"moldings" poems
My mother taught me purple
Although she never wore it.
Wash-grey was her circle,
The tenement her orbit.
My mother taught me golden
And held me up to see it,
Above the broken moldings,
Beyond the filthy street.
My mother reached for beauty
And for its lack she died,
Who knew so much of duty
She could not teach me pride.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
Add some deep and blue skies
A dash of lonely teardrops
And some lost souls
Mix in a little hope
And the mix becomes
healthy smiles
Out with the old
And in with the new
Removes the tarnish off the moldings
And brings forth a brand-new you
Erase the doubt
And clear the cluttered memories
These Are the recipes to a great legend
in future sceneries
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
squeals
on train tracks
through me tonight
a discordant cacophony
jangles these
jumpy nerves
through cold corners
dread steadily
rises to meet
the digital clock that
flashes
another sleepless hour
on this
high old ceiling
that still needs crown moldings
just want to stay
marooned in bed
trepidation
an arm’s length
away
tucked inside
my fuzzy slippers
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Still in the mist of finding my purpose...Like why do I stand here...you know I use to think that i was a flower bright and beautiful...that I was something everyone would need...but now I believe they feel the urge to call me a weed...That im growing in unwanted places...And so i look unappealing to many of their faces...Haven’t i preformed a miracle didn't you want me to grow...and now that I've out done my peers you don't want me to show...Yes there are thousands of us and i hope to make more...unique like me because you told me to soar..see they've been nurtured and cared for..Do you see what i've endured...No im not in a field, a valley, a hill top or, tuffit... but i've emerged from the ground...the rough hard moldings that i was around...i stand here bright tall my own lil treat...but em' just a **** if I grow from the street ...and as i try to reach out to others... i loose my bright colors..an slowly give myself away in the wind piece by piece by piece...as i die where you left me trying to grow out of the cold concrete....But it doesn't end there...See im still in the air...Me this **** have planted some seeds..In the pieces of me..Inspiring more flowers in their places of need!!
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Jettisoning off all
Wilting away all
Like an autumn memory
Like an instant tragedy
Crumbling away
Moldings of affection
In a nuclear winter
Without armageddon
I died
A soft shell annihilation
No dreams but nightmares
I died
A lovely execution
Nothing but emptiness
Eradicating away all
Except you, nothing at all
Like an autumn memory
Like everlasting banality
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
*each of us
in those sometimes
seem as projectors..
not unlike those
old movie projectors
filtering the light
telling the stories
moldings on screen..
in our sometimes
we depart our
many contradictions
fly to a widening
vantage in stillness
surveying the multiples
and traumas below..
our own light
projects and selects
finding stories in
swirls most complex..
we might wish
to declare:
we are creator
of the story we
now see...*
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
Paint me in new colors. I am tired
of my usual half-attempts
at dragging this out. Why
do my hands feel so heavy?
Lead numbness dragging
hours into days
I try to scraps off my old moldings but I'm
stuck in this feedback loop of
what will break me slowly because
I want to be here, but
at the same time I don't.
Ambivalence
kills. It seeds itself
under my skin and I can't
tear it out.
Ambivalence
will be the death of me.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
While my body
Grips on tight
My strained mind
Tries to slip away
Everyday
Is so hard to bare
Especially without you
Yet in my struggle for
Happiness
I find that I am even more dependent
And that you aren't nearly
So I sit alone tonight
Molding a purple heart
Wanting to smash it
Hoping something
Anything in me
Would come together
If I break it
The still harsh reality is that
I don't like to break hearts
So I'll keep it
Hold it
Make a wish upon it
For clarity in all my chaos
And I shall put it safely away
Hoping it's safety will somehow
Save me and my sanity.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
She painted her walls
The brightest of yellows
That when she opened her eyes
She would feel some warmth
Instead of being so hollow
She wanted to paint some more
The purest of blues
Even a touch of verdigris
High up on the ceiling
In awnings and moldings
But she came home with nothing
When she couldn’t quite buy
The kind of blue in the sky
One day she looked up
To cracks of blue between the clouds
In every widening crack
Is somebody holding a paintbrush
They would paint and paint
Until every blue is used up
She wanted so much
She wanted with all of her heart
For some spilled paint she could catch
When her tears cleared
She saw someone floating down
He landed without a sound
He did not offer her some spilled paint
But in his paint stained fingers he held
A piece of the sky
She grinned and looked up
For he had missed a spot.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 3:46 AM UTC
***A racial or privilege of identity
where difference is unnoticed
results in a sameness
in our blue-pilled culture..
Some plead for an awareness
of these differences overlooked
both small ones and elephantine..
Yet in these endeavors
something else escapes notice:
our strong belief in separation
a belief born early.. never shaken..
Here is a radical approach:
step away from the differences
and find the Presence which
contains all differences..
Know that each of us
although molded in difference
the moldings are not
apart from but made of
the Presence...***
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC