"misted" poems
And what would happen if you
Looked into my eyes...
And realised?
These glazed eyes,
A distorted tautologous window.
A facade of transparency.
The window is misted
It’s distorted with the touch of an October morning.
And I fear.
You will not see through this window,
This glass.
Until it has shattered,
And all that remains is a soul,
That has been freed.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
Sitting, drinking tea while watching the rain come wandering down
a smile brought on by cool breeze on misted skin
steam rising from the cup in front, the fragrant herbs steeping
and cascading come memories of other times
of once close people and far away places
and endless cups of tea
No matter where i wander, be it deserts cold or mountains rugged
there are always memories of those left behind in time
bring they a smile, a grin or a tear to flow my face
i will find joy in seeing them again
even if only inside my mind
and over a cup of tea.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
The lights swimming in my head look like shimmering fish. I’m underwater. The pressure and the sand are so inviting. To just stay down here and watch the way my fingernails turn into an even paler pink. like my cheeks. when I first fall in love. And my name changes. I’m no longer Kalena. I’ll be whoever you want me to be, baby. Anything at all. If you want me happy I’ll leave the stories at home. Home. She’s bipolar and I’m depressed and in love and no one else is. My creases where I carry you are sore from all of your emotion. I’m consumed by your pumping heart and electric nervous system. The one that doesn't come in effect, when I’m around; when I touch you. The rock I sat on today was misted by my thoughts on how you won’t ever see me how I see you than how misted it was by the actual water. My stomach is winding and alls I want to do is shove you inside of me and bite your neck. To this beat. I want you to smile because I make you so **** happy. I’ll give you everything. Everything. I just miss laying on someone’s heart beating life into them. And wishing and praying you’re another thing beating the life in their entire being. I want your finger tips and valves. watch thousands of you bloom. watch that look boys give to pretty girls falling over your face with every birth. So I won’t ever worry about you dying. About losing you. Because I’ll just plant you when I need eyelashes to kiss. Or fingernails to chew and paint. Maybe I’ll just live through you. Call you my tree of life. Tree of life. I don’t even like trees all that much.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:45 PM UTC
Unchangeable is the love within our souls
Dreaming of soft timelessness
Perceived in fadeless hues of red and gold
Transmuted from molded clay
Imperfect, yet still beheld
As flawless
White shadows of a misted lace attention holds
An honesty in its purest form
Washed in fadeless hues of red and gold
Unchangeable is the love within
Completed souls
As timelessness transforms
Until now, our feet have trod a different path
Yet seeking still the same
Imperfection, with an honest aftermath
Time has taken wing in fadeless hues of red and gold
Imperfection beheld as flawless
Is the element it became
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
I reminisce by this railway siding pond,
Musing on rail relics rattling on,
Recalling lives and times bygone,
But memories of their shades linger on,
The lonesome call of distant steam trains,
Eras that may never come again,
I see they're gone nowhere in particular,
Replaced by planes and transport vehicular,
I imagine queues on foggy platforms,
Awaiting the misted trains' shadow forms,
Standing by, expecting the status quo,
I blink my eyes, where did they all go?
Looking backwards along yesterday's track,
I'm no kid any more, get off my back,
I reflect and reminisce,
Nostalgia is for the times we miss,
I'll reminisce by the railway siding pond,
I recall the times and lives bygone,
As ghosts of rail relics keep rattling on......
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
Here late into September
I can sit with the windows
of the stone room swung open
to the plum branches still green
above the two fields bare now
fresh-plowed under the walnuts
and watch the screen of ash trees
and the river below them
and listen to the hawk's cry
over the misted valley
beyond the shoulder of woods
and to lambs in a pasture
on the slope and a chaffinch
somewhere down in the sloe hedge
and silence from the village
behind me and from the years
and can hear the light rain come
the note of each drop playing
into the stone by the sill
I come slowly to hearing
then all at once too quickly
for surprise I hear something
and think I remember it
and will know it afterward
in a few days I will be
a year older one more year
a year farther and nearer
and with no sound from there on
mute as the native country
that was never there again
now I hear walnuts falling
in the country I came to
5k
no slavering kisses
like a dog on heat
no schoolboy fumble
wanting you to beat his meat.
no ***** in the dark
or a letch to grab your ****
no rancid breath,nor sweaty skin
to grasp you in his mits.
just you and your fingers
and your own ***** vices
pure ecstacy of loving yourself
with your battery op devices.
it is all in the touch
the rhythm of your wrist
the way your body squirms
giving a wriggle to your hips.
a gasp n moan
************ brings you pleasure
frustrated tensions fade away
as you fiddle at your leisure.
reaching your crescendo
a throb a pant a sigh
eyes slightly misted
youre at your dizzying high.
copyright gothicmistress 2010
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 6:02 AM UTC
Morning Rainbow
Myriad prismatic crystals,
refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
across the misted horizon.
Eyes turned to the western skies,
we suspend our meteorological selves
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.
Synthetic Refractions
A luminary ballet takes center stage
when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
into pre-ordered spectral strata.
If the sky denies us a rainbow,
we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!
Spectral Sound
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
held us captive by their banks.
Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
With songs of wonder, joy and longing.
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls.
Robert Charles Howard, 2019
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
In this, my last hour of rhyme,
with stains uncontainèd by shaking hands
Spreading like red soldiers running wartime
untempered by generals shouting commands
Then laughing like drunkards, drowning in wine
that rich purple spills out from its barrels
Then lying on bartops, eyes shine porcine
and unheard soft voices hiss curses and carols.
O, woe be on me if I speak out of time;
out-tumbling come innards, spewed from a mouth
Which whispered sad prayers in corners of grime:
hints of spring-season on trips to the south;
Watch them out-tumble, watch horri-divine
like the death of the tragic, acted but true
Yet laughing old minstrels declare it quite fine:
and friends ensure royal-men breathe not from the blue.
Hours fly past on wings of the Sun
who turns misted eyes from child-fight below
And lives lives of many, but cares not for none
not least merchant servants, throttled in the snow.
I fade and I fade: a blossom once watered
and love of the stage is clogging my throat
It changes my words: I fight it, I fought it
and hot-wet floods up with drowning and choke.
This minute, these words: I defy death.
And cold, outward slipping: my slow final breath.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
~
*solstice = sun stopped; in the case of winter solstice,
the moment when the sun ceases its journey northward
from the earth’s equator and turns southward toward
longer days; much like the journey our sun takes,
love solstice then is that moment of
arrest and redirect for one’s direction of travel
in life... and in this, the moment
a Sagittarian and Capricornian
separated on two sides of the solstice,
turn, collide and coalesce.*
~
hers,
the waning side,
winter's reprise,
calls to the night,
at height of eventide.
his,
on ebbing turn,
the sun's reverse,
together rise to step
as one at winter's ball.
their dance across the sky
'neath moonlit nights.
two in love,
in lockstep of
the stars above,
collide and coalesce,
their waltz amidst
the delicate pearls of
a Milky Way stage!
no more his lonely
path among the stars;
his heart she's swept,
to never dance alone;
her arrow sent with bow,
piercing to the marrow,
holds his life,
his very soul.
bold and daring,
her voice of caring,
soothes his troubled heart.
he, her promise, calls
to her adven’trous heart,
two stepping toward
a rising warming sun,
in birth that spans
the space and time between,
forever now as one;
this their solstice of love!
~
post script.
*she (late Sagittarian) is the setting-sun-kissed, rain-misted huntress,
he (early Capricornian) is the rising sun's icicled traveler.
mere days separating their arrival, though theirs could not be
more varied. their births under different signs; his in the wintry
heartland, hers in the sun-kissed southwest; individually they are fire
and ice, huntress and wanderer who together have captured,
captivated each the other’s heart. you’re not likely to see them
separately, but when you do, it’s only briefly when resupplying
their home, their hearth, their hearts. two making a most unlikely one,
but oh so surprisingly, so beautifully passionate!*
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
She is beautiful when she dreams
Dreams of yesterday, dreams of tomorrow
Soft smoky dreams of places far, times long past
Hard, wanton dreams of blood and steel
And dreams of misted green fields
wrapped in the scent of a spring morning
Cloud shrouded dreams of mountaintops
Caressed by gentle sunny breezes
Dreams of the milky moonlight
Wrapped about the night like stark lace
Passionate dreams of love and laughter
The taste of hot skin and warm tears
Desirous dreams
Of life, of meaning, of fulfillment
Dreams of romance that make her eyes shine
Dreams of lust and adventure that make her glow
I see her reposed, dreaming her dreams
White as ivory, fine and chiseled
Eyes closed, lips full, peaceful and content
She is beautiful when she dreams.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
I dream about writing you a love poem
One that is not misted over.
One that is not about him
But you, my beloved,
Because you are the only thing that I have ever wanted and I am tired of being so shy.
But this is hard.
This is even harder than I thought it would be.
I am staring at the her at the end of my first sentence and trying to figure out how it will sound when it finally breaks free from lips.
I imagine it will coat my tongue in a strange new liberation and we will both rejoice.
I refuse to write of you equivocally
And blend you into a neutral they
Or let yet another poem fall to chagrin.
I will not let shame cast shadows on our glorious love
No declararion of the truth could ever be an aberration.
So I write this love poem to you.
I do not scribble you deep into the binding or dust you lightly across my untruthful words.
I want to stain these pages with the red ink with our love.
You are not my secret to keep anymore.
You are the color I want to paint the sky.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
It’s so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I’m not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything’s fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I’ll be home by dawn.
3.4k
Once when I saw a *******
Gasping slowly his last days with the white plague,
Looking from hollow eyes, calling for air,
Desperately gesturing with wasted hands
In the dark and dust of a house down in a slum,
I said to myself
I would rather have been a tall sunflower
Living in a country garden
Lifting a golden-brown face to the summer,
Rain-washed and dew-misted,
Mixed with the poppies and ranking hollyhocks,
And wonderingly watching night after night
The clear silent processionals of stars.
3.4k
I saw your blood pour down into the abyss, it danced like a river of abundance. I saw them opening their jaws, drinking it like water of vitality. I saw them leap for joy as they bathed in your crimson rain. You laid there beside me, pale and cobalt. You lay so free, you lay so pure. I touched your skin and my fingertips froze, your soul had fled. I felt sorrow, I felt pain. That night I died with you, I stuck the knife to feel your suffering, I stuck it deep without any shame. My eyes fogged as my final exhale misted the black air.
This is sanctity.
Feb 28, 2022
Feb 28, 2022 at 3:25 PM UTC
The fallen leaves
are gauzing thin
as they lay decaying
on the forest floor
and the frost that formed
crystal by crystal
slowly in the night
with the morning
sparkles to become
the jewels of fairies.
She is fluttering
her feminine silhouette
flirtatious against the grass
so distorted
that your eyelashes
can not catch her
but only a gleaming hint
of gossamer wings
delicate and ethereal
is reflecting in the morning's
slanting sun.
You are tempted
into probing under a leaf
with a broken twig
seeking her soft footprints
but they make no mark
on the fragile leaves
or in the softened grass
and her clandestine space
is too elusive
for your eyes.
She is hiding
veiled and disguised
carefully concealed
and you can only see
the glittering cobwebs
formed by a hungry spider
into a intricate misted mesh
catching careless flies
and morning dew.
She is fooling you
once again obscure
and her transparent laughter
like the soft spoken sound
of a faraway subtle pan-flute
is floating with your
sheer wonderings
in the waking light.
Nov 14, 2009
Nov 14, 2009 at 10:43 AM UTC
Once more
I am floored
by indulgence
a greed
a lust
a need
complete me to bleed
in my left nostril.
Last night, I fell from the sky.
Saw why I existed
and misted the glass
with my bind, i am bound
I found M D A in my D N A
A ray of
Ad dic tion—
con flic tion, res tric tion, cru ci fi xion
He was more than just a friend
Ended in me coming back
attack of parachutes.
no—not an american raid
blade cut the lines
weighed out the fines
swallowing paper and singing the signs.
He saw though the redbull,
the xanax, the pro zac,
the this- that
your mix- match emotions
that k i l l e d like a rat-trap.
And for what?
Artificial love.
A c r a c k
in my parachute attack: I deny.
Last night, I f e l l from the sky.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
In the distant lands of forever
misted light seeps beyond line of sight
where gulls circle above the ocean squall
lies the dream of ethereal treasure
drifting in and out of dancing firelight.
Within the lush and precious emerald reaches
fly majestic golden hummingbirds
graced in flight off untouched white sand beaches
shadows stand tall in the eye of a lonesome moon
and in its fleeting ephemeral decree
couple wine with unspoken wise words
and see them better received.
In the Eleusinian dreams of men
gather the cornucopia of breath
nourish oneself in the last passing of days
grasp firm the righteous omen
and embrace the rituals within thy beating breast.
See glowing amber give flames to creation
revel in the pagan shamanism
rise above the mortal coil of chains
craft a celebration
and in the haze of hedonism
dance naked in the summer rain.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
I sipped upon your creative juices,
and drowned, another finger,
into that gory darkness
of thought;
these canopies breathe softly,
as I curl my fingers
and straighten my eyelids
to take another nap;
Yet that dying fetus haunts me-
it’s misted face still echoes
as an unwanted ultrasound,
of bubbling cysts;
I tried ******
yet the spirals scream:
in this pregnant mind-
and refuse;
So deal with me-
You’re mine.
Yet,
You’re born
...and never alive;
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:31 PM UTC
Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
tonight the snowy night of our first winter
comes back again in every road and tree -
that winter night of diamantine splendour.
Steam is pouring out of yellow stables,
the Moika river’s sinking under snow,
the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables,
and where we are heading – I don’t know.
There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.
The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art.....
Whose soul can compare with my soul,
if joy and fear are in my heart? -
And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s,
quivers at my shoulder, in the night,
and the snow shines with a silver light,
warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?
3.1k
Grown beneath the sun,
Holding the occasional rain drop,
Surrounded on all sides by companions.
Snip!
Cut off forever from nourishment,
Collected with a few companions,
No clue what the future will hold.
Moving swiftly through the air,
Higher than ever dreamed, but
Fearful of sky diving without a parachute.
Misted occasionally,
Attempting to maintain appearances,
Despite being starved of food.
Enduring more body-jolting aerial swoops,
Drowned in a swift waterfall,
Losing companions that did not maintain their appearance as deftly.
Chop, chop, chop!
Sliced into innumerable bits,
Wondering if life is over,
Now that one’s shape is forever lost.
Perfuming the air with a distinctive aroma,
Blending it with those already in the air,
From other small bits of greenery.
Fears realized at last:
Falling from a great height to the ground,
But falling on a soft cushion.
Smothered with white strings,
Rolled up tightly in the soft cushion,
No escape route possible.
Dying in the heat,
Spreading into the gooey whiteness,
Wondering what the point of it all was.
Eventually cooling down,
Being exposed to air once again,
And hearing (if it were only possible):
This is the best herb cheddar bread I’ve ever had!
Was the result worthy of the chives and Italian parsley’s sacrifice?
All who partook of the savoury goodness certainly believed it was!
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
A cool December morning!
Today I rose much earlier than usual
I watch the night stealing away
Like an accused convict under cover
Sunlight peeks through the leaves.
In the haze of overhanging mist,
Only the blurred silhouette of trees in sight
The crows have begun their raucous call
The leaves of grass are misted with dew
A cool zephyr blows from the south
Clouds float like shredded cotton
Even Sirius, the brightest star has paled
Life is slowly beginning to unfold
And men like shadows have begun to move
The sun has now climbed to the Eastern hills
In scintillating glory like a mighty king
Shattering the mist with his lance like beams
He exults like a victorious warrior
His crystal rays rouse the sleeping birds
And they begin their chorus in wondrous rhyme
I enjoy the sweetness of this lovely morn
In serene silence, I stand and watch
The light that slowly fills the Earth,
Dispelling all trace of overhanging darkness!
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC
Autumn flares out, its flame burst clouds
strewn about misted cliff sides, loam whites
of winter taking their place. A stiff willow breeze,
ten thousand things withdrawn to burrows and immortal
pine heights. First snows stream down, duckweed carpets
of August fade, jade peeking through white. I embark
on the seasons final sail in hardening ice waters.
Til spring my sails will be folded, my raft in idleness.
~~~
Rafting on moon drenched river, avoiding cascades and crash of
rapids and falls. Silvered driftwood a warning. Silent glide of
mulberry oar through dark azure, another crafts sail in silhouette.
From the deck a black spectre dives below, stillness follows
splash, re-emergence, beak wrapped around a dazzling rainbow.
From my raft dangling lantern sways, trout swiping at
gathered moths – scatter and return, some from a far off realm.
Some trout in the net, others not. Luck or the way – who can tell?
~~~
Dusk colour gorge sheathed in
emerald blankets, rising into sheer
cliffs of auburn cinnabar, all
underpinned by the fathomless
flow of azure clarity. Snowy Egrets
nest in pine top heights clear of dust.
On white sand shores gibbons howl
towards squawking beach gulls, squabble
over landlocked trout – debate without end.
Peach blossom petals swirl on spring breeze
over carpets of jade inter cut by king
fisher blue zipping over duckweed. Oriole
song weaves in and out of mulberry branches.
In these vast and vague waters -
coves, creeks and streams all one,
a river dragon lives an undetermined
existence. Mud stirs below, merely a
catfish airing grievances.
Red tail flares in dirt,
my mulberry oar rows me back home.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
A full moon morning
not yet awake
the fully fledged stars
were down to pay homage
seated on the vines
marinated in white robes
without the usual yellow makeup.
Only the breeze was allowed to touch them
to carry away the scent on their tongues
licking the moisture from the white skins
blowing gentle puffs
into the wide mouth of the gaping wind.
The wind circled around me whispering to be gentle
as I lifted each flower one to my small tray
and laid them around and around like a milky way
not breaking their prayer with the looming moon ahead.
Too late the white disc pinned me with its glare
continued to look down gently
from a balcony of cloud sprays
I heard every word that had gone on between them
and my eyes misted
with what they said.
©Malintha Perera 2014
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC