"quaintness" poems
she sat out my doorway
elusive, mysterious
a quaintness that I couldn't help but to admire
existing truly in a self reclusive reality
speaking rarely
and listening even less
possessed fierce gray eyes
that instilled inexplicable emotions within me
with little to no effort she touched my soul
she didn't do anything unusual
I only wanted her to.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
Ah,
but where are my friends?
I envy those who
sleep beneath the ground
as I toss and turn
beneath my sheets.
The rain coats the windows,
the clear paint on the wooden walls,
sheets of gray steel on the sidewalk,
blank faces in the windows--
the quietude, the quaintness, the
quilt of rain in the forests
and dripping from the roofs.
And where are my friends?
Away, miles away,
far from my wet eyes.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
A hard north-easter fifty winters long
Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck;
Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck;
Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong.
A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng
Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck,
A white vest broidered black, her person deck,
Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong.
Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh,
Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers,
The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye,
Ever and anon imploring you to buy,
As looking down the street she onward lingers,
Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry.
1.1k
I've tucked my dreams away in a time capsule. For certain, they will be better use to someone in the future. Though in all likelihood, they may never be found, for I have told no one where they have been buried and shan't offer a clue. In the capsule, far under the darkness of dirt, should one happen upon it, they will find obscure memories along with those dreams. Just tokens they are, recapturing happy times, made of clay and paint, spell ridden for a future discoverer. These knick-knacks are sure to have power, as no intention I have ever had has been greater than what was formed in those whatnots. You've seen bric-a-brac shelved, gather dust, and finally find themselves wrapped in tissue paper, inside a shoebox stowed in an attic and forgotten. Then one day they are rediscovered by another generation, who is charmed by their quaintness. They are dusted off and put on a shelf again, until sadness bearing that memory requires them to be sold at some yard sale or donated to a thrift store. I can not see this for my whatnots. To me they are too precious to leave in the hands of those close to me now. I won't have them sobbed over. That is the reason they have been buried. And should a certain someone find them in the course of time, may they only know their dreams fulfilled, by a time capsule that stewed long enough to design newer wonder of whatnot.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 9:41 AM UTC
My soul is starving
With my spirit striving
And my consciousness contriving
For death's arriving
Heaven proclaims, my soul is starving
For even though faith resides aplenty
Of all else, I am barren and empty
For even though faith burns strong and brightly
My every action speaks contrary
Heaven proclaimed, my soul should starve.
I truly feel my spirit striving
For sweet surcease and release from the grind
To leave mortal limitations behind
For change or escape, no matter the kind
To rush to a fate, others feel resigned.
I truly felt my spirit strive.
Hopefully my consciousness contrives
For is not cessation of self, weakness
Silly, disregarding, childish quaintness
And it must be selfish to seek solace.
At the expense of kin's caring caress.
Hopelessly my consciousness contrived.
Now my soul has starved.
And my spirit has strived.
But no matter how much my consciousness contrived.
Peace has arrived.
Dec 24, 2009
Dec 24, 2009 at 12:04 PM UTC
The quaintness of a bar in the heart of my city breathes an air of charming, old-fashioned walls, it echoes of the days and night I sat there drinking my gin and tonic pouring my words onto pieces of paper or into hearts.. it reminds me that modern life is convenient but the quaintness of certain walls never die!
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Her quaintness was saturated with 'sweethearts' and 'honey,' bespeaking the youth of my face. I have let its hair grow free for three days now and the bare patches are starting to show, but it seems I have not fooled her. No. I have not fooled myself either. My teacher shoes feel a half size too big and my feet are sweating profusely. I wonder if God made summer for the lemonade or the perspiration. In three years I will have developed a label for this period of my life. I am currently three years short of expressing myself properly and I fear this will always be the case. What do men do in empty hotel rooms? I kick off my shoes to watch them bounce bluntly on the carpet I have seen somewhere before. There is a poor imitation of jazz playing in the lobby and I'm positive someone has mistaken it for the real thing. It leaves a weak hope I will fool them too. Maybe most men are pretending.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC
Honor, I wear a discotheque
Like, a clown's first dance
Integrity, comes for permission, wicked
Opinion, salt and pepper on an egg, is a demon's problem
Little more, than a thank you
Sassafras, is no hap's ecstasy
In the proud and angry due...
We made a frank photograph, your drunk intimacy...
Is a pardoned stare, at faerie tales
Meant upheld, upheaval is a wager
Of a world, with no clash with vice fail's
Proper though, in the name of fate's mere
Mercy, with an extra shirt
Ready for a pant's relent, regret
In an unescapable kiss, of hurt
And possessing quaintness, we are the boding let...
Witness the gasp...
Of a spirit, erudite to a finish
Of levity, long before callous can ask
Is it all right, to wink at liberty's wish?
Nov 9, 2024
Nov 9, 2024 at 3:37 PM UTC
dance steps on the marble floors
still echo off the walls
music that's almost forgotten
whispers through the halls
pillars holding vaulted ceilings
no longer sparkling white
tattered torn and misbegotten
what was once ornate delight
dusty tables are scattered broken
chairs are thrown askew
joyful memories start to fade
as they feel no longer new
a space once crowded warm and bright
has lost its quaintness in the night
now that the parties over
all the people have gone home
shadows fill the empty spaces
where happiness once shone
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
A web of terror would know quaintness
in their crêpe variety where a spider grew angrier
only silk woven blouse blest bats
why darts inside heads if their tough regimen were slime
and never really frittered away an hour at bay.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 5:04 AM UTC
Adding apologies to artillery shells does not amend the action,
And
My brokenness betrays me when it bellows that I have beaten bruises black and blue into your back
But
Crying is a catharsis much too commonplace to convey these casualties.
My doubtful disposition has denied you deliverance from your daring endeavors
Because
Emptying myself to entertain someone else's enormous sense of entitlement
Is
A feeling that frightens my already fragile sense of forwardness.
Glory from a god who glances generously upon us growling ghosts
Is
A Heaven that hurts like hell because happiness is heresy
But
Isolation is an independence I never intended to introduce here.
Juggling jokes and jealousy between juggernauts is jeopardizing my judgement
Because
Kindness is to knowing the truth as kissing is to your knuckles,
It's
Like living life as a lamb but loving a lion.
Missiles gone missing are making me misunderstand my own memory
Yet
Needles have never seemed so necessary as when you're near,
And
Ownership is not an option so we have both become orphans.
Praying to people seems more plausible than pleasing a perfect being
So
I will quantify rather than qualify the quaintness of this quarantine
And
Respectfully reply that paying retribution to a ***** is ridiculous.
Soon something will surface that sends shivers down your spine
But
Today there is only turmoil taking its time to taper off
So
Understand when I utter the word "unify" that I mean us.
Vain and vindictive as you have very well verified being,
If
We worship with what we wish, not what we will,
Our
Exploitation will exemplify an axis on which oxymoron is expedient.
You and your yearning will not yield to yonder threats,
Because
The zeal of this zephyr will carry us to the zenith.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC