"ribboned" poems
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
22.7k
found
grounded bird closed in
ribboned-box and buried
underneath a willow snapped back
to finally relax
to decompose and nourish
by the lake in drooping shade
the felled leaves pile
candy wrappers gray snow in
parking lot corners
with pumpkin spice scented candles
with charred letters skirling up
the arm dropped to sizzle and puff out
white beanies
flannels
leather boots and jangly bronze-leafed wind chimes
I sit on the patio and listen to you speak
the chill of your words
perched like a squirrel barking on a fence top
hibernation preparation and breeze
the gospel of your autumn
it’s lovely.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
walking out of the liquor store
wine bottles double ******
asphalt concrete curb stone
the great expanse of the universe
the mundane
welded water tight
that Escher print
of ribboned minds
personal accounting
money as abstraction
automobile documents
layers of bureaus
the great and powerful
realm of ideas
shared fallen history
the strike of the pen
ideals ethics
the avoidance of sin
cold is coming
warmth is rare
plug into existential wetness
yet suffer banality
Friday, November 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
promised you a new love poem
every day till forever arrives,
for it will until then to
exhaust the crazy no limit ways to communicate
how my love for you consumes my
fragility, uncovering my core of strength,
that is never exposed, but for/to you,
but for/to you
*my unidimensional surface
unpierced,
no one sees what you x-ray,
and I fess willingly, with ease of mind,
that my secrets are safe stored best within
the borderless country where our ven
diagrams of souls
intersect with iron & steel & titanium
ribboned lines of inviolate invisible
pure white*
*here I stop
lest I die of bursting,
and yet I weep
for us,
for
you,*
no longer
read my poetry
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 12:19 PM UTC
We once burned witches...
No.
We burned people who were accused
of being witches or practicing witchcraft...
never proven but still burned....
burned alive...
wether or not they were witches
will remain unknown
and why should it
have mattered if they were,
what excuse was that to have
behaved so maliciously hateful and cruel
I will tell you this though
if I had been a witch
or knew any kind of witchcraft
the first thing i would have done
is work out a fire proof charm
perfected an unburnable spell
an I can walk through the fire
and feel a hell of a lot better
after doing so spell
a my blood and bones
burn hotter than the sun spell
a you better get that
little matchstick outta my face spell
before I show you how to burn
THE REAL MONSTERS here spell
the monsters with the lust
to watch flesh turn
to cinder and ash monsters
the monsters who feared
the unordinary who showed
any kind of extraordinary monsters
the monsters of the masses
with crosses that burned
like torches monsters
the monsters who screamed ******
in the name of....
monsters
the monsters who could not see
their own reflection
for the hideous creatures
they were monsters
the same monsters that still live today
on this side of the looking glasses
under our thin skinned social structure
still burning witches
subtly now
with words of disdain
full of pernicious intentions
towards the lost and the lonely
with the cold staring eyes of indifference
and hearts without an once of compassion
towards the homeless and hungry
with the revulsion and abhorrence
towards those who love
the ones they love
the witches being any unordinary
that show any kind of extraordinary
still being feared for their difference
still being hated
reduced to nothing but
pill size suicides
red ribboned wrists
rope neck ties
for feeling too much
pushing too far
flying too high
dancing in cinder to ash
being burned
burned for being alive
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 3:32 AM UTC
As her fingertips brushed through the fragile pages;
familiar notes of handwriting flit onto her lips, then her ears. She could almost hear his voice again.
The thin, ribboned memories sweetly tie themselves into the hollow spaces. The one on the left side of her wrist, the little corner behind the eye socket.
And especially, the ones where she holds her breath, hoping her very heartbeat would be enough.
Enough rhyme & reason to stay here.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
The hours cut quickly
In shadows across
This space
And my hair keeps coming loose
From behind my ears.
The repeated motion
Of putting everything back into place
And this is my
Meditation..
Your ribboned presence
Stretching itself into each corner
Where it curls to
Rest for a while...
But your jellyfish memory
Though beautiful, floating
Through my submerged world
Stings to touch,
So I love you
From afar
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
Feel the chains change in me tonight
Condense me to evaporate in want
The long of a bounce to another world
Light the fire to burn deep and fervour
A belly roasts in repetitive embers flushes
Hearts tied connate as the essence flashes
A tangle ribboned to last after the dawn
Testify as our sparks infinitely ignite dances
Titaniums of our tectonic plates merge motions
A convergence entwined in bordered emotions
Link me in the convections of transformations
Conversations of a lasting warm benevolence
Paradisiacal chum of a past in resonance
A photographic collection of a lived long life
Unwrap the snare, unwind the erased tapes
Lay back as we hide away behind the moonlight
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
She came into her life
A mere stranger of coincidence
Alexander McQueen ivory silk tulle
Empire line gown.
All senses heightened;
She was waiting amidst
The exotic smell of burning
Candle wax.
The scent of a woman clinging
To lustful air, white roses ribboned
Thorns tinting porcelain skin.
She hears the patter, not dislike
A small child coming toward you.
All senses are broken; just a voice
So much power in the echo
Of words spoken with such
Fluidity.
**** he ******* knew that
She was awake, Louboutin steps
Scaring the devil itself; what sin.
Walking through flames,
Burning, hot coals; presence.
Ophelia approaches, a creature
Secure, arms wrapped tight
And smiles at her.
Ophelia speaks to her; lifting her arms
To wrap around her instead.
A gentle hand, to the thigh
A soft caress across silver scars.
The girl feels; inadequate
And yet, forgiven for all she has
Committed; sins of the flesh.
It was only now that, this goddess
Of desire, lust and eternity
Could mark a soul, for she was an
Angel, winged feathers a glow.
She reaches to the empty soul
Challenges her resoluteness
"What can I do to help?"
Eyes welling, the sound of a
Tear, akin to a pin drop
In silence.
In that silence, words formed
Like cloud patterns, shifting
Graceful elegance.
Nothing was heard, all was spoken.
Ophelia stole her heart,
The girl will always be attached
By symbolic resurrections
Of strength,
Spiritual
From
The heart and mind.
© Sia Jane
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
The girl’s corneas expand over the small black abyss of pupil
Tides of blue and hazel rising over onyx isles
An unhinged eyelash balances precariously on its neighbor
It evaporates with her quick blink
Directly beneath her right eye
Below the mottled eggplant shadows
The corpse of a capillary drains among the freckles
Subterranean rivers of vein
Pulse under thin skin
Her nose is spherical
Etched by soft papery scars
Pores round and gazing
Culminating in a uniform valley
Lips are soft and pink and unkissed
A source for a small steady trickle of pride
Her mother’s lips
But behind the outer façade
The seamed surface is rough with nervous nibbles
Ribboned with scars of worries and troubles
She lacks fourteen teeth
Absent since the womb
Those she has are either sickly infants or filled with grainy mystery metallics
Some entirely fabricated with spatulas of amalgam
Yellowed and cracking
Rough and worn
Spongy inner marrow screaming with pain
She hides the stony incisors from view
The hair
Curling and waving
Kissing with reptilian tongues at her cheeks
Neck
Forehead
Framing her face in brambles and cowlicks
Indecisive of its true form
Fuzzy with moisture
Unwilling to obey
The strands of a gorgon
A monstrous tangle of personality
Instantly recognizable
Her hands attempt to soothe the undulating tendrils
But they anger
As stubborn as her
Refuse treatment
She gives up
Rinses her hands
And turns away from the mirror
Sighing
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
orange marmalade ribboned on warm toast
reflecting the golden light from the sun
It looks like Cleopatra's prize possession
It is too bright for a ghost to see
And too valuable to be an investment
Orange marmalade
How it swirls in your tongue
Too afraid to swallow it
Oh how I admire the orange marmalade
It's like a slice of happiness
The sun sprinkled on the orange marmalade
You can see all the orange pieces tucked in the marmalade
I love orange marmalade
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 10:06 AM UTC
It's a dream childhood
taking the ten fifteen autumn ferry
for school on the other side of the river
little white butterflies
petite pretty ribboned
babbling like river ripples
boarding from the jetty in the sky
traveling below billowing September clouds
living only in now breathing joyous
no worry for a future
ferrying along the river
and now is all that counts
counting by the moments
fairy furlongs
on the ten fifteen autumn ferry.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
Sun + Shine
=
Sunshine
The sort of warmth that dapples across bared collarbones and shoulders.
Honey + Comb
=
Honey-comb
The scent of honey itself gently tugs the ribboned memories of summer.
Sweet + Mittens
The sort that are utterly perfect for hiding behind those little winks and sweetness peek-a-booing from that hell of a smile.
=
Smitten
You + I =
?
Could it be love ?
"Now, don't ask that like a question.
Say it like it should end with
a comma (,)
or
a semi-colon (;) at least!
He says carefully and measuredly.
His lips kissed the tip of her nose
like
a
full-stop
(.)
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
She wasn't there when I arrived,
but I hugged her at St Paul's
where patron saints pay to see the crypt
and pidgeons relieve themselves for free
She wasn't there when I left
tho we did hold hands
and stroll along the Thames
even shared a laugh in some famous gallery
Then she was gone
Don't think she likes my verses much
She has her Phd now
afterall
but I remember warmly
red ribboned pigtails
and crumpet mix
dripping
Sep 28, 2009
Sep 28, 2009 at 11:45 AM UTC
Nobody knows how to say goodbye to anything, even the
sea has ruined edges
leaves its will to a muddy bayou. Our
phonecalls hang onto me after there rings a dial tone, a curly tail
of wires ribboned around my most important parts
thigh, artery, genital. The bed
is the whole bedroom, now. I am handcuffed from the ceiling
waiting for your voice box to quiver again
and am kicking and screaming –
I am heartbroken at nothing, not for no reason but for
nothing. Lovers are not versed in goodbyes
or else we would not be lovers. But I prefer the sensation of
suffocation to cold blankets,
rather heat them up with blood and guts than have a
mattress that has never smelled my *** You do not know how to
ring my neck or drown me in sheets that’ll
just hide hide hide the word
goodbye. If this is your worst trait, not wanting to go,
I am happy to let you love and hurt me until I can float, too.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
One day, I hope you know, sweet heart.
That words spoken from your lips to mine were tied by that smile
&
ribboned by wispy threads of memories,
the way you stared at me in off-handed moments;
your eyes
playing peek-a-boo with mine
across a place filled with beating hearts.
Mine was the fastest, that I do know.
That you pulled pieces of my heart apart
slow & soft
like a promise,
then jigsawed it back together.
But surely, it splintered into indecipherable pieces that escapes my hopeful fingertips.
The irony is I don't wish that upon you either.
I hope you do know,
I
really
do.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
**A ravaged beauty -
long threatened tired life,
riding appreciated**
Friday’s off-road cycle ride started late with a heart-choking chill head-wind blown rain - blurring my glassed vision, so I trusted into the triple lanes of colours slicing through the Vale of Neath. Here a builder’s ladder jumped boomeranging off it's white van - attempting to decapitate me - behind me it’s miss was announced by squealing brakes and crunching impacts, scaring alive splattered visions of a flat-end and being posted within a near drain. Surviving today's devilled ribbon of the dangerous windscreen imprisoned - sitting with pub bound murderous cohorts - I found off-road safe solitude’s mountain bike path East to Coelbren - joining new, a fine yet unsigned cycle route curling around Mynydd y Drum, to open views of Cwm Tawe as I pass hunting twisting through woods a single Red Kite. Then gravities speed, circles barriers into Ystradgynlais top - a narrow ribboned descent, hemmed by cars and paved children to the rugby fields.
**Senses travelogue -
previously un-experienced,
time spins slower**
Here the trails old section points to Swansea - winding lost betwixt fields, paths, trees and roads to Cwmtawe Cycleway proper, there to pedal beside and across Afon Tawe with repeated special offers of child saddled exhaust roaring kamikazes, bicycle maiming broken glass, proudly owned attack dogs, branch hung ball-sacks of excrement, visions of the lost ripped-away steel gated stops, hacked-off wooden fences and never-there deceitful dreams of red doggy bins all disguised what passed for hidden beauty, which he called lovely ugly. *Backing-into Pontardawe to crawl away below the dark bridge,
past a single inviting pub - I accompany the Tawe and it's twin a decrepit polished canal
through ***** alleys - until our hero stutters, gapes then tunnels under
great noisious noxious ribbons of hurtling tired....*
**Pressured paced life -
impossible commitments,
Living organic**
.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 9:37 AM UTC
In class Mr Finn
talks about fractions
and denominators
and other stuff
I don't care to know
I see Janice
sitting at her desk
her fair hair
ribboned
and her small hand
and fingers
writing down
what he is saying
I scribble nothing
my page has a few
fractions and numbers
and my pen
drips blue ink
on the page
as I look at her
we went to the bomb site
off Meadow Row
last evening
(not too late
or her gran
will slap her one)
and we talked of Jesus
(or she was)
and how He died
and why none
of the disciples
came to his aid
Mr Finn says
Benny are you
listening to what
I am saying
about fractions?
Yes Sir
I reply
although I haven't
I have not a clue
what did I say
about this fraction?
He points
to the blackboard
I stare at the board
I missed that bit
I say
he sighs and repeats
(for me I guess)
what he has just said
Janice looks at me
she has lovely blue eyes
I smile
she frowns
Mr Finn talks
of improper fractions
and stuff
I study what
he's written
and think
school work
is tough.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
I could stare at your back all day
Your shoulder blades slice
Like doves diving into rice milk
Am I being saccharine?
Only for you, my sweet rabbit
If I pry into your ribboned cage
Would I find a tanghulu heart
Or a hollow space where I’ve stolen it?
I hope it has found a home in my mouth
Despite the high chance of cavity
At least I have you to fill the empty hole between my lips.
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 5:24 AM UTC
Anny Horowitz
pressed her nose
against the glass
window pane
of Nero’s coffee bar
where you sat drinking
coke in ice in a glass
her ghostly
blue eyes
peered at you
a smile lingered
her small hands
were palm flat
on the pane
so that her lifeline
and headline were visible
where she pressed
you beckoned
with a nod
of your head
for her to come in
and she came in
and sat in the seat
beside you
her phantom
1940s clothes
seemed neat and clean
and her blonde hair
was ribboned
and looked fresh washed
Anny’s hand touched
the back of your chair
her eyes searched
about her
the fingers
of her other hand
toyed
with an empty glass
on the small
round table
she talked
in her soft voice
and asked about
the drink in the glass
and you told her
and she smiled
and was fascinated
by the bubbles rising
around the ice cubes
a couple came in
and a took a seat nearby
he went off
to order drinks
and she sat
and looked at you
then away again
not seeing Anny
sitting there
Mozart music
playing
in the background
Anny sat listening
her head
swaying slowly
to the music
she said
she remembered
the music
her feet
in black shoes
swung back and forth
under the chair
she said
at Auschwitz
they played music
but it made her sad
to remember
you took out
your mobile phone
and spoke into it
did they play Wagner
at Auschwitz?
you asked
she said she thought so
the woman nearby
looked at you
wondering who
you were talking to
then looked away
what is that?
Anny asked
my mobile phone
you said
phone?
she said
it’s like the telephones
in telephone boxes
years ago
but smaller
and you can go around
with them
in your hand
Anny nodded
but the woman frowned
giving you a stare
you sipped your coke
nice and cold
refreshing
against heat
coming through
the coffee bar window
Anny gazed
at the woman
then put out
her hand
and touched yours
and it was cool
and soft like silk
as if a breeze
had blown
against your skin
you gazed
at her ribboned hair
her blue eyes
then she faded
and was gone
just the nosey woman
giving you a stare
not knowing
your little Jewish friend
had come and gone
and was no longer there.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
It was your heart
Big and strong
It was your spirit
Open and welcoming
I was drawn by your aura yielding
Without fear I let go and let you take me away down a stream faithful
The further my heart floated down with you the sky became more enriched in dazzling starlight
Hand in hand we let ourselves get taken away by this delightful current
Surrendering to this sweet dance life gifted us with
Ourselves struck with hope in what we thought was only myth
Our spirits ribboned around each other like legs under cool sheets
Embracing one another as two reunited travelers separated for years
Drunk in love and paying no attention to fears
I saw finally where poets before me had been
Under this celestial sky of serenity is where I forever want to lay in
Hand in hand, tangled around each other under dazzling stars that envy our glow
Praying tomorrow's sun would show kindness to rise slow
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
Broncos bucked up
Rattled rangeless restless
For 24 days now
Cowboys gone awry
Drunk in their sheets.
Shooting out windows
Instead of black hats.
Divining honor in
Hoop skirts.
Belching sarsaparilla
Soaked six shooters.
Go West young man?
No.
Sorry.
Invest young man.
Get blessed young man.
Get dressed young man.
Distressed ghost towns
Remain inflections
Calico ribboned echoes
of
Freedom's hyena laugh &
Liberty's lonesome howl.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
We sit on the fence
that surrounds the field,
Yehudit and I,
watching cows
move and munch,
sun on our heads,
hands by our sides
to help us balance.
Will the pond
be ok?
she says,
looking at me,
her eyes bright,
the smile forming,
the brown hair
gripped and ribboned.
Should be fine,
I say,
providing
there's none about,
except the ducks
and swans and dragonflies
hovering across
the water's skin.
We climb down
from the fence,
stretch our legs,
rub our backsides,
and walk off towards
the pond,
hand in hand.
My mother's suspicious,
Yehudit says,
wonders where I go
when I leave the house,
and asks: who
are you with?
and I say,
Benny,
the boy down
by the roadway,
whose father's
a forester.
What does she say
to that?
I ask,
feeling her
warm hand in mine,
her thumb rubbing
the back of hand's skin,
seemingly good,
but to her mother
no doubt,
a sin.
What do you
get up to?
she asks,
and I say:
nothing,
just walk
and see the birds
and trees
and sit by the pond
and watch the ducks
and swans
and dragonflies.
And what does she
say to that?
I ask,
sensing her perfume
(her mother's borrowed),
feeling alive,
flushing with want.
She just stares
and shakes her head
and says:
is that all?
Of course,
I say,
what else?
and she turns away
with a sigh
and that stern look
in her eye.
The pond is deserted,
except for a few ducks
and a swan
swimming around,
a dragonfly hovering
over the way.
We sit on the grass
and stare.
Then I bring her
into my side ward glance,
her body clothed
in dress of green
and black wool stockings
and whatever else beneath
I have not,
as yet,
seen.
We had *** here
a week or so ago,
back in the wooded area
out of sight,
just us alone,
except for ducks
and swans
and dragonflies
in flight.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
Silky, red-ribboned Fate.
You shine bright,
Wrapped tight around,
This silent stack of letters.
They now smell of sunlight.
Instead of the damp and dark.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC