"polishes" poems
It's the colour of little flowers in a field
It's the colour of the old easter dress in the back of my closet
It's the colour of princess sneakers most four year old girls stomp to get the little lights to flash
It's the colour of innocent dreams kept by six year olds
It's the colour of the marker I wrote this with
It's the colour that I used to say was my favorite, but can't anymore
It's the colour of my two favorite nail polishes that I always ruin as I paint it
It's the colour that I put on my cheeks to show more happiness because I can't show enough
It's the colour I feel when I twirl in a dress and the
skirts fly up around my knees
It's the colour I wish I could be, young, innocent, stupid, carefree, laughing with friends on the play ground on a spring day, getting small flowers from the boy in my first grade class, who says he likes when I wear my princess light up shoes
It's a colour I want to call "ME"
It's the colour that surrounds my mind when all I can think about is something that I thought was cute
It's the colour behind my eyes when stories that I want to write keep my mind from shutting down and sleeping
It's not the colour that graces my lips during the day, but in the morning when the day is fresh and I have yet to see the world
It's not the colour I wish to be, it's the colour i'm going to strive to be
Pink cheeks, Pink light up shoes, Pink skirts, Pink drawings on the walls, Pink flowers in a field of green, Pink dreams, Pink nails I always ruin, Pink markers and crayons, Pink hair I had before everything went down hill
Pink was the colour of my innocence and i'm going to get it back
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Jade --
Stone of the side,
The antagonized
Side of green Adam, I
Smile, cross-legged,
Enigmatical,
Shifting my clarities.
So valuable!
How the sun polishes this shoulder!
And should
The moon, my
Indefatigable cousin
Rise, with her cancerous pallors,
Dragging trees --
Little bushy polyps,
Little nets,
My visibilities hide.
I gleam like a mirror.
At this facet the bridegroom arrives
Lord of the mirrors!
It is himself he guides
In among these silk
Screens, these rustling appurtenances.
I breathe, and the mouth
Veil stirs its curtain
My eye
Veil is
A concatenation of rainbows.
I am his.
Even in his
Absence, I
Revolve in my
Sheath of impossibles,
Priceless and quiet
Among these parrakeets, macaws!
O chatterers
Attendants of the eyelash!
I shall unloose
One feather, like the peacock.
Attendants of the lip!
I shall unloose
One note
Shattering
The chandelier
Of air that all day flies
Its crystals
A million ignorants.
Attendants!
Attendants!
And at his next step
I shall unloose
I shall unloose --
From the small jeweled
Doll he guards like a heart --
The lioness,
The shriek in the bath,
The cloak of holes.
5.1k
you are essentially an object to me.
no one dare invent words that pick and **** and litter our ears
with shards of doubt, dismissive declarations.
the victorious are those who cover their ears and screen their eyes from
someone else's misery: bruised knuckles and a wall that wouldn't budge.
but all I see is a woman crumpled on the floor, her pride
posed like a crow on a branch in the open window frame,
mocking her failing strength and shattered resolve;
someone's fist tingles with accomplishment
for putting that Thing in her place,
close to her true place,
on the shelf
she dusts and polishes fastidiously,
lest he call her out on her "half-assed attempt,"
no one dare invent words
that limit little girls to the plastic boxes
for their plastic dolls
with plastic smiles.
when the seed grows buds,
that become flourishing leaves on a solid stem,
reaching up, up, up
can they see me yet?
but all they want is the fruit.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
She left me in a hurry,
with no word of her return
so I sit and wait, in longing,
keep her treasures safe, and yearn
for her face to gaze upon me,
as she fettles her dear skin,
with the pots of creams and lotions
I keep for her, within
my rose-lined drawers and cupboards,
the little blue glass bird
with wedding rings upon his beak
I asked, he hasn’t heard
of when our lady may be back
to grace us with her care,
her brushes sit with us and fret
of the tangles in her hair
and all lack of gloss and shine
finger tips cannot bestow
within her titian crowning,
oh! Where did she go?
Days slip by unhindered,
and merging seasons pass,
without her song or laughter
reflected in my glass.
I may as well be firewood,
my veneer begins to crack,
then, hark! I hear sweet footsteps!
My mistress has come back!
Her wedding rings rehomed at last,
the bird and I rejoice,
as she brushes out her hair and sings,
for we have missed her voice.
She polishes away the cracks,
takes a seat upon her throne,
rearranging pots and lotions,
I’m so glad that she came home.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
He seeks truth in places of no good.
He flies high in places where others stood
Still he cries tears of perpetual sense.
A chameleon
his outer vesture cloaks his identity.
Unyielding
He plants his foot in the dirt.
Tangled vines tie his toes
contrasting his poetic prose.
Left dangling in the temptress spider lily's web
the noose tightens
as the old boy sings.
A fist with two thumbs
he raises like a martian.
Strangers illegibly write him
off.
A Jekyllish laugh
empties the mucus from his lungs.
Eons of inhaling senseless knowledge
he finds a second breathe to speak.
Words slice the web of lies
spinning silk into impenetrable pride.
Raw and uncut
his diction polishes diamonds
before were only rust.
He wakens every morning
Anew defiant face.
Contradicting himself
a joke
he cackles everyday.
The children who say he's changed
are correct.
But the chameleon found his true colors
somewhere between the lines
of white and black.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
Like some wind, she roams freely
Polishes dusty stones, among which I'm truly
A free bird, wanders in the vast blue sky
"She will halt eventually", it seems a lie
Like Enshrined Enchantress Now All
An admirer of beauty, and indeed a beauty herself
Infatuation, eventually develops
Those beautiful eyes and the irregular smile
Occupies my imagination, every once in a while
Love Eternal Enroute November Amazon
Words were never, and won't ever be enough
Soon the weather will come, one that of sneeze and sniff
Though seemed, it wasn't so
The love was, is, and will always be true
Life Endures Empowered Nota-Bene All
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
i have a little budgie and i call him tweet
he his very tidy and keeps cage so neat
he his very fussy and dosent like a mess
anything he spills puts him in distress
he his always busy. cleaning when he can
it his fun to watch this house proud little man
he polishes his mirror till it gets a sheen
a house proud little budgie i have never seen
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
Her eyes speak
the truest words
never uttered
They tell of the ocean
on a lonely shore
Of salt marsh days
and windswept dunes
And love among the ruins
Her habit worn
vow unbroken to the night
She smiles a wanton wish
of summer days
and a fair young boy
among the glades
She sighs
her dreams away
and polishes again
the bare stone floor.
r ~ 7/28/14
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
Once I lov'd a bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I'll love my handsome Nell.
As bonie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw;
But, for a modest gracefu' mein,
The like I never saw.
A bonie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e;
But, without some better qualities,
She's no a lass for me.
But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a',
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.
She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
A long time after bedtime
When it's very late
When even dogs dream
And there's deep sleep
Breathing through the house
When the doors are locked
And the curtains drawn
And the shops are dark
And the last train's gone
And there's no more traffic in the street
Because everyone's asleep
Then....
The window cleaner comes
To the main shop fronts
And polishes the glass
In the street-lit dark
And a big truck rumbles past
On it's way to the dump
Loaded with the last
Of the day's trash
On the twentieth floor
Of the office tower
There's a lighted window
And high up there
Another night cleaner's
Vacuuming the floor
Working nights on her own
While her children sleep at home
And down in the dome of the observatory
The astronomer who's waited all day for the dark
Is watching the good black sky at last
For stars and moons
And spikes of light
Through her telescope
In the middle of the night
While everybody sleeps
At the bakery
The bakers in their floury clothes
Mix dough in machines
For tomorrow's loaves of bread
And out by the gate
Rows of parked vans sit
For their drivers to come
And take newly baked
Bread to the shops
For the time when the
Bread eaters wake
Across the town at the hospital
Where the nurses watch in the dim-lit wards
Someone very old shuts their eyes
And dies
Breathes their very last breath
On their very last night
Yet not very far away on another floor
After months of waiting
A new baby's born
And the mother and father
Hold the baby and smile
And the baby looks up
And the world's just begun
But still, everybody sleeps
Now through the silent station
Past the empty shops
And the office towers
Past the sleeping streets
And the hospital
A train with no windows
Goes rattling by
And inside the train the sorters sift
Urgent letters and packets on the late night shift
So tomorrow's mail will arrive in time
At the towns and villages down the line
And the mother
With the wakeful child in her arms
Walking up and down
And up and down
And up and down
The room
Hears the train as it passes by
And the cats in the yard
And the night owl's flight
And hums hushabye hushabye
We should sleep now
You and I
It's late and time to close your eyes
It's the middle of the night.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 9:27 PM UTC
A bouquet hung in afterhour pantry,
A bell to ring the starved noise,
Two spirit's gathering extraterrestrial information,
A stairway chalked by toys!!!
A damp moistness to bleed out ourn Laugh's,
No docteretic sources,
Just serene gleams of minds alike inbathed!!!
Abundance of sizziling swelter,
Bogged heavy in due rain heat,
A voisterous composition,
The crow polishes ourn two's feet!!
I tasteth her plum need,
She gravels our toes,
Fulminations children breed,
In translucent clear clothes!!!
We wither in feathered juiciness,
Where fences are none to find,
Wherein camera's we make to shiver,
We break back's on massage oil chyme!
She reaches over to take mine fears,
She maketh me a warmsome bed,
Different valley's in singular astronomical view,
Both alive, yet so dead!!
Ourn peritonium's hunch in closer,
As ourn cartilage gets renaissance,
Were two alike, a Shakespherian Poe poster,
A darkness and light of Dupont!!!
Puzzles with missing pieces,
Though we ourn selves fill the gaps,
Where none can enter between us,
For ourn chapters are ammophilously wrapped!!!
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
At the stroke of five o’ clock
The crew begins to trickle in the door for
Josie’s Slumber Party.
Hand cut finger sandwiches adorn
The chestnut coffee table already brimming
With nail polishes and eyeshadows
In hues of peacock blue and bubblegum pink
And temptress scarlet red. The girls
Romp around the room like ballerinas
Dressed in everything from soccer shorts to
Mama’s high heels. Two sizes too big.
Practically ladies as they gloss their lips but
Girlish giggles and squeals reveal their
Youth: Age ten; age eleven; age twelve.
And in the middle of this fine affair
Polished nails are used to pick at teeth;
Makeup adheres to bangs, braids and ponytails.
Bare hands brush through the knotted hair of
Any and All. Beauty – of course – is collective, yet
Dignified.
As if to call the girls over, lure them in so painfully slow,
The sprinklers awaken on the front lawn and spill forth
Waterfalls of childhood memories. Running barefoot
during the searing summer dusk. The girls are under
The Spell. Feather boa and lipstick at hand, they make
A mad dash for the lawn. The squeals are louder, more
Vibrant than before. With grass stains on their gowns
and water re-tangling their freshly styled hair, these
Ladies could not be any more proper.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC
Girls and ladies dream
Of and desire
A knight in shining armour,
Gallantry and bravery to
Sweep them from their feet
To a happily ever after,
But take it from
One who knows,
No knight that ever fought
For his lady
Had her back,
Has armour shining pure,
It takes sacrifice and
Mental melee - sometimes brutal
To maintain love in this desperate
War called life,
And no man did a hard day's work
Nor fought in war and
Came away unscathed and undirtied,
A true knight's armour,
Though burnished as best may be
And glittering in the sun
Has dents and gouges absent
In a woman's dreams,
Every mistake every failure
Shows in his history and
Cannot be polished out
But that he polishes what remains
Is testament to a true heart,
And a man worth keeping
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 4:54 PM UTC
'Whore' , 'how much for the night' yelled people
But to him these words meant nothing
As he looked to the woman on his right
Whose face was grim , hit with the pebbles of hate people threw at her
He held her hand tight
She looked up and nodded
He fell in love with her mind
He was her only hope to find love
When these lifeless phantoms drained the life out of her
When the chains of society tied her hands and dragged her down
When an avalanche of disgust mauled her
She remembered him , she escaped with him
She did not choose this path , she was forced,
she was put down with her head in the guillotine
He loved her , he found the woman no one saw,
He polishes shoes in the day while she earns in the night
Still love blossomed in an uncanny, unforgotten way
Cheating the perception of so called society
Their future was black as the , congested lanes of some taboo town
Yet they didn't care, he loved her
And she loved him back
She was named a ********** by the civilization
And he , a prostitute's lover.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
A gothic drama
Night enacts; its taut dark plot,
Lone moon polishes!
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
Disillusioned by the open market,
he polishes his glasses and stretches,
running a hand through hair made artistic
by the blunt scissors of the philosophy major
who lives downstairs. It was a trade,
he tells me. Short back and sides for a batch
of macadamia nut cookies. Barter economy.
He mutters about measured value,
divides a piece of paper, and breaks a pencil
while forcing the verses of quarter sheet poems,
recounting the night he stole four sponges
from a craft supply store in town,
a drunken fuck-you to the establishment-
but also, he admits, it was late and
he had to do the dishes.
If you want to see how big the world is,
he says, take off your belt. Now
tighten it to the usual hole, put it down,
and look. You are a speck of dust on
the wineglass of human existence.
Don't let it get to you. You are smaller and better
than you think. Another quarter sheet finished,
he slumps back on the defeated sofa
and reads me Desiderata, putting on airs,
grappling with devotions to poke holes in certainty
just as I do now to the worn leather strap,
shrinking my claim to the wineglass with each punch
of the silver awl, and after years, still waiting
for the clink of his belt buckle,
the moment when, humbled,
he remembers he is only
a child of the universe.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
During the dark hours of cold night,
During the bright hours of unforgiving light,
I turn in sleep, restless and unbound to peace,
Edging away from a dream,
As Ships edge away from the safety of land into stormy seas.
And then it hits me, the mace of my memories,
The memory spike ravages, savages,
Pierces deep, deep down.
Crushes tears, and the crimson blood of my soul,
Is defiled by the salt of her tears.
Yet not today.
Today passion reigns deep in my marrow,
The f lames chastising all pain.
The heavenly fire seeps throughout each and every vein,
With each beat, my heart is once again ablaze.
It is feral and wild, the urge to create,
Which started even before the creation of time.
It rules my daily movements,
It dictates the terms.
Of my descent, of my descent into hell.
I am a mundane guy for this term I serve on earth,
A sucker for sunsets and sunrises, full moons, azure lakes, pretty beings of the fair *** and a lot many simple things.
If only anyone knew how much I love,
Cotton candy, pretty eyes, doughnuts and symmetry.
It seems for this tenure on earth,
Cupid is my fabled foe.
He sets me up for failure,
Polishes the mace of memories,
Again and again.
But it is like Krishna said.
Times of sorrow are forgotten in times of greater sorrow or joy.
I always get lost in fiery sensuous moments,
I taste raw-things making it harder not to succumb to lustful-whims.
I relish thoughts about carnal sin, dream about intimacy between intertwined-bodies,
Yet I am composed.
I can hide those intimate thoughts,
And smile a little smile which makes me die a little on the inside.
I dare not get too close.
For it is like Dante said.
There is no greater sorrow
Than to recall a happy time
When miserable.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC
She lingers,
She speaks-
She sings in my mind.
For she polishes these windows,
My eyes-
How divine.
Yet sometimes I’m a puppet,
Her precious marionette.
At times I want to cower,
Wish only to forget.
For those words she speaks freely,
Cage me up like a bird.
Making me feel less of a human,
A soul-
How absurd!
Yet even though I’m aware of this poison that she spews-
Sending chills to my bones,
Leaving me internally confused.
For I’m aware of her games,
Yet I’m completely content-
With knowing the consequences,
Still I don’t repent.
Yes, it’s killing me slowly,
Forcing myself not to breath.
Figuratively and relatively-
Casting my body out to flee.
For the porcelain in my sight,
Calls my name like a god.
My body’s screaming for mercy,
In and instant-
She applauds.
Released and freed,
She whispers in my ears.
Slowly and surely,
But she’s housing all of my fears.
For this voice that sang sweetly,
Praising me for the days-
Of vacancy of my body,
Turns my mind into a maze.
See her words create hallways,
One intertwining with the last-
Of memories from my present,
Being guilted by my past.
Leaving me feeling so helpless,
So alone-
So afraid.
But that same voice brings be comfort,
Satisfaction-
For all of those days.
Yes it’s confusing in a sense,
Perhaps even to the eye.
But for me this is a daily,
A struggle of the mind.
See my body is strong,
Yet I feel internally weak.
For these words that I’m writing,
My lips can hardly speak.
Alysia Marie 2018 ©
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
Waves cleave the cliffs
The birds ride the wind
The night fills the soul
I cleave to you
The sand polishes the toes
***** tango in the sand
Stars perform ballet in the black
The fire sparks against the stillness
Waves cleave the cliffs
The birds ride the wind
The night fills the soul
I cleave to you
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
Many rocks.
Small and large.
Rough and smooth.
Sandy and hard.
Multicoloured and plain.
Are spun around for days
inside the revolving bin.
Until all impurities are
worked out of them.
The process is long
but it has a glorious outcome.
For the rocks emerge
polished and shiny.
As treasures they've become.
"The hardest rocks come out the shiniest,"
says the craftsman.
And I think of Christ the Cornerstone.
And His wise discipline.
Like the rocks,
He may turn us with force,
and the process may be long.
With trials threatening to drown.
While He refines His own.
He must use what is necessary,
to cleanse us of our heart's impurities.
Then He polishes us
and turns us into gems of beauty.
And the hardest stones among those that are His,
come out the most beautifully polished.
I fall on my knees as I consider His ways.
And I pray...
"Lord, refine me. Cleanse me of my impurities.
Polish me. As hard a stone as I can be. And
turn me into a gem of beauty. For Your glory."
He gently picks me up.
And places me inside the revolving bin...
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
i have a little budgie and i call him tweet
he his very tidy and keeps cage so neat.
he his very fussy and dosent like a mess
anything he spills puts him in distress.
he his always busy. cleaning when he can
it his fun to watch this house proud little man.
he polishes his mirror till it gets a sheen
a house proud little budgie i have never seen
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
Moments like this
Are when I wish I had my Polaroid
An infinite moment to make me think
"This would make a beautiful photograph"
(The photographer's curse, darling),
I'm content to just let this moment be, though
Though at the same time, my mind's eye strains to see
What this would be:
We're glossed with sweat and crowned with messy hair
My teeshirt's too big; my legs are bare
My ******* poke taut in the cool, still air
Copper tumbles onto your shoulder as I sit beside
Tilt my head, and lay to rest
The sunlight glances and polishes your halo
Your dark gaze watches out of the window
Dust motes illuminate, suspended around your face;
I fancy that it's fairy-magic
Although you're not the hero of some story - but, maybe mine?
With the roll in your caress that's passed to my palm
I stare into the little gilded world with you
Stealing a little glance at your bare chest,
The elastic of your boxers clinging over tight hips -
Just need to remind myself that it's real
Picture perfect, but this perfection is real
Take the roach to my lips
Take a minute to appreciate this
Inhale, exhale
This moment is infinite
The smoke twists away slowly
My mind's eye sees how beautiful it would be
In gentle-focus monochrome...
Then, I let the notion go
I act so naturally, but in my head I know
This next motion is picture-perfect
My white fingers are slim
Hand not quite steady; I tremble from our workout
Not moving from your shoulder,
I reach around the cocked neck of your guitar:
Just relax, and let time slow
Hear the peaceful tune flow from your skilled hand
I press the roll to your mouth
The crackle of burning embers dances with the string notes
Smoke streams out as I lift it away
And there -
In that split second as I begin to move,
There the Polaroid would have clicked and immobilised;
This moment so high in too hot a day
Picture perfect in my mind's blue eyes
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 5:40 PM UTC
Susie polishes the silver.
She hates polishing the
forks, the bits in between,
the stink of the cleanser.
She’d rather be in bed
with Polly in the attic.
Holding her close, feeling
her body next to hers.
The cold weather offers
a good excuse. Polly’d
say, get off me you queer
*** otherwise. She rubs
the cloth over the prongs,
the stink making her feel
nauseous. Dudman, the
butler will be along soon.
He’ll snoop up close to her,
look over her shoulder;
press his body next to hers.
Maids are as nothing, he
often said, pressing his
finger into her back, or
pinching her **** She holds
her breath as long as she
can; the stink is getting to her.
She thinks back to the night
before, Polly’s nightgown
against her flesh, her smell
invading her nose, spooning
close. She recalls the moon
in the skylight, captured like
a painting, the stars spread
like ***** on a dark cloth.
Mrs Gripe the cook called her
a lazy cow over breakfast,
the fat ***** staring at her
with her cow like eyes. She
rubs between prongs, eases
along the handle. She’d love to
shove the fork into Dudman’s
**** push it in with all her
might. Soon the bell would
ring, someone would want
morning tea upstairs. She
breathes out, puts down
the fork, picks out a spoon
and begins the cleaning again,
thinking of Polly, her fingers
caressing the spoon’s end,
imagining ********* along
Polly’s waist, moving her
thumb into the indentation,
sensing her body move, that
weird overriding sensation.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
Light shades,
Dark shades,
What am i to wear?
Lipstick, mascara,
Base and nail polish,
Mom in the back ground says, ' You're going to college.'
**** !
I need a new bag,
Also a liner by Mac.
Maybelline polishes,
All stacked,
So many colours,
But not black.
I need to apply Revlon,
As much as i can put on,
Making my lashes prominant.
5th Avenue, Still and Elizebeth Arden,
I want to wear them all,
' Oh no, i don't ' says my conscience,
But then again they're scents and my heart wants them.
Unzipping my wallet,
' No ', i have not much.
Making the puppy dog face,
' Mom ! Can i get money to buy a base ? '
She nodded.
' Also i want perfume, liner, mascara and a nail polish. '
She gives me a look.
' Go get your money and spend them on it.'
But i have no money,
I say,
She says,' Get a job and buy all of it.'
Like a baby i sob.
She ignores,
Looking all bored,
So she knows,
I'm acting emotional then why not scold
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC