"rinsed" poems - Hello Poetry

"rinsed" poems

Ah! Another hero Washed with bleach Like the Son, Who is only holy When rinsed of his Melanin. I wear a white coat That browns in sunlight - It appears the moon and I Will be good friends. How deep must I scrub To rid my pores of The southeast Asian sun; To wash my hair of Pacific salt? (Even my mother painted herself With a European brush). How can I know myself When denied the magma In my blood? It's of no fault of mine That I've been stripped Down to resemble a Colonial caricature - I've been taught The victories And learned Medals are smelt In white gold, But mostly I've been told That mixtures separate And I am mostly Creme with a dash of coffee. A shame! Us beige babies must be Assigned colors As if palettes were for paintings Not people - My family tree has Cane fields and apple orchards, So don't act like You're surprised When I mention White isn't the only Color of my skin.

0

Nov 12, 2014

Nov 12, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC

Mixed Doesn't Mean White

Ah! Another hero Washed with bleach Like the Son, Who is only holy When rinsed of his Melanin. I wear a white coat That browns in sunlight - It appears the moon and I Will be good friends. How deep must I scrub To rid my pores of The southeast Asian sun; To wash my hair of Pacific salt? (Even my mother painted herself With a European brush). How can I know myself When denied the magma In my blood? It's of no fault of mine That I've been stripped Down to resemble a Colonial caricature - I've been taught The victories And learned Medals are smelt In white gold, But mostly I've been told That mixtures separate And I am mostly Creme with a dash of coffee. A shame! Us beige babies must be Assigned colors As if palettes were for paintings Not people - My family tree has Cane fields and apple orchards, So don't act like You're surprised When I mention White isn't the only Color of my skin.

Continue reading...

We climbed from bedrock to Idyllwild the home of Pines to Palms and Suicide Rocks but not for us only for those poor tired souls for whom the world's gone flat refusing the night threw itself boldly into the fray of winds which blew from storm to calm so this morning we awoke to a placid knap slipping on snowy piste to turn cold snaps hot spiced Nepali tea sipped from ice nipped cups I see promise picks up from backward leaps time forward flips breaking free range igneous into pan piped sizzling congenial song that carries on the tree line like spring water sprung from creeks to go scurrying off with wet socks until pulled up by old school granite skies hanging pools out to dry in sopping blue rinsed sun ahead any bald rocks or hairline fractures are long since dialled in as baseless fears knowing this mobile age can merrily slip like air through numb fingers while baseline hands declare “hold me close to gather” edelweiss echoes gone rappelling through time the route we've chosen's to be tied to each other's peaks in the way of sun and moon come what may be it creases in our skin or crevasses we'll win the battle to slim line any overhanging ridges so I take care to tighten my girth hitch to top notch and hold firmly to both your conviction and reach that setting out to move mountains we call home achieves more than staying home and calling mountains so bright you have me forget all things too trite banal office hype shopworn old hat mowing lawn weekends too dishy to be clichéd you polish off the stereotype slam the Dior on out of shape and dull as ditchwater tripe keeping a victorious secret or two in the slip knot too tranquil shade taking allure to new heights we'll never drop down from tonight

0

Sep 14, 2014

Sep 14, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC

anthony-williams

The Climbing Edelweiss of Idyllwild

We climbed from bedrock to Idyllwild the home of Pines to Palms and Suicide Rocks but not for us only for those poor tired souls for whom the world's gone flat refusing the night threw itself boldly into the fray of winds which blew from storm to calm so this morning we awoke to a placid knap slipping on snowy piste to turn cold snaps hot spiced Nepali tea sipped from ice nipped cups I see promise picks up from backward leaps time forward flips breaking free range igneous into pan piped sizzling congenial song that carries on the tree line like spring water sprung from creeks to go scurrying off with wet socks until pulled up by old school granite skies hanging pools out to dry in sopping blue rinsed sun ahead any bald rocks or hairline fractures are long since dialled in as baseless fears knowing this mobile age can merrily slip like air through numb fingers while baseline hands declare “hold me close to gather” edelweiss echoes gone rappelling through time the route we've chosen's to be tied to each other's peaks in the way of sun and moon come what may be it creases in our skin or crevasses we'll win the battle to slim line any overhanging ridges so I take care to tighten my girth hitch to top notch and hold firmly to both your conviction and reach that setting out to move mountains we call home achieves more than staying home and calling mountains so bright you have me forget all things too trite banal office hype shopworn old hat mowing lawn weekends too dishy to be clichéd you polish off the stereotype slam the Dior on out of shape and dull as ditchwater tripe keeping a victorious secret or two in the slip knot too tranquil shade taking allure to new heights we'll never drop down from tonight

Continue reading...

The one with the crack along the middle, dark and so thin words could fall through like water in a colander. Under the grand chandelier, a slew of sheets spat with confident blue juice, cardboard-covered notebooks, a team of paper ***** to be tossed towards your wooden jail. Sketches of mice, polar bears, a recipe for rabbit at his right elbow, red Shakespeare and a well-read thesaurus as scruffy as recently rinsed blonde hair. You always ***** the lid on your own *** of ink, black, sleeping silver scissors near your French dictionary and shells over a plastic sunglasses case. The table in the room in the house on Tomás Ortuño, serenity bathing you, a golden spark of solitude.

0

May 17, 2013

May 17, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

Honeymoon Table

The one with the crack along the middle, dark and so thin words could fall through like water in a colander. Under the grand chandelier, a slew of sheets spat with confident blue juice, cardboard-covered notebooks, a team of paper ***** to be tossed towards your wooden jail. Sketches of mice, polar bears, a recipe for rabbit at his right elbow, red Shakespeare and a well-read thesaurus as scruffy as recently rinsed blonde hair. You always ***** the lid on your own *** of ink, black, sleeping silver scissors near your French dictionary and shells over a plastic sunglasses case. The table in the room in the house on Tomás Ortuño, serenity bathing you, a golden spark of solitude.

Continue reading...

Now, moving in, cartons on the floor, the radio playing to bare walls, picture hooks left stranded in the unsoiled squares where paintings were, and something reminding us this is like all other moving days; finding the ***** ends of someone else's life, hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit, and burned-out matches in the corner; things not preserved, yet never swept away like fragments of disturbing dreams we stumble on all day. . . in ordering our lives, we will discard them, scrub clean the floorboards of this our home lest refuse from the lives we did not lead become, in some strange, frightening way, our own. And we have plans that will not tolerate our fears-- a year laid out like rooms in a new house--the dusty wine glasses rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves sagging with heavy winter books. Seeing the room always as it will be, we are content to dust and wait. We will return here from the dark and silent streets, arms full of books and food, anxious as we always are in winter, and looking for the Good Life we have made. I see myself then: tense, solemn, in high-heeled shoes that pinch, not basking in the light of goals fulfilled, but looking back to now and seeing a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl in a bare room, full of promise and feeling envious. Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward into the future--as if, when the room contains us and all our treasured junk we will have filled whatever gap it is that makes us wander, discontented from ourselves. The room will not change: a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint won't make much difference; our eyes are fickle but we remain the same beneath our suntans, pale, frightened, dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time, dreaming our dreaming selves. I look forward and see myself looking back.

0

3.8k

Autumn Perspective

Now, moving in, cartons on the floor, the radio playing to bare walls, picture hooks left stranded in the unsoiled squares where paintings were, and something reminding us this is like all other moving days; finding the ***** ends of someone else's life, hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit, and burned-out matches in the corner; things not preserved, yet never swept away like fragments of disturbing dreams we stumble on all day. . . in ordering our lives, we will discard them, scrub clean the floorboards of this our home lest refuse from the lives we did not lead become, in some strange, frightening way, our own. And we have plans that will not tolerate our fears-- a year laid out like rooms in a new house--the dusty wine glasses rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves sagging with heavy winter books. Seeing the room always as it will be, we are content to dust and wait. We will return here from the dark and silent streets, arms full of books and food, anxious as we always are in winter, and looking for the Good Life we have made. I see myself then: tense, solemn, in high-heeled shoes that pinch, not basking in the light of goals fulfilled, but looking back to now and seeing a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl in a bare room, full of promise and feeling envious. Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward into the future--as if, when the room contains us and all our treasured junk we will have filled whatever gap it is that makes us wander, discontented from ourselves. The room will not change: a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint won't make much difference; our eyes are fickle but we remain the same beneath our suntans, pale, frightened, dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time, dreaming our dreaming selves. I look forward and see myself looking back.

Continue reading...

I use to laugh at ironic things No punishment for the bad deeds The Bible says that good 10 fold The universe returns to us in gold That fairytales and nursery rhymes Exist to scare and keep us in line But on this day fate stepped in And karma it seems is a comedian A lesson weaved throughout every line Carefully crafted as a warning sign It was a day like any other As usual jumped in the shower Quickly washed and rinsed my hair Noticed too late that it was NAIR! Every luscious lock and strand Fell out completely in my hand What seems like a sick joke being played Or demented parts a malicious prank A plot unfolded my part the lead The lines straight from a horror scene Like laws of nature or earths gravity The rules we bend to suit our need Like a boomerang’s invisible path It seems to follow when it comes back Even the ocean and it’s changing tides Needs the moon’s persuasive side We are the keepers of what we seek And what we sow we indeed will reap The nightmare that we fear the most Comes back to haunt us like a ghost Like Peter Pan and Captain Hook Just a good story in a children’s book what if the earth gets bored of us And decides that we are entertainment those characters we read as kids Like Pinocchio or the 3 little pigs Sleeping beauty or the ogre Shrek You thought was funny as a sketch Brought to life would pose a threat Although to you this seems far fetched The truth Ive written has not been stretched I hope you read this and know as fact What you put out there will soon come back

0

Sep 26, 2018

Sep 26, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC

I use to laugh at ironic things No punishment for the bad deeds The Bible says that good 10 fold The universe returns to us in gold That fairytales and nursery rhymes Exist to scare and keep us in line But on this day fate stepped in And karma it seems is a comedian A lesson weaved throughout every line Carefully crafted as a warning sign It was a day like any other As usual jumped in the shower Quickly washed and rinsed my hair Noticed too late that it was NAIR! Every luscious lock and strand Fell out completely in my hand What seems like a sick joke being played Or demented parts a malicious prank A plot unfolded my part the lead The lines straight from a horror scene Like laws of nature or earths gravity The rules we bend to suit our need Like a boomerang’s invisible path It seems to follow when it comes back Even the ocean and it’s changing tides Needs the moon’s persuasive side We are the keepers of what we seek And what we sow we indeed will reap The nightmare that we fear the most Comes back to haunt us like a ghost Like Peter Pan and Captain Hook Just a good story in a children’s book what if the earth gets bored of us And decides that we are entertainment those characters we read as kids Like Pinocchio or the 3 little pigs Sleeping beauty or the ogre Shrek You thought was funny as a sketch Brought to life would pose a threat Although to you this seems far fetched The truth Ive written has not been stretched I hope you read this and know as fact What you put out there will soon come back

Continue reading...

It's been a long while but I've no trace of time. I'm covered in brown mud, piled over with rusty red and orange leaves. I lay at the foot of what now, is an old friend. It's not easy to get much sunshine the large Oak's roots are what both isolate and keep my company. I'd been loved a long while but that story is an old life lived a memory that became a fantasy time stretched until it's bonds broke. They tried to recover me, for a short while for something that mirrored commitment at such a young and impressionable age. They hunted in and out of trunks of the large Oak's home never to find where I lay. Embedded in October's leaves. Yet, distance didn't make the heart grow fonder. I'd been lost and long forgotten at the brink of dusk, at the ring of a more warming love. They came back, once or twice, to test the shaded wood, the darkened dirt. They came back until leaves covered me eye-high. If they were still yelling for the track of my presence I could no longer hear them. Even if they were still scouring built-down woods, I could no longer see them allow them to catch my eye. Even if they still loved me I could no longer feel them covered by cracked dirt, and crumpled leaves. The roots had become my lover now grown to hug my rounded hips my heaping dirt-covered smile. The wind doesn't play with me much only to allow a sweeping kiss of leaves, or to pick the dirt coat from my back and donate to a better cause the warming of a seed that tiny Christmas Rose. I quit listening long after I quit looking, looking for the boys that had once loved me. Only then did he come sticky handed, dressed in metal, and armed to save a princess. Engrossed in his enactment, poking swords at my Oak demanding emptied branches release his Rapunzel, I saw him catch glimpse of my rounded edges. I didn't notice until I looked up into those adventurous eyes. He knelt, gigantic in young age, he plucked me easily from my big Oak roots. He wiped dirt from my body slowly and softly like I was new-found treasure Like I was the gold every child hunts for in their own back yard. He ran his rough thumbs on my edges never lifting his eyes from his fingers on that short walk home. He rinsed me clean under warmed water, wondered about my stories then dusk came. I was tucked warm under his protection under that imaginative mind, and the boy made me his own.

0

Oct 30, 2012

Oct 30, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC

Only to the Lonely

It's been a long while but I've no trace of time. I'm covered in brown mud, piled over with rusty red and orange leaves. I lay at the foot of what now, is an old friend. It's not easy to get much sunshine the large Oak's roots are what both isolate and keep my company. I'd been loved a long while but that story is an old life lived a memory that became a fantasy time stretched until it's bonds broke. They tried to recover me, for a short while for something that mirrored commitment at such a young and impressionable age. They hunted in and out of trunks of the large Oak's home never to find where I lay. Embedded in October's leaves. Yet, distance didn't make the heart grow fonder. I'd been lost and long forgotten at the brink of dusk, at the ring of a more warming love. They came back, once or twice, to test the shaded wood, the darkened dirt. They came back until leaves covered me eye-high. If they were still yelling for the track of my presence I could no longer hear them. Even if they were still scouring built-down woods, I could no longer see them allow them to catch my eye. Even if they still loved me I could no longer feel them covered by cracked dirt, and crumpled leaves. The roots had become my lover now grown to hug my rounded hips my heaping dirt-covered smile. The wind doesn't play with me much only to allow a sweeping kiss of leaves, or to pick the dirt coat from my back and donate to a better cause the warming of a seed that tiny Christmas Rose. I quit listening long after I quit looking, looking for the boys that had once loved me. Only then did he come sticky handed, dressed in metal, and armed to save a princess. Engrossed in his enactment, poking swords at my Oak demanding emptied branches release his Rapunzel, I saw him catch glimpse of my rounded edges. I didn't notice until I looked up into those adventurous eyes. He knelt, gigantic in young age, he plucked me easily from my big Oak roots. He wiped dirt from my body slowly and softly like I was new-found treasure Like I was the gold every child hunts for in their own back yard. He ran his rough thumbs on my edges never lifting his eyes from his fingers on that short walk home. He rinsed me clean under warmed water, wondered about my stories then dusk came. I was tucked warm under his protection under that imaginative mind, and the boy made me his own.

Continue reading...

Quiet little girl The monsters aren't gone. They're watching through the windows, They're looking through the stars. And all your little toys they dance Like ribbons in the sky. So dark, piercing like holes in your Skinny little bones, oozing pores, You're 3, 2, 1 you don't know how to breathe These shards of glass they've been slowly Piling up, and you can't pick them up, Not with your gritty eyes or acid rinsed bones. Because you're still scared of the monsters That you keep seeing under your bed. But little girl did you forget, That there are mirrors under there. k.y 2016

0

Jan 15, 2016

Jan 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC

Little Girls Bed Time Story

Quiet little girl The monsters aren't gone. They're watching through the windows, They're looking through the stars. And all your little toys they dance Like ribbons in the sky. So dark, piercing like holes in your Skinny little bones, oozing pores, You're 3, 2, 1 you don't know how to breathe These shards of glass they've been slowly Piling up, and you can't pick them up, Not with your gritty eyes or acid rinsed bones. Because you're still scared of the monsters That you keep seeing under your bed. But little girl did you forget, That there are mirrors under there. k.y 2016

Continue reading...

Insanity, Insanity. Who knew that you'd be my clarity? From the lies, the I wonder why, I've finally seen that the sun doesn't shine. The moon glows, the depressed take their blows, and no one else knows. Insanity, Insanity. Who knew that you'd be my clarity? Death, Oh Death. Who knew you'd make me happy during my final rest? Being alone, eyes of stone, I've broken every single bone. It starts with a twitch, when they call you rude names like a ***** and here comes your one hundredth stitch. Death, Oh Death. Who knew you'd make me happy during my final rest? Heart, you poor aching Heart. How long will it take you to fall apart? I cut! It's my mouth that I keep shut! You're nothing but a ****** and clogged up rut! You make me want to find the rope, the stinging pain when you're rinsed with soap, **** you and all your hope! Heart, you poor aching Heart. How long will it take you to fall apart? Blade, the very sharp Blade. Why do you always make me cave? Worse than pills, I'm addicted to the chills. The loss of blood is what is making me **** I'm completely done, you've finally won. Can I at least say goodbye to the sun? Blade, the very sharp Blade. Why do you always make me cave? Memories, the flashes of Memories. Why did you add to the painful casualties? Remembering you, I had thought it was all through. Never thought you'd come back so soon. The messages I never sent, the revenge I wished I had vent, and the little sanity I had left, you bent. Memories, the flashes of Memories. Why did you add to the painful casualties? Plants, the powdered and processed Plants. Why did I even give you a glance? Addicted, eventually evicted, appearance now withered and wicked. Not a soul in sight, no money for a bite, and trying not to go down without a fight. Plants, the powdered and processed Plants. Why did I even give you a glance? Jealousy, sweet and fiery Jealousy. How'd you give me strength as I looked at this reality? Hated! Completely out jaded! I'm nothing but a memory faded! Filled with hate! A fight will break out at this rate! Why can't I remember the last time I ate?! Jealousy, sweet and fiery Jealousy. How'd you give me strength as I looked at this reality? Suicide, sweet sweet Suicide. It is now you that I decide. Always there, I knew you were waiting for me somewhere. You were watching me from high above air. You're an angel, no matter how painful, you've kept me stable. Suicide, sweet sweet Suicide. It is now you that I decide.

0

Apr 22, 2015

Apr 22, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC

Insanity, Insanity. Who knew that you'd be my clarity? From the lies, the I wonder why, I've finally seen that the sun doesn't shine. The moon glows, the depressed take their blows, and no one else knows. Insanity, Insanity. Who knew that you'd be my clarity? Death, Oh Death. Who knew you'd make me happy during my final rest? Being alone, eyes of stone, I've broken every single bone. It starts with a twitch, when they call you rude names like a ***** and here comes your one hundredth stitch. Death, Oh Death. Who knew you'd make me happy during my final rest? Heart, you poor aching Heart. How long will it take you to fall apart? I cut! It's my mouth that I keep shut! You're nothing but a ****** and clogged up rut! You make me want to find the rope, the stinging pain when you're rinsed with soap, **** you and all your hope! Heart, you poor aching Heart. How long will it take you to fall apart? Blade, the very sharp Blade. Why do you always make me cave? Worse than pills, I'm addicted to the chills. The loss of blood is what is making me **** I'm completely done, you've finally won. Can I at least say goodbye to the sun? Blade, the very sharp Blade. Why do you always make me cave? Memories, the flashes of Memories. Why did you add to the painful casualties? Remembering you, I had thought it was all through. Never thought you'd come back so soon. The messages I never sent, the revenge I wished I had vent, and the little sanity I had left, you bent. Memories, the flashes of Memories. Why did you add to the painful casualties? Plants, the powdered and processed Plants. Why did I even give you a glance? Addicted, eventually evicted, appearance now withered and wicked. Not a soul in sight, no money for a bite, and trying not to go down without a fight. Plants, the powdered and processed Plants. Why did I even give you a glance? Jealousy, sweet and fiery Jealousy. How'd you give me strength as I looked at this reality? Hated! Completely out jaded! I'm nothing but a memory faded! Filled with hate! A fight will break out at this rate! Why can't I remember the last time I ate?! Jealousy, sweet and fiery Jealousy. How'd you give me strength as I looked at this reality? Suicide, sweet sweet Suicide. It is now you that I decide. Always there, I knew you were waiting for me somewhere. You were watching me from high above air. You're an angel, no matter how painful, you've kept me stable. Suicide, sweet sweet Suicide. It is now you that I decide.

Continue reading...

We danced around handbags in Budleigh Salterton. We oiled the hips on yesterdays snake; we were blue rinsed Madonna and Fred Astair wanna. we were flaming flamingos on a shimmering lake.

0

Mar 25, 2012

Mar 25, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC

"- Dancing 'round handbags -"

We danced around handbags in Budleigh Salterton. We oiled the hips on yesterdays snake; we were blue rinsed Madonna and Fred Astair wanna. we were flaming flamingos on a shimmering lake.

Continue reading...

I am only pretty when I'm naked. I did not give you permission to **** me inside of your head. Please get your imaginative hands off of my unobtainable soul, and close your mouth, you're drooling like a coward when he sees something that he cannot have. I belong to no one but myself. I am old enough to know the rights of my body. I am only pretty when I'm naked. Stop recording every moment we will never have with your undistracted eyes. I did not ask for this, I am covered in clothes that do not accent the curvature of my frame and yet still you gawk, and I will be asked what I was wearing that night. I was wearing my right to say no, but to him I was wearing my inferiority. I am only pretty when I'm naked. I am a female powerhouse. I am competent with my tongue in many ways yet you ache to abuse it. I am inclined to tell you what is best for me, but I am a woman. And I know nothing. You will beat it into me until I actually know something so well that I choke on it. I am only pretty when I'm naked. I am incapable of loving because, to you, I am not justified, so you will show me how until I cannot breathe any longer. The bruises and scars will taint my porcelain skin like mud on brand new sneakers, except the black, blue, and crimson cannot be rinsed from my body as easily as my clothes were removed by you. I am only pretty when I'm dead.

0

Dec 21, 2014

Dec 21, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC

Dressed With Inferiority

I am only pretty when I'm naked. I did not give you permission to **** me inside of your head. Please get your imaginative hands off of my unobtainable soul, and close your mouth, you're drooling like a coward when he sees something that he cannot have. I belong to no one but myself. I am old enough to know the rights of my body. I am only pretty when I'm naked. Stop recording every moment we will never have with your undistracted eyes. I did not ask for this, I am covered in clothes that do not accent the curvature of my frame and yet still you gawk, and I will be asked what I was wearing that night. I was wearing my right to say no, but to him I was wearing my inferiority. I am only pretty when I'm naked. I am a female powerhouse. I am competent with my tongue in many ways yet you ache to abuse it. I am inclined to tell you what is best for me, but I am a woman. And I know nothing. You will beat it into me until I actually know something so well that I choke on it. I am only pretty when I'm naked. I am incapable of loving because, to you, I am not justified, so you will show me how until I cannot breathe any longer. The bruises and scars will taint my porcelain skin like mud on brand new sneakers, except the black, blue, and crimson cannot be rinsed from my body as easily as my clothes were removed by you. I am only pretty when I'm dead.

Continue reading...

Freedom, Like the rain, it washes all away Past memories, horrors - everything is rinsed away; relief remains. It feels like sand between your toes, Leaving you lost in your impulsive throes. Freedom, In her dissolving smiles, Her mischievous flirts, Her sweet small skirts... You've missed her for so long... The touch of her spine, The caress of her thighs, The weightless good byes-- *Ah! Freedom, she smells like rain...*

0

Sep 6, 2014

Sep 6, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC

Romanticizing Freedom

Freedom, Like the rain, it washes all away Past memories, horrors - everything is rinsed away; relief remains. It feels like sand between your toes, Leaving you lost in your impulsive throes. Freedom, In her dissolving smiles, Her mischievous flirts, Her sweet small skirts... You've missed her for so long... The touch of her spine, The caress of her thighs, The weightless good byes-- *Ah! Freedom, she smells like rain...*

Continue reading...

There is fire in the dance. The head of a candle burning and flickering in time to the dancer’s movement. The flame sways to and fro, responding to the dancer’s energy. Then the candle disappears. Blisters begin to bubble up upon the dancer’s skin; then fully formed explode with liquid fire. Screams of agony reverberate across her tortured flesh. Her cries go silent as the pain slowly fades. The dancer becomes a living flame. So, she dances. Each step scorching the soft ground, leaving little fires in their wake. Her legs ascend at an angle and descend in a spin. Hands clasped and rising upwards as her feet return to the earth. The fire trailing her movements like living echoes. Enflamed arms opening and closing with billows of smoke expanding around them. The ground burns beneath her feet as she leans her head back slowly. Her face consumed by the flames fury; she attempts to howl. Instead of sound, rivers of crimson liquid explode from her lips. Jets of blood red water congeal into shiny flesh. First, impressions of a face form in the flat flowing puddle of scarlet goo. Then, a neck, next something akin to limbs takes shape. The red rawness is evident but not painful, as she spews the last bits of the red liquid. Drips of crimson drops from the newly formed figure fall on the flaming dancer. The droplets sounding a soft beat and sizzle in rhythmic fashion like a drum snare; T sss T sss T sss T sss. The flaming dancer shudders in pleasure. The flames, encouraged by the dark moisture, recede then rise, as rouge vapors smoke off its’ figure. The fluid form expands further forming sinuous strands of cerise liquid hair. Pirouetting in a whirlwind fashion the dancer continues her ballet. Her leg rises again as she leans back. Her head, inches from the ground, drops liquid fire. Then she straightens her tiny flaming frame. Behind her the red watery body slides its hands across the ground, calming the flames, and leaving only scorched and sticky earth in its wake. So it goes with each movement the dancer lights the earth afire, and behind her the flames are doused. Each minute passing the fire weakens and shrinks as does the scarlet body. Until at last they embrace. The dancer’s arms rest upon her sides as the crimson liquid figure envelopes her. One more red stroke across the canvass and the figures blend perfectly. One color fading and bleeding into the next in perfect abstraction. The month long dance finally finished. The brush is rinsed then ceremoniously placed in its spot. The artist sighs, there is a slight sense of relief, for this dance is finished, but an echo of sorrow remains for this dance is finished.

0

Jul 10, 2015

Jul 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC

There is fire in the dance. The head of a candle burning and flickering in time to the dancer’s movement. The flame sways to and fro, responding to the dancer’s energy. Then the candle disappears. Blisters begin to bubble up upon the dancer’s skin; then fully formed explode with liquid fire. Screams of agony reverberate across her tortured flesh. Her cries go silent as the pain slowly fades. The dancer becomes a living flame. So, she dances. Each step scorching the soft ground, leaving little fires in their wake. Her legs ascend at an angle and descend in a spin. Hands clasped and rising upwards as her feet return to the earth. The fire trailing her movements like living echoes. Enflamed arms opening and closing with billows of smoke expanding around them. The ground burns beneath her feet as she leans her head back slowly. Her face consumed by the flames fury; she attempts to howl. Instead of sound, rivers of crimson liquid explode from her lips. Jets of blood red water congeal into shiny flesh. First, impressions of a face form in the flat flowing puddle of scarlet goo. Then, a neck, next something akin to limbs takes shape. The red rawness is evident but not painful, as she spews the last bits of the red liquid. Drips of crimson drops from the newly formed figure fall on the flaming dancer. The droplets sounding a soft beat and sizzle in rhythmic fashion like a drum snare; T sss T sss T sss T sss. The flaming dancer shudders in pleasure. The flames, encouraged by the dark moisture, recede then rise, as rouge vapors smoke off its’ figure. The fluid form expands further forming sinuous strands of cerise liquid hair. Pirouetting in a whirlwind fashion the dancer continues her ballet. Her leg rises again as she leans back. Her head, inches from the ground, drops liquid fire. Then she straightens her tiny flaming frame. Behind her the red watery body slides its hands across the ground, calming the flames, and leaving only scorched and sticky earth in its wake. So it goes with each movement the dancer lights the earth afire, and behind her the flames are doused. Each minute passing the fire weakens and shrinks as does the scarlet body. Until at last they embrace. The dancer’s arms rest upon her sides as the crimson liquid figure envelopes her. One more red stroke across the canvass and the figures blend perfectly. One color fading and bleeding into the next in perfect abstraction. The month long dance finally finished. The brush is rinsed then ceremoniously placed in its spot. The artist sighs, there is a slight sense of relief, for this dance is finished, but an echo of sorrow remains for this dance is finished.

Continue reading...

If the Scots get independence will we get better **** I'd vote for that. Maybe the 'silent majority' are like ... hospitals, schools, fish, whisky, natural energy blah blah The good folk in Scotland have been drip-fed the worst **** in history: coated in chemicals bath rinsed molasses spare car tyre plastic flotsam *** seriously No wonder - Bammed (right up) Givin it Havin it Lovin it is why bands & DJs Love to Play: 'up for it' 'Hey MoJo's share some of that MTV love' anything that's called Council Hash and accepted as the norm reeks of class politics; ah they won't mind the **** end o that they're the Scots The Scottish Government should embrace a new Scotland and the people in it We want lots of things: one of which is better **** Crime will drop: - sniffing car tyres for a hit - sales of Buckfast will fund the entire South East of England. Scotland could lead the world in upcycling as Rizla fails to meet demand. Our days would be so radically different; auto flexi time carbon neutral trams with comfy seats systematically mathematically go faster than walking: a mode of choice I'd vote for that ...

0

Jul 30, 2013

Jul 30, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC

If the Scots get independence will we get better **** I'd vote for that. Maybe the 'silent majority' are like ... hospitals, schools, fish, whisky, natural energy blah blah The good folk in Scotland have been drip-fed the worst **** in history: coated in chemicals bath rinsed molasses spare car tyre plastic flotsam *** seriously No wonder - Bammed (right up) Givin it Havin it Lovin it is why bands & DJs Love to Play: 'up for it' 'Hey MoJo's share some of that MTV love' anything that's called Council Hash and accepted as the norm reeks of class politics; ah they won't mind the **** end o that they're the Scots The Scottish Government should embrace a new Scotland and the people in it We want lots of things: one of which is better **** Crime will drop: - sniffing car tyres for a hit - sales of Buckfast will fund the entire South East of England. Scotland could lead the world in upcycling as Rizla fails to meet demand. Our days would be so radically different; auto flexi time carbon neutral trams with comfy seats systematically mathematically go faster than walking: a mode of choice I'd vote for that ...

Continue reading...

Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole to their baths in Atlantic Cuty, for the lost rites of the first sea of the first salt running from a faucet. I have heard they sat for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last for impossible loves, or new skin, or still another child. And since this was the style, I don't suppose they knew what they had lost. Almost yesterday, pushing West, I lost ten Utah driving minutes, stopped to steal past postcard vendors, crossed the hot slit of macadam to touch the marvelous loosed bobbing of The Salt Lake, to honor and assault it in its proof, to wash away some slight need for Maine's coast. Later the funny salt itched in my pores and stung like bees or sleet. I rinsed it off on Reno and hurried to steal a better proof at tables where I always lost. Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.

0

1.9k

The Lost Ingredient

Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole to their baths in Atlantic Cuty, for the lost rites of the first sea of the first salt running from a faucet. I have heard they sat for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last for impossible loves, or new skin, or still another child. And since this was the style, I don't suppose they knew what they had lost. Almost yesterday, pushing West, I lost ten Utah driving minutes, stopped to steal past postcard vendors, crossed the hot slit of macadam to touch the marvelous loosed bobbing of The Salt Lake, to honor and assault it in its proof, to wash away some slight need for Maine's coast. Later the funny salt itched in my pores and stung like bees or sleet. I rinsed it off on Reno and hurried to steal a better proof at tables where I always lost. Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.

Continue reading...

They don't speak, all the long, winding bus journey. They are strangers, with nothing in common besides the No 50 route and the free travel passes afforded to them on account of their quietly advancing years. She sits in the seat in front of him. Their eyes never lock. His myopic gaze through thick NHS lenses rests neutral on the back of her head, her softly blue-rinsed curls and the collar of an eminently sensible overcoat. They sit, both silent, as - outside the foggy bus windows - winter has one last chew on time's bony old carcass. She has a slight stoop which she's doing her best to hide, and his shaking hands make his liver spots blur. They stand - the bus stopping at their mutual destination - shuffling sideways into the aisle, and something unexpected happens. The bus jolts suddenly forwards, then lurches to a startled halt, and she falls backwards into his arms and he catches her. For a second, strange gravities assume control. There's a moment, governed by different laws of physics and chemistry and half-forgotten, half-remembered biology. She flushes, infused with something warm and thirst-whettingly girlish, and he surges with a newfound potency, standing taller, the woman he's supporting somehow lessening the burden of his age. Her spine straightens, and she laughs. His face, smiling, youthens. His hands hold her unstooped shoulders and don't tremble. Sun breaks through cloud outside the window. They remember it's spring out there somewhere.

0

Mar 11, 2016

Mar 11, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC

They don't speak, all the long, winding bus journey. They are strangers, with nothing in common besides the No 50 route and the free travel passes afforded to them on account of their quietly advancing years. She sits in the seat in front of him. Their eyes never lock. His myopic gaze through thick NHS lenses rests neutral on the back of her head, her softly blue-rinsed curls and the collar of an eminently sensible overcoat. They sit, both silent, as - outside the foggy bus windows - winter has one last chew on time's bony old carcass. She has a slight stoop which she's doing her best to hide, and his shaking hands make his liver spots blur. They stand - the bus stopping at their mutual destination - shuffling sideways into the aisle, and something unexpected happens. The bus jolts suddenly forwards, then lurches to a startled halt, and she falls backwards into his arms and he catches her. For a second, strange gravities assume control. There's a moment, governed by different laws of physics and chemistry and half-forgotten, half-remembered biology. She flushes, infused with something warm and thirst-whettingly girlish, and he surges with a newfound potency, standing taller, the woman he's supporting somehow lessening the burden of his age. Her spine straightens, and she laughs. His face, smiling, youthens. His hands hold her unstooped shoulders and don't tremble. Sun breaks through cloud outside the window. They remember it's spring out there somewhere.

Continue reading...

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep Where dreams are blown out of the shallow hills And I, in my solitude, do rejoice As I take my comfort within their voice Which visits me as the cool evening stills And is rinsed by raindrops that mildly weep. Gone is the rainbow and tincture of day Lost in the clouds as they swim in the air And I, in my quietness, drift afar By merely the light of a silver'd star Where only the souls of the sleeping dare Seek a place that is distant - far away. In the deepest of night, the dead of dark, When the silent shadows hide from the light For, shadows are secrets mellowed by age And, ages are timeless, robbed of their rage, And rage is bewildered, lost in the night Yet, still sighs its echo deafingly stark. Where is the morning to dazzle and glow ? Where are the sunbeams to fever the heart ? Yes! morning will come, as sure as the winds, When the grey of the dusk slowly rescinds And the fields of sleep will fleetly depart And the dreams of the hills aimlessly go.

0

Jun 22, 2022

Jun 22, 2022 at 9:27 AM UTC

Fields Of Sleep

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep Where dreams are blown out of the shallow hills And I, in my solitude, do rejoice As I take my comfort within their voice Which visits me as the cool evening stills And is rinsed by raindrops that mildly weep. Gone is the rainbow and tincture of day Lost in the clouds as they swim in the air And I, in my quietness, drift afar By merely the light of a silver'd star Where only the souls of the sleeping dare Seek a place that is distant - far away. In the deepest of night, the dead of dark, When the silent shadows hide from the light For, shadows are secrets mellowed by age And, ages are timeless, robbed of their rage, And rage is bewildered, lost in the night Yet, still sighs its echo deafingly stark. Where is the morning to dazzle and glow ? Where are the sunbeams to fever the heart ? Yes! morning will come, as sure as the winds, When the grey of the dusk slowly rescinds And the fields of sleep will fleetly depart And the dreams of the hills aimlessly go.

Continue reading...

Soapy, soapy, bubbles in the water. Dishes lined right up all along the sink, Ev’ry one lined up and starting to stink. Dishes made long ago by a potter, And a sponge floating ‘round like a yachter. Washing all the dishes, quick as a wink. Do not take all too long to stew and think. Turn on the faucet and make it hotter. Dishes are covered with water and soap, Scrubbed away is all the dirt and the grime, Along with all of the finishing hope, Washed down the drain like a student’s spare time. Now rinsed and racked upon every slope, Dish dryer for hire, pays not a dime.

0

Jun 16, 2016

Jun 16, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC

lucyjaneemerson

Soapy, soapy, bubbles in the water. Dishes lined right up all along the sink, Ev’ry one lined up and starting to stink. Dishes made long ago by a potter, And a sponge floating ‘round like a yachter. Washing all the dishes, quick as a wink. Do not take all too long to stew and think. Turn on the faucet and make it hotter. Dishes are covered with water and soap, Scrubbed away is all the dirt and the grime, Along with all of the finishing hope, Washed down the drain like a student’s spare time. Now rinsed and racked upon every slope, Dish dryer for hire, pays not a dime.

Continue reading...

Like soap, your poetry cleanses my soul. On paper, I'm filthy from your touch, and your honey is sticky on my fingers. But, your words and your laugh are a spring that douses me in bubbles and gold. I sip from your tears and sweat, and youth revitalizes my skin and bones. You are an oil that enriches and cannot be rinsed away with water. You are the dirt that gets under by fingernails and houses the seeds of a hundred flowers.

0

Feb 24, 2024

Feb 24, 2024 at 1:11 AM UTC

christianemarie

Like soap, your poetry cleanses my soul. On paper, I'm filthy from your touch, and your honey is sticky on my fingers. But, your words and your laugh are a spring that douses me in bubbles and gold. I sip from your tears and sweat, and youth revitalizes my skin and bones. You are an oil that enriches and cannot be rinsed away with water. You are the dirt that gets under by fingernails and houses the seeds of a hundred flowers.

Continue reading...

as the coffee cup is rinsed, the filthy little ******* lands on the counter to my right. immediately, seeking a bludgeon, his demise is envisioned. however, this housefly stays in my periphery for just a moment longer and I cannot help but notice his tiny little mitts, working and fretting. imagining the tiniest string of rosary beads wrapped around his housefly fists, it occurs to me that he might be making his peace with God. offering up his little housefly benedictions, contritions; apologies for all the sugar bowls, he’s puked in during his miniscule little life, all the little maggots that he might have fathered and subsequently abandoned. I think, without thinking really, to chide my little countertop cohort, saying: “Ah, give it up little one, He isn’t there, He never was, and if He is, He doesn’t give a second’s thought to the likes of us.” the housefly looks at me; still furiously working his unseen beads. “You fool.” he says. “God has obviously heard my contrition, my apologies, and has granted me a reprieve, however brief.” interrupting his novenas, the housefly continues: “You, my friend, are so great, and I am so small, yet you’ve heard my voice, seen my beads, given me reprieve, however brief. I had asked God to give to you, just one golden moment of true, honest belief. And, so He has, and now you understand that the prayers of a housefly have stayed your hand. So, it doesn’t matter how great or how small, God listens to each of us, one and all.” *** -JBClaywell ©P&ZPublications; 2016

0

Sep 9, 2016

Sep 9, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC

Hearing The Prayers of A Housefly

as the coffee cup is rinsed, the filthy little ******* lands on the counter to my right. immediately, seeking a bludgeon, his demise is envisioned. however, this housefly stays in my periphery for just a moment longer and I cannot help but notice his tiny little mitts, working and fretting. imagining the tiniest string of rosary beads wrapped around his housefly fists, it occurs to me that he might be making his peace with God. offering up his little housefly benedictions, contritions; apologies for all the sugar bowls, he’s puked in during his miniscule little life, all the little maggots that he might have fathered and subsequently abandoned. I think, without thinking really, to chide my little countertop cohort, saying: “Ah, give it up little one, He isn’t there, He never was, and if He is, He doesn’t give a second’s thought to the likes of us.” the housefly looks at me; still furiously working his unseen beads. “You fool.” he says. “God has obviously heard my contrition, my apologies, and has granted me a reprieve, however brief.” interrupting his novenas, the housefly continues: “You, my friend, are so great, and I am so small, yet you’ve heard my voice, seen my beads, given me reprieve, however brief. I had asked God to give to you, just one golden moment of true, honest belief. And, so He has, and now you understand that the prayers of a housefly have stayed your hand. So, it doesn’t matter how great or how small, God listens to each of us, one and all.” *** -JBClaywell ©P&ZPublications; 2016

Continue reading...

I lived a childhood of dirt: my beginning and end, my friend, my frontier. Dirt was the reason why when other kids were always sick, my antibodies made me a demigoddess, a mud-pie, sand-cookie, dirt gourmet crunching lightly-rinsed carrots wiggled straight from the ground. It never hurt, never hurt at all. Warm dirt under my knees and hands, my nails blackened, feet buried like I could root myself in the soil -- I was lettuce with dirt at the center of each lacy skirt. Horseradish, deep in the ground and bitter, wanting to become something sweeter, a new tree or rosebush or better yet a veggie, like the wild dirt-skinned potatoes I dug up in the yard. But tubers don’t have moms who give ***** looks and shake their heads, examine your hair and your nails. She sighs at the dark stain of your feet, and banishes you to a white tub, where she scrubs the back of your neck, muttering “Dirt, dirt, dirt,” as if she doesn’t know what you are made of. So give me the dirt, because I know my onions. Always digging for gossip, flipping up the neighborhood skirt, curious whispers the way cornstalks share their childhood tales before being tilled down, becoming rich, dark dirt. Ashes to ashes, I recognize some for what they are, just fertilizer for the imaginations and vibrations of others. I may be half dirt but don’t treat me like it, full of grit and covered in sand from my hands to my elbows. But what I am won’t put up with your ******** Dirt is a mother, to feed and flourish, dirt is a woman much like me, and you will never know the dirt under my fingernails the same way I do.

0

May 24, 2013

May 24, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC

kelly-oconnor-1

I lived a childhood of dirt: my beginning and end, my friend, my frontier. Dirt was the reason why when other kids were always sick, my antibodies made me a demigoddess, a mud-pie, sand-cookie, dirt gourmet crunching lightly-rinsed carrots wiggled straight from the ground. It never hurt, never hurt at all. Warm dirt under my knees and hands, my nails blackened, feet buried like I could root myself in the soil -- I was lettuce with dirt at the center of each lacy skirt. Horseradish, deep in the ground and bitter, wanting to become something sweeter, a new tree or rosebush or better yet a veggie, like the wild dirt-skinned potatoes I dug up in the yard. But tubers don’t have moms who give ***** looks and shake their heads, examine your hair and your nails. She sighs at the dark stain of your feet, and banishes you to a white tub, where she scrubs the back of your neck, muttering “Dirt, dirt, dirt,” as if she doesn’t know what you are made of. So give me the dirt, because I know my onions. Always digging for gossip, flipping up the neighborhood skirt, curious whispers the way cornstalks share their childhood tales before being tilled down, becoming rich, dark dirt. Ashes to ashes, I recognize some for what they are, just fertilizer for the imaginations and vibrations of others. I may be half dirt but don’t treat me like it, full of grit and covered in sand from my hands to my elbows. But what I am won’t put up with your ******** Dirt is a mother, to feed and flourish, dirt is a woman much like me, and you will never know the dirt under my fingernails the same way I do.

Continue reading...

and that worn out spot- third rib down, two inches to the right- where i used to tuck away all your beautiful words, that i cleaned out, scraped out, scrubbed out, bleached, rinsed, repeated until there was no more lingering after burn of the things that used to call it home has finally started to cool. i am waiting for my wings to remember that they had a purpose before you, that they do not need to be licked or pampered before they are functional again. i am a hot air balloon, a lily pad, a new moon. **** you for ever having made me think i could be anything less.

0

Oct 23, 2014

Oct 23, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC

and that worn out spot- third rib down, two inches to the right- where i used to tuck away all your beautiful words, that i cleaned out, scraped out, scrubbed out, bleached, rinsed, repeated until there was no more lingering after burn of the things that used to call it home has finally started to cool. i am waiting for my wings to remember that they had a purpose before you, that they do not need to be licked or pampered before they are functional again. i am a hot air balloon, a lily pad, a new moon. **** you for ever having made me think i could be anything less.

Continue reading...

Soap. Today I bathed in black water, Rinsed with the sewage we call society, and dried off in governmental regulations. You call yourselfs clean based on the record of your criminality and the color of your skin? You use a plastic kind of soap the produces no clean but like a camera it captures and preserves what's inside. So you can play bath time with your bubbles, pretending you own yourselves for a night, but after your bath comes bed time. You will wake up tomorrow and find your still owned by the government and, your soap was just plastic. So you need to bathe again. Don't forger to lather, rinse, and repeat. Chris burk

0

Sep 15, 2016

Sep 15, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC

christopher-burk

Soap. Today I bathed in black water, Rinsed with the sewage we call society, and dried off in governmental regulations. You call yourselfs clean based on the record of your criminality and the color of your skin? You use a plastic kind of soap the produces no clean but like a camera it captures and preserves what's inside. So you can play bath time with your bubbles, pretending you own yourselves for a night, but after your bath comes bed time. You will wake up tomorrow and find your still owned by the government and, your soap was just plastic. So you need to bathe again. Don't forger to lather, rinse, and repeat. Chris burk

Continue reading...

The yonder above is forever bruised and opaque Reigning over glum faces Complexions washed with a bloodless shade of dispassion Robotic, disengaged. Material desires are quenched with vast shopping centres Credit Cards hold on for dear live As every last drop of sweet money is rinsed from that plastic rectangle. Living beyond our means Whilst simultaneously refusing to give up on Sky TV box sets and liquid lunches. Hooked to our phones, but not for telephone communication Rather, for self validation Defined by the click of a heart or pathetic thumb. The once friendly communities With blood coursing through their veins Are husks of their previous life form, gentrified beyond recognition. Filtered faces with protruding spines and modified features Infiltrate mass media Corrupting the definitions of success and beauty. Plastic personalities reign supreme Vacuous minded socialites profess women’s empowerment begins with the flaunting of skin Rather than the possession of a strong mind. Many bury their heads in the sand Residing in ignorance As mass genocides and civil wars manifest every second. Or worse, they read the TORYgraph and THE **** Believing immigrants spawn white genocide And white conservatives suffer oppression. Pffft! I have deep contempt for those behind these ***** tabloids Murdoch and his monsters Orchestrating lies and bile Destroying lives or scaremongering the impressionable Committing the most savage, sycophantic crimes In order to extract Monday’s headline. I do not suffer fools Especially those who make up the tapestry of dystopia A failing age of doom.

0

Feb 11, 2018

Feb 11, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC

Dystopia and Her Tragic Tapestry

The yonder above is forever bruised and opaque Reigning over glum faces Complexions washed with a bloodless shade of dispassion Robotic, disengaged. Material desires are quenched with vast shopping centres Credit Cards hold on for dear live As every last drop of sweet money is rinsed from that plastic rectangle. Living beyond our means Whilst simultaneously refusing to give up on Sky TV box sets and liquid lunches. Hooked to our phones, but not for telephone communication Rather, for self validation Defined by the click of a heart or pathetic thumb. The once friendly communities With blood coursing through their veins Are husks of their previous life form, gentrified beyond recognition. Filtered faces with protruding spines and modified features Infiltrate mass media Corrupting the definitions of success and beauty. Plastic personalities reign supreme Vacuous minded socialites profess women’s empowerment begins with the flaunting of skin Rather than the possession of a strong mind. Many bury their heads in the sand Residing in ignorance As mass genocides and civil wars manifest every second. Or worse, they read the TORYgraph and THE **** Believing immigrants spawn white genocide And white conservatives suffer oppression. Pffft! I have deep contempt for those behind these ***** tabloids Murdoch and his monsters Orchestrating lies and bile Destroying lives or scaremongering the impressionable Committing the most savage, sycophantic crimes In order to extract Monday’s headline. I do not suffer fools Especially those who make up the tapestry of dystopia A failing age of doom.

Continue reading...

~ irreverent place on a laundry room shelf, his is a figure serene. source of comfort? source of peace? perhaps... but oh, so much more than that... this is a crossroads where absolution meets the gritty mundane, where he became her source of familiarity. *"good morning, Sweet Jesus, i'm just here to wash my ***** laundry."* no sacrilege here, no... nothing profane. from the hand outstretched held out for the taking who is this really, this chalk figurine? in tranquility certain, a doorway between human fragility and perfection divine. in life’s messy journey our ***** laundry aside how could one not feel, more rinsed of life's stains? Sweet Jesus, of course divine cleanser, unseen now, here on my mantle my house feels more clean! ~ *post script. when a fellow treasure-hunter shared not only the story of "Sweet Jesus" (a hand painted, european, chalk sculpture of a early-last-century, bleeding-heart Christ who was the long-time occupant of her laundry room closet shelf), but also an offer to bring him out of the closet and sell him to me (yes, it's true... i bought him for a few pieces of silver), i jumped at the chance to bring him to my mantle and determined to construct a fitting poem as a way to say, "thank you, Elaine!” and to say unabashedly to anyone else, “i love my Sweet Jesus! you are out of the closet... forever!!”* *no sacrilege whatsoever intended i dearly hope you'll not be offended!* :-) Steve

0

Feb 26, 2015

Feb 26, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC

~ irreverent place on a laundry room shelf, his is a figure serene. source of comfort? source of peace? perhaps... but oh, so much more than that... this is a crossroads where absolution meets the gritty mundane, where he became her source of familiarity. *"good morning, Sweet Jesus, i'm just here to wash my ***** laundry."* no sacrilege here, no... nothing profane. from the hand outstretched held out for the taking who is this really, this chalk figurine? in tranquility certain, a doorway between human fragility and perfection divine. in life’s messy journey our ***** laundry aside how could one not feel, more rinsed of life's stains? Sweet Jesus, of course divine cleanser, unseen now, here on my mantle my house feels more clean! ~ *post script. when a fellow treasure-hunter shared not only the story of "Sweet Jesus" (a hand painted, european, chalk sculpture of a early-last-century, bleeding-heart Christ who was the long-time occupant of her laundry room closet shelf), but also an offer to bring him out of the closet and sell him to me (yes, it's true... i bought him for a few pieces of silver), i jumped at the chance to bring him to my mantle and determined to construct a fitting poem as a way to say, "thank you, Elaine!” and to say unabashedly to anyone else, “i love my Sweet Jesus! you are out of the closet... forever!!”* *no sacrilege whatsoever intended i dearly hope you'll not be offended!* :-) Steve

Continue reading...

Seashells, twigs, and sand. Brick, iron, and mortar. Something as weak as shore debris will be carried away with the tide, but what of the iron? It will corrode and the mortar will wear away. It’s the same as the sand castle. It just takes it longer to fall apart. They are also the same because, at one point or another, someone took the initiative to dream them and create them. True, I am the master engineer who created the stone fortress, but before that I was a child and all I could build was a sand castle. I put hours into making it perfect, only to have it rinsed away by the afternoon tide, never to return again. But I suppose that’s alright, because for those few minutes that they castle was finished I was happy.

0

Dec 14, 2010

Dec 14, 2010 at 5:35 PM UTC

Seashells, twigs, and sand. Brick, iron, and mortar. Something as weak as shore debris will be carried away with the tide, but what of the iron? It will corrode and the mortar will wear away. It’s the same as the sand castle. It just takes it longer to fall apart. They are also the same because, at one point or another, someone took the initiative to dream them and create them. True, I am the master engineer who created the stone fortress, but before that I was a child and all I could build was a sand castle. I put hours into making it perfect, only to have it rinsed away by the afternoon tide, never to return again. But I suppose that’s alright, because for those few minutes that they castle was finished I was happy.

Continue reading...