"opaquely" poems
Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.
The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.
‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
Step one,
choose your topic.
Likely yourself.
Because what greater
subject could there be?
None
surely.
Step two,
choose an image.
Find something
that can serve
as a metaphor
for you.
Find the rain forest
for instance.
Or perhaps a pond
frozen over in winter.
Yes,
these should serve nicely.
Step three,
place yourself
somewhere in the midst of these things.
Let you be
the trunks of the trees
supporting the lush, green canopy.
You, poor, tired,
supporting the thick boughs
that are the real life
meters
and
meters
and
meters
above you.
Or is your face
the ice of the pond.
All that people ever notice
is how much you can take
before you break.
But there is so much more
just beneath the surface.
So much
teeming with life.
No one knows
how deep you go.
No one will know
until the ice thaws
(which is unlikely to happen anytime soon.
but the metaphor was never meant to extend that far.)
Step four,
write yourself in
to the piece
in such a way that no one else
will be able to identify you.
(Unless they're **** cunning.)
Perhaps disguise your identity
within the purpose of the piece
or the flowing imagery
seeping through the spacious cracks
in your technique.
Riddle the work
with subtle ins and outs
and minute complexities
that vex the reader
away from your intentions.
Nicely done.
Step five,
ruminate.
contemplate
your reflection
as it appears
in your monitor.
Not the image of your face
bouncing off the glass
but the snapshot
of your thoughts
so opaquely back-lit.
Remind yourself
that this is for you
and no one else.
Proofread.
This is just for you
and no one else.
Revise.
This is just for you
and no one else.
Justify
this is just for you.
Step six,
post to a public forum.
Check back in an hour.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
True I am not one for declarations or discussing emotions,
if I keep you around then that's enough of a notion
that yes, perhaps I will fall to love you, one day in the
future, not right now is true. I will never willingly
admit to being the fallen, more likely to distance
and cautiously move on then risk the words slipping
from my tongue to yours, as we kiss on dark corners
and leave late night bars. How many times has happiness
skipped me by? Living so opaquely and lying with my
eyes, as you take my lips but never do take my hands, I
could love you, dear J, but I'm too scared to stand.
This image you project is one I cannot pierce, I do not know
if you feel when I am in tears, whilst you do not know that
that yes they have fallen for you, our bodies make such awful love
that our minds are askew, tied to decimations old lovers cast,
for it seems two stones do not make a love that can last.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
Spiralling upwards, it dances
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Shine beams stopped short in the fog.
The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.
Mittened song sheets conduct
a huddle of duffle coats
and frosted boots, rooted in the snow.
Sweet carols leave notes hanging
in tranquil harmony.
‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
She has a tattoo on her left forearm. She gave it to herself when she was fifteen, with a pen and a needle in the back of her room…
And I’d always thought that was pretty cool. It was just a little line, like a “z” or the trail of a honey bee, something from deep within a mind flowing with twisted fantasy, but I could never see that it was a “two”. Because we, the children of Ignorance and Bliss, are number two. And you, my dear friend, are number one, in both our minds and yours. So we lock ourselves behind closed doors and waste away doing chores that were yours, and lore of cut wrists or an air-tight noose for the gender I kiss is so cliché that you, in all your self-love and knowing when and how to turn push into shove, somehow missed that my wrists are scar free, and I love my sexuality, and my sole insecurity is that I am number two. To both me and you. And it doesn’t matter if you lead with your left or your right, if you flee or you fight, if you’re gay, straight, or bi, you’re a butterfly in my eyes, the thousand-mirrored eyes of a simple housefly that can’t even see the sky in which you preside through this opaquely glass ceiling…
And that window of opportunity looks rather appealing, but I have this feeling it’s only reserved for those with pretty, powerful, or popular wings… and I am none of those things.
And for once, I see that my story may never be quite as uplifting as I’d like to make it seem, because I’m quite keen to the fact that Act III will always end in tragedy. And those aren’t things I like to say, but to this day I pray that this grotesque display of shimmering wings and beautiful things would simply go away so I could say that a tattoo of the number two is something I will never do, but until that happens the concept rings true. Yet I’m told my wrists aren’t fit for a single number or slit.
I have a long fuse, but it’s already been lit, so the next time you see fit to shoot ***** of spit or permit your self-love to turn push into shove, it may be my blood and ink that pools in the sink, mixing with my salty tears I’ve held through literally years of no self-love and knowing that the dove is you.
And I am number two.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
I shalt not fall in love with the hand of one god
For many oversee my world.
Nor listen to the lies that dance off your tongue
In a way so distant and curled.
See I live in a way so peaceful and kind
As these spirits around me say.
For seeing through the eyes of one powerful man
Is like selling my soul to the grave.
Your love-
Your captain-
Your savior of beast-
Although whoever betrays him is of ways-
Of crafts and horrid slurs to keep
Me locked in with devilish dismays.
The fate that lies if I do not drift
In love with the hand of your kind.
Of a man that promises all and hell
If I don't sync with the ways of his mind.
So go on and tell me the ways I should see
Although I feel it deep in my heart.
For if I succumb to the ways of your world
My life will diminish and fall apart.
Surrender my soul for one who sees all as sin?
I'd rather vanish into the depths-
Of whirl winds and tragic mystics that spin
Down the treacherous dismays of man.
So go on and tell me the things I should feel
Just because you were brought up that way.
For it doesn't mean I shall appeal to his eyes
For mine turned opaquely to grey.
If hell is what I'm given for my love
Of many spirits and gods-
Then let this reign of "darkness" devoir
My body-
My heart-
And my mind.
Alysia Marie 2015 ©
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
*Puzzles are frazzling
Oblique and opaquely designed to
Effuse effectively in earnest someone’s
Mental juices, in most cases to futile ends.*
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:04 AM UTC
Fleetingly, in passing
A tremor of her lip, I see,
An anxiousness about the way she moves her eyes, averted now
And smoothes her dress as if to say…”How can this be ?”
Quietly so, in shadows, so anxiously.
Alone, so alone amidst the surging crowd…
Who throng, unaware of the quiet agony of she,
She who sits so quietly in shadow all alone….
Completely unaware the throng
And they, untouched,
Opaquely, move along
For they don’t care.
They don't care.
M.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
And, this bit of line,
Here,
Tells me why your heart’s
Achings pour out
So thickly
In your sighs-
Why you paint on
Boisterous smiles,
To draw away from
Your telling eyes.
My fingertips feeling,
The way the bowl dips,
Deeply,
Full of somethings
Too heavy,
Find the reasons
You can’t fall prey
To those who don't say,
But reveal,
With rottenly
Itching fingers,
&
Why I can't do away with
Those maddening strokes,
That have melted into
Cracks in marble.
You've so many
Drooping wilts,
On a wiltingly drooping line,
Dripping
Downward
In their gentle slopes,
Reminding me
To be gentle
In the way that I
Love you
In ashen days.
Though,
These three little x's,
Snickering beneath your bowl,
Tell me,
You've probably been
Reading me,
In opaquely mirrored ways,
Peering from your bowl,
All along.
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
Alteration.
As dawn began to steal
on night's unyielding obscurity
penetrant sheen
moved into semi-translucence.
Dark slowly gave way
as multiple rays darted opaquely
to gild the east
with wisps of victorious vapour.
Day lifted sky's shade
then blushing, winked welcome
by tinting pink
flush on a morning's pale breast.
Filigree clouds laced
changing horizon as sun's throne
flickered and shone
in the rising blue of azure dome.
Awed watchers thrilled
when night's shawl, shrugged off
by light's order,
performed alteration never forgot.
While black lightened
and gloom's murk scuttled away
sparks began work
as alchemy turned dark into day.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 4:40 AM UTC
Catherine stood over the bar counter and pored herself a glass of absinthe. She placed the special spoon over the top of the glass and put a sugar cube over it and proceeded to pore slowly the water over the the sugar and into the glass of real Pernod. She watched as the drink turned its green tinted color and she could feel her insides hunger for the wormwood drink.
She loved the preparation of such a cocktail and if she were truthful it is one of the reasons that it was her go to drink. Another equally important reason it was her drink was because it awakened the creativity in her and inspired her work. Catherine was working on her fifth novel and had come to an impasse and could not write her way around nor through her dilemma and she sought hell from the Green Fairy for a little inspiration.
She took the drink to her lips and savored the anise flavored liquor as it rolled across her tongue. She closed her eyes and held on to the affects of it, seeing the edges of her vision go an opaquely luminescent green. She walked over to her desk and dipped her quill into the jar of squid ink and began to write on the parchment, letting the absinthe take her writing on the journey it needed to finish the story.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
Derelict recondite
alone and Hemorrhaging.
nocturnal ebullience,
sporadic . Effulgent ,
Paltry
surreptitiously vacuous and limpid
to deliquesce upon perspicuity at its core
abhorrent , perhaps surreptitious assuredly altogether banal.
Marginal, salacious nominal not liminal.
decrepit cerebral palimpsest.
Sesquipedalian abstrusity .
Obumbrated syllogism stochastically innervated.
Berated lugubriously .
Masticated openly opaquely supercilious
mellifluous synergy extirpated redundantly.
Apr 30, 2025
Apr 30, 2025 at 2:52 AM UTC
I'm living in a tiny box
With pin pricked holes around
I see the light reflect on skin
And hear most every sound
The walls -- opaquely vivid
I see all that is to be
But sometimes I only wish
I was a different me
A me that didn't have a box
A me that interacted
One who could live out loud and wild
One that's less distracted
One that didn't have restraints
Who filled her life with fun
Because living inside my box
Is dulling heat from sun
See, some can live without a box
Smiling through their skin
They dance and run under the sun
The world is but their kin
They go on great adventures
Capture potent smiles
Dance under the raining sky
And sing out loud for miles.
I'd like to say my box protects
From ultimate demise
But the things that worry me the most
Are the things that lie inside
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
and yes
all of us must
.........
?
..............
we are so opaque
unseen
hidden
..............
we know we are
somewhere
....
?
.........
or some-where's else ?????
lovely children are crying
don't you know
just where you are
and what you should be doing
being
as you are
human?
....
?
......
soon the world as you
think it is
shall be gone
what then
....
?
......
we are so opaquely hidden
stop being
opaquely hidden
and live
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 12:51 PM UTC