"reddening" poems
On the bank of a rushing brook
I sat for hours watching its course.
Peered into the clear gurgling mass
That cascaded down from a mountainous source
Like a slithering snake, it slinks and slips
It babbles downhill night and day
Rolling and gliding through plains and dales
It winds its way to the wider bay.
Dipping my fingers in its icy chill
How my hand got repelled as from a shock!
In its ripples stirred by the kissing breeze,
I saw trees, clouds and the jutting rock-
All floating in queer, fanciful shapes,
Shuddering, trembling and standing still
And the fishes leaving zigzag trails,
Swishing and swimming in the winding rill.
As I quietly watched her speedy flight
With her ***** rising in mournful heaves,
In my ears fell her whispering soft
Orchestrated by the rustle of quivering leaves
I hardly knew the time speeding by
Nor noticed the birds’ homeward flight
Or the Sun moving to the west end side
And the Sky reddening at his sight
As the brook thus continued her headlong ride
To be mingled finally with the ocean wide
I walked, brooding over man’s relentless stride
To be merged eventually with the Cosmic Guide.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
There are words inside
Trying to be silent here—
Sneaking past my lips,
They make themselves known loudly,
Reddening my cheeks and ears.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
1. Sunlight
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
2. The Seed Cutters
They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel,
You'll know them if I can get them true.
They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle
Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through.
They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill
Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potates
Buried under that straw. With time to ****
They are taking their time. Each sharp knife goes
Lazily halving each root that falls apart
In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam,
And, at the centre, a dark watermark.
Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom
Yellowing over them, compose the frieze
With all of us there, our anonymities.
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Sun swollen
reddening as it sank
that brutal ****** disc
scored by church steeples
and chimney stacks
almost lost in the drifting haze
of sulphurous yellow
and char-black smoke.
Duck boards dip
into the sodden earth
as men ***** along in conga lines
holding tight the pack of the man
in front, lest they should slip
lose quick their footing
be ****** down and smothered
by mud.
The walls of the tunnels
are packed earth
rich with blood and bone
bits and pieces of human
anatomy dangle and hang
as if posed by an artist
with a strange and cruel eye
for detail.
The scrabble for fox holes
and rough scraped ditches,
anywhere, below the line of fire.
The ting and whiz-bang
of a night of action
The whistle, the dash
and the forward push
counted more in men
than metres.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
My breath heightened
It's just the same old grind I said
but the escalation of breath was undeniable
and suddenly my palms became frightened
No, no, no its just another night, nothing to dread
but your actions are just unjustifiable
beads of sweat begin to build,
and I can't deny the stress and tension settling atop my shoulders,
but, it's just another night, nothing to dread
certainly, you can't be dead,
and now the darted looks are starting to take place,
denying emotion is only for the skilled,
and tears are reddening my eyes,
but the skies aren't even beginning to cry,
and the sweat that built is ready to be spilt,
but no, no, no, those are the tears,
they've been building for years and now they're left to spill
but, its just another night,
there really is no need for fright despite my plight to take flight and set it all right,
for you, the tried and true, who opens the skies to be blue, for me
who can bring herself to see that you need to be free in light of all your plees...
but it's just another night,
and the bottle hits the ground,
and it's just another night,
unlike the rest that were in sight,
it's just another night,
of fright and desperation in the soul searching escalation,
it's just another night because nothing has ever been alright, any other night,
you just kept it out of sight like it was a special night,
but tonight...is just another night.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.
Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.
Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.
Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.
Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.
Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.
"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.
Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:22 PM UTC
I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
When my guilt paralyzes me,
when my shame makes me cower
under the piercing lights of discovery,
my shoulders melt.
Bone becomes fluid, leaks into cavities,
pools around my organs in puddles:
puddles that fill crevices, then freeze.
Molecules grow closer, fit to form,
cementing my fears together
like negative space on a statue.
My guilt and shame were read to me
like bedtime stories every night at nine.
My quilt was littered with secret hurts
to cover with shrugs and a stoic face.
I wasn't just taught to take the blame
and accept responsibility for that which I can't control:
I was taught how to bury it in the backyard,
how to papier-mache a mask
over my reddening cheeks,
to soak up my salty woes
and further solidify the facade.
As the years passed and practice made perfect,
my entire body became encapsulated in fear and pride.
Independence burned bright in my self-descriptions,
but all I truly had to offer was an island,
desolation built upon an inevitability.
I was taught to hold secrets like water,
a never-ending flood of pieces of myself.
My reflection once told me to stop:
there was so much debris, I was manic static
over a vital broadcast.
That hunger took hold,
ripped the pain right out of my lungs
like warm breath on a chilly morning.
But self-awareness dissipated just as quickly.
Acclimation; Stockholm syndrome.
I came to covet the shell,
unbreakable like the vice over your heart.
I was taught not to burden;
I was taught not to trust.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Because of you
I'm all here
Buried all the pains
Dug a new chapter
Imported new feelings
Seeded hope
Exported all the grievances
Took hold of the promises
Watered the heart
Cementing the broken pieces together
Laminated the smile
And on the wall I nailed it
Began a tireless journey
Wishing for the best
Trusting the eyes
Enjoying the sweet melody
A lullaby I need for a lifetime
Remember those days?
Acting silly and stupid
The ignorance we entertained
The confusion we embraced
Embroidering the hatred
An the mist of pain we got lost
Turning our backs on each other
Anger reddening our eyes
Silence that became a graveyard
Silence that almost murdered our hearts
Intoxicating our feelings
Destroying the taproots of our future
I remember that days
Buried now
Now I smile
For we hold it
In our hands we are molding it
Together moistening the clay
That long ago cracked
With no hope of being a palp again
We have it
We repainted the wall
A new dawn of hope
A beginning of a new chapter
The chills of winter all gone
Summer says hello
With its rain we will puddle
In the mud together
Yes the mud of love we will ***** ourselves
For we buried the past
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 5:32 AM UTC
I feel the warden staring down at me.
Is he staring at the furrowing of my pensive brow,
smirking as my thoughts churn endlessly?
Getting a kick out of these antsy lips,
Laughing at the wretch with flighty focus?
Laughing
at the reddening in my eyes
as a trembling, glossy veil surfaces? I’m done here. Leave me alone. I just want to
Focus.
The warden sinks his long, icy fingernails into my collarbones .
A winter frost crawls up my neck.
His wicked tongue slithers into my ear and poisons my potential.
My thoughts churn until they are on fire.
I claw at my eyes, and see my
Autonomy,
encapsulated inside a foggy membrane.
The warden callously twirls the key
to a world beyond my anxiety.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Under the Autumn pastel fire
Yellow and reddening browns
Fall
Like rusty petals
Floating from Summers dying side;
And vanish
In the sweet smoky perfume of bonfire
Leaving their final reminder
For nostalgia is several years.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
People -
so many bodies…
Some seem to engage
for but a moment, of course,
before bustling past on hot sidewalks,
with varied smidgens of mind and heart;
collections of vibrating chemistry,
moving to specific oscillations.
How to make sense of it all?
We can be drawn to warm embers,
avoid icy slaps on our cheeks reddening.
Grey shapes pass us by, hardly registering a blip -
are they nothing more than the flotsam of flailing limbs
echoing our own caustic needs and wants pending?
Yet we all want much the same things in life:
to be noticed with kindness by the benign,
safe from the razor-blade elements,
find our slot in life that counts,
and leave something good
for posterity, if it comes…
For dots of humanity
of which we are a part,
in some fashion or another,
keep floating giddily past us…
Are they up for what will come
with stoic resistance, or neglect?
Do they expect some dystopia
and the terrors of a dark night?
Ask the fretting little children,
who can’t sleep for their fright!
They too need a river of peace ~
the Promise to be fulfilled
made by One wiser
than all else…
~~
Mar 16, 2023
Mar 16, 2023 at 7:58 PM UTC
It's funny how the little things
Like breakfast for dinner
With your best friends
Or playing hide and seek
At ten o'clock
Under fluorescent lights
Can make your life significantly better.
With every laugh
I felt my body smiling
I felt my cheeks reddening with joy
And I felt my soul being warmed
By the best company. It doesn't matter
Where you are;
Fast food at midnight,
Huddled in a seated car,
Sitting on plush carpets next to
A roaring fire,
Talking, writing, laughing, ranting, it's the company,
It's knowing that people trust you
With their secrets,
Care enough to make you smile,
Want you to be with them-
That's what matters.
Saturday night
I laughed until I cried.
For the first time
In days
Weeks
I felt connected-
I felt wanted and loved, and most of all,
For once,
I felt happy.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Here we are,
at the edge of the world,
the tides of an ancient sea crashing down,
the reddening tides wash away,
the fragile smiles of mankind,
blazing from the torrent,
man has turned his face,
defending his better side.
He does not fight,
he simply waits,
accepting the fate that is to come,
suffocation beneath the waves,
for what can he do?
He sees no other option,
for man is no visionary,
man is a creature of comfort,
wit has been replaced by social complacency,
social dependency,
social degradation,
social fixation,
the fighting spirit is lost to antiquity.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Running Blind Madness
Eyes Wide Heart Pounding
Spirit Lifts Senses Live
Theres Thunder IN THE Atmosphere
This IS A Free Arena
A Gateless Auditorium
Open Fields
Open Wide
Forking Lightning ON THE Horizon
This Natural Inebriation
IN Dynamic Resonation
Anticipation OF THE
Consternataion
Hells Beasts Abound
Snarling Snouts Sounding
Heavy Hoofs Pounding
Crazed Dashing Hounding
IN THE Chaos That'S Surrounding
Hells Beasts Abound
Torso'S Writhing Flailing
Grit Bucking Flailing
Crimson Flow Tailing
THE Gore OF THE Impailing
I'M Knee Deep
IN A River OF Blood
Fleshen Heap
IN THE Reddening Flood
Sodden WET Flesh
Whip AND Turn
Trace THE SKY
With THE Carnal Rain
WET THE Earth
With A Reddened
Stain
Sodden WET Flesh
Whip AND Turn
Trace THE SKY
With THE Carnal Rain
WET THE Earth
With A Reddened
Stain
Sodden WET Earth
Besot With Death Mirth
Drown THE Earth
IN THE Afterbirth
Every Beast THE ****** Herse
DON'T RID ME OF THE ******* Curse
IN AN Ever Rising River OF Blood
Causing Chaos With NO Remorse
I AM Power IN Full Course
Wreaking Havoc
Sump
WET
Dripppin'
Torn
This Bloods LET BY MY Horn
I'M Sopping WET
MY ****** Horn
I Feel Like I'M NEW Born
Drumming Quakes Pounding
Shaking THE Foundation
Lifting Spirits IN THE AIR
I AM GOD Everywhere
Helter Skelter IN THE Chaos
This IS Pandemonium
Freedom Forms
IN THE Void
Electric Flux Obliteration
Pure Intoxication
AS Evil Incarnation
This Revelation
IS Anihilation
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
The fresh savannas of the Sangamon
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;
The wanderers of the prairie know them well,
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.
Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not
That these bright chalices were tinted thus
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,
Amid this fresh and ****** solitude,
The faded fancies of an elder world;
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind
O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,
To swell the reddening fruit that even now
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.
But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well--
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,
Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves,
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone--
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown
And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,
And part with little hands the spiky grass;
And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.
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She scrapes her scalp with the metal teeth
That promised to bring her beauty,
Then destroys
Each ringlet of pulchritude with burning tongues of fakery.
She slaps orange liquid on to her pale face,
Desperately disguising every perfect imperfection.
Darkening her sight and reddening her speech,
She puts up the barriers to prevent
Her emotions from revealing themselves.
Squeezing into pieces of bright cloth that accentuate her figure,
She smiles at her superficial curves.
Staring vainly into the mirror,
She grins.
Because she no longer resembles herself.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow
Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear,
The hunter of the west must go
In depth of woods to seek the deer.
His rifle on his shoulder placed,
His stores of death arranged with skill,
His moccasins and snow-shoes laced,--
Why lingers he beside the hill?
Far, in the dim and doubtful light,
Where woody slopes a valley leave,
He sees what none but lover might,
The dwelling of his Genevieve.
And oft he turns his truant eye,
And pauses oft, and lingers near;
But when he marks the reddening sky,
He bounds away to hunt the deer.
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I waited
for what felt like a day
in a glass room with skin-colored curtains
things going in, things coming out
He came in, panting hard
and kneeled beside the cold table where I sat
Face reddening in the cheeks
on the nose,
just like mine
When I told him,
two tears fell out of each his eyes
and I thought
I was made
of stone
He carried me through the wet April snow,
put us in a cab
and took me home
There was a bath running
and steam on the mirror
I got undressed for the third time that day
and sank
into the hot
white bubbles
He held my right knee
with his left hand
and told me
we weren’t going to school tomorrow
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
Relax upon this chilled rock.
Gaze between sun-touched forget-me-knots
Simple complexity routinely ignored.
Just as the sounds of surrounding spring breeze is looked over.
The yellow buttery center melts into sky colored petals, spiked with sassy white.
Small and insignificant standing alone, nonetheless confidence takes a hold in its’ bunches.
Beauty strikes the eye of imagination
In simplicity the smiles of appreciation break free.
These little things that break our reddening madness are the little things that move us to skip a beat.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
The world grows lonely as the years go by
Where all the people around you begin to die
But not in the sense where they leave this earth
They just seem to move on to places like Perth
Some seem to smile brighter surrounded by glowing lights
Dancing in clubs, from night to night
From drink to drink to pill to pill
Doing lines off the bench, as pupils widen and fill
Lighting cigarettes in cars, Enjoying the green
Filling cars full of smoke, like young kids of eighteen
Eyes reddening and glazing, Fading out of this zone
As the concept of time becomes blackened and unknown
Some are passionate and driven, working harder each day
Building businesses and plans, so they can achieve something great they say
Counting up budgets, preparing their lives.
They are people who will succeed, not just survive
Others are married, having kids, and Starting their happiness off young
Though many think they are making mistakes, but they hold their tongues
Time move on, and people are getting engaged
Whatever feels right to them I think, regardless of their age
As people choose their lifestyles, and none of them suit you well
It's hard to find a crowd that won’t make you feel like hell
The world feels lonely as time passes, You feel like you're all alone
When people don’t message back, or check on you over the phone
People you called friends move on, as do you
But I can’t seem to find a rhythm, I can’t seem not to feel blue
I feel empty on the inside, and envy those who know what to do
Jealous of their smiles, as they always have something new
Feeling lost and outdated, In this forever changing life
Maybe if I begin to work harder, take up partying, or become a wife
Will this feeling go away, Will I stop feeling such strife
As the loneliness eats away at my energy, cutting deeper than a knife
The world will keep on changing
I know at least that is right.
May 13, 2022
May 13, 2022 at 10:22 AM UTC
Skip the drugs
And give me a double dose of serotonin
I certainly do like those laughable days
The heavy sun reddening my face
Just a few minutes away from my lover's embrace
But I wait so I stay here and pace
Take the pills
So i can socialize among the saddening lies
And a week is a day
When your world starts to fray
So i take a seat with glass in hand
Waiting on a phone that will never call again
In my mind I knew this had to end
So take another pill
So the world won't seem so gray
And I make another pact
Not to die today
But I lie to myself far too often
To truly know the color of my character
Like the night it might be black
Like my anger when i look back
Or I could be a saint
Waiting on my rapture from a God of grace
All I know is that there is an end
Not so very far away
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 1:46 AM UTC
The jet- black, coal-smeared dawn
of days afterwards
of starless nights
and moon less nights
of deep dark darkness
thick and sticky
pitch and oil
***** days of charred wood
and ash.
That scouring whiteness
that etching acid purity
of white heat metal days
The crisp starched sun-scented
wind sail sheet
smoothed flat peace flag days.
That white marble slab cool
blanched forensic world
of questions and answers.
The sunset rusty reddening
pain deadening
leeching of the scarlet wash
crimson and vermilion
ruby berries and rose blush
blood tear letting
letting go.
No lead for gold - no alchemy here
No runes or trickery - no book of spells
No steady path of transformation
Just the heavy hollowed wreath
that black, white and red tricolour
of grief.
© M.L.Emmett
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC