"quil" poems
Be thankful for the rain ,
for when it came parched lands were quenched amugst humid skies ,
as darker clouds gathered at four in the afternoon .
The letter I meant to send you lies unopened on my table .
There was no post today ,
no stamp as the post office was closed ,
no rail road to sent by train to sort out ,
No pigeon post as my bird had died that morning in its cage ,
Or telegraph man with heavy burden of death to knock on your door .
My WiFi off line
E mails down ,
My paper plane would not take to flight ,
If I could have walked to your house and mailed it by candel light ,
Or sent a sonet ,
Or a chorister of chamber singers at dusk .
By quil and ink I would have written
‘ I love you ‘
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
I rode a Trojan horse off to sea with the winds of tide.
Off with a quil and a sword and a helmet to protect my
head the size of a melon soda;
I wondered,
did Dorian ever grow his hair long?
I envy you, Dorian,
with your silky locks and impenetrable gaze,
slanting, almost cursing mouth filled
with gasp.
Portraits do not exceed the size of its canvas,
but you seem to breathe Life, Dorian.
You seem alive.
Perhaps the color black suits you or your tie;
perhaps the ground on which you walk upon
turn grey and wither with every step.
They say you die a little each day, Dorian.
Are you looking for a lover?
One’s whims turn to coals with every feathered touch.
Lay down beside me, Dorian, and
don’t forget to cover us.
Wrap me in the shade of your *****
and maybe tonight will be the kindest of clouds.
Lay down beside me, Dorian, and kiss me on my lips.
I have long since felt a stranger so humid and dry.
Wrap your tongue around my finger, Dorian.
Taste me;
take me breath by hurried breath.
Grounds will shake and split to quarters into the far
corners of the Earth.
There was a play, staged at the living room, where the couch
used to be.
I heard a hiss on the recorder the step you
started grinding your hips pressed unto me.
I took a hold of you, dear Dorian, and you vanished in thin
air.
Goddamit, Dorian, we never talked about Chaplin.
I never said anything about grieving or weeping the insides
of my being.
Dance with me, oh Dorian!
Before the clock strikes one.
Before you fade and your face becomes a smudge on my arm.
Look at me, Dorian, *********
Look at me.
Look.
This is the sound of your embrace,
and of a million and one hues pressed clear in wells of oil.
I loved you, Dorian,
as much as one portrait hangs somewhere, gathering dust and memories,
waiting for a breath,
a sigh,
a touch,
a face.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
If I was a mountain
That soared towards the sky,
With craggy snow caps
And stormy grey eyes-
Then you'd be the clouds
That swaddled my peak,
That silenced my thunder
When I tried to speak.
If I was the earth
The desert, in fact:
With arid dry soil
And mud, dried and cracked-
You'd be the rain
The downpour that soothed;
The balm to my bruises,
Relief to my wounds.
If I was the Moon
In the indigo night,
With stars as my blanket
And silver; my light-
Well you'd be the Sun
Just always behind
That lent me your glow
And caused me to shine.
By Sarah Quil
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:15 AM UTC
upbeat, and energetic.
how much is too much?
the urge to chug
heart down't slow down now
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Who cares if I take and extra sip
I'm not trying to **** myself
I'm just sick
And trying to get rid of the cold quick
So I took more night quil then intended
But I'm not suicidal
I didn't finish the bottle
I just took and extra sip
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
I may not be Shakespeare with a quil
no mind a keyboard or a pen.
I work with what I have even if its a bad vocab.
To which I may bore and so follows my bad grammar and punctuation
I've really got it all.
So just
scroll
scroll
scroll.
Ignore the words I bleed on to the page.
Call it a waste of time a waste of ink.
its just nice to know maybe someone will read this
even if its not appreciated.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
I took out a piece of parchment to scribble down the things i wanted to ask you, hoping the angels would bring it to you.
I thought perhaps, should i ask why? Why you couldn't hold on to life a little longer because i still can't get over the fact that you are gone. Or maybe to ask if it is really you who appears in my dreams...or am i just overly hallucinating to the point of memory alteration.
I should ask what keeps you busy because you mentioned the first time we talked in my dreams that you couldn't visit sooner because you had been busy. I should ask why you can't appear in my dreams everynight. Like the night before my graduation when you came and we took pictures full of glorious technicolour and we were content.
I should also ask whether you noticed that i am blue, broken...i lost myself. That I am so afraid of loss that i feel the need to push the ones i love away. To ask whether you noticed that i keep to myself so that i do not burden those around me when i break down with the mere mention of "mum".
Or let me just ask for advice. I grew up accepting the concept of broken hearts because somehow humans decided that figuratively the heart is made of glass. But mine isn't. It's made if sand. I lost a grain or two over the years but now...i should ask for advice on how to mend my disseminated heart. For it is scattered into millions of grains.
And for some reason time seems to have gone to a stance. The saying that time heals all wounds seems vague to me now. For no matter how much time passes by, this wound isn't healing. Its hard to think about you, but its even harder not to.
So after contemplating all these questions, i took out my quil and wrote the one question i was desperate to ask you:
mother, are you well?
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
Like the torn pages of some book, my heart leaps in to look, dabs of watermark, screams with ache, shattering in the corner with a broken quil, scarttering ink
The spurts of red ooz, down the thin lining, skating through the white sheets
I think of, what my fears tend to paint, a terrible sin, taled by a dark saint
Robed in pale, clear as a glass trans, bears the spurts with that of an ink mark
Glows with the hit of ray, ignites the jealous spark of the impossibilities
S..sshhh!
It's breath, hovers my shoulder with a sticky wetness odor
Clenching and sniffing as if ripping my veins out of order
A slight touch of my hand spooked ****** ambience in a blink
Of that of some air brush smearing spurts of ***** ink...
©sim
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 5:38 AM UTC
Poets and painters and writers and dancers and those who have art fall from their dreams through their hands and into something real in this world fall a little faster and give a little more and feel a little deeper because they have the same love that is born in the heart of dreams of flawless magic and perfect wonder and they know the value of our human imperfections and the beauty hiding in our flaws and they love long past our failures and their broken hearts keep loving us even after our goodbyes and our cruelty and mistreatment and they do more than belive in magic but keep magic alive and spin more threads into its blanket that keep our lives warm and they give without asking for anything in return and they comfort our sorrows and find our hands to hold in the dark and they take out sad stories and turn tears into dreams and dreams into stars and place those stars in the sky and they show us that magic is something wonderfully real if all we do is belive and pull these thing from our dreams and into our hands and it is a mad cat wearing a hat that smiles and purrs from our hearts and it is the most simple and complex and most beautiful part of living that makes life worth it all in the end and its at the end of the colors of every paint brush and every drop of ink from a quil and in every note of a song and every rhythm and rhyme and every leap taken and every word spoken on a stage and like life art would have no meaning without it and it comes to us from the birth place of dreams and it is as real as forever if we all just belive and its really that easy which isn't easy at all but we must never stop trying when we have found and we have fallen and been lucky enough to found ourselves blessed with its presence and that is of course my kind friend the magic and wonder of love
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 6:29 PM UTC
Weird **** happens
When I close my eyes
My body gets taken
Engulfed by night
Waking up in tears
Just after I tried
To get some sleep
And piece of mind
My chest is expanding
Anxiety running high
The world is upside down
Trying to hold on for the ride
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:04 PM UTC