"necklaces" poems
O tower of light, sad beauty
that magnified necklaces and statues in the sea,
calcareous eye, insignia of the vast waters, cry
of the mourning petrel, tooth of the sea, wife
of the Oceanian wind, O separate rose
from the long stem of the trampled bush
that the depths, converted into archipelago,
O natural star, green diadem,
alone in your lonesome dynasty,
still unattainable, elusive, desolate
like one drop, like one grape, like the sea.
12.8k
cemeteries worn
delicately fall on chests
like grandmother's old necklaces
and inscriptions from headstones
draped in cold bronze
bought and sold, their epitaphs
like grandmother's old word
her lovely verbs
swathed in gold,
and ever were costly rhinestones weaved in
until every meaning to her lovely words were lost.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice
Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies
Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets
Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians
Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense
Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations
Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings
Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
When the cool metal
of my necklaces rests
on my breast
and I shiver,
I wonder if this is what
my heart feels like?
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
his smiling self,
walked through the hotel door,
and greeted his new, innocent
lover who is clueless about his
greedy intentions.
she smiles at him,
as she looks behind his back,
to find another expensive gold
necklace that will soon be around
her bruised neck.
she is still unaware
of his real character,
and who is the man behind
that facade of sophistication.
but, just like the others, he is just another greedy man with a pile of money, looking for some fun.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
That day, something got into me.
Approaching the corner of 155th
and Broadway on the Upper West Side,
my friend and I were only a block from home.
Either we'd been on a mission for candy necklaces
or bubble gum cigars, from the place where the guy
was always grumpy, never actually scary,
and the sawdust on the floor, the real cigars
in fancy boxes, were something to wonder about.
Or we had just scored our first fresh sugar canes,
one each, and much taller than either of us.
The kindly Puerto Rican green grocer, proud
of his new shop, hoped we'd try the plantains
too, getting a kick out of our delight
in what he'd always known.
The light was red, and we weren't in a hurry.
I just got curious about this trap door on the side
of the old cast iron signal post,
and decided to see
if it would open... and it did.
Smiling to myself, an uncommon, delicious
sense of mischief lighting me up inside,
I calmly flipped a switch.
Instantly, all four lanes of traffic, heading north
and south on Broadway came to a screeching halt.
The feeling of power was intoxicating.
And unforgettable.
Had I been an older kid, had the policeman
who happened by been less lenient, had anyone, God forbid,
been injured, I could have been in some serious trouble.
Injury never entered my mind, and maybe the officer saw that.
All in all, I got away with the only really naughty thing
I did as a child, and still get to smile.
And remember.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
In the seventies
we brought back silks and saris
hot with colours
that shocked the nights
Punjabi embroidery
on cheesecloth kaftans
mirror glittered skirts
that were spun with light
Kashmiri shawls
and Afghani dancing dresses
arms full of bracelets
silver and brass
enameled and etched
and singing with ***
rings of Ivory, sapphire and jet
necklaces of jade and threaded apple seeds
rain forest timber bowls
white marble boxes from Agra
with precious inlay stones
our little Taj Mahals
we wandered the globe
like a magical village
of lovers and
and came back
with backpacks of dreaming
and hope.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
i dream of silk and black lipstick, leather and ice-burn
i fashion thoughts into clouds of smoke i ghost out of my mouth
into necklaces i will only ever give to you; you
are burnt russet bitten lip bleached bone coalesced into
constellation; you burn brighter
than any constellation i have ever breathed
i dream of your hipbones; stretch marks flicking over them
like lightning glimpsed between fingers; like wishbones silently pulled apart
in promise; you are wishbone you are gold plate you are sunshine
through a stained-glass window; my heart is glass
a cemetery to your footprints a cathedral to your broken
dreams; i can taste the honey in your scattered thoughts
like a prayer on my tongue
i dream of deep purple and yellow and green and
black and fading bruise and blood
at the corner of your lip; i can taste iron in your breath
rotting in my dreams slow-burning ice in my veins; vengeance
is a dish best served cold i know
that if i unfurl my skeleton and tuck you into the spaces between my
ribcage and my lungs you will taste just as sweet
i dream of ruby emerald sapphire in brooches pinned onto black i
think of the bruise-giver of the blood-spiller of cracks in my
ribcage of wishbones of constellations of iron-taste of ice-burn of you of you of you
and i let you in
and i am cathedral i am cemetery i am bonfire i am in l o v e
with constellation
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC
unravel my thoughts,
like a bunch of necklaces tangled together.
unscramble my words,
like a puzzle.
decode the meanings behind my Instagram captions,
to try to understand my ways.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
i miss the necklaces you gifted me,
the amethysts you made with your lips
that adorned my neck
and turned our shared whispers in bed
into a bold claim, "MINE."
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 12:39 AM UTC
And the thing was
I was falling so hard for you
I had jumped off the cliff
Hoping you would catch me
At the bottom
I wore
Your necklace of hickeys
Around my neck
But once I saw the ground
And realized you weren't there
The necklace turned into a noose
And tightened right before
I hit the ground
My last thought was
How relieved I was you caught me
Even if if wasn't in the way
I wanted
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
Don't ever let any one tell you that you're not beautiful.
You are a most precious gem,
beautiful in nature, unique in design.
One of which all men are hoping to find
A gem that should be strung on a necklace
and kept close to the heart,
Yet necklaces are often only seen in part.
Perhaps you should be on the band of a ring
on a hand like a string,
reminding everyone of your glorious beauty,
Yes for all the world to see the treasure that you be.
But hands are often, time and again
bound to get ***** now and then.
No, not on necklace nor a ring can
all your beauty be on display.
If there was something I could do,
if I could just find a way.
Perhaps on the ear you can hang,
where no dirt will be
But lo, there is hair and hair blocks
the beauty the world needs to see.
Where can I put a gem like you?
Necklace, ring, and earring all won't do
So where can I display a beauty like you?
At last only one place remains,
(Though your beauty I could never contain)
In a case, behind glass, on a stand made of brass,
where dirt nor hair get in the way
where your beauty can be put on display.
Then the world may know what treasure have I,
to hold such a gem as yourself makes me one blessed guy.
2/11/12
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
I had the funniest dream the other night
I was doing something with paintings in the dream
I was picking them up and looking at them
I was in a public place, there was other people around
In the corner of my eye I could make out this girl
She was sitting on a table talking to another girl who was sitting down
She was a Goth girl, a real life Goth girl
She had these big laced boots and the fishnet stockings
She had necklaces and jewellery and the black dress on
She had the black eyeliner and very pronounced lipstick
And she had her hair done in a funny way that I didn't particularly like
But I can't remember now to describe (maybe it was short or shaven a bit)
Now I wasn't staring at her, I was only regarding her clandestinely out of the corner of my eye
It's like I was saying "Wow! There's a real Goth girl
I'd never met or spoken to a Goth girl before
Suddenly it's like... it's like she notices me for the first time
And she starts watching me... she's looking right at me
Now I'm a bit chuffed by this...flattered
I'm wondering why she'd be interested in an old geezer like me
Anyway just then I decide to glance at her pretending I've only just seen her for the first time
For a moment our eyes they meet
And y'know, she slips me the sweetest smile I've ever seen in my whole life
It's so warm and endearing/welcoming, open and innocent.. so cute
It's like she's saying "Hello there you, I'd love to get to know you"
Me! I don't know what to do, I'm blown away,
Gulp! I'm all at sea and I'm floundering
But I got to do something... so I kinda smile back at her and give her a little wink
Then I quickly look back at my paintings
The next time I dare to look over she's right there, right in front of me, this fabulous creature...in all her wonderful terribleness LoL
It's obvious she wants to make herself known to me
It all proves too much though... I chicken out
I pull out of the dream
I guess... I'm only a Shy Boy really.
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 1:33 PM UTC
Give me some other world to sip at,
this one is diluting.
This is how we dance
A row of tombstones; economics?
Market of waste, reinvent me.
Aligned, invisible, gothic
Encased in amber necklaces
Suspended animation
I will wait for years. Frozen
for renewal.
At every chance, the prospect of lightning
calms the heart.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
my heart is necklaces
tangled in a forgotten
jewellery box. no one
has the time nor
patience to untangle these
chains
but then you came
along to undo this
havoc, taking each link,
pulling it apart one by one
finally these chains can
shine like they once did
thanks to you.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
This was written a few Septembers ago. Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.
September,
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
environmentally unsustainable.
September,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
their denouement,
their denudement.
The September trees are:
Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.
Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
past pretender,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.
Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.
The leaves are:
magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.
browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.
the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:
Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.
On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
Nouveau Expressionism,
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,
raising questions existential.
Is driftwood on the beach sans
human admiration,
art, truth or refuse?
I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.
My own axis, my eyes,
conscientious objectors
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.
No, no,
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.
Nature's witnesses,
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:
Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,
Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares.
The boy is starting hard.
In the shaken air
the moon moves her arms,
and shows lubricious and pure,
her ******* of hard tin.
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies come,
they will use your heart
to make white necklaces and rings."
"Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come,
they'll find you on the anvil
with your lively eyes closed tight."
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
I can feelheir horses come."
"Let me by, my little one,
don't step on me, all starched and white!"
Closer comes the horseman,
drumming on the plain.
The boy is in the forge;
his eyes are closed.
Through the olive grove
comes the gypsies, dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
their hooded eyes.
Oh, how the night owl calls,
calling, calling from its tree!
The moon is climbing through the sky
with the child by the hand.
They are crying in the forge,
all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
The air is viewing all, views all.
The air is at the viewing.
3.4k
young hands picked dandelions
for their mothers and their fathers.
they pick, and pick, and pick
until a bouquet forms in their hands
because their family deserves
only the brightest, most beautiful of flowers.
young hands tie together the dandelions
to form necklaces and rings,
to form crowns to go along with their bright kingdom,
because there are so many of them,
and because royalty must wear
only the brightest, most beautiful of flowers.
young minds look up to their older cousin
with a crown of flowers and a bouquet held high,
but the older cousin is drowning,
and he has been dulled by the world,
so he throws down the bouquet,
and knocks off the crown.
and you'll cry,
because you wanted to give him
only the brightest, most beautiful of flowers.
the cousin will take away part of your light
to break it to you that dandelions are not flowers;
they are weeds.
and forever after,
the world will be a little bit more dull,
and the yellow will seem less bright,
the smile on your face will shrink a bit more,
the twinkle in your eye will start to fade.
but maybe if you opened your mind again,
you could notice that dandelions are still beautiful.
refuse to let the world take the things you love
and ruin them.
remember that in your young mind,
you once believed that dandelions were
only the brightest, most beautiful of flowers.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC
I would like to sit quietly with you
like to go all these places with you
Watch you change yet remain the same you
I would like to wear white with you
I would like to ride bikes with you
Want to be healthy and go slow with you
Put the top down smoking cigarettes too
Watch the powerful perfect tender you
Watch your rings see your necklaces swing
Feel the fire on our skin in the wind
Try and fail, **** up in sync with you
Try and fail, learn to just be with you
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 11:20 PM UTC
I have always believed that it is possible to see through the defenses of those who keep secrets tucked into their back pockets like wallets with a little more cash than they are comfortable with, if one is willing to look closely enough. It is apparent in their heavy eyelids, as though the weight of what they are carrying is resting on their eyelashes. It is apparent in the curve of their lips, and the way they are not able to smile to their fullest potential. It is apparent in their hands, and the way they are not able to hold anything, as though their fingers are already full. However, I never realized that it was also possible to notice leaves clutching secrets to their chests like keepsake necklaces passed down by their great-grandmothers until one afternoon when I was walking between two bushes. My feet were carrying me lackadaisically down the sidewalk toward my dormitory when something to my right caught my eye. Among a congregation of green leaves, I noticed one blushing sinner. She sat in the center, as though she was attempting to blend in, but her pink cheeks made her stand out from the rest. When everyone stood in unison, she followed a few seconds behind. When everyone clutched hymns and bibles in their hands, she tied her fingers in knots to appear busy. When everyone partook in communion, she bit her lip quietly. But there was something about the way she held her hands in her lap, with her palms pressed together and her fingers interlocked, and the way she wore her hair behind her shoulders in curls that made me want to get to know her and every secret she kept tucked beneath the belt of her summer dress. But we don’t always get the pleasure of conversing with sinners, and we often are not even willing to have those conversations with ourselves.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
When you joke you sound so serious
And I never seem to get it until it’s too late
You like order and tradition
I listen to Christmas songs in July.
Our moods never seem to match
You seem to thinks that that’s just fine.
But I don’t understand.
I’m always worried, it seems,
That I’ll somehow let you down
And in doing so, I’ve succeeded.
I always do the best that I can
to look good for you
you complain, “it isn’t needed.”
You’re family only likes the ‘Normal’
Whatever that is
But I stick out like a sore thumb.
From my hair and it’s ever-changing colors,
To my jeans with their pictures and quotes,
...That are drawn on with sharpies...
and the paint stains that cover them from time to time!
Because of all of this, I worry.
Am I too weird?
Is my rainbow-like hair too odd?
Are my drawn on jeans ,
My crazy belly dancing skirts,
And pentagram necklaces,
Simply too strange?
What of my love of olives?
And how I ***** up my face when I think?
Do you not like how I spend hours on my computer,
Working on one picture (trying to make it just right)?
Or how, when I choose to color my art by hand,
I walk away with paint all over me (Even on my cheeks),
And an oddly proud grin plastered on my face?
I worry, and pace,
For days on end, at times,
Wondering if you really love me.
And when you finally see me,
The weird, colorful, oddball that I am
You smile, and kiss me,
saying "i've missed you so much!"
And I know that I worried for nothing,
That you are different from your parents,
That our beliefs live together in harmony,
That you actually like the odd faces I make when I'm thinking
and the weird colors I dye my hair,
And that you really, truly love me—
Paint stains and all.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
I am feeling very small
Like I don't need to feel at all
But numbness doesn't last
Only a step in my emotional fall
Give me the luxuries of a queen
And shower me with everything I could've wanted
And I still will not find my happiness
Because everything is as black as coal
As cold as a blizzard
That leaves 11 inches of snow
You can try
With material things
Buy me diamond necklaces and a ring
But it won't mean a thing
If you don't treat me as rare as the accessories and jewels
Money can't buy me love just materials
They have no heart
So you ask me if I'm happy
I reply with a thank you for all you have given
But I've been deprived of love
So my final answer is I'd rather have love than diamond rings
Because to me love is rarer than the most expensive items you can buy
Love is a jewel itself
Show me with actions not a stone
Because my heart is breaking
Due to feeling alone
It's only me and loads of cash
Wishing I had what I needed the most looking back
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 8:10 PM UTC
My fingertips are scented iron,
I am here inside feeling so misplaced,
so irrelevant right now.
Three pairs of glasses on one desk,
two necklaces which are beautiful,
and then there is me here, so torn up.
I'm trying everyday to be happier,
but I feel like all I am doing is,
forcing out a beautiful happy facade.
Wear the mask, play the part,
nobody needs to know your pain today.
Wear the mask, play the part,
nobody'll know your main attraction.
My friends are pretty much the only thing,
the only ones I am bothering with.
Yet now I see, it's very clear to me,
that I will need to decide my path.
Why must I pick only one road?
When I want to explore them all,
I don't want to be forced aside,
to play a singular role this time.
Multiroling has been my key,
day #1 of false lies and screams,
I will paint a new image of me in the clouds.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
It's dark and cold here, frozen hand is creeping up my spine
My lips are trembling as I recognize your scent and smell
Of all the numb cadavers you left long untouched
Piercing canines reflecting an end of my joy and pride
And my fear of your claws getting near my crippled body, making more cuts
And it hurts, it hurts so much
But I won't scream tonight
I'll cover myself with blood that's flowing from my wounds
Making an art piece worth the gallery
Of my own collapsing skeleton that's falling to pieces
So you can take it
Make me your trophy
Cut off my limbs and make me believe
That I'm an animal, a stupid omnivore who refuses to eat a soul
Strip me out of my skin, I can't stand it anymore and make sheets out of it
And eat me alive, chew my brain and break my heart in a habit
In routine that's going in circles, 'cause you can't think of anything else to make me suffer
Spitting my parts out, what a terrible taste of flesh that was once yours
What a disappointment am I
No good for mouth nor father's pride
So why do you keep on me an eye?
Hoping I'll be like you, so you
Don't have to paint kitchen with my blood
And keep my eyes under your pillow
Or stitch with my hair another cut
Making teeth and gut necklaces for those who follow
Your cannibalistic rules, making their kids hollow
If only you had the decency to bury my bones in a piece of silky cloth
Instead of putting me back together like a jigsaw puzzle
So you can make fun of me and say comments that make me weaker
In an unfortunate attempt to make me a hunter
But I won't be like you, I won't
Eat another living being's soul or flesh
I won't cut their veins open to swim in their liquids
Because I'm not a cannibal
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC