"peppering" poems
The stigma that sensitive people are weak needs to diminish.
Just because she feels things down to her bones does not mean she is weak.
She carries everything. Her feelings, other people’s feelings, the world around her as she takes it all in.
* * *
Sensitivity is deemed feeble.
Thick-skinned people are the brave ones, right? They have endured so much that they no longer feel anything. Snide remarks, rude comments, and stressful situations roll off their skin like water during a storm. If it’s already pouring, why worry about each droplet?
* * *
That is the problem, she thought to herself. Are brave people truly brave?
No.
Brave people are the true cowards. Rather than taking their experiences and feeling them, letting them seep into their bones to become the marrow which fuels their bodies, they shut them away; skeletons in a closet.
They have become numb to the baggage they carry at the expense of growing numb to everything else.
* * *
People around her are merely living in this world, she decided, whereas she was absorbing it.
In the spring she lays in the grass, running her fingers through each blade as if it were the Earth’s hair.
When summer nights bring a light breeze, she imagines spirits are hugging her.
In the fall when it rains, she spreads her arms wide and gazes up to the sky, knowing that each water droplet that falls is Mother Nature peppering her skin with kisses.
* * *
Others are too preoccupied making sure their skeletons do not peer out of the closet.
Strength, after all, is the ability to withstand vast amounts of pressure and God knows how much force those skeletons must bear.
* * *
In the middle of the night, her father hears her talking to someone, except there is no response. It is as if she is conversing with herself when in actuality, she is conversing with her skeletons.
After midnight when others have drifted off to sleep, hoping that their skeletons do not come to haunt them, she is wide awake, her closet door open.
She lays in bed and asks her anxiety how it’s day was, laughs at a witty comment that her depression has made about her life, and gives thanks to the insult a bully gave her in the first grade for making her the person she is today.
The things that should weigh her down, she has befriended. They come to visit so often, anyways.
* * *
She wonders how someone who has mastered the art of suppressing their feelings is braver than someone who has mastered the art of acknowledging their feelings.
The strength it takes to keep the closet door shut is immense.
However, it takes an unsurpassable amount of resilience to carry the world in her heart and soul while still having the courage to open her closet without being afraid of the things that could jump out at her.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
"There in the midst of it so alive and alone
Words support like bone..." Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street"
Orion abandons the sky
dropping his club
casting his belt toward the horizon
Just once, for a moment, he glanced away
from exalted ****
his vanquished prey
He’d seen the picture—
A girl of sixteen
lying awake—muses in her head
eyes shut, arms thrown back
behind pillow
Tee shirt stretch across lean chest
Hips mingle with blankets
She is scattered there
among the minions of her hair
behind her mouth of unkissed words
_______________
McCaffery's Coffee is open late
He’s seen the picture
Muses in his head
His arm almost around her
Hers on his shoulder
Small—feather-light fingers
lift the hair of his neck
Reaching around her
his hand searches and slides
along her silk-draped hind
...and the view he has is amazing!
_____________
Music— and waves pounding and lapping
at the life he fears....
Little boat stranded in gray mists
till a thousand tiny birds alight
in a peppering and fluttering
stir of time
in greens of brine
as the sun pries through….
______________
McCaffery’s is ready to close
but the owner, knowing
douses the overheads and turns away
leaving candlelight to crouch and duck
and blink in circles
How long and free we
are allowed to gaze....
so full of wind and riffling water
Stars above and stars below
blooming on the floral silk of night
Vespered lilacs exhale
Votives of warmth
beneath his hand
Silk sweating—
familial in their rocking
Distant lightning loosens eternity
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
The regions’ magic carpets are a-beckoning
The brassware in the back bazaars aglow,
Exotic spice is nice
For a very reasonable price
And the camel market’s just the place to go.
But…
Afghanistan’s dark Muslims are scheming
The women folk are sharpening their knives,
When foreign troops depart
The bloodletting will start
With collaborators screaming for their lives.
The children of the Ottoman are smarting
For their neighbours are showing them disdain
By peppering with bombs
Along with Syria’s pogroms
And I wonder why the local folk complain?
Oh the sun comes up with glory in old Egypt
As another national leader meets demise
And old Nasser’s bile will burn
As from his grave he will return
To try to rectify his children’s Holy lies.
There are whispers of a strike at the reactor.
There are reactionary reactions from Iran
With annulment of the bomb
The region should resume aplomb
But I have my doubts this mixture really can.
And it never rains on dear old dusty Cairo,
Here, you never feel the chill of falling snow,
You may stalk the back bazaars
For the rare blue water jars
But you should really buy protection when you go.
And they whinge that all the tourists here are dwindling
That the middle Eastern charm is all but spent,
When the red blood flows like wine
In the good old Bhyzantine
As the peace of night, with gunfire, is wrent.
But…
The dates are really sweet
And the carpetry so neat
And the music is exotic in the night,
And with the flash of Asian eyes
I can guarantee surprise
As you flee for very life…with ****** fright!
Marshalg
From the dark Bazaar
23 October 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
Last night, I got kisses.
They weren't sweet kisses,
They weren't soft kisses.
They were sharp kisses,
They were swift kisses.
They were the kind of kisses that leave marks.
They were the kind of kisses that sting.
They were peppering kisses,
They were lightning kisses.
They were biting kisses,
They were a blade's kisses.
They were the kinds of kisses I regret.
They were the kinds of kisses that sting for days.
They were silver kisses,
They turned into red kisses.
They weren't my first kisses,
They weren't my last kisses.
Last night, I got kisses.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
a winter visit is
blood to us,
collected in our thumbs, pressed together, always
distracted by
effectively knowing that which is true:
feral will never make do.
going to the space needle,
her mouth was a cowry shell that i saw in the water
in my fingers i heard the snapping of twigs
just that prickly little feeling saying
“kenna, watch the corners of her mouth”
lovely in the passenger seat
my hand quaking
ninety miles to go
oregon behind,
peppering the corridor with firs
quietly i sang watery songs
“run river run,” “golden vanity,”
she slept with the stars sitting on her hair
then seattle waited
underneath her black dress
(velvet, from her mother)
wondering where will we stay-
she woke up. from the sky fell
zebra orchids, already dying
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
for jul
she asks a-rat-a-tat sensible
peppering of questions;
“why do I give away my poems so easy and so fast, why me”
the answer so readily apparent,
so easy peasy lemon squeezy,
my style is who you are!
every-oft and every-then,
a leader-reader believes my words
so profound so entire so joyful wonderful!
that title passes there and then
a poem without a dedication but a-dressed-up-lovely
without a ^hat,^ missing the zing of panache
that makes its DNA complete, then someone comes along
who loves it so more than enough, placing that rakish angled love with a bejeweled hat pin just so, and that hat makes
the poem so much more, the jewel whispering confirmation
vive la différence!
so a dedication to/is
purest dedication -
exactly!
and this one
a jewel for the poem
for jul
be a
just
be cause
5:47am
<•>
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
Writing is about class.
Class is about sitting in plastic,
in the chill of morning
and having to write down notes notes notes.
Notes are about pens kissing paper,
and peppering the page
with inklings of half-baked thoughts
and thought out truths
on the stark white below.
Thoughts and truths are about consciousness.
Consciousness is about writing down
notes notes notes
on people who’s intricate names escape you,
as the ink scratches dark caverns and rivers
on the stark white below,
so professors and professionals
know we are consciously writing their
thoughts, truths, and words
Words are about tongue and confusion.
Love, *** hate, love, meaning, working, feeling,
biting, tearing, kicking, screaming, breathing, writing.
Writing it all down, writing more.
More tongue-in-cheek, more cheeks brushing, fingertips touching,
and scribbling notes notes notes
on the back of your hand in lust
so you’ll never forget.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
like stars, her eyes following the path,
time moulded into its caves
the sky with its sapphire-mooned dome,
the rustling trees where the fast
wind swore and shook each crooked branch
here beyond the houses and the well-kept lawns,
the low walls and scrolled iron gates
the sounds of the night a bat’s wing,
the sagging wind gusting, smoke
peppering the sky from chimneys in a thin flame
or the jagged ice of a jaded moon
where the horses in the woodland
shook their manes, grey-eyed like
athene and her owl, untired as
a fog-spun sea, relentless and alive,
the trees and their ghosts around her
she held her breath, bare feet weaving
along the sandy track, dress flowing,
her arms covered in bracelets,
her lips, coral-pink, brushed in peppermint,
free to dream at last , eyes swallowing
the dark lines of the trees, hanging the dusk
from her eye lids, singing of the sweetness
of the night and its ragged clouds,
the raw dust of the moon.
her dreams were blue pools, the night
with its midnight leaves, her
heart longed to be free, to wander
through the trees as wild as the
horses with their stone-like manes
and sweeping metal hooves, brushed
with the inks of the sky in the shadowy
woods where everything was still but
not still, where the moonlight carved
its name in the woken tree.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
I
Winter's fog swirling,
settling gently on the peak.
Should I,
or should I not charge the beast?
Oh, but to climb,
that serpentine road
through this thick mystical Merlinesque brume.
II
I abandon all reasoning
and don my armor
to do battle with the slithering Wyvern,
"The Pinnacle".
My silver Steed awaits me.
And in almost Ninja attire,
helmet placed,
cleats clicked and locked into pedals,
I am one with my ride.
III
Mist now's upon me.
Mist and bone cold.
I trek upward to the proving ground.
Drifting,
as always, into a trance,
a meditation,
ignoring pain as a pugilist.
Shut up legs, I say.
Shut up and give me one more day.
Prompt me not
that I am the aged Warrior,
for with every cadence I am reminded
of my fleeting days.
IV
I crawl upon the spine of the dragon,
out of my saddle and with the fullness of might,
break loose from the fetters of the mundane,
habitual world below these clouds.
V
Mist to rain,
rain to ice.
Diamond hard shards of sleet
bounce off my helmet,
peppering this snaking path towards heaven.
Crystalline obstacles
to navigate on my surly descent.
VI
I have owned this battle before you know?
Many times past.
But like a moment,
it can't be possessed.
Still this right of passage I must pursue
over and over and over
til I am no more
and my steed has been pawned.
VII
So quiet now
high above the clouds,
so alone,
so away from the world.
What solace.
Oh, to die here.
To fall and lay, looking up at these leafless trees,
on this gray Winter's day.
And to witness my last peacefilled thought.
VIII
But not today.
No, not today
for I am near the precipice.
I step up the pace and route the enemy
and laugh in deaths face.
One more stroke, and I gut the beast.
One more turn and I am exultant.
Oh Rapture,
Oh Felicity.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
I'm constantly living out of a car door window.
Heading to dinner but never satisfied when I eat.
Always hungering for the next road:
The seasoning of the lights,
The peppering of the people.
The beast within always growling
Telling me
I'm
hungry
Brighter bulbs to hide from
More people to not talk to
More monuments to never visit
even when I live
10 minutes away.
But the beast doesn't feed on the lights,
people,
streets,
noise,
stars, cars and manicured yards,
Trees, leaves, and jingling keys,
Gravel roads, throaty toads,
Big red barns and a river's flow.
It feeds on the want.
The need.
The desire to bleed.
The car radio and willingness for the **** I put myself through.
Obese with the metropolis electricity,
Preparing to consume the next one:
[St. Louis]
[Chicago]
[Manhattan]
[LA]
Paris
Rome
Tokyo
Staring into the reflection of the dead eyes of the person it once inhabited
The hunger smiles in the window.
Running away is fun
[Disappearing] is easy
(It's part of the history,)
but it's never filling.
Bigger city
More people
Brighter lights
Over and over
Fatter and fatter
Emptier and emptier
Sugar cane in a child's diet
False calories in the form of "homes"
Trapped in a little car,
The driver belting Hallelujah.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
he doesn't know it
but when i lay in his bed
my mind is stringing together
adjectives and airy phrases,
trying unsuccessfully to
pin down the emotions
he breathes into me.
he doesn't know it
but when i kiss his skin,
i imagine my lips
peppering his chest
neck and arms with
ink stains that morph
into words like "lover"
and "darling".
he doesn't know it
but the smile he shares
with me under the covers
is pressed firmly
into the corners
of my heart,
begging to be immortalized
in words.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC
I
An orange overcast this
evening splayed pink
hues stripes and
saccharine beads. The
twilight caricatures live golden years.
Restless becoming in the garden of
her drunken sons their flowers
soaked in brass, seams
bursting in uncontrollable
laughter we pause. To
admire the briefness
of that era exploding
its petals peppering
spraying saliently we spill
indoors churning across tabletops.
My arms hang dead by my sides.
Her eyes gaping sway
swiftly biting deeply the dottedfaces
lurch. Streets fall unconditional
amidst tears we comb lips
sharply distinctly
her stubborn *** stumbling
handles loosening she holds
my hand my arms hang
dead we pause.
II
Children babble sunlight across
lawns; I hear sirens traffic icecream nips
our tongues twinge on windless
pipes gust our hair flying smiling
at laughter from the
playground behind us.
Placid smiles stain enamoured
halls; for glimpses
we mumble necks crooked
sheets flap draped over bars
her eyes waver glisten
shiver. A warm breeze
dries my hair.
III
Wallowing I oscillate utmost trep-
-idation entangling grappling but
hushed beneath foliage eyes
downturned soil clings when her
fingers impress deeper through
to where rivers end.
Glowing dawn I turn further
lighter almost her hair caught
between the floors;
gently feverish we see turgid
lines the tinniest cracks we pray
on tranquil mornings.
Window panes blemished it was
spring only darker from
deafened rivers throbbing;
under lucid eyes I fold
and heralds blare. We consume
the silence sounding from still lakes.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
Snowcles....falling calling card, resting, upturned faces
Snowcles....falling like pendant droplets
Seeking kind eyes
Icicles.....frozen, swift like daggers
Icicles.....frozen chapters, white pages
Enlisting kind eyes
Frostles....biting frosty jack back
Frostles....emulsioning natures walls
Reflecting in kind eyes
Drowning in deep pupil pools
Of blue hues, winking white lights
Snow blizzards cooking on iceowaves
Drifting, selling off last years frozen season
Storming snow whips frosty fragments airborne
Peppering the night sky with finely tuned
Layers lacing, flitting and fitting superbly.....
giving birth to a white out
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Copper nails
And coloured sails
Peppering the view
Party hats
And whisky vats
Appearing from the blue
Fireworks
And dancing Turks
Scarlet ribbons too
Speeding cars
And chocolate bars
Once the cuckoo flew.
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 7:34 AM UTC
*we’re merely strangers
disguised as a family.
four cornerstones
propping up the dinner table --
a doll house
when seen through a telescope, though
the peachy porcelain pillars are tarnished by
the cracks at their corners.
“perfect family” shines in neon lettering on the threshold.
it looms over us, frantically peppering the conversation
long gone stale.
it stings my eyes,
and burns my tongue
to speak.
my teeth are plastic,
my fingers plasticine,
pieced together carelessly
a millennia ago,
when warmth still existed in the spaces between us.
now, we are cloaked in our own despondencies,
eyes staring not at each other,
but through.
we float past each other
as ghosts;
though I’m the only one
who hears the echoes.*
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
A brush, a flicker, bursting from the envelope
of existence.
A plate, a mouthful, simmering in the waters of approval.
A smile, an achievement,
Marking the period with good
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 5:43 PM UTC
all the ******* leave the party early, attired
in cackles, even though stilettos say otherwise,
they laugh and squeamish assort
a waiting line for a mongol tribe:
open all hours minus the sunday,
when jesus' ***** was dried;
got to love a mother of a culprit readied
for sacrifice and prayer lasting 2000 years.
in between the party?
a man walked idly musing his relevance,
he popped a few balloons with his cigarette,
his life flashed before his eye,
notably an error, pornographic photos
flashed before his eyes, not as bad as Gucci and
gob anna in twisted anorexia... **** actresses take
the catwalk... we all revolve around liking curves...
plus **** in *** plus **** in **** plus **** in mouth,
a holy trinity through and through;
there was no offensive image shown,
there was no offensive foghorn sound made,
but she's too eager to censor communication,
says f**k... hush... oompa loompa augustus needs the loo
to **** out the roman empire...
what entertains children breeds a fear for adults...
what entertains adults makes children divvy...
say piston and phallus in a rhyming symbiosis
of tact... welcome you, welcome i;
what doesn't entertain children does entertain adults?
the reality of a mistaken fact that childhood passed?
and of those who's childhood was orphanage?
the free distribution of wealth... or a free distribution of justice
be seriously taken along with vitamins?
burp... are we shining with sun and vitamin c?
perhaps we wished to have netted brown skin
in a spider web of self-producing vitamin d of kenyan origin?
ah i see, sneezes from cayenne peppering.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
With their necks and hair and noses
fancy chairs
hams hips, laughs.
Voices sque-
a sudden movement
rushing, racing sand
smashing
crashing
peppering the audience
-aghast
shocking,
tragedy.
It was so pretty too.
With their necks and hair and noses
fancy chairs
hams hips, less laughter
Voices still squeaking
They walk out doors and into cars
and back into reality.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
When the first boy who leaves
goose bumps trailing your skin
plays your favorite Death Cab for Cutie
song on guitar--stop him.
With the notes wedged under
his fingernails, stuck
like they are in your head,
you'll never be able to listen again
without cringing.
It's 3AM when you're clawing
bones to hold yourself
together, you wonder:
"Is the memory of me a light
peppering his ceiling,
keeping him awake?"
"Love" should have stayed
a word, not a fight. Loneliness is a date
spent sniveling into the sleeve of a
different boy because Chili's played
your favorite Death Cab for Cutie song.
But if he comes back, asking
for a poem--don't write one.
It won't be any more appreciated
than you were two years ago.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
The stars
Once ceaseless
Infinite
Now sprinkle the dark
As if accidents
Tiny holes
Peppering the black
With their hopeful presence
Only the brightest are permitted to shine
While the rest lay trapped
Behind the blanket of dusk
Which is cool upon the skin
And warm within my heart
But I will break it open
Uncaging the sky
Allowing weaker stars to see the world
Before dawn comes again
Awestruck
I will breathe them in
Before back out
Into the night
They will ascend
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
I wonder if truck drivers ever get tired of the open road,
Where cars speed past in angst of their destination,
Red and white lights filling the darkness.
Endless dedication to wearing down the pavement that sticks to the Earth like a bandaid.
I wonder if Earth gets tired of us littering,
Destroying,
Peppering it's surface with blemishes to be reconciled with.
I wonder when humanity is to be torn down,
Another plague roaming the planet ready to be wiped out soon enough.
We don't compare to the locusts,
The frogs,
The volcano ready to wipe us out.
40,000 years overdue,
The ash ready to cover the sky and pollute our lungs until we suffocate.
I wonder what will happen to the highway then,
Maybe reclaimed by the grass that once existed here.
I hope the car lights stop shining,
I hope the truck drivers reach their destination to finally rest from the constant stop-and-go.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
***Peer out the frosty crack'd windowpain
translucent poetry in fractured hand
vintage thoughts rise from a steam'd
cuppa emphatic billowing overtures
prelude to the days's negotiations
darkly processing as ink bleeds
out through cynical purse'd lips
embers of dark eye's glean'd glow
mind field's traffic steadily high-season'd
blinking lights dimly reflect'd thunder
gingerly flavor'd pungency's flair
smacking on a charm'd lick of despair
speculating rain'd on parades chagrin
put on another *** of stimulating spirits
peppering a **** melodious harmony
pen'd a snappy sparkle with a bite
left out on a din'd windowsill overnight
hullabaloo's brouhaha made a boisterous clatter
bedlam nearly snared the disquiet of will's disposition
dancing moon lover's save another testament'd hue
witness'd by evidence within a cafe's smoky allusions
covenant's bargain within the scheme of another frosted avenue
forced to whittle time in disguise flying above landscape'd rhyme
sword'd dilemma's cut another frothy fizzling perspective
twilight closes illusion's blinds on facades picturesque view
delusion's of a torture'd poet stirring in frenzy's flurry never slumbers***
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
you didn't give me the key
to your heart.
It's fine,
I'm a fairly decent locksmith.
And instead of floating in the sea
of blue in your eyes,
I just drowned.
My little boat almost didn't save me.
The warmth of your body next to mine
just scorched and burned me,
so I showered in a waterfall of aloe.
Your kisses peppering my shoulders,
turned into knives stabbing my damaged skin.
And out of nowhere, I pulled out some bandages.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
i will clean my room tonight
and wonder if this is the last time
a man has to come and look it over.
maybe next time we will own this house
and i won't have to worry
about being kicked out
because we can't pay.
i used to own a big yellow house
an old one
with a green roof
and sunshine-smiles peppering the air
now it is a war zone
mommy made it that way.
i will find home someday
home is where the heart is
when i find my heart i will know
where to look
my heart piece is somewhere in that dungeon
i will take my sword and find it
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC