"mislaid" poems
A pair of lily white wings
dangling in the dappled moonlight esprit;
hang entangled as silken spider web
draped in the sweet Magnolia tree
From beneath there was no way of knowing
why a pair of abandoned wings lodge mislaid
One could not help but wonder how high
one might fly with cherub wings
But these callused feet tread far below the treetops
too high up from roots to climb
No telltale tiptoe prints cavort to be the talebearer
No feathered traces scattered all around
A hearken say, tickle-footed as a ladybug,
hold forth in a breeze brushed ear
Not completely undoubtable heed spoken;
a language bestow from another ether
softly breathe a whisper'd sigh:
"Behold the wings of a fallen angel;
uplifted by love's amazing grace
Lost alone in a moonstruck blindness
an angel flying too close
to the ground
~
Jesse
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight
I'm out
so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
soon.
I'm aging
with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years
Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
for next Spring.
Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling
Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.
Fall comes
construction
halts now and the walls stand half
complete
And outside
the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when
Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
until next Spring.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
~
In the mist of late night solitude,
from a mislaid plateau,
with a suitcase full of sparks
She observes constellations
reflected as little needy eyes,
peering down at her
They could be midnight directives,
postcards from distant nebula
suspended in gaffa
"Ne t'enfuis pas..." She exhales
Still she wonders:
will her children grow to love
their perfect machines more
than they love
their imperfect mother?
~
Jun 28, 2023
Jun 28, 2023 at 12:06 PM UTC
Somehow it wasn’t right to cry
for someone who
no one knew—for years
though everyone knew about Lil
She was the crazy burden
of an orphaned family
whose memories rearrange the winter shadows
“Are we dressed right?
Are our faces adequately sad?”
They loved the skinny, happy kid
Loved—the ones who loved her
knew her from “The Old Neighborhood”
Two sisters approach the body
echoed in black and navy
holding each other’s hand
They look down at her—
They look her over
They overlook—“The Old Neighborhood”
of the Lillian they had hoped for—
took care of as a child....
And in the din of last respects
a comment from an older gentleman—
“The Goldrick girls were all such lookers”
So I was her niece
and not from “The Old Neighborhood”
I have memories of my own....
I was rich when Lil brought play money
from Misquamicut
She brought whelks and slipper shells too
My ear cupped close
I first heard the sea
Not as beautiful as I expected
nor as beautiful as I would know
She gave them with love—without telling
where and when that I would go....
Her hands were always cool and sweaty
Always trembling
Always a cigarette
and an argument in the background
From the height of three
and hugging knees
I see her face against the ceiling’s
white—with panic
Her eyes are never with me
I know someone is with her
“The Goldrick girls were all such lookers....”
Beleaguered beauty
Frail, with stiff grace
she glances sideways
Checking for my safety?
“Our names too close! Confused too often!”
I was to know her horror— as I know her sea
...Her laughter, too late for the conversation
a smoky hysteria
that will not share with her eyes
She stumbles backward through her childhood
as if she has mislaid something
She wants to go roller skating
with her sister, eight months pregnant
besieged by diapers
with stew on the back burner
...And Lil wants to go back...
to a time at the Rialto
to the organ’s boogie
to the edge—before
The Depression declared WAR—
on someone who
no one knew
for years!
And is it okay yet?
...to let her sea out of me!
It burns so!
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
Unanswered uncertainties limber up
Unwanted confrontations cumulate
Passion deliquescing over unexplored reason
Unacknowledged, ignored, overwritten and dismissed
Without consideration for his fragile heart
The answers flow broiling him, wearing him down
Scorn rejection,
When trust is misplaced,
And she exfoliates to true skin
Hatred smothers over her love act
Bogs him down by the shoulders
All seems empty, all is empty
Toyed with, lied to and used up
He is a clock rigged for self destruction
With no actions that lead to consequences
The reason seems bleak and obvious
His respect for her dies, His respect for her other doesn't exist
She is not the one he loved, she is not the one that he knew
A younger him he sees in her other
Making the same mistake he did, mislaid trust
The multifaceted chameleon that she is
The other doesn't see
Pouring his heart out and defending her wrongs
The other starts to undermine and ignore him
Move on they say,
Only his heart is too heavy
Forget her they say,
Only she was a perennial settlement in my memory, he thought
Hate her they say,
Only he hates himself more for trying
No one understands him
Everyone tries, but no one understands
He loved, he was back stabbed
He suffered and suffocated under the blanket of secrets
Lighten your heart brother, the mascot of a good soul
You will be alright.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
Booming Rhetorics (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
==Booming Rhetorics ==
by
Checkered Darks
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Copy the link below to your browser)
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/boomingrhetorics
Human nature itself is a smash of contractual responsibility. A splash of rights afloat as we sink in our psychological rooted moral panics. All I see is a cascading titanic of ventures our mislaid adventures one after another. The criss cross of chains, we bonded in tax measures, reserve treasures...... It's not my leisure I beg you don't make your pleasure.
I sink in pressure, resolving Karl Mark ideology of conflicted power. Is it our born nature or nurture to live in a world of social polarisation. A pole to pole, a tug of war. Each owning and holding a rope.Is it our task to cage in boxes, fencing notions of inequalities within our society. Is it our right this notion Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.
Help me out as as I wade in the swampy lowland. Treading through and through, head afloat, the submerging walk me to the shores..... Help me find my way through this dark tunnel. Help me see the light, let the sun ray penetrate my blight.
In our dichotomy of democracy we have made it right. A rolling ball of ........
1. Stock them high sell them cheap is the order of the day.
2. Social warehousing of merging demand and supply chain.
3. A disintegration of socialist entrepreneurship.
4. Re-distribution of Export Production Zones in marginalised countries.
5. A surge of capitalism on this patch we call the universe.
6.Conortions of monopoly colluding sustainability.
I pass this ball to you. As the industrial revolution fades and debates of "STEEL" revolves.
My Speech is a mere consideration, our contradiction. The contractual complications that we have grounded and granted ourselves as humanity. My voice is an exchange, my gift, a cloud of thoughts, an arousing hope our haunting costs.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
You have abandoned purity for perfection.
Even the blind have moments of clarity
but you ***** around like the Cyclops
feeling nowhere for noman while
affecting a quiet, moronic expression.
You can't knit without needles,
but you have mislaid the point and
so things unravel into random skeins.
Your typewriter rattles only in reverse.
Bards stub their toes and wail.
You hear them, but pay no attention.
You are listening for the atomic thunderclap.
Nothing less than finale of final will do.
When it explodes at last you will know
the inarticulate, unspeakable name of god.
Perhaps Fred. Perhaps Norma or Justine.
Perhaps merely a very loud Boom...
That will be more than enough for one life.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
Kismet!
Genuine, loyal, royal and true.
Ensign flaring, pearly love.
Trumpets serenade.
An opal tinge of missing luck.
Mislaid on the way.
Left me rather blue.
Kismet could have kissed me.
She could have kissed him too.
Made him want to stay a while.
A caricature in goldfish bowl.
Surface scraping, seeking air.
Blessed are the meek of heart.
To live and breathe, for words of art.
Write words of honour, passion and pain.
Scratch out love words once again.
Hold tender words.
Close in heart.
Near in head.
To say once more before I'm dead.
Retreat and defeat come not to me.
True love or nothing.
But, not lucky enough to be,
Never in a daydream.
Or ever in a nightmare.
In the land of chivalry.
Only knight's a writer.
That's how it's got to be.
My writing is the one for me.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
Sparkling, Still or Tap?
Water. A profound subject. Of which, we are all expert. Therefore, I permit myself to write upon it. Water. When I offer you Sparkling, Still or Tap, think carefully for the path to happiness is confusing, you can be mislaid, strayed, betrayed if you imbibe the wrong path.
The definition of each is not my responsibility. Like poetry,
drink what you will from each, but drink you must, pas de choix (which is sparkling for no choice).
Getting drunk on the wrong water is very bad. You have washed your system out, after flooding it. Give an engine the incorrect quality of oil, and it will grind itself willing, having been tricked, into emoting itself into gear lock suicide.
Now go back to the first line, and star(t) over, because you are no longer silly but afraid, and that is the proper way to be when first cog-nizant that this is an earnest subject and you are a fool.
So I ask, not again but for the first time,
Sparkling, Still or Tap?
You say. You are. Poor. Tap is the only option.
Save the environment from plastique explosives.
Clear as colorless water (another sujet, for another self important foolishness) you lie. Is Sparkling and Still not found naturally, while Tap is unnatural-now water transmogrified by rust pipes, fluorescent fluorides, that when drunken, tap you out and for which, You pay heavily when the water bill comes?
What am I?
Your cheek!
As a ****** passenger-reader-human unsurpassed. So typical.
My credentials?
I am human-reader-passenger-voyeur so ***** your impudence!
I am still, but underneath,
I am effervesceing, like the band,
whose goth I am too,
but don't be an idiot, for
all we know,
is tapped into us and out of us
from birth ~
until death/
Was there water in your mother 's body when she breast fed you, was there water in your formula? Was it organic (idiot), from a crystal spring from polluted China,
and isn't it tool ate (auto correct for too late) now anyway?
So I rescind the question,
for we are provisioned but poisoned long before we have adult cash or credit card bills to answer properly this waiter's question,
Sparkling, Still or Tap?
(Nonetheless, if you have progressed to this sad conclusion,
as I wait upon you and,)
Your Reply,
**Water is the clear space that surrounds the letters and words
We write, thus all words float to the surface on your unique percentage of body of water, that oils the brain.**
Ergo, Ip So Facto,
I, the waiter *** writer,
already know.
Now start from the top,
Again, yes,
And answer me,
Sparkling, Still or Tap?
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
I like things
That do not belong
Mislaid, lost
Dropped, thrown
How do they end up in my frame
How come I keep on noticing.
I am attracted to things
That do not quite seem to fit
Subtly ruining it;
A smudge, a note
A love
Unwritten in the stars.
A weakness
For displaced happiness
Somewhere I never intended;
Maybe,
My love,
I misplace my heart in the right spot.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
*There was a time,
A time so fair,
A zero despair,
Cuz She was fair,
Life as I knew it was drizzling daisies,
Bleeding me the feel like the crazies.
Perfect absolutes,
Chimerical dilutes.
Enchanting moments with ephemeral bliss,
Rapt me into blissful abyss.
Ambient lightnings,
Forming supernova sightings.
My soul trapped in her seductive high,
Unknowing of her destructive lies.
Little was I was aware of her two-tone design,
My ****** Valentine
An alter ego so divine.
Demon with deceitful frames,
Unravelling her intimacy games.
Her bloodless lips whispering in the corridors of time,
Deporting me into her hate grimes.
Mutating into odium of torrential far cry,
Lies sarcastrophic podium of her mislaid demise.
Gagged and bound as me you broke down
And I believed everything,
As my love for you was logic drowned
Round and round I emanated all the way down.
Still submerged in the swamp of dummy beliefs,
Hoping to heal with concealed appeals,
Squeals of her feels reveal choking ordeals,
Cuz it was a different belief in a veiled inception,
Infinitely drowning with these unconcealed dogmas,
Remembrance feels like a past from yesterday,
All I am choked with are these Interstellar beliefs,
Detonating memories,
At the haste of light,
Giving me an anguish fright from the down right,
Corroding my heart with those Sulphur memories we once called a lifetime.
Like those 4 years with 4 million considerations.
Still lost in her maze of psychopathic daze,
Downward spirals decayed & set ablaze.
Reveries of her infinite sentiment once called transcendences.
All that’s left now are your radioactive reminiscences,
Of a place once called Tomorrowland.*
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
I stand defeated in my virtue,
For the ones I cared for no longer care,
In my misery lies some satisfaction,
That they found, and with it, how to better fare.
I stand defeated in my beliefs,
For the ones I loved no longer love,
In my mourning lies some relief,
That they devour, like a mourning dove.
I stand defeated in my conduct,
For the ones that trusted no longer trust,
And in my loss lies some salvation,
That they incurred, and with it, friends rust.
I stand defeated as a man,
For my lover now, left betrayed,
And in my grief lies buried my love,
For her thoughts for me, forever mislaid.
I stand defeated with my feet buried,
For the ones, my dears, have gone afar,
And in my defeat lies the truth,
That they digressed, letting doubt ajar.
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 11:37 AM UTC
Something must be mislaid
Or things aren't this way before,
nothing is able to excite thy soul
nor can I anymore trust thy heart,
The way thy mind is growing up
The things thy consciousness meditate upon
Are but way far from everything real,
How do I deal now?
Thy sun ain't shining,
Thy sky is void,
I have seen people dying and
suffering and screaming
O poor God, why we while the fault is yours ?
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
Titless!
Ignorant bliss.
Walk through a crowded dream.
Crudeness covered discreetly.
In jovial joshing.
Lewdly.
With fanciful words.
Insufficient in declaration.
Withdraw a smile.
Contact lost.
Little boy mislaid.
Missing his maiden.
Perchance.
Take a glimpse.
A second chance in silence.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
Love is like my morning coffee,
dark and deep, yet warm and cozy.
Steam that rises, a soft embrace,
a touch that lingers, in time and place.
First, the scent: rich, inviting,
like caring words with hearts igniting.
A gentle sip, a quiet thrill,
the kind that lingers, slow and still.
Too fast, too hot, it burns the tongue,
like passion’s fire when love is young.
Too cold, too late, and it will fade,
a bitter taste, a love mislaid.
And when it’s gone, the weight is real,
a sluggish step, a lifeless feel.
The world moves on, but not with me,
An exhausted soul, tired, unfree.
But coffee made with care, with grace,
it fills the soul, it sets the pace.
A steady hand, a patient art,
love, like coffee, warms the heart.
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 7:36 PM UTC
Huddle
And shiver
And scowl
turn away now
from snow-sunburnt faces
in cracked and frostbitten window panes
A chance taken lightly
won't wash away so easy
when the years mislaid thicken
and lips no longer speak freely
So I'll age, here, in silence
and dance with ghosts of better days
cross yellowing pages
stitch Bighorn peaks to the snowy plains
Your brown eyes were wet.
My greyscale soul had shattered.
While you left and forgot me,
I divorced from all that matters
Teeth grind
ears dull
days fade out
Shuffle
And stumble
Sit down
hunch away, now.
A strange face in red light
dissembles truths out of frosting frames
A proverb so simple,
"Not all is gold which glistens,"
Could have lived in the shimmer,
but I never listened.
So I'll dream, here, out westward
sleep next to bones of better days
let my drunken memories
trace bus routes back up to Winnipeg
Your brown eyes were wet
as roadway stitches unraveled
My blue eyes filled with question marks,
then they hardened up into gravel
I'm echoing footfalls on stairs
in the night
You're our spectral laughter in summer
bathed in cups of wine
Fade out.
Teeth grind. Ears dull. Days fade out.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
In my house there is a huge black hole.
In said hole, hide a million toilet rolls and a few stray socks.
Search as high and low as I may,
the toilet rolls and socks are out to play.
The loo rolls have been eaten by a mega munch machine.
Half of all the household socks, mislaid when they are clean.
Or maybe when still grubby.
Perhaps they're dubstep socks.
With minds of their own and they just want to rock.
Maybe they're good looking socks.
Heading out to mate.
Did you ever hear such things.
Single socks out looking for a date.
They seem to just have vaporised,
before the household eyes.
Expensive business.
Loosing socks.
I need these toilet rolls.
Need to cry.
Must be off out partying together.
I really don't know why!
(c)LIVVI
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
I find my emptiness at the beginning
of panic. The time changes, and as I pause,
between the magic and the real, a sudden
nothingness descends, and somebody
goes away, plans forgotten and mislaid.
It does not matter that the dark falls
too early, skies damp with the the
hopefulness of being confused again.
Even dancing holds no appeal, as
the music is plastic pop with a beat
but without heart. I sense the pouring
little I've become, escaping only when
hour clicks to another number.
Darkened rooms lend whispers.
Can you hear them? Let the sentences drop
and fall into a descending tone, for the
collection of platitudes are heavily
pregnant with hints of beeping bells.
They've gathered here, manifest
with their antiseptic concerns
Mumbling to one another even though
the sentences are necessarily vacant.
What small measure of happiness I
am able to endure is saturated with
routines that are tiresome, heavily laden
with standing still in rolling cyclones.
I kick at the plastic straws that litter
the drinking cups of plans come undone.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
Welcome to the new age you said with a smile.
Lost lovers under street corner covers
will always learn not to kiss in the rain,
as whatever passion passes between their lips
will not discourage the reign of the precipitation’s pain.
You ran back off into the crowded pile.
Forgotten friends left at loose bar ends
will always learn not to drink alone,
as now they are mislaid and missing,
unknown in a city filled with others far from homes.
Through pint glasses and the dancing masses.
Back alley admirers lurk in amidst forlorn fires;
wavering flicks of flame still just about standing,
as they’re waiting to be tamed and taken home
to another bedroom masquerade, with someone they barely know.
I did not see you face again.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
Your scent still lingers on the fabrics.
I breathe you in
as I rifle through
the war torn baggage
and mislaid remnants.
This pile of rubble from our past.
Salt tears at the corners of my eyes
Hot and heavy,
liquid beads of sorrow
Pools that gather 'tween my lashes.
A blurry burst of remembering
That knocks the wind
right from my chest.
Aghast and agape my soul lies crying
Struck dumb from death, for dying
Hurts the living
Forever more than
Those who pass.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
The neighbours are making their rounds.
They tend to their allotments under the allowance
of nature, a certainty in the seasons
as they compensate for the disorder
in their lives: the mislaid decisions
that gave comfort
at the expense of vitality.
James watches them from the bedroom window,
the way everyone walks with a proud hunch.
How the stem of a flower grows into the wind.
Flakes of white paint fall off the windowsill
like sugared almonds: the sweetness
of his anxiety,
the agitation of tobacco.
It is the only patch of green in a mile,
a cell of vegetation behind a locked gate.
A frost threatens and calloused hands
turn to pink cushion, blue extremities
folding tarp: a devoted shelter for
next season's radishes,
whilst the homeless die in the streets.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
Questioning the mind of the Madman
The mind of the mad man.
Is it swayed by truth or choice.
Does he stand stoic in his world or is it just insecurity.
His thoughts, they darken, through every hour.
In duplicate multiplicity in every dream he weaves.
Dreams become nightmares,in the real world.
In a world where all his blessings, have somehow been mislaid.
He feels minuscule, while in a noisy audience.
He's terrified of commitment and the contentment, which it brings.
In a lovelorn fantasy.
Afraid, to breach decisions that he's already made.
He feels that although they click, to love her back may make him sick.
In realization that he feels real, but he doesn't need a broken heart.
Sits and sobs all alone.
His beautiful fantasy has gone.
She stands in the spotlight.
She's open and kind.
While he deals with his major battles in mind.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 4:03 AM UTC
together we sit and scan through pages
searching for knowledge of savants and sages
apart by wires and spaces deemed cyber
together in some places besotted by desires
for that which you seek and that which you share
your hasty interests may lead you to stare
into the abyss of the nets' unending
the maelstroms vortex you'll soon be winding
going ye here and going ye there
hopeful your meanderings
shall leave you fair
for within some sites there's the inveigle snare
ultimately constructed to leave you bare
go wittingly into the all- electric fray
some sensitive toes you'll invariably belay
don't fret over words harmlessly mislaid
to err is only human, short-circuits allayed
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC