"lathers" poems
It is docking it is tocking in the winter garden locking
over still and heavy knocking that defies the very dew.
We see storms and angels crumbling under load of dearest kindling and the fire and gases burning in the skies where clouds are churning and the snow, hail, sleet, and ices come to split the air in slices as it settles over houses, villages, shoes.
Waiting huddling drawing the blankets hot and heavy with a fear of powerful nature in the windy savory few.
Now we see and hear the howling like a wolf entangles scowling as she tries to say her fowl and angry message to the blew.
I am never quite so settled as when all around me crumbles and the anger of the desert makes the inner anger moot.
And the people seem to gather in their individual lathers but they all believe the madness that the storm will never pass. But pass it does and finding with the dawn a calm descending, yes, a calm that is so different that it seems to crush our ears. We are happy to look outward and even hear a skylark and to see the streaming sun rays flitter over piles of snow.
Ever angled up in heaven we almost see a dragon or a cannon that's protecting rampart walls.
And we know that we are safe here but it was such a battle that the scars are not quite healed.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
We've grown claws instead of nails,
and now they're tearing at our throats
leaving feral cuts.
Like a single atom that impossibly wants to split,
we're digging our claws into each others' skin.
Exposing wounds,
spilling guts.
"Careful, you might slip on 'em," she smiled,
not human like;
teeth sharp and menacing.
I did.
And now she lathers her hair with my blood.
A shiny red prize as she rises to the top;
a red supernova,
preaching about what is right and wrong.
Two atoms.
A miracle.
I sit down on the earth,
watching you rise, tending to my wounds.
And I tend, and I tend.
And I tend.
Heal.
Claws; I'm ready.
One day you'll dim and fall,
And I'll just walk away.
Not a supernova,
not an angel,
not a monster.
I'm a human;
body and soul,
and I won't let you waste my energy
no more.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
She thought,
She is that innocent,
But I knew better
For the walls told me so
Of her romance
With her bathing sponge
Every morning in the tub!,
And of the tub water
Penetrating
Her never ever
Penetrated aisle.
Then the soap lathers……..
She thought,
She is still innocent,
But it’s long stolen.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 2:45 AM UTC
Pancakes
Soft, circular, fluffy delight.
Euphoric taste, ******** to the mouth.
Heart pounding, as Aunt Jemima lathers her essence all over this treat.
Fresh bright fruit falling onto this plate as if it were sent from the heavens.
An earthly treat from Mother Earth, guaranteed to fill your satisfaction.
Savouring every bite, tingling all your senses.
A meal that could tickle ones soul and enlighten their day.
Pancakes, a synonym for yum, the definition of bliss.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
i love more things than boys.
-i like waking up on a Saturday morning
and watching the sunlight dance around my room.
i like breathing in the crisp clean morning air
then snuggling back to sleep inside my warm blanket palace.
-i like walking down my stairs on said Saturday morning and smelling waffles
and hearing my dad laugh and sing zz top and then hotel California.
i like hearing him try hard to decide between the sound of silence and the beach boys while sizzling bacon on the stove.
i like hearing my mom shuffle zombie-like into the kitchen and make eyes at the full coffee *** and then at my dad- who lovingly filled it for her.
listening to their banter as my sunlight-filled-angel-kissed little sister wakes up and lathers butter on every last pancake.
i like being a part of them, being the bacon eater and the quiet listener, the new train of thought in this bright loud space.
i like more than just boys.
i like my life
and i do not need male hands
and my lack of sleepy bedroom eyes to define my life.
im worth more than the constant want of something i've never had.
my dad, the myth-busters enthusiast and pancake flipper is the biggest testament to that fact.
because of them i can never forget that i'm happy.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
We all have a different story.
White male, sophomore says
His father told him all **** should be shot on site
So these words continue to constrict his neck like a noose
Making it impossible for him to breathe
Giving him no room to live
Like the conversion camp he was sent to over and over again
It leaves cuts that have yet to turn into scars.
We all have a different story.
White female, junior tells
How the emails kept popping up on her screen
Like unwanted blemishes that she could scrape off
One by one.
Church members chastising her
Because their favorite boy
Had just been accused of thrusting the life out of her
She is covered in "are you sure you weren't asking for it?"
She's sure.
Blood on her hands that spells out the word ****
And she lathers her body
Drowns herself in it
Until an unassuming girl is able to be her life preserver
But they still have to pretend to be
"Just friends"
We all have a different story.
Me?
So used to hearing
"You can't love both."
So used to hearing
"You can't even love yourself."
Now I live in a world
Where man, woman, no gender can love me
Because I make myself too prickly to touch
Whenever someone comes too close
I turn into a cactus
Because how could anyone possibly love someone
Who has been taken advantage so many times
That she cannot find it in her heart
To make love to someone
She has *** with them
But there is no love
But there is no passion at all.
We all have a different story.
Being queer in an evangelical community
Is like being raw meat
In a dog house.
They can smell you from a mile away
Ready for the ****
Do not stab your knife into me
In the kindest way you can think of
By telling me
"I'll pray for you."
Do not pour your poison into my body
By saying
"God loves the sinner but hates the sin."
My existence is no accident
My queerness is not my choice
You wonder why so many
Lesbian gay bisexual transgender questioning youth
Abandon the church?
It is not because of God
It is because these congregations keep playing God
*This is the same **** story.*
Do you know how hard it is the find an accepting church community?
It is a suicide mission
As I walk into the congregation
Arms open, eyes closed
Waiting to be embraced
Or shot on site.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
Sediment slabs purl down soft rock,
parched charcoal lathers soot - scintillate,
smothered form in slate deluge,
where the sun can take refuge,
saturnine in the hiemal shift of the alcove,
and nebulous spume caroms - gaseous halations ,
off scalding waters, sweet smoke arise,
tenuous strings of light gossamer in the eyes ,
meshed scales loll down,
corona tendrils stream over sunken psilocybe,
equilibrium sun-warped - flares effulgent,
seeping into trails of salt-lacerated skin,
wax beads singeing skin - summer hit of apocalypse fever
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
Like a muscular drummer drumming,
the Big wind
It gathers itself, twirls its sticks
Then swooping suddenly lambasts its
kit
Thrashes the coast, sways the trees
and rocks the boats
Lathers into it;
Its cymbals crashing are the smash of
the sea against the rocks
The trees running amok over the
rising mountains.
II
With a draught of this air drawn in to
fill my sails
To have the big windmills of my blood
rotate
And blow me out then across the bay
Up over the headland, out over the
wide open sea
A Colossus emerging and none to
stand in my way.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 6:13 PM UTC
I sharpen my wits and pencil.
She lathers lotion on her hands.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
why must my heart be like feathers falling too
quickly?
i cannot help but feel and love and feel and love
and it is all too much.
he has been in my dreams, a shadow
who kisses my eyebrows and walks with
patience besides me.
i believe this is the flesh him even though i know.
his questions are nothing of substance, and i
know he is eager to slip my veil off again and
again and again.
but can't he see my rib bones poking through my chest?
i am in love with his tongue, and perhaps nothing
else.
he reads poetry but holds no compassion.
eager to lick but quick to bite my
lips together.
i am so much more than my open legs.
i am so much more than my ripped tights and rimmed eyes.
but he stares at me like fish in tanks.
eyes too wide and mouth agape.
i am not the food placed on the surface, waiting to be
swallowed and digested.
when i try to pry open his chest,
he pushes me down.
lathers me in silver until my throat is
hollow.
he is a writer
but refuses to see the words in
people.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
The noise of the cavalry was muffled by the rhythm of the crows
Cawing, they bellowed their demands, until silence
Betray the gathered armies, and the men began towing
The foreign rocks, heavy they were, scrapping the last of the lavender
From the earth. Those in protest formed a crust
That lined the crown of the castle walls, there will be no violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next for the wives have had enough of violence
And the birdsongs have never sounded so bitter, these crows
That perch in the woven branches of the castle woods eat nothing but the crust
From shattered honeypots. Often they screech out in pain, but it is all silence
Lately for they have been soothed by the refugees of lavender
That squat in their nests. But it won’t last, for the men have started towing
Again; great metal ladders in hopes to infect their havens, men towing
Their aggression like a mere pebble in their pockets. They are cemented in violence
Like the calf to the ****** and the wife who lathers the scent of lavender
Into her hair. But not all things are so natural and sweet. The crows
Have had their heritage destroyed, they no longer follow the universe, silence
Has become permanence, just like how their rookeries have formed the crust
Upon their enemy’s world. So damp and hollow their homes have become like a crust
Of saliva upon the bathroom sink, alas there is no time to repair, for the men are towing
Again; rocks, ladders and now fallen oaks - dragging earth up as they trudge. There is silence
Before the breach, a moment of purgatory before the deafening violence
Ensues. There are no caws from the guarded rookeries, the crows
Have decided to sleep through revolution, huddled among their lavender
That will soon be found in the knotted hair of widows, the stench of lavender
Shall waft through the winds of grief, as the priest gives counsel to the fresh crust
Of tears found under the eyes of thousands. It is over now and the crows
Have come to pay their respects, they caw at the men who are towing
The tombstones of lives that never blossomed, each one reads: “there will be no more violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next.”. And life shall proceed only with silence.
For awhile it may all persist, silence
Is king and the woods that hug the castle walls are growing lavender
Again. The treaty is kept and the cloak of violence
Is hung up neatly next to the crown, waiting for the crust
Of peace to be vanquished. It is the wives now who spend their days towing
The labour of the land; weaving seeds and chatting to the crows.
Alas, it does not take long for violence to mature, and for the silence
To pitter off. The crows have buried themselves, taking all the lavender
With them. The men are towing again and all that is left is a broken crust.
Dec 8, 2020
Dec 8, 2020 at 8:58 AM UTC
Sometimes I feel like I’m in the midst of a junk yard
***** junk yard girl
I’m part of all the scrap metal
Rusting away
Under the gentle yet violent embrace of such a ridiculously big sun, so powerful and on top of us
It’s no wonder summers make it so hard to breathe...
Then again so does the brisk wind, in a bitter winter
You can’t win.
I imagine myself immersed in the sand of a desert
the sand enters my cuticles till they explode
let me just bleed
In total
Peace
Letting the sand run through my fingers, just for a brief moment
I can control time.
Like popcorn stuck in your molars
While the smooth butter just lathers up your taste buds
I live feeling bipolar
Nostalgia can blow me away
with a high so strong
It makes me want to live
Maybe it’s the magic of those late 90’s cartoons glaring through my tv screen
Sugary cereals before they were so bad for you
Maybe it’s how people seem, from the distance of time
Like an alien
I roam around this life that is mine
Advanced enough to blend in
Curious enough to stand out looking lost.
-Sindi Kafazi
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
i wish you were here,
when i felt unnecessary in everyone else's life
left behind like an abandoned child,
stuck and miserable in the world,
consider me,
an untimely product.
when i was so close to giving up
you were the only person I felt something for,
but that has changed.
Despite feelings changing overtime, I still....
wish you were,
right next to me.
I wish I could I feel your body
press up against mine when the cold air lathers on our skin.
I wish I wasn't so bad at expressing signs of love,
it was never taught
or given to me.
from the start,
you were the only person that knew me better than I knew me
and that is, the reason as to why I still crave the times I wish you were here with me.
I wish you stood by me in the worst of times,
especially when I couldn't think of anyone else in the moment except for you.
No strings attached, I think I am drawn to you,
like an artist to a blank canvas,
like a girl who runs away from love because she wasn't given enough.
Yet, I always come back to the thought of you and me,
smiling and laughing
living life happily,
exploring each other's interests so effortlessly,
we lose track of time,
forget to realize that we had to meet sometime this week.
that is why I steer away from the thought of you
and although, the title of this poem is quite ironic so,
with careful notice of both ways this can go,
I can still say that,
I wish you were here.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 9:48 PM UTC
life smears ache quick
though lusciously repulsive
the storm lathers you bitter
with a thousand tiny licks
of mad honey worship
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 11:11 PM UTC
in his warm white tile grotto
he portions out a silky pool of it in his palm
lathers his graying mane
he watches the bottle’s volume sink
each day, makes a note on his Walmart scroll
reverently etched under “get milk”
meticulous man, making lists;
he has never had an empty bottle
though once in a weary while,
he pauses to estimate
how many bottles
he will yet use
this calculation he completes
on warm wet fingers while the water
hums and steams the air
and streams through
his thinning hair
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC