"palest" poems
Quiet mind, immersed
in palest, warmest yellow.
Molecules within
find alignment
with infinity.
Silvery mercurial fluid
paints my bones
with gentle light.
You have come back.
Abundantly, warm salt
water envelopes me.
Even in this chair,
in this empty room.
On dry land.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 3:04 PM UTC
From my window,
in corner of an eye,
see a pink flamingo.
Broad curves,
into familiar shape,
grounded legs,
Iron weighted.
Been there
for years,
quietly sitting,
amongst roses.
Pushed by storms,
changing winds,
yet surprising,
inner strength.
Retains balance,
keeps small piece,
staked out,
of much larger plot.
Slowly losing,
it's distinctive hues.
Dissolving,
fuchsia to palest pink.
Every family
has their own,
pale pink flamingo
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
break me on the wheel
while the wheel spins
argentia road
and all i see are crows
gorging in the open field
and severed cornstalks everywhere
this night
i burned your clothes
beneath the palest stars
to cherry embers for my bed
love, i dreamed of empty graves
and the undivided moon
such a fragile thing
to sigh for the sake of breathing
no more, no more
i am claimed by blood-soaked hands
and my resolve is dead
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
to be the kind of person
who will glimpse
the cherry blossom tree
beautifully delicate
in its early bloom
fluttering the palest pink
against a fragile white
desperate against even
the gentlest of breeze
but only observe
the black and the white
of what the premature
might mean for later
commenting how soon
these branches will lose
their graceful lustre
no longer to inspire
those hopeful wanderers
only to appear barren
and lifeless once again
Feb 22, 2024
Feb 22, 2024 at 1:08 PM UTC
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the muse;
Nothing refuse.
'Tis a brave master,
Let it have scope,
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope;
High and more high,
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But 'tis a god,
Knows its own path,
And the outlets of the sky.
'Tis not for the mean,
It requireth courage stout,
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending;
Such 'twill reward,
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.
Leave all for love;—
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, for ever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
Vague shadow of surmise,
Flits across her ***** young
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free,
Do not thou detain a hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Tho' her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive,
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.
4.2k
The great bird is conceived in a glistening eye
a mythical wonder waiting to be formed
coiled in patience under palest skin
waiting to unfurl its majestic wings
a cold steel blade unlocks its cage
blood must flow to bring it life
its freedom found in fragmented bone
the bars that block its sight are pulled back
hands reach into the great cavern
grasping the wings to set them free
at last in splendour and magnificent awe
the blood eagle is seen to take flight and soar
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
Palest orange, a watercolor
wash slips in behind
bared branches
variegated,
rustling leaves.
You slumber,
down in the cellar,
fearless of the spiders
and centipedes.
Awakening me
with your roar
my sleep vanishes,
trading places
with blessed warmth.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
I had not told you of this, not yet,
Until now, when it returns clearly,
Within the timelessness of interior life.
A month to the day and the memory,
Abides in its own identity, being itself.
Into this now familiar unboundedness
Came a new and exquisite presence,
A force field tenderly embracing me -
Just along the edges of my seated form.
Unmistakably you. A quiet certainty.
How could I know? But I knew.
As it dissolved, a light of the palest green,
Took its place, glowing a blessing.
Breathing became the intake of bliss
made into the finest substance, and
I was renewed, visited, complete.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
A road of palest lime fluttering Sycamore trees
Some almost leafless, others coronets still there
Through the golden branches colbalt blue skies
Lilac bushes, the garden daisies, flower in rows.
Thinning Robinna casts shadows of dim shade
Contrasting the red Acer’s lace leaf with green
The trunk arch of handkerchief laden Foxglove
Holds open its beautiful boughs to be admired.
For Autumn spreads my walk in glorious glitter
Though the evening pulls in the coldness of year
Making the best of these last savages of seasons
Gathering leavings, the birdtable spills its seeds.
Love Mary ***
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
To My Moirail,
You listened when others were self centered, distance couldn't stop us from watching movies, you made me smile with your quotes and You even became a brony(sorta) when I did.
I was there when you would rant about those jerks, when you obsessed over Jack White, and We talked about your dad.
I promise to never stop being there for you, Cross my Heart and Hope to Fly Stuck a Cupcake in my Eye! I will be forever your friend, as long as you say the same to me. : 3
My Moirail, For whom I have the Palest of Feelings, I would give you my last apple, I would do anything for you cause you'd do the same for me.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
ROBBED BY TIME
Once upon a time,
A friend in need at all times,
Time was such my best friend
And so we hopped till the end.
To my castle he'd come,
For he was always welcome
Any time he ever wanted to,
Something my queen loved too.
We'd ramble woodland paths together
As he reeled off one story after another,
All day long having a good time
Till when castle bells could chime.
Time was not of this world,
But a great war lord
Of a very far away land,
King unto the realm of fairy land.
He who had a novelty crown
Bestowed upon him by a fairy clown,
A crown not of gold but of palest silver,
A precious gem from the fairyland silva.
With lurve in the air one morning,
My friendship with Time died aborning
When he chose to do something frivolous
Just when the Sun's rays were so glorious.
Time emblazed my heart,
Something that didst hurt
When he smiled unto my wife,
Such a great shock unto my life.
He gravitated towards her after a deep sigh,
Like a whirlwind, my mind whirled high.
He thus gallantly asked her for a dance,
And was granted a golden chance.
Keenly I watched this flint-hearted boy,
Thought him skint but feared not nor coy.
With alacrity and in broad day light
Together they cwtched in delight.
He whom I always enjoyed with the wine,
There enjoying with a queen of mine
Whilst committing mischief;
This friend of mine such a thief.
Time whispered thus into my Queen's ear,
Whispers I could hardly hear:
Alas! He promised her the moon
For they'd eloped by noon,
To places strange I might never have a clue,
To where mortals have never dared walk to,
All the way to the realm of fairy land,
Such, such a very far away land.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros
10th Aug 2016.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
Morning is a burnt thing
that wrings the dark from my dress,
a lilting blue on the lawn,
in that twilight, so heavy
with lures and the tiniest snails
leave ochre splinters in my palms,
a scar, where you wrote in my book,
the blood part of ruined pages, bone white
and virulent, you raise the urge to render
my wrists more fragile,
more fragile than this,
a restlessness as black as a raven
drifts through bits of paper, stray wings
come to worship the hour, vanishing
between nine and ten, Winter
is a tenderness as transparent as silk,
as fragile as poppies,
its ruthless baptism upon my body
filling with snow, my skin shimmers
like dusk, like wings
all night you held me,
steadied my heart in the heavy wind,
even when the wildflowers had sown
themselves into the shape of a grave,
the garden overgrown, my body
from a bone, and my soul
out of nothing, opening,
opening for yours,
I am sure, god has failed me,
and longing is just the heart
changing colors, all its chambers, churning
the slowly spoiling hour, all night
I ribbon and tendril,
as you make a cage of your fingers to keep out the light,
shut the latches of this cell,
shut your eyes, my lover,
for I am frayed, my belly blood dark
and grey, where it is all wearing at the ends,
a little gin poured upon the open sore
of this ache, as I am caged in glass,
shackled at my wrists, like pink clusters of wisteria (oh, pink)
upon the secret places of our skin,
fingertips press against me like a bell,
beneath the swell of *******
I keep the debris,
my poems to you are small,
quartered and hidden beneath the floorboards
of this room, the bed, the glass,
the pink (oh pink) wisteria in bloom,
morning, is a burnt thing,
spoiled like a jail of brick and mortar,
where I live on licorice,
and on the palest underside of the wrists,
the half beat,
I dont think, I have ever loved so gently,
in silence, unexpected,
midnight spooled in a clavicle,
for my skeleton is a fossil
you will find every night
in your flesh,
and my faith lies
in that single thing left
to us, a smoldering filigree of sorrow,
shaped like a moth,
and morning is our burning....
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
Today the rains came, without any warning
I watched droplets forming, pooling on the ground
the trees dissolving into palest fog
into the quiet of this forest, void of birds
traveling off to some secret world
perhaps to some cavernous mountain hollow
with glorious wings, I dream to follow
through the darkened woods, hidden by ferns
through harrowing clouds to be one with birds
with gorgeous feathers, downy warm
among the flickers, pheasant and crow
to be an evening silhouette in the alpenglow
a skylark winging in a painted sky.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
o splendid child most whOlly pure and sweet (
angelic, come to claim your worldly place)
de
scend
ing, born to mother of the street
Leda to some (on the
down-low) Zeus
effervescent incandescent eYe s
illuminating darkened cornered souls
of passers-
>snappingsnarlingstomping<
by
with savior's grace found now(here)
perfect whole
unearthly beauty neon ((halo)) glows
mirrored
on her palest golden hair
from reddest lights and bar signs
Her steps float
above the concrete-footed walks and stairs
to which we're tied.
Just child's play (yet it seems
that in her wake a cityblock's
)redeemed
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
No room to feel
We lived mostly as bridges, standing tall and strong.
Our hearts of stone were never for evil
It just had to be strong enough to protect the people in it.
No room to feel
There was no reason in emotion, no strength in tears and nothing good ever came from either.
The sunset was never meant to be stared at, it was the only sign that we had fought the sun that day and won, and the sunrise was a new days battle cry.
The stars were never meant to be gazed at, they only remind us that anything that could only shine in the dark would always remain small and common.
So no room to feel
Because we were men
We were Irish men
With a Guinness in one hand and a fist in the other. There was no room for hugs and embrace
Because we were men
We were Irish men on foreign soil but we were still Irish
And this was nothing but a great drinking story in the making
They couldn’t stain us, we were the palest of clouds yet we were the soil
We were the earth upon which the world stands. The world did not revolve around us, but we were the axis upon which it spun
So no room to feel
There’s a world to build of steel and bones and ours were the strongest Because we were men
We were Irish men
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
A poet's dream isn't like any others
Poets dream of translucent colors
Colors of a summer sunset,
Palest pinks, slivers of purple
and tangerines
Poets dream of arising with a phoenix
And flying far beyond tomorrow
Beyond space's emptiness,
Beyond a storm blue horizon,
Beyond infinity
Poet's dream of love immeasurable
Poets laugh a genuine laugh,
Poets cry a genuine tear
A poet's dream born of passion
Born of inspiration
Poets carry dreams in their heart
Dreams of love, dreams of life
Dreams lasting a lifetime
Dreams even of a forgotten star
Dreams carry a poet far
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
13 years ago
that Magnolia tree hovered over my yard.
it cast such a shadow
that everything underneath was always so cool.
the flowers were so beautiful;
the purest white to the palest pink.
when the sun was at a certain angle
the tree looked magical.
5 years ago the tree split in half.
back then
the grass was so much greener.
i don't mean the metaphor
the feeling of thin lucious grass running through my toes
always amazed me.
the grass is dead now.
we used to love the rain.
we would run up
and play in the middle of the street.
until the thunder cracked
and we'd race back home,
laughing the whole way.
I'm terrified of storms now.
you used to be able to hear kids playing.
you could drive through any neighborhood at any time of day during the spring and summer.
there would be kids outside.
playing baseball, rundown, release, soccer-
riding bikes, scooters, skateboards, go karts-
jumping on pogo sticks, trampolines, and over ropes.
even at night
we would go out
trying to catch lightening bugs.
we're inside on our phones now.
the trees going to school.
God were they something.
they lined the road,
every tree was the exact same
but something about there being so many in one place
could take your breath away.
2 years ago the road and trees were destroyed
I wish things never changed
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
palest moonlight throws its glow
on the earth piled high
'round the fresh pit dug today,
an open maw hungry to be filled.
not far away,
a solemn vigil is kept by the new widow,
tonight she mourns the loss of a lover,
a long-time friend and partner,
gone too soon for her.
tomorrow will be the well-wishers,
the relatives, the friends, and the feast -
before the vast emptiness sets in.
meanwhile, the kingdom of bones will celebrate
the arrival of its newest citizen.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Life without you will not be as white as you.
but more of the color blue,
not just any blue. . .
but the palest hue of it;
That my skin is starting to turn into.
When you uttered the words,
"I can't remember the feeling anymore,
how about you?"
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 9:39 PM UTC
No reflection of you in me.
Clothes as black as pitch; hair dark as night.
In fear you find me, ****** alive.
Quick of ***** thoughts, hidden from your sight;
You do not like us, but we don’t mind.
You hate us for our individuality,
Because you yourself lack your own clarity.
We live in the shadows;
The sunlight is our enemy.
Beneath a moon is where we belong;
The lost children of an Eden long since gone.
With palest skin and blackened eyes,
We cherish the fear we cause; we love being despised.
With cloaks dragging behind us, we sharpen our fangs;
Our nails are nine inches, our songs only for the ******
Your rainbow has lost its colour;
Rain washes away all your suns
And in the end we are your nemesis,
Because we are having so much fun.
Go follow their path; we shall lurch along through this dead garden.
We are bitter on the outside; our love is pure, your love purely stolen.
Forget forget-me-nots and leave the carcass there to rot.
We have fire in our veins. We are found; you are lost.
In the Devil’s eyes we are immortalized;
You have no right to have any kind of effect on my life.
Stay away from us or become covered in words drenched in filth;
You keep putting us down, but we are standing still.
We stand alone and think like a colony;
We defy your social etiquette and your idea of society.
Do what you have been taught;
Follow footsteps, learn to walk.
You are so quick to pass judgment,
Whilst clearly knowing nothing at all.
With witches and vampires we make a connection;
No reflection,
No reflection,
No reflection,
No reflection.
You see no reflection when you look into my eyes;
No part of you to relate to, no illusion of paradise.
No morning glory; no have a nice day.
We are worthless; we are depressing; we are miserable…
So you say.
I will say what I mean, without needing to be mean.
Do you understand what I mean, when I tell you, you are so clean?
You say I am worthless, but you are nothing.
A scream in the night lets you know you we are singing.
Give me a ***** riff, run a nail down a window;
In the end we all have to go,
So let go of your ego.
There is no reflection of you inside of me.
There is no reflection of me inside of you.
There is no reflection of the light that you seek,
Because you cannot see the real me and you are see through.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
I hate the way her eyes scan me over with jealousy. She's so enviousm but what does she think I have that she doesn't? I'm the diluted image of my mother's beauty, yes, & she wants that. But she doesn't realize that full pouting lips, the large startled etes, the palest coffee-cream skin comes with strings attatched, a think contract she has no idea about, full of clauses & fees. the very last page reads 'Amelia', signed with my blood but written in my mother's decided, sure hand. She doesn't see all the chameleon shades in me, or how I need them just to get by. She has no idea of my longing, my yawning morning yearning for the way she's the same girl every day. I admire he belief in (the lie) that no one can **** with her, while every person I meet makes something in me panic, wondering if they'll be the next to discard me after taking me out & finding that I'm both too much to handle & not enough to stick around for. She can shrug off a punch & barrel through a crowd, moses to any sea, any shore she finds herself at the edge of, while the simple swat of an absent hand creates ripples & gusts that send me tumbling, toppling *** over teakettle. She scans aisles of people, tasting, testing any that are above her minimum standard, but I've never had that kind of freedom; I've always been a sample, appetizer, appease me, please me. babe. She knows as well as I do the desperation for approval, for being desired, but the difference between us is that she refuses to change for anyone but herself while I need people to give me someone to be.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
Butterflies dissolve like honey-colored lacquer
as I wander the insides of this bright amber moon.
I look for Mother behind a shaded glow-tree.
It is there that I find her folding clouds while bluebirds
dance in the hollow of her heart…
She’s redolent like star-oil from a night-blooming cereus,
With hair never-ending like shadows
sealed from the palest of light.
Her eyes are like tanzanite orbs set ablaze.
She wears robes made of koi scales, and silk from the sea.
As I gathered pearls for her from the mouth of lapis lazuli
shores, my feet touch the chilled sands as shells scurried
from my foot-falls.
As I fetched gossamer from a crystal spider
hiding in a nearby constellation, gold web danced through
my cramoisy hair.
With all of these things, I sat beneath a niveous dune,
out of sight from Mother as I made her a necklace that
resembled the remnants of a galaxy that she once lost.
When I presented my gift, she smiled, then gently
whispered:
"The bright galaxy standing before me is more than enough."
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
Excerpts from the Journal of Dorian Gray
by Michael R. Burch
It was not so much dream, as error;
I lay and felt the creeping terror
of what I had become take hold . . .
The moon watched, silent, palest gold;
the picture by the mantle watched;
the clock upon the mantle talked,
in halting voice, of minute things . . .
Twelve strokes like lashes and their stings
scored anthems to my loneliness,
but I have dreamed of what is best,
and I have promised to be good . . .
Dismembered limbs in vats of wood,
foul acids, and a strangled cry!
I did not care, I watched him die . . .
Each lovely rose has thorns we miss;
they ***** our lips, should we once kiss
their mangled limbs, or think to clasp
their violent beauty. Dream, aghast,
the flower of my loveliness,
this ageless face (for who could guess?),
and I will kiss you when I rise . . .
The patterns of our lives comprise
strange portraits. Mine, I fear,
proved dear indeed . . . Adieu!
The knife’s for you.
Keywords/Tags: Oscar Wilde, portrait, Dorian Gay, journal, ageless, face, youthful, unchanging, rose, thorns, ***** vat, acid, acids, dismembered limbs, violent beauty, knife
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 3:55 AM UTC
Different colors in the giant race
The first to finish?
The one with the palest face
He won with pride through tricks and schemes
The people continued to hate him
So he just pretended to be on their team
Patriarchy is only for the toughest
Yet it seems like survival of the fittest
Is only amongst the dumbest
We all walk in dead men's shoes
Single file, chains on shoulders,
In uniforms colored red, white, and blue
How can you be so happy by making other live in despair?
That's my question for you, Uncle Sam
Why must you be so unfair?
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC