Purled poems on Hello Poetry

Mark Allinson Jun 2010

Wisteria

Late spring when we first saw the house,
with its back door a cave obscured
behind those breaking waves of blue
and white surge-foam of sweet blossom.

Bees, pollen and petals made it
difficult to weave a way in;
and in the drench of sun-showers
the water-falls of flowers purled.

Summer slowed the fall to trickles.
And since you’ve missed most of autumn,
let me say the wisteria
now is mostly air and grey cloud.

The few curved spatulas of pods
rattle like the wood-slat clackers
of a ghost-dispersing wind chime,
high against Himalayan grey.

Emily Dickinson

His voice decrepit was with Joy—

1476

His voice decrepit was with Joy—
Her words did totter so
How old the News of Love must be
To make Lips elderly
That purled a moment since with Glee—
Is it Delight or Woe—
Or Terror—that do decorate
This livid interview—

RILEY Aug 2013

A Midnight Farewell

The blood runs through my veins
Along with the bloodshed;
The vigorous signs my heart used to deliver
In the form of messages passing through my fingers,
And fingers that bend in order to send
Those messages in details I could not comprehend,
Are gone with every bone broken
Back bending beneath buses
******* embezzling banners;
I believe today would be the day I stand out,
I stand out with every outline; the structured harmony of my soul
I stand out with every sound I can compose; the music played by my brains
I stand out with a rush of blood rivering through words, for dry are my veins;
And lines that recount history and history that repeats itself
And selves upon shelves next to staples and pens
And ***** with hens holding hands called humans;
Humans that **** humans,
Humans that save others waiting for the day someone saves them
Humans that **** humans,
Humans that speak the truth, the truth that I found in a misguided princess
Humans that **** humans,
And humans that get killed just because they chose to buy a popsicle stick listening to pop music
Not knowing that the only sound that’s gonna pop
Is the explosions beneath buildings penetrating fortresses built on fake pillars.
The killers,
Pressing buttons to **** generations and creations,
The million situations. Stressed upon hallucinations;
Stations for minds hidden beyond and between internet waves,
That cave upon a lost child who decided to misbehave
Upon an anarchist who took the pledge and determined to conform
Upon a mother who realized her place was in the arms of another man;
Manhandling my personal opinions
You took the power into your hands
Swirled and twirled with blood of women that hurled
Earrings and purled; necklaces.
The lost child of destiny is not scared he is offended;
The hometown of teen aged memories,
And discoveries
Of body parts and surroundings become but a threat;
A dept,
He has to pay, for his "ancestors" decided that tax money is not enough.
He stood there.
Opened the door to a lethal mind
With not so lethal thoughts,
Grabbed a pen and a paper and cried down
What had him tied down
To the knees;
The degrees of love he found
Within a lovers bound,
The sound of bombs
Blocked his vision till he hears no sound
And suddenly it all darkens
And suddenly it all lights;
And suddenly the wheels of everyday labor
Become grim reapers and hospital sweepers;
The girls who thought those guys were keepers,
Couldn't keep their heads attached to their bodies
And their bodies flew along with the flowers they blew-
Off when they were children saying
"with this flower goes my wish
And with this wish I will grow up to be a flower".
The flower that died with no roots,
The roots that were never attached;
In a country that exploded,
In a country that died
In order for them to live.
So let's be Shakespearean and claim immortal on ink that will sink in eyes that'll blink
For the tear drops that will descend burn,
Let us be Shakespearean and live forever
On papers that will never die…

I lost hearts...today, i lose a country...

Ben Nov 2011

There Is Only Silence In Space

the inky black ocean watches, silent, as judgement day's unfurled
unaffected by the passing of time, by the anarchy below
in silk soft silence, chaotic is the death of the civilized world

the once calm waters of the void, now are swirled
smothering the fires of armageddon with its inexorable flow
the inky black ocean watches, silent, as judgement day's unfurled

silver pinpricks of light, into the infinite waters, are hurled
and liquid orange pigment leaks forth, ever so slow
in silk soft silence, chaotic is the death of the civilized world

around this blue and green marble, the vast water is curled
undisturbed by the hate and rage humans show
the inky black ocean watches, silent, as judgement day's unfurled

news of paradise's destruction throughout the heavens whirled
obliteration of one another the human race did bestow
in silk soft silence, chaotic is the death of the civilized world

the vast expanse of the ink black ocean is purled
as the earth was torn asunder with its final death blow
the inky black ocean watches, silent, as judgement day's unfurled
in silk soft silence, chaotic is the death of the civilized world

patti Nov 2012

I told you to be patient, I told you to be fine

remembering moments on hilltops, suspended in
the sky, we were the fibers in a weaving, close knit
in lingering patterns of threes and four.
do you wonder about this freshwater ocean that blossoms at my feet
I wonder of the appeal and the repeal of the oak
trees that always sang me to sleep, and carried me into the light

I've long had this obsession with windows alight,
when the air shimmers with floating pieces of lives in
technicolor, I have something to watch as I lie, wide-eyed and left to soak
through the evening; you see, no matter how tightly I knit
the people in my life to my chest, I am always left twenty feet
apart from them when I need them most for

keeping me in touch. four,
five, six, seven, eight. trapped in my own prison of increasing daylight,
I drink coffee after coffee and fret about the things I haven't done, and the feet
of clothing piling up on my floorboards. within
the scope of a week there are three solid days where I am unable to knit
myself properly, truly together. a half-sodden cloak

of apathy, drenched by rain-misted windows and thimbles of oak
pollen I've sewn to my heart to remind myself of the four
years I haven't talked to my father, of two closely knit
souls bitten apart by youth and distance. the days when I softened the slight
pulls at your shoulder blades, where I could see miles and miles of a life in
shades of red. I'm burying myself in the sludge of desperation, I am fifty feet

under the swirling surface of a frosted lake michigan, clutching my feet
in a position where no one can hear a word. I am left to croak
when I'm aching to scream, "**** it, *******, I knew of this mess I'm in,
blistering in the cold, one thousand one hundred thirty-nine point five miles, four
years I had to take and knew you wouldn't wait." light
creeping in on the horizon while I sip my twelfth coffee, carefully knit

between my comforter and the sheets. I've never had the patience to knit;
I'm a wanderer, a dreamer, a vagabond on feet
bound by restlessness and the ache of a lifetime spent catching the flight
of the wind on a clear autumn day. I notice the shaking of my body while I soak
in the trembling of treetops, the bursting of my seams for
things I can't have, the running of hands over fabric worn thin.

I had men I could have knit and purled, I had trees I might've loved like texas oak,
I had feet, I had solid friends in fifteens and four;
I had these in the light, but I caved to find you lost within

bobby burns Jan 2013

crimson chagrin

gentle, like the
                         dips, and
                                         grooves,
and soft protrusions of a skeleton,
but more alive, like muscle tissue
over my skull; woolen proteins
fortifying my ears against chill,
keeping my hair stretched taut
against my scalp and finishing
with a flourish of purled texture
cascading abruptly to my neck.

i liked it because it matched
       the lining of my jacket,
       it tied my reds together,

i liked it because it made me
      stick out like a sore thumb
      looking to catch a ride to
      San Francisco or detention,

i liked it because it caught me up
      in the eight legs of disapproval,
      (even though they respected me
      in the utmost, they still tripped
      me something fierce)

i liked it because it taught me selflessly
      never to wear it again.

Xavier Balladarez Apr 2016

Never

Never had I seen such beauty like yours,
Such a worthwhile smile that shapes me like a file.

Never had I seen such wit as yours,
Such a rightful judge to the cruel misrule.

Never had I seen such persona, with playfulness, reasonableness, uprightness, and inquisitiveness.

Never had I seen perfection, the quintessential condensation of all great characterization, in balance with my imperfection.

Yet it is only wise to appreciate you with my eyes, as my body is apprehended by the past, the future, the time, and the agony.

The life I've experienced has taught me that love is futile, served with sadness and unhappiness and dolefulness with a side of temporary blissfulness.

The idea of success impedes me from obtaining happiness, from settling for ‘less’ and portray a smile nevertheless.

Warped by expectation, limitation, and exploitation, time isn't sufficient to provide you with my fixation, affectation, and ministration.

Sustainability I cannot devise for when I witness your brown eyes, brown like earth, which with the kiss of rain and the seed of love can allow the flourish of life and euphoria never dreamed of.

My heart accelerates uncontrollably, approaching me to a heart attack of which I'm never coming back.

I suffocate as you leave me breathless, yet you suppress my stress and hopelessness.

I so wish to warm your hand while wrapping around your arm.

I so wish to embrace you in my arms and promise you safety for eternity.

I so wish to feel your lips and your hips, never letting go until the last grasp of my fingertips.

I so wish to stare at the stars to your side, while I admire your eyes, hoping that our love never dies.

But being with you is an impossibility, in addition to an atrocity.

Separated by time, a history, and personalities, war would form and never end in peace,
For my peasantry doesn't deserve your royalty,
For my filthiness shan't nudge your pureness,
For my darkness can't cohere with your brightness.

I'd be put to trial for the exile of your smile, the most intact of the wonders of the world that would now be purled.

I wish I could love you but never will I deserve you,
Never will we be together, for we would be an incompatible tether.

I wish I could be with you but it is true that we are through,
Never shall our past be repeated, for it won't be greeted, but rather maltreated.

I wish I could but I've understood from our childhood where I stood and where I stand,
Never will I know, if I were… with you, know where it would lead to.

We wish to love while abstaining ourselves from the possibility.

Christina Lau Aug 2015

heaven on earth

the sunset never stopped.
it dropped down and
hit the horizon with flaming colors.
it rippled across the ocean
and purled into the white sand
and tickled my feet.

and the cold- it made me feel
*never-ending

#poetry #new #writing #spilledink

Anais Vionet Dec 4

unfocused

Our land of stars and stripes, now glows,
with screens that flicker in hallowed halls.
Entranced humans shuffle, with eyes fixed below,
on small gadgets that have us enthralled.

Should the Statue of Liberty, our symbolic girl,
be holding a smartphone up to the world?
While tweets fly like eagles and hashtags swirl,
foreign disinformation trends as fast as it’s purled.

In lunch halls, real conversations take rest,
as influence is sought—in hoity-toity, binary quest.
Friends are backdrops—originality in short supply
as likes and shares make our dopamine fly.

America’s zombies, though ******* drained,
shuffle endlessly on, with Wi-Fi stimulated brains.
Once the land of the free, we’re now the land of tech
with minds wrecked by truths unchecked.

As we rock and sway—the new robot way—
will our old, analog-republic simply fade away?
.
.
Songs for this:
Airhead by Thomas Dolby
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_01.mp3

BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 12/04/24:
hoity-toity = snooty or pretentious

#internet #distractions #media #humor

Kurt Philip Behm Jan 2020

Dream Weaver

Forty years shopworn yet still taut,
the past a seamstress rare

Her words reknitted, stitched and purled
—to dress a future bare

(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2020)

— The End —