"nectared" poems
I. The Fireflies
There was once
a time when the fireflies
had made a home out of me.
One evening,
long after the sun
had surrendered itself
to the hazed horizon
and the pregnant moon,
they had come to my window,
golden freckles of light
twinkling playfully
in the dimness.
What exactly
prompted their gravitation
towards me,
I will never be entirely certain of,
though I have my theories.
Maybe it was the
warm glass of milk
sitting on my bedside table.
Or maybe
they had simply mistaken
the peppers of stardust
laced atop my eyelashes
for their own kin.
Or perhaps–
and most likely–
it had been
the murmur of poetry
on my lips:
…watch how they dart about the trees
in whimsical harmony,
how they rise up towards the dark sky
in the hopes that, someday,
they too will become one with
the constellations that blink
so brilliantly in the blackness.
Yes,
Perhaps this what had captivated them so–
a homage to the fireflies themselves.
Perhaps this is
why they had drifted towards me,
as if in some fanciful trance,
weightless as paper lanterns.
And how sweet they were
as they twirled about the ringlets
in my hair and
nuzzled their small frames
against my cheek
and fingertips.
How sweet they were–
that is,
until the bees came.
II. The Bees
They made lightning bugs
of my fireflies,
whose soft luminescence was replaced
with a violent stream of sparks,
one resembling something close
to the bursting of a fluorescent bulb
And so came the lightning,
the firefly’s only defence against
the approaching swarm,
their only ammunition
in the impending battle:
fireflies versus
bees,
both in want
of my nectared
marrow.
But the lightning
was no reasonable match
for the bees,
with their
large, gelatinous figures
and the persistence
of their stabbings;
annihilated were the fireflies,
carcasses crumbling to soot,
their innards,
still glowing,
smeared across my collarbone
like war paint.
Victorious and
humming menacingly,
the bees then crawled
into my ears
and my mouth
where they proceeded
to feast on their spoils and plunders:
the honey,
that they so cruelly
stole from me.
And once the honey was gone,
so were the bees,
bellies full,
antennae sticky,
their use for me
fulfilled and therefore
discarded.
III. The Spiders
The final hosts
were drawn to
what the bees had left behind:
the inconsolable emptiness
of my being,
They marked their territory
with cobwebs–
spun carelessly
into my arteries
and windpipe.
Breath dwindling and
heartbeat diminishing
I tried to remember the fireflies–
the light–
as the arachnophobia
threatened to devour me.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
I walk, between the rush of breeze covering
The fields of wheat, green, tall, willowy
And the crush of ache resting,
Inside my heart,
Caressed sighs blown from phantom lips
Raise me, wistfully, to
Linger, in the whispered maybe of tomorrow,
Hushed in my crimson dreams
Captured
Within his arms
Once more
Where...
My languid eyes swim his ocean
To far horizons
Laying across his shore
Painted in the colours of precious ache
I mingle moonlight,to blend ******
Patterns resting upon his skin...my tongue follows a
Tattoed kiss traversing his lean torso
Searing iced breath beneath my moan...
Groaning in his open mouth
My famished breath feeds hungrily...
Spin drifting,
In faded denim...he peels
My curves soft,
Wanton...and
Wears me in heavy sighsssssssss
Exquisite sensations,
Splay me open to
Lay in wicked warmth upon his quiver dampened mouth
Sailing in fevered delerium, upon 'desire's' crest
Trembling
When he pierces the nuance of my crave
My intake of breath his reward
Nectared wetness dripppppppssssss across his lips...
Naked flesh
Tangled
Sinking deeper into darkened silk, my
Spine arched in invitation, a slide against
The drop of hips, night stained
Sweetly
Beckoning tempest's intoxication, in
The primal ****** of quickening
Where he wraps me
Molten, voracious and demanding, driving me
Again and again, breathless whispers
Against torched flesh
Make me his...
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
Tis pleasure sweet to think of tasting you.
to kiss your honeyed lips a tender treat,
to savour with my tongue your velvet heat,
to suckle deep that nectared heady brew.
Downy peach skin I long to stroke anew,
whipped creamy smooth and chocolate bittersweet.
Your luscious mango juice I ache to eat,
drown in your silky softness I once knew.
Many banquets were eaten in our bed,
each tasty morsel set the craving trap.
Imagine feasting on a love now past.
The apple-of-my-eye that cuts me dead
and tosses me a final candied scrap.
Lovelorn and syrup-sick I needs must fast.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
i
come to me
like winged dryads
and lift my prostrate soul
to heights untrodden
adrift with clouds
of unstarry skies
windblown to rainbows
without pots of gold
between
the uncheckered intermission
of shade and light
come to me
ii
to elysian fields he roams
gazing at the threshold of beauty
basking at the fountainhead of truth
nutritious viands that feed the soul
empyreal heights
laurel wreaths
meridian sunshine
of nectared sweets
witchery of words
full blaze of glory
poesy's gorgeous kubla khan
then all vanishes
like dreams
like streaks of shooting stars
like enchanted fairyland
. . . he is a poet
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
Words are not inherently ugly
Humans attach their grotesque behavior to the malleable medium
And money education trains
The youth about the importance of the unimportant potion
Sprinkled like lemons and grapefruit across the forest
Most and all were not tall enough to reach the nectared fruit
Textured bumpy and satisfactory and fed through factories
To make the educated money wrapped back in the loop
Scoop some Kafka soup, and chew the beetles
Bumbling and fumbling through your cheeks
Pinching beaks and streaks of lightning and thundered blood ran trickled and thud
Upon your open front steps; accepting misfits and **** and other assorted
Atrocities and monstrosities of destroying human beauty for feud and smoky wealth like stealth
In the middle of the night. Sky and pry your eyes to see the mind behind the eye you pried and spied on your inner mind that spine that ran down the central line to the bony roots and sooty
Footprints you stint and punt skunks across gardens spread with gold leaf and fake teeth that
Fed on the gold leaves and healthy sleeves of fruit ribbon sliding down their throats and training
The train that sped and fled to the brain where its caboose took refuge in the huge open space
The wasteland and sandy shores that sat on the crevice of the nestled edges across the peaks of the brain membrane that weaved and waned throughout the outer rims of the end of the circles through which you see to see.
On these slippery banks, words and earthly things are mixed by the human
Nature in a saturated and man made ugliness.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
One day, we will live in a little house.
The color of buttermilk.
And we will plant a tree in our yard.
There we will savor summer
Sipping sugary lemonade
With our pinkies up, pretending we’re British.
Gram will visit in the fall
To can peaches and make homemade jam
I’ve always had homemade jam
“You spoiled thing,” you'll say. I know, I know.
She will fill our tiny kitchen with nectared steam.
There we will shape snowmen with kinked carrot noses
Until our noses are nipped.
We’ll warm each other up.
There we will delight in spring and urge the buds to bloom.
“Grow, little guy,” we will whisper.
There, the tree will grow
And so will we.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 2:26 PM UTC
Upon a tree I chanced to see
a travel weary bumblebee
frustrated in his search for nectared flower
Upon a flower he did light
and died upon that second night
though I would sooner stay that fateful hour
A lesson learned by such as I
who from afar must feel you die
and dying too myself in tiny leaps
But you are gone and I am here
my soul is numb, my mind unclear
my vision so contracts to He who sleeps
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
At thirteen years old,
I learn that
not all mermaids are like Ariel--
some mermaids are sirens,
femme fatales of the seven sea
who lure sailors to their drownings
with sweet, nectared voices.
Still, I wish to don the life of a siren,
whose danger appears
dizzyingly seductive to me.
I have become fascinated
with the dark and the peculiar,
you know,
and, as a result, I too
have undergone a dark, peculiar
evolution--
and, as literature has dictated,
such a character as myself
is to be scrutinized
under an omniscient perspective:
She wears thick, purple eyeliner
and dresses only in
heavy blacks and deep blues,
an abrupt transition
from her previous adoration for
pastels and ruffled sleeves.
But it is not only her countenance
that is indicative of this disturbed youth--
there are the books she reads,
tales of death, gore, and
other macabre eccentricities.
Her favourite titles
are those by Edgar Allan Poe.
How suiting then,
that she should be an
Anabel Lee in the making--
"her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away...
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.-- "
she just doesn't realize it yet--
that she is a drowning girl impending,
that she was never to be the siren, after all,
but the poor fool
who succumbed to the siren's
dreadful tides.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
promised you the world and i failed
bless the fact you still here, together , still saying you love me forever, makes this world better
gave me the strength to fight, pulled me from the ashes phoenix I'm your fighter
scaled, the weight I carry lighter
touched by the dark, still carry a torch
felt your fire, sizzling cinders fired awaking my slumber, wanting forever to defend your honor
untainted my eyes, a purifier, gave my confidence wings, we will soar higher
this our love this our fire this our love triggered by desire
liar, never you will call me, I mean it
my meaning not faulty by us meeting
the feeling pouring out deeply that's guilt free
I foresee forever us be together until our souls get reaped
with faith i leap promise i keep
calm I sleep, feel the same
feelings equally deep
not leave a promise we keep, , visit each others dreams
dying promise
world bleeds, light you shine
Devine leads, my guideline forever entwined
beauty defined, angels shrine forever mine
nectared wine, feeling sublime love defined
faith leaped devils weep our hearts need
all I see, all I feel, oxygen needed to breathe
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 2:29 PM UTC
there is, a swarm of
bumble bees
making, a hive of
lucsious, loveliness
in my honeycombed
brain.
they bring, with them,
golden pollens and
nectared ambrosia.
from many places,
exotic and plain
and this,
these, very words.
are the sweet honey,
mumurings,
they produce.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
// \\
•||
<>
/
/ ( • ) ( • ) \
\
/\
( ah ! Sweet ! You appear)
Amongst the pregnant possibilities
••
And does the Seed remain ?
**
The Original ?
**
The god the goddess the myth the hill
The pure water
The nectared breezes
••
It's YOU we need
•
In this the hangman day
Only a little bit more will do
Will you give it ?
Who can say
You will or you won't
Then we'll know
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC