"lilted" poems
Moth, dancing moth,
dance to the light. Dance to the death.
Break those wings to free the flight,
the sea is far and here is no hearth, not here.
Fly, moth, fly
away from the lilted breeze so to breathe easy.
Your heart is in shock; Moth, go back to
from where you come.
Moth, falling moth,
no crevice in sight, dear moth—where has your illusion
gone? Moth don’t waste time, hurry yourself and
cease the end, in through the spaces and far from time.
Wingless moth, pained.
The light shines only on you.
What disturbance (perturbing the soul)
held you back?
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
~
Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers
His tongue dipped in languages
He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life
As he folded himself in Egyptian ink
He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables
Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas
He brushed his ivory creme feathers
in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics
Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern
"Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery"
Ivory-teal twittered to himself
Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body
he disappeared into the stars
The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing
He took the lantern in his gold beak
fluttering away into spirals of smoke
Toward Mythology mountain
Where a storm of butterflies
were winging their seasonal weather
Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame
Flickering in the darkest of moments
Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin
But his destiny was a bit different
He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and
sewed neatly in parabolic traditions
Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin
Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues
Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams
In a temple of mythical patterns
Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge
The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales
Where he became a bilingual silhouette
He was birthed right here on this mountain
As he balanced himself on thoughts
He had learned to love himself to this point of his life
He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world
He gently lifted the little lantern
It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks
The contexts that were inside split sideways
Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles
If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal
As he laughed quietly
"Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life"
He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings
tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself
He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud
A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself
As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern
"If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings"
But shouldn't he know that language already
For it is the language of freedom
Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents
Of that beautiful language
~
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
~Be You, Don't Change For No One~
Smoking butterflies
Lilted with jade poison
Swirling into my jeweled lungs
I smile; high on madness
..
No one can defeat me now
The drug monster
Pulsing thru my veins
I feel I can rule this land
..
Though in reality
There is no such thing
..
Metaphors spill from my lips . . .
. . . my blood
..
Eyelids fluttering
Like the wings of a dove
Everything is blurry
White walls; nothing
..
I scream
Confused
Shattered
Lost
..
In pain; lungs bursting
Mind racing
Heart beat beating---
..
I'm slowly dying
My paper body
Inflamed
Essence of butterflies
..
Floating around me
The ones I smoked
The ones I inhaled
They are killing me; whispered I
..
Though I am nothing but a page
Filled with Inkblots
Smudged . . .
My pen comes to save me; yet again
..
It rewrites me
Stitching new stories
Over my old scars
Creating a new me
..
Ink kisses my lips
Her chemicals seeping into my papery skin
Bleeding into me
I'm becoming a scroll
..
Decorated with so many rules
..
As I sigh
My pen stabs into me
Becoming me
I then scream ashes; everything fades black
..
Awakening . . .
I've become a notebook
Staring up at myself
I watch my own face
..
Intense
Dreamy
Thoughtful
. . . Disturbed
..
Pen in my hand
I open myself
Taking the pen
The one, which stabbed me
..
Ink bleeds
Onto my pages
I feel my pain,
My obsessions, my happiness . . .
..
I watch as the spirit of writing
Leaves my body
Folding itself between my pages
Like a bookmark
..
The pen falls from my hand
Landing on me
I watch mystified
As the pen whispers
..
"No one can defeat you now
This is your land,
Your rules, your soul
Welcome to the notebook life'
..
"You wanted something better
So I remade you"
..
-B-but this is not what I want-
I plead; trying to cry
But notebooks don't cry
Only the ink can cry for me; the ink from my pen
..
The pen chuckled
"Then my friend . . .
Be careful what you wish for
You didn't want to be human"
..
"So I made you
Into something better
You are useful now
You are popular"
..
I tried to scream
But I saw myself get up, snatching the smiling pen
I closed myself
Only to be open again when needed . . .
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
In the depths of shadow and sin
Lay a hopeless young fowl~
Born into dalliance with darkness
An ephemeral beginning nonetheless,
But soon claimed for the one below~
How fetching such hardship!
Kindled hope had been jostled away,
The young fowl never noticed~
For how innocent it had been!
Innocent and oblivious.
How blind the bird was, to what could have been!
One can not miss something one never knew.
The glamour was short lived
And lead to depression
Oppression~
How melancholy, that fledgling
A heart shaped hole in its breast~
But hidden from unseeing eyes
Alas, one day a single teardrop
From god's halcyon manner
Caressed feathered cheek~
To the bird's empty breast,
And sprouted a rose, of all things!
Blooming blossom stretched
Phototropic love lilted from noir caves
Filling young robin's heart and soul
With hope and such peace!
Today, not tomorrow, was the beginning
Of the young bird's healing
The wing had been broken so long~
Such relief!
Mellifluous relief
In beautiful petrichor,
Young spawn took flight,
to face sunlight at last.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Her, the cynosure,
Once having lilted into perspective,
Is flawed.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
Lilted notes upon rising tides
Drums of crashing waters shore
Water rippling and ocean sighs
A crescendo of a tempests roar
The screech of gulls taking flight
Melodious wind in water caves
Marvel here at the ocean's might
With the orchestra of the waves
See here the figures, singing loud
Harmony salty, sweet, and strong
Ocean creatures awed and cowed
At the hurricane of the siren's song
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
sinking into a web of consciousness
tacky hands and feet
lightness of air
lost with beauty
smoothly lighthearted
and dangerously lilted
i wonder
if you'll ever realize i love you
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
There will never be a pause now
it is the season of the first song at last
the tremulous heart has found partner
in the world's quivering.
With growth and green fires, birds carry the wind,
shaking out the bronze into a shrillness,
warming and agitating every alcove.
And also from up out of each lost pond
comes the lilted piping of frogs.
There will never be a pause now,
The oldest news has gone through every chamber.
like a road unveiled between mountains,
The sun tightly wraps my seeking to you.
With all the beaming, ingeminate sounds,
with all the shaking green in us,
there will never be a pause now.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
I had questions on death
I had questions on life
I had questions about
poverty
hatred
and strife
I was told I should visit a
particularly peculiar man
who would set me right
who would give me a plan
I ran
I crossed mountains and oceans
and jungles and lagoons
I swam and I hiked and I trekked.
I finally found him in a field
a nondescript field of Indonesia
He sat cross legged within a hut.
A hut not made of mud
A hut not made of sticks
A hut made of hair.
A hut made of his own hair.
Still connected to his head.
He wore no clothes, but his
beard was so long that he
was able to wrap it about
himself as a shawl.
Interspersed throughout
the hair were baubles and
trinkets, folded notes and
photos. Gifts from those
who had visited him before
It was a sight to behold
I was in awe
I had barely a chance
to utter a syllable when
he opened his eyes
and stared at me
and stared through me
as if in a trance
Then he spoke.
The answering of thousands
of questions had clearly taken
a toll on the man's voice, yet
his lilted rasp was somehow
soothing.
"You have questions, my boy?
You wish to know my secrets?
Do you want to know the key
to life?"
Yes. Yes I did.
He smiled
"Young man, I have sat here
for seventy-eight years, focusing
my entire life and all my
conscious thought on that very
thing. My wife supported me
until her death. My sons still
support me. They visit me
often and make sure I stay
healthy and fed. I have
weathered famine and storms,
sickness and droughts searching
for the answer you seek."
He closed his eyes
"I have forgone a life of
passion and comfort and
instead focused within myself
to find this answer. In all
this time I have only found
one thing to be true."
I waited for the answer
"Life is not meant to be
explained. It is meant to
be experienced. There
is no answer, only more
questions. I swore not
to move from this spot
until I had discovered
what life meant. My
hair and beard are
constant reminders
of my foolishness."
He smiled
"Go and live"
and surely I did
______
Acersecomic - n - One whose hair has never been cut
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
i didn't really know until
i took that polaroid of you;
you had your hand over
a candle flame and the
shadows dancing between
your fingers illuminated
the spare patches of snow
remaining on the playground.
there was no mistaking
the draining of my swimming
pool of ego as i witnessed
you staring out from each
ice crystal reflection in awe:
your smile tumbled down
the slide and spilled into laughter
while
your voice lilted up the rock wall
and sang in triumph at the top --
and this is when i knew i would
write another poem about you.
i forgot to mention i've been
drinking my coffee black --
and sometimes, for the hell of it,
i write love and hate in sharpie
on my knuckles because i can't
get it tattooed. every now and then
i even try to carve your name into
the knots and whorls of my spine,
just so i can make believe
i am the man in that one song
you always seem to be singing.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
your half lilted smile
tilts my life
into swirling movements
of happiness and peace
there is a depression
deep inside my soul
im so glad
youre not too terrified
to shine your light there
(s.q)
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
And I was like well I don't have one
No I don't mean I'm getting one
I honestly never really tried to get one so I just don't
And something was wrong with me
an undefined thing was sticking out of me
illustrated in a wide swathe, that I was oddly made
slightly off, smelled funny, looked strange too
this thing that was wrong with me
reeking and streaking across the room
politely they nodded
as the prognosis was not good
i would probably die this way
unattached, untethered, unknown
for you are nobody till somebody owns you
i lilted away from the gathering
feeling their pain that would become mine
that ache of alone and stench of undone
tickling my toes, stinging my nose
*** without pain, no loss, no regret
always there, everyday, all the way
in and out, and of course, up and down
through something thick and never thin
preferable to be missed than the other Miss
I was off alone to believe
I watched their careful nails and the tuck
of hair behind the ear rings he'd bought
and the stroke of the arm along a lonesome thigh
and I knew it could happen
to anyone and anywhere
is it worse to have none
or to have and not be had
at all
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 2:35 PM UTC
Forgive me when I say we are like a candlestick
Frozen in a tapestry of waxen wars
Tilted diagonal on lilted syntax of fears
But we are
Aren't we?
Born with skin of bullets
Metal guns stained with blood
In our little innocent hands
Rumor of war is it?
There is no rumor
For the war already begun in our hearts
Shall we walk the red bloodied carpet of this government
World leaders wearing human bones as a crown
We are walking it
Heads held high and heads in our hands
We will walk it with no shame
No regrets
We have none
For our beliefs is the deceitful armor we wear
We gladly wear it for all to see
No, not the clothes we wear that covers our faces
Letting only our blacken eyes see
No
Not those
Its the deceit I mentioned
We are at war my fr-- nemesis
We are
But I'm not
I don't want to be
I'm trapped you see
Trapped like this candlestick
Stuck in the pain of my tears
I am only a child but they gave me no hope
They killed my family
Replacing love with a metal machine in my hands
I have something to live for now
I am doing what I need to do
Though I feel a tug at night
When all is dark
When it’s my thoughts and I
Memories of real love
Hope
Joy
Peace
But it is dried now
Dried up in this desert sand
Where my boots stained with blood
Leave prints of death
My favorite color is no longer red
Its black
The monochromic war of life stole all beauty from my eyes
So be thankful for your life
Be thankful please
For my heart are pieces of shells from my bullets
Hello I'm six years old
I've lived through more experiences
Then you have in twenty years
What can I say ?
Life IS
What it IS
It just IS, ISn't it?
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
i was a floater by definition
a name plastered on my chest since grade 2
i would just float around.
our names were classified by how we lived
i had nothing to hold me down
my body would move from place to place
bumping into things
not staying for too long
i was happy i guess
i wasn't lost
i knew the exact pinpoint in the ocean
the singular sand particle on the beach
but there was a big wooden ship behind me
with the Captain singing a sweet sea song
and the Sailors' voices lilted
carrying bottles of blue sea glass
pretending they were telescopes
so, I took my little body,
wrinkled from the Sea,
and my waterlogged fingers gripped the boat tight
the Captain's song found its way into my lungs
and I could see the encroaching shore,
but I wan't worried
because I am still riding that ship.
sometimes, Sailors go their separate ways
find new land, find new ships
sometimes, pruney, little hands grab a hold of the hull
and We pull them on.
one day, I will leave this ship,
but it won't be forever
because I am anchored.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
The threat of tinsel hangs heavy around my house and
every surface I have tarnished with gaudy colours, one
handed angels and effigies of flightless birds.
I remember one year, as nights drew in and wrapped us
in its sightless embrace and my sisters and I still shared
one tiny room and you, dressed in a ridiculous red
dressing gown, crept loudly into our room.
Eyes closed but lips lit, we paraded our false slumber
as you offered a rumbling ** ** ** gifting allies
laughter that shivered in our beds.
I remember the next, as your trembling hands fluttered,
never touching, the presents we had each bought ourselves,
as it has become too bright for you to step outside.
You wept and I drew my face stoic
as those aged hands trembled and these bitter claws
ripped and tore and vainly tried to stick
fragile paper back together with meaningless scraps of tape.
Your face whispered, "shouldn't be wrapping your own presents"
as white salt mapped fresh rivers, traced on giving skin.
I avoided the rain clouds of your sound;
methodically trying to appease this sadness.
My voice lilted of forgiveness but my body, such young bones, so
rough-raged and rigid, spoke of a bitterness I would've died
to hide like the tears you used to try to.
Smoke and gaslight and pretty little parcels wrapped in gold,
maybe if we bury all under forgiving paper, living can
play as happy as the paltry promise of this season.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
It’s hard to breathe when I see
A body that doesn’t belong to me
It’s hard to rid water drops
When I ponder when will it ever stop
Cascading brown hair of mine
Dreamed to cut it for a couple of dimes
My lilted feminine voice
Reminds me I am a girl with no choice
Who is that in front of me?
An imposter, a demon, could it be?
My soul breaks into a weep
Until, there stood somebody just like me
Hair silky, smooth, white like snow
His porcelain complexion barely glows
Peach pouty and heart shaped lips
Eyes are deep black caves, like a mystic maze
Earbuds glued into his ears
Face of dopiness or could it be fear?
Slender, short legs carry him
When he passes by I stupidly grin
When will I see him again?
Forget it, he’s likely graduating
Dejection bounced in my mind
Where I’m from, my kind of love was a crime
Two and a half years passed by
I’m in the big school and no longer shy
Walked the great halls with belief
Until, there stood somebody just like me
He did change and so has I
I cut my hair, but he’s got the same eyes
Tousled rough black hair, shaved sides
Much less heavy, which came by a surprise
Our eyes locked like magnets
Studied his lips, my gaze hard as granite
His shoulder brushed against mine
Stomach tingles and my heart intertwines
Staring at him paralyzed
I cannot look away, I don’t know why
He looks like someone I know
Someone I knew back a while ago
Is it wrong if I pursue?
Do you think it’s weird that I follow you?
Hopeless like a winter tree
Until, there stood somebody just like me
Once it’s over I’ll feel blue
When you graduate I won’t forget you
Hope you’ll remember me too
It’s nice to have someone to relate to
Dec 22, 2019
Dec 22, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
there was once a brick hearth
and my skinned kneed,
wild flaxen haired,
innocent self would sit there
to feel the fire’s warmth radiating through the stones.
there were ghost stories told
on picnic tables at state parks where
the calloused barefeet of my childhood
struck the dusty ground as i ran towards
not away
when i followed vitreous streams
with frigid soaked clothes clinging to my skin
all the way to the river who now holds these memories
for me.
there was a sprawling old mimosa tree
whose diaphanous flowers would float
feathery petals
to decay on the ground.
How that tree must be a part of me somehow
from the scrapes my soft infantile skin
endured while trying to clamber up its branches
not for a moment tainting my insatiable appetite to explore.
there were steaming hot afternoon thunderstorms
a quotidian race home from the bowels
of the verdant green forest
dodging heavy raindrops
pregnant with the weight of coming years.
those years were the smell of fresh lighter wood
the acrid feel of smoke in the back of my throat
popsicles in the pool
and warm sun-kissed skin.
those times were blanket forts at sleep overs
the salt on sunflower seed shells
cracked in the dugout at softball games
they were the lilted drawl that curled comfortably
around eternal southern colloquialisms.
bike rides to get skittles and coke
at the gas station at the end of the street.
the wind in my hair as I careened down
what will always be known as
Thrill Hill
at some point my bike rusted
when was that?
the pool sat alone and unused
and evergreen forests became a passing image
in a dream
scraped knees turned to razor slices.
but my body will always carry the recollection.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
Autumn's light leaves me
Wanting,
Seeming
Wrong.
Summer's light raided me,
Burning,
Yearning
Strong.
Spring's light lilted me,
Promising,
Blossoming
Songs.
Winter's cold glow chilled me,
Accosting,
Frosting
Long.
But, dismal Autumnal light,
Warns me,
Scorns me...
Go!
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 11:21 AM UTC
the biting arctic winds have
snapped my frozen bones
in two pieces, the fragments
swirling in the air
and the oxygen goes
up in flames - my voice
has lilted and wavered
and cracked and
i don't want to say this
because i've never
delighted in admitting
the idiotic tendencies
of things and feelings
but i love you.
oh, god,
i love you.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
His grandmother named me golden honey
As she dipped a silver spoon under my tongue
She reminded me I spoke like Kentucky
Voice lilted in the breath expanding my lungs
My unrequited named me brighter than the effervescent sun
As she stared at me from a foreign satellite
Unaware that I had long since passed
And my light was only verse, only memorized
My love called me a flower, using the Latin name
Planted me in his garden, watered me through my ears
Unaware I was a late bloomer, he still tended day by day
My roots would not encircle-burrow-my stem sprouted no leaves
I replaced my name with something heavy, like Wagner
Holding myself down through my chest
Replaced my name with something heavy, like Strauss
Echoing transfiguration and death -
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
I ventured forth, again into the musty canyons
The dark, dank space that is
My past
Or more specifically
Ours.
A perusal reveals:
Hats in boxes, brims unmet by sun in ages
Creased shirts, bands' crests emblazoned bright
Clever titles scrawled in sharpie on silent CDs
And everything coated with brown hair
Crooked and curled as the smile
That I wear presently
Upon this journey
Upon further inspection:
Percussive rhythms, beats tattooed
Into slick skin
A laughing afterthought of intimacy
A private joke shared between us
Among many
The messy box:
Conversations held hostage by anger
Fueled on one side by deceit and fury at the world
While the other fights a war, at another's side: alone
Confusion racking both
Where once there was naught but desire
To care, protect, discover, and journey
Hijacked, a spoiled child upending a puzzle
That his insolence will never allow him the
Solace
Of completing
And the box that releases a torrent of whispers upon opening:
My name
Hands on knees, rage relieved in an instant
Your laugh
At my protruding tongue, a face fraught with focus
Poetry, lilted and simple
About the charm in how I climb stairs
Ending with the lessons:
To seek patience; with the large, and especially the small
To love fully; as they say, time flies
To face fear; naked honesty will conquer this
To rely on; there is no shame in support
To...
The grit of clenched teeth
Overcome by the solace of
Framed reality
I descend the shaking ladder
Leaving behind this echoing forrest
Mist clouded with
Shared impassioned melodies
I have sorted and cleaned enough
I will revisit from time to time
But. In practicing honesty:
I am a living memory of you
For as a sculptor
Slow and methodic with the clay
You have shaped and molded
My very being
And all can see
Your impassioned mark on me
A testament to kindness
Tried, and true
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 8:17 PM UTC
I walked in the valleys of Kentucky
the wind pressing gently on my brow,
ghost orchids whispered from the shadows,
the thrush beating time on the ground.
Gently lilted songs in the
Ancient somber tone of trees,
forgotten woods,
I searched for your mystery, and delved
in caves so dark so deep.
Never will I know the world you kept
under dewy leaves so green,
ancient people fought and mined and died
only things the earth has seen.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
My best songs were about you;
full of pure honesty and hopeless desperation.
They were written in minor keys
on lonesome days when I needed you most.
And I still sing your name in my sleep –
a lilted melody that cuts deep
and wakes me from a nightmare that doesn’t end
when my eyes open to the empty space you left in my bed.
With sleepless eyes I drive until the sunrise
and the radio is playing our song.
It makes my heart heavy and my hands numb
but I still scream along at the top of my lungs.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC