"pinpricked" poems
~~~=<♡>=~~~
In the morning of a
Breezey mauve-pink air
in the peace in a time of silent prayer
in the breath of a
newborn child's sleep
there are memories
we will always keep
when a mother first holds her child
in the strength of a mustang
running wild
in the hush of an ocean's
silent depths
there are memories
We will never forget
eagles fly
and soar on lofty wings
infants cry when their
time of life begins
seedlings grow
from the fall of gentle rains
these are things we know
but can we fully explain?
in the rise of a harvest moon
in the scent of a rose
in fullest bloom
in the grace of a
dancer's swirling form
then our senses make us
glad we're born
in the flames of the setting sun
in softness of night that's
just begun
in the lights of the pinpricked sky
there are times we pause
to think and ponder why?
breezes blow
and yet are never seen
there's a mind
that can only think a dream
can you touch the light
of falling stars
these are things we know
but can we prove they are?
in the roar of a breaking wave
we are kept from the
cradle to the grave
we may know
in our last and final hour
a loving and
ALMIGHTY POWER
soulsurvivor
4/21/2009
~~~=<♡>=~~~
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
Where the pasture meets the woodland
and the current meets the past—
that is where I will meet you.
By the light of the day, I will greet
you and be near you.
When evening falls, and the field glows
burgundy, I will come nearer to you still.
And in the night-time, when the sky
is a well of inky black pinpricked with
diamonds, I will be so near that
we will be one altogether.
We will languish in the woods, forge
friendships with the trees.
When the trees tire of us, we will go
befriend the tall grass.
Such are the inhabitants of this place—
this place where the pasture meets the
woodland.
And you and I, my dear companion,
will slip into their ordinary,
while remaining wholly in our own
very extraordinary.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
The Full Moon
Brings to mind
red eyed vampyres
witches covens
wolves howling
but to me it is
beautiful ,a soft cool wind
black pinpricked skies
the flickering red/whitelight
of a passing jet
the distant view of a
thunderstorm
nothing is nicer than to
view the world at night
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
She had dried His feet
with her hair. She’d not
forgotten that. Not long
after she’d seen the same
feet nailed and bloodied
to the wooden down beam.
Her tears had helped wash
them, those feet, she later
remembered the tingle she
had felt as her long hair
dried them, something in
touching, emptied her of
self and opened up her
darker self. Had He seen
more than others, understood
what others were blind to,
forgave what others condemned?
That moment, His feet in
her hands, touching her hair,
her hands. His eyes spoke to
her, His words pinpricked her,
each sin (as others saw them)
scabbed over as he went by,
His shadow kind of healed her.
She knew that now, not then
so much, after His demise (or
so seemed) and the placing in
that tomb, she felt letdown,
emptied, like after some dark
passage *** But she’d seen
Him after, the feet healed,
the holes unbloodied, His
voice soothed her inner coil
keyed up tight. But mostly she
recalled the washing of His feet
on that warm moon filled night.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
True blue and cleared sky
Where the pasture meets the woodland
And the current meets the past —
That is where I’ll meet you.
Evening falls,
And the field glows
Burgundy,
I’ll come near you.
The sky is a well of inky black
Pinpricked with diamonds,
Still, I’ll be so near.
We will languish in the woods,
Forge friendships with the trees.
When the trees got tire of us,
We will go
Befriend the tall grass.
Such are the inhabitants of this place—
This place
Where the pasture meets the woodland.
And you and I,
Oh dear companion,
Will slip into their ordinary,
While remaining wholly in our own
very extraordinary
And these hours
It counts for you!
(12/9/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
I sink in
I rest my knobby elbows on the hard glass
my dark, fuzzy, pinpricked reflection stares up at me
I place my cold palms on my hot eyes.
These eyes, they've seen too much
yet, nearly not enough
My chapped lips,
stingingly soothed by minty beeswax
My clothes
plaid polo flannel, red, green, tan, black, white, jumbles, like me
My cold feet stick out,
they rest painfully on a wood bar long stripped of stain
An old soul trapped with the mind of a child in a teenager's body.
This be will interesting.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 1:05 AM UTC
The eyes are a pair of globular organs of sight in the head of humans and vertebrate animals
Or are the eyes the window to the conscious soul?
They call me the Devil’s Advocate
Traditionally on the left side of your shoulder, purring that dead angels lie too
The lost pulse has been cause to abacinate
The light is blinding but you descry right through its laments, where the fleeting hope sings a tune that quavers as classical
The light is blinding but so is the crepuscular, encapsulated in a vessel of defeatism, powerless to shift my sole.
Your shut asymmetrical globes are created boundless by all existing matter that make them a home.
A Molotov cocktail in the shape of a hollow ***** reminiscent of wartimes and tearing without the gas
I choke on the smoke rings of the lit wick and I’m reminded that I hate going in circles and around
But they are also vessels of protection, a place for kumbaya’s around the fire where time is used to back-track
The deepest longings and recollection in my Purple Heart cannot be explained by how it beats 115,000 times each day
To hell with the sorry excuses and fleeting ideas of the Beaujolais
The soul is the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal.
Let your spirit descend into you again, fill your body like the dripping of Adam’s Ale from broken pipes
Yes, they are cracked, but your chest is not a bird’s nest in December
They are reminiscent of, but are not the promises your teenage self-made to your mother, saying, “I’ll be home by eight”.
Press your hands to the aviary your beating heart has been trying to escape, touch it softly, and this will be the first time in years you've been kind to the keeper of the grey
Glaze into the looking glass and hold your fists back, let go of the sharpness of your words and risk forgetting yourself
End the match that pinpricked the flame of hatred, and bleed out the blue and black of yesterday.
They call me the Devil’s Advocate,
You hang from the trees, but I don’t believe in gravity.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
open yawning chasm
theearth said night and the sky said beauty
pinpricked photon punching absolute uncertainty
certainly a most green and sharply thorn
upon your stem
i grasp
blood
Dec 17, 2010
Dec 17, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
In the context of things unknown
the leaves have fallen far into these doubts roads I travelled on summer's humid days now pinpricked with touches of gold
wheels blast past,
and the remnants of this past year rustle, there is a mystery in the coolness of this air will winter be one we can still bear?
In the context of things known,
I leave memories of all our growth
under the shade of baring branches
as days go by,
they'll be buried under the delicacies of fall until next year,
when the burden of the snow
has shifted their weight
I'll be back to bury more
Sep 29, 2023
Sep 29, 2023 at 9:23 PM UTC
I fell through a crack
In my own self conscious
And landed in that place
Where the ego launches
Misguided missiles
Of intentions unknown
Into those far-flung realities
Outside of any known zone
In those concentric orbits
I found a unified vision
Where any truth I've accepted
Now leads to a pending collision
Of acceptance or exclusion
Far beyond the realm of reason
Is the dimension of expanding doubt
Where Universal doubt executes truth for treason
And all relative reality collapses
Like a pinpricked balloon
To be absorbed into the maelstrom
Torrential meteors slamming into the Moon
No longer to be free roaming projectiles
The occasional visitors ,visions or omens in the night
But a contusion seen for millennium's by those
Thinking beyond Earthbound realities by seeing the Moon as more than just light
And fell through a crack in their own self conscious
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 4:33 AM UTC
If I were to be a day,
It would be overcast
And I'm not even sure that light
Would come, or ever last.
If I were to be a breath,
I would be shallow
Hard to take, hard to keep
From a chest too hollow.
If I were to be a heart,
I would be almost whole
Except for the time I let it sit out
And you pinpricked a hole.
If I were to be a house,
I'd have an iron-bound door
Nothing would enter without my say
And I wouldn't go out anymore.
If I were to be a song,
You'd never hear my words
They'd be in a language you don't know
The language of hurt.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 1:50 AM UTC
Today is a pale day, A grey day. But that is not why it is pale. It is pale because it is colorless, another drop in the bucket. My inadequacy grows symmetrically with my own dissatisfaction. And I am shelled with explosive thoughts all derivative and predictable. For the loose sand that I sift through my senses creates a thin mask of foundationless kernels. All the candy is wrapped up in bright packaging to attract the eye and disguise the paltry nutrition within; an old, worn out evolutionary trait used supposedly to search for new food sources. And I am left ever conscious trapped by my own logic in the new paradigm that is lonely and empty. Sometimes I wish I lived before all our great wars, back at the height of aristocracy. When we all lived by the romantic images of our minds and men made change by god inspired will. As the world was much larger then; so large that we could ignore it’s vast esoteric workings and rest comfortably in our own intuition. Whether the world is material or immaterial is irrelevant and meaningless. I only want to know whether it is mine or isn’t. Is my stake in this world or is it’s in mine? Is my destruction my choice, or his? And even this is irrelevant in the end because it has no purchase on my actions anyway. The fact is I feel as though I’m in control and all scientific fact points in the opposite. And so today is pale, again. And my life feels empty, until another brief glimpse in to the shadow of teleology passes through my sensorial geodesic and I am wrenched headlong back into comfortable narrative. I am the waffle ****** I own the waffle. And I wander down along the dotted time line with my blinders on, occasionally slipping on the balance beam and smashing, crotch first, into the irreconcilable and incomprehensible night of entropy. Ever circling back through all my fancy “knowledge” and landing again on the feet that my father gave me. Coming, once again, to the sanctimonious and systematic pattern of myself, I lay unawares, viewing only through a pinpricked hole, into the wasteland of the real. I am left only to gape in awe at the persistence of my dream.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
If I could slide down icy slopes of skin
then I could burrow my way in
my fingers claw through me
to you
distant memories become vivid truth
I want you to taste my heart
bruised and swollen from beating so fast
I want a little too much
to run through veins, feel every touch
I need to be the only one
to feel your pulse, feel your warmth
some say this kind of need is creepy
but i just want you to keep me
and me to keep you, safe
encircled by my ribcage
I want to merge my soul with yours
just to see something magical occur
I want red beads from your pinpricked skin
to fall onto mine, and sink in
Be my ink, I'll be your pen
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
sliding into the black-dark
where no streetlamps break
false sunshine into the night
we wait in our caves, warm
with electric candles bright
light pinpricked in black earth
where little people dwell
in the shelter of the milky-way
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
you are moonlight kissed, and—
yes, moonlight kissed
and I, in winds, solidly see
beads of my beloved grief strung
in stranger fingers
spidering around reckless on strings—
and waves waves tiding, in ecstasy woven
by violins I dare not learn, by flutes seeping, and sitars
calling home a bird astray
Vivaldi: a dry Storm sob that will not blossom,
not, not, will not— twig fingers curl to taut fists as— Winter
dribbles down on the ragged red throat and
night like silk
silk silk— silks on silks opaque! Ah—
the troughs and oily hills zigzagging
through the air
and violins turn to pinpricked limbs
and strums strums skipping
tugging cruel and tearing—
plucking tendons, plucking desperate and fast
-
you are moonlight kissed as
the silver blush is teased
by sea-creatures’ scaled splashes—
a thousand good griefs tossed to air;
but I am body only
two woody legs folded in a branching of arms
next to the trunk that timidly breathes, next
to the fist-sized squirrel—
my roots like cold fat moles curled up
symphonies rush by giggling
and I do not tremble
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 4:42 AM UTC
the mind
pinpricked by
the eye of the
needle...
ran red down
a pathless,
path.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC