEMPTING ME TO JUMP OFF YOUR CLIFF
THE TRUTH AND I SHARE A WATERY GRAVE AND I DON'T WANT TO FACE MY OWN FUTURE
MY HEARTBEAT HAS FLUCTUATED SEVEN TIMES IN THE PAST HOUR
FOUR TIMES WERE YOUR FAULT
THE REST WERE BECAUSE OF MY ASTHMA ATTACK I HAVE TO USE MY INHALER WHENEVER I HEAR YOUR VOICE IN MY HEAD
I WOKE UP YESTERDAY AND YOUR NAME BLED OUT OF MY MOUTH LIKE WATER FROM A ******* SPOUT WHY CAN'T I FORGET YOU ALREADY
IF I SHOOT YOUR GRAVESTONE WILL YOUR GHOST GO UP IN FLAMES?IF I CLAW OUT MY EYES WILL I FINALLY STOP SEEING YOU IN PLACES YOU CANNOT BE?IF I LET FEATHERS FALL FROM MY BACK LIKE ANGELS' WINGS WILL YOU COME BACK TO LIFE?
TOUCH YOUR FINGERS TO MY CROWS FEET AND TELL ME I LOOK ******* AWFUL
PLEASE JUST TELL ME I LOOK ******* AWFUL
THERE ARE SEVEN WAYS TO TELL SOMEONE YOU HATE THEIR GUTS
ONE OF THEM IS DYING
I'M SORRY YOU HATE MY GUTS BUT I HATE YOURS MORE
I HATE YOUR LIVER AND YOUR KIDNEYS AND YOUR ******* LUNGS I HATE HOW MUCH YOU SMOKED
I HATE HOW YOU REMEMBERED MY ASTHMA AND BLEW OUT THE ASHES AWAY FROM MY FACE
WEAVE LACEWORK OVER MY HANDS AND FACE LEAVE DOTS OF BLOOD AROUND MY EYES
SHOW ME YOU WERE HERE
SHOW ME THAT I DIDN'T MAKE YOU UP YOU WERE NEVER A FEVER DREAM
YOU WERE COLD AND REAL AND I WISH YOUR PIANIST'S FINGERS COULD STILL PLAY
THERE IS NO GREY AREA ON A BABY GRAND
NO ROOM FOR ERROR WHEN YOU CRASH YOUR CAR INTO A BRICK WALL
THEY TOLD ME TO HONOR YOUR MEMORY SO I CUT OUT MY LUNGS IN THE HOPES THAT IT WOULD HELP YOU TO BREATHE AGAIN
THIS IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A TSUNAMI AND A HURRICANE.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
mysterious existences endure beside a
transitory life of silent beginnings,
where a hidden solitary figure
becomes a poet in the distance,
only living in writing -
leaving things, weaving threads
into lacework of everlasting presence,
the essence of eternity and vastness of creativity
captured and secured in her attempts to
verse infinity.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
Beauty is a night entwined,
In mental lacework and woe,
For which the day sleeps for dawn,
And the sun is love,
And a smile for show.
Time for the whisper,
A second for the wait,
Where the thought becomes the chord,
Music the word,
Words of soft estate.
And love,
And heart,
And the single word they spoke of endless days,
Left a spoken thought the whispers say,
Broke the heart of man and mind,
Then broke her own heart in kind.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 3:13 AM UTC
Haha, it's funny looking at this now. L8: that little email, oh my.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCXCVIII)
Where midnight'd feign a silence 'til I'd thence
Roll back the covers to at last avail
Me of lying down for good, ah how the pale
Eye of that moon rose twixt those treetops' dense
Black lacework, shivring in a keener sense.
Although we knew twas folly to detail
Aught, how I sent my Joey, like to scale,
Notes on whatever, to shrink from it hence.
Or, no. I squinted as it peered as twere
At me, the ghastly calm fit for sweet dew,
And rose when dawn's first shafts began to stir.
What are the dreams long since forgot as due?
For if I shrink from building castles your
Sweet intrest culls, will that make all come true?
15Jul17a
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
Minds are webbed, silver threaded and fragile. Viscous fibers cloak the skull, a decrepit cavern where thoughts catch on the walls. This cumbrance- it snags each passing memory, and in an impermeable catacomb they decay. Never to escape their somber grave. If I could untangle the lacework perhaps I could remember, but I've long since given up, it's fragile and jaded.
Now is the genesis of haunting ambiguity, the ruination of truth. A lesson to all not to let life's expanse cloud your existential perception of purpose.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
tern, how do i burn half my body
just to return home without crumbling
robin, how do i whistle these lacework trills
above the steel demands of garbage trucks
pigeon, how do i shine like gaspuddle rainbows
without bathing in the street gutters
eagle, how do i fasten my scowl so tightly
that it is not weakened by wind or death
crane, how do i dance on wheatstalk legs
and not bend but to bow graciously
hummingbird, what is the velocity of hunger
i must reach to not be swallowed by the world?
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
The house, an aristocratic pile
Sat nestled into the hill,
Hidden by trees and bushes, while
It harboured its silence, still.
No outward sign of its infamy,
No clue to the years before,
When men had described it, clinically
As being, itself, at war.
Designed and built by my grandfather
In a late Victorian style,
It had all the trappings of balconies
And of lacework in wrought iron,
The tiles were Italian marble
And the pathways local stone,
My Grandma, Jenny McArdle,
She gave it a heightened tone.
The gentry came for the parties,
They came for the dress-up *****
I don’t remember a time they weren’t
Wandering through the halls,
It fretted Jenny McArdle
Who wanted a little peace,
But **** was a hunting sporting man
And he wanted peace the least.
He’d take his chums to the library
Where they’d play their six card stud,
There were threats and there was bribery
And before too long there, blood,
Then finally, on an ill starred night
That would hit my grandma hard,
Her husband wagered the house she loved
Just once, on a single card.
The moment she heard the house was gone
She flew at their deck of cards,
Split open the heads of more than one
Left acres of glass in shards,
‘You’ll not be taking my home from me,’
She screamed at the Earl of Vane,
Before she fell from the balcony,
Cursing her husband’s name.
And **** was never the same again
He had to vacate his home,
While Jenny McArdle’s blood was still
Staining the local stone,
They say her ghost wouldn’t leave the place
And that’s why it caught alight,
Once when her shape had leapt in space
From the balcony one night.
And now I sit in the clearing where
That once great house had sat,
Amidst the trees and the sounds of bees
When I’m feeling low, and flat,
That house, it should have been left to me,
I’m the only downward line,
But still I hear when the weather’s clear
My grandma’s voice, ‘It’s mine!’
David Lewis Paget
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
I let your bones lie
beside me…
And while your skin
spins its yarns, I
skim the **** of your charm,
from the broiling broth
of our bare bodies.
So come on –
And spin that wheel
with your winning spiel, as you
purr those perfect words
of perfidy.
So come on –
Embroider my eyes
with your lacework of lies, and
bury in me
those dewy seeds
of duplicity.
So come on –
The pair of us can be as wise
as three of the naivest monkeys.
So let’s lie together with our conceit
spread out around us
on pristine sheets,
And make love, as if love alone can be
the canvas of our deceit.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
Woven in the matrix lacework of your words
the stark absence of love
Not just the word
I could live with that
But you (I guess we) are devoid of that affection
If only it were just a word
that needed to be written down
or occasionally whispered as we fall asleep
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
To laugh in falsetto
And bribe with toothy smiles
To flatter men
And politely degrade myself for minimum wage
To ignore the lacework of frown lines pooling around each of our eyes
To etch teethmarks deep across my tongue
From every almost slip
To remember the script
To save 15%
To say “Thank you very much”
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 2:55 PM UTC
Flashing Monet garden blur,
central eye signals up to the core of the brain
until entire body shudders silently beneath the brightness
of banana visions and white blood cells
circling a small dot which fires
down a shorter path in this large bleeding space.
Pupils rolled into sockets,
losing sense of body and of self/
just a floating consciousness/
vivid rainbow lacework pattern into
a vibrating eye
staring back at me fluctuated
in flashes of
flower and
numb fingers
asleep
with absence of mind.
Soft mechanical shapes
swirl about the washing machine,
my head no longer attached to the body/split down
de/
capitat/ed/
consciousness wanders, circles back ethereally
to the room behind me
sees clearly
and expands out thru the window into the grey light of the morning
to see nobody awake
and the vagrant eidolon
can feel me staring back at it for once,
a presence not felt before..
..and the hum in my body rushes up to my head,
intense vague visions,
the weight of my feather-sensation
increases to point of fear,
disorientated upon opening eyes
and centralizing myself
to the room
and universal position.
Breathing deeply.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
I wanted
to stand in a rush hour turn lane
and kiss you until we both tasted enamel.
Air thick and sweet with the hot scent of living,
knowing we’re dying.
Unfortunately, that particular situation is an impossibility.
An impasse if you will.
My inherent fear of cars,
coupled with a distrust
of horses,
would prevent me from standing in any road
during any point
in the evolution of travel.
So I stay inside.
Listen to another night of the neighbors having ***
Seeing if this week’s guest star will be
whiskey damp apologies
or just more broken glassware.
Maybe I’ll get naked and play with guns.
Wonder if
my palette is refined
enough to taste new
spit on your smile.
I don’t suppose I could.
There’s no frame of reference.
Lens spray in your glove box suggests he wears glasses,
but very little else.
A glasses delivery system sliding his cigarette stained
hand up your dress in the theater.
Was it because I didn’t care
how much weight you lost
or how many people had been inside you?
Didn’t mind how the backs of your ribs
jutted through your skin into
the lacework of your blouse?
whisper in my ear and tell me you hate me.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 1:31 AM UTC
It is amazing
How real reality feels
Until something shatters it
I was looking through the stained glass window
When I bumped it with my hand
Fractures spiderwebbed across its surface
Yet I continued to gaze into the great beyond
I’d seal the cracks another day
It is amazing how real reality feels
Until something shatters it
I leaned up against the stained glass window
I hoped it would support my weight
It did, but the splinters grew
Yet I continued to lean inches from the great beyond
I’d fix the what was broken another day
It is amazing how real reality feels until
Something shatters it
I gazed out, far past the stained glass window
I was yearning for the great beyond
But then a glimmer caught my eye
The window
It was so intricate, so colorful, so close
I reached out to touch it
It is amazing how real reality feels until something
Shatters it
I reached out to touch the stained glass window
And the lacework I’d get around to fixing someday
Grew into fractures, valleys, impasses
Snaking across the face of the great beyond
I finally touched the stained glass window
It shattered.
And the great beyond was no longer so bright as I had hoped.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 10:43 PM UTC