"prickled" poems
By walking between certain trees,
Sometimes, one has an odd feeling,
An unusual tingling sensation,
Not scary, but mostly appealing.
Katalyn passed between two elms,
And entered into ancient realms.
Excitement prickled Katalyn’s skin,
Trees here were wide and tall,
Then from a sun-splashed clearing,
There came a strange animal call.
Creeping closely; peering round a tree,
Katalyn saw unicorns, roaming free.
Approaching slowly, heart beating fast,
Katalyn could not help but smile,
As the unicorns gathered round,
What grace, such poise, cool style.
Not thinking, Katalyn touched a wing,
There came a whoosh . . . so dizzying.
Without knowing, how or why,
Katalyn soared above the trees,
Holding a slender unicorn neck,
Laughter escaping on the breeze.
They dropped into a sudden glide,
With a thrilling rush: what a ride!
They winged across grassy plains,
Between mountains capped with snow,
Katalyn neither knew nor recognised,
The wild land, passing by, below.
Another world; another dimension,
Kept secret by; magical intention.
Then Katalyn was suddenly walking,
Back where the adventure began,
Passing between two old elms,
Returned to the world of man.
Now feeling as happy, as you please,
Knowing unicorns lived, beyond the trees.
© Paul M Chafer 2014
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
The way fig flesh
Folds itself
into each hour,
its skin rubbed
from gray to
purple, bitten into
yellow prickled with
gold seeds stuck
to your lips. It’s
late, maybe midnight
or two we’re not sure
as our feet trip
over stone streets and
we bid the other
buona notte.
I am hungry and
very much wanting
*** Instead
I sauté the
zucchini blossoms
my host mom
bought all’mercado.
and in her kitchen
I lick
the mouth of the
olive oil bottle as
the petals pucker
in her cast iron
pan and then with
a whisper of salt
they are burning
my mouth as I
pluck
each
from the pan, oil
dripping down my
wrists and after I
am still hungry
and very much
wanting ***
but I decide
it’s enough
to have figs and
zucchini blossoms
and I go to bed,
my mouth tasting
something
like a melody.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
His fist scarred, beat-red fistful of intention
Rugged, crass unchiseled wonder wrapped in a gentle smile
A bear of a man, broad shouldered hulking bent
Stuffed-fluff heart tattooed with the echo of love
The times he grappled in sweaty- slick tangle of arms and drew blood blooming bright-crisp-apple-red upon white mat.
Beat, Beat, Beat, down
Tap, Tap, Tap, out
White knuckle-grasp uppercut
Full mount, disengage
Joint locked, feet hooked, Triangle hold
Submission.
The times he brought grown men to their knees, and humbled himself on his own
The times he never gave up and the times he gave in
To the fight
To the system
To the sweet draw of relief
The times he fought not for the thrill but to make it by
Rage hot-red facing the injustice of poverty
His steel spine riddled with the rust of life, the rust of reality
The corrosive sludge of hate, and words left unspoken.
Busted well-worn hands held soft smooth skin
Grooved fingers and velvet mouth
The scratch of bearded stubble, red-lined skin prickled with goose flesh, slick coated in sweat
A new fight, wrapped knuckles cushioned with the promise of forgiveness
Of acceptance a force to be reckoned with in her own right.
Broken hand, dreams stunted, depressed-mind-numbing
Lost in his own thought, out of the fight
Desperate to be back in the game mind and body
Envy-red, drawn to the fight of others
Soft smooth hands, short-small-painted nails calm bristled hair
Growling bear, baring teeth in silent-wounded pride
The time she bandaged pride, and encouraged humility
The times she scalded his senses the raw-red liquid fire of love
His shade in the heat of a red-blistered sun
Cooling, and igniting inspiration
The time she became a fight worth winning.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
Signals cross dissonant chills along the surface of my skin,
Prickled hair rises up under the brush of my touch.
Warm sensation waves attention
as flags fly high warning shots into the sky.
My eyes wide shut abruptly
in case the wind blows particulate
along the curving arch of my vision,
flipped back open upon collision,
batting down waterfalls in between curtain calls
as clapping hands of a broad audience
pass the winning touchdown play onto poppy seed fields.
My Love runs long and deep like the river through lost canyons,
hiding unknown along the moist horizon of dew drop mornings.
...*Oh, me?
I'm doing just fine fair weather,
Light as a feather, am I.*
But look!
...how the Earth shakes proudly the rocks upon her back.
Cast no Stones, She moans
...and you?
How do you do?*
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
Tonight my gums ache
Because of the sin of 2:41 am
And the cigarettes I stole from you
After we drank the red wine
Your father exclaimed was royal
And originally drank by Paraguay princes.
I returned home dizzy with fatigue
And empty of joy and sorrow
Apathetic because I am not engaged
So I thumb my phone book to find
Anyone who will talk or kiss
Me numb, tonight.
I can't sleep after because the box fan is purring
And the October air is not
Devoid of Magnolia scent and hope
So I lay in my bed with crumbs
Sticking to my stretch marked hips
Taunting me even beneath the barracks of my sheets.
I saw no sky-moon when you left
So I smoked another Camel Crush
On the back porch watching you leave
Once our lips sanded the sin permanent
Into our raw faces and pulsing fingers
Smacking "joyful joyful-be filled! Filled!"
I barricade pillows against the concrete headrest
That my inherited mattress sleeps on
So the cold has to try harder, tonight
Even though your lips felt dry
and your sighs left ghosts exhaling
In my mind and neck and *****
This is how I justify sleep tonight:
An attempt to evade sins damnation
And my nature that, by Tuesday,
Will be able to paint over
The deep white lies you tongue
Painted across my prickled body.
Come, rest and restore my soul
To its belief that words are sharp
Though the imprints of your nails
And the burgundy couch fabric
Left on my body and on my soul
Are eulogized by the alarm clock set for 702am.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
Under prickled probably-a-berry-bush
overhead the scented magistrate and the muffled cough
of one emberassed to be viral
she's somewhere on the a-scale, but she is so very divine
zero public humility, whopee cushion existentialism
'I didn't do it, you did it.'
Oh right, thanks for putting your hands up
now turn around and lay your chest on the front of my squad car
sleep again and I'll wake you like Royalty once woke the jester.
jam your front toe on the archway
so you can be the vocals in my band
we'll be jamming next week, if you care to join us?
I understand.
It's not as much effort as sudoku
if you ask me.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
calling out your name in the dark
It's become an excruciating custom now
An unquenchable thirst
daylight stings and moon hovers
dispassionately
over my head
heavy with laments over a fallen crest;
Still I imagine
still I dream
that you'll tune my painful screams
into a hushing lullaby,
with a promise of forever
you'd gift my gloomy tears a twinkling gleam;
But now I'm wearing this blindfold
refusing to see the light outshining this pathetic hope ;
You are not here yet,
Maybe you never will be,
But I'm not ready to move from you yet,
And I doubt that I'll ever will be free
From these painful lumps,
burning eyes
swollen throat
and prickled heart
emptying it's blood,
so slowly that years go by
And I can now feel the quitting of daylight
while my blindfold lets out a long sigh;
as if stating to end
this idiotic nonsense
of tucking heartbreak and love
under these lyrical verse;
Aug 20, 2022
Aug 20, 2022 at 3:06 PM UTC
You've been knocked down
pushed around by emotions
With all your heart and soul
A broken-will, and a dream most shattered
head down filled with rage and despaired
With a puddle of tears on the ground
In the darkness you lie on the cold prickled floor
wondering if its worth it anymore
You try and get up but all you do is fall back down
But you remember to have the strength and stand back up
your hatred, pain, weaknesses, tears and madness vanished
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
We scream and swoop
Down the stairs of
The parking garage.
It's winter out,
Chilly yet warm,
Altogether great.
I remember
The monkey-hops
We made, excited
By the prospect of
Fun.
I recollect
The dino-growls
We spoke in, enthralled
By the feeling of
Friends.
We are
Friends.
The arctic air
Goose-prickled my
Face, my legs, my
Mind and my soul.
Things were different, then,
Demons hid in the
White and pearly dust.
We wanted a race
But got a contest
Instead:
"How cold could you be?"
The snow was tumbling
While we were rumbling
With imagination restrained.
Let children be children
And always be children,
As adult comes so fast;
Too fast,
too fast,
You were gone too fast.
Mar 18, 2010
Mar 18, 2010 at 9:49 PM UTC
The way your skin prickled -tight- over your hips
and the plunking -wet- noise of water
forced out of a cave
are what I remember about that December, lovely, oh, lovely.
Your -blonde- hair rippled and shook loose
with each ramming pulsation and throb -stab-
but your hair -curled- tight was rough. -Unmoving.-
below, dripped More, now, more.
Your toenails felt like ice -pink, red, buff- on my calf
they drew dragons between the forests of my -leg- hair
circling around, bumping –bruising- and chanting,
Be full, full.
Until –after- we lay limp and glistening in -love- dew
the floors creak and winds scratch -outside- too loud, -empty-
but,
We, -thought- we are whole.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Now! the damson crush of swallow wing
to foal the brays of uwound April,
in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail
that agitate these pagan grains.
Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak
the gates of prickled secrecy,
the platted creed of wren-song
yolks the whiting peeks of May.
Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn
of nether-world calligraphy
with missives of anemone to
prose the woke terrain,
so a gattling shack of magpies prat
along the miscreants of bine
that heckle servile atrophy in
lung sweet roots of anchored sage
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
768
When I hoped, I recollect
Just the place I stood—
At a Window facing West—
Roughest Air—was good—
Not a Sleet could bite me—
Not a frost could cool—
Hope it was that kept me warm—
Not Merino shawl—
When I feared—I recollect
Just the Day it was—
Worlds were lying out to Sun—
Yet how Nature froze—
Icicles upon my soul
Prickled Blue and Cool—
Bird went praising everywhere—
Only Me—was still—
And the Day that I despaired—
This—if I forget
Nature will—that it be Night
After Sun has set—
Darkness intersect her face—
And put out her eye—
Nature hesitate—before
Memory and I—
1.2k
Once you drove up in your
1977 Mercedes,
I could feel the hurried pulsation of a weary heart
over the clattered groan of your engine.
Clambering into my seat, I folded in on myself,
too timid to fold into you instead.
Creamed leather seats on a rusted turquoise shell
I look to the back, expecting some residue
of the last lipstick crush that you set fire to.
Instead, I found $1 books from the library
and your worn regalia that I would’ve stolen
and kept as filthy souvenirs.
A deep inhale of your burnout sheesha
that bobby pinned to tired marrow in my bones -
I would’ve taken you right then and there.
Instead, we played coy with the thin fabric of a relit friendship
and talked poetry and music over a ceramic bowl
of coconut chicken curry.
But all I romanced was a clustered cocktail
of my favorite things:
The drag of my curious fingertips
underneath your prickled jaw.
This fever building as I curl into your arms
and the corrupted graze of your hungry lips
in the groove of my neck.
Temptation at its finest.
Such promise between two starved pilgrims
But the descent down to the deep V between hips
is a sweet flame that
can easily burn you and leave pin pricked stains.
So its a good thing that I let you go.
October 17, 2013 4:38 PM
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
she shot a floral arrow through his heart
and prickled him with nectar from the divine.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
there was a Butterfly on a velvet lavender Peony —
its petals prickled in the crisp breath of spring, sighing
just softly enough to lift Butterfly's wings,
with the ambitious hope that she would see many other gardens
and love Peony's velvet lavender petals just the same.
Peony's hope spun silky and shimmering like a spider's web;
a picture realized somewhere between imagination and wishful thinking.
how brazenly did Peony venture to forget the stickiness of those alluring threads;
a spark of amnesia that flickered too close to the cords of fate.
Peony bloomed and wilted on that hallowed ground,
while passing time pierced Peony's burgeoning faith
no summer nor winter
nor spring nor fall
would ever find Butterfly there again.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 7:39 PM UTC
Like bells they hear this ringing
Not of Christmas but of orange goodness.
This Irish voice walks past on balled up green,
her hair red as the warmth in early March spring.
The voice speaks of prickled roses that lie at my feet,
she reminisces on the tacky green and welcomes
the seaweed green.
It's baffling the up and down in her voice
Like a paper crown it could tumble,
My eyes dare look left.
She's skipping now, down to the town hall
to walk off the corners edge.
Nov 7, 2020
Nov 7, 2020 at 5:36 AM UTC
Lost spirits at dawn
come to my prickled
ear & sing to me
a midnight song.
Promise me, you won't
float away in the zephyr, nor
take too long,
for I am left with
the lost spirits
at dawn.
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 2:20 PM UTC
Since the embryonic mental state
My arms have prickled
Tickled like mad.
Recently, post-punishment
Soft, white down
Feathers
Emerged on my back and arms.
A mix of fear and hope
So overwhelming.
As I have avoided
The resentful, the hateful
I’m almost fully grown
Six foot wing span.
I almost ran
So close
I almost ran away
Until I saw their strength
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 9:06 PM UTC
how you feel in the dark( uneasy
imbalanced weirdly strong) feels
like ( coy unearthly howling) rain
feels deep with smelling after (
prickled millions of cold and hot )
mingling with the seaair and is
gently acrid salty wafts of gulls
crying scattered threading the
moonlight through their coarse
throats ( little tiny trillions of
kissing droplets slightly ) like
you feel in the dark ( imbalancing
coyly acrid howling ) feels like
THE SEA
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
I lost myself in your quest,
Fate denied what was mine..
Burning within was a heart that died,
Leaving scars that did not lie..
Leaving me helpless,
In this world full of dead..
You went ahead,
Driven by your desires..
I was left alone once again,
Not to be ruptured but trained..
Finding myself was again a task,
Losing to you wasn't that hard..
Hath not I let go of my emotions,
I would still have had the chances of resurrection..
Nobody could enter this prickled heart,
The reason you were lone inside this ruined turret..
You awakened me, repainted my soul,
Made me strong enough to hold myself..
Then left me alone in the wild sea,
Never to come back..
The first few days were hard,
The struggle real with the wretched pains..
Love is not a bed of roses but of thorns,
You showed it right and held me tight..
For it helped me rise and fight again,
Tame the waves and tide again..
You left me to thrive,
I soared higher to cry..
You set my soul ablaze,
And cut my chains..
You were a traveller who settled,
And I became the restless bird of passage….
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 12:17 PM UTC
you leave me tasting so metallic
i'd always pictured such softer hands
when you smoothed me over
in daylight dreams.
but i am wedged in comfort's drawer,
corners dig into my hips
as I wheeze a stale warm release;
clouds that lift me in between
bated breaths and rumination
of time poorly spent.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC