"rosewater" poems
Ellie. My name is Ellie.
I want to be a writer. I want to be a star. I want to be free.
I imagine myself riding on wide open roads,
on the back of a motorcycle with a boy
who is as much of a ghost as he is a person.
I imagine myself dazed in rooms
filled with a purple glow.
I imagine pills, lust, liquor, leather.
I want to live forever
and I want to die young.
My name is Ellie.
I don’t know what home means;
I don’t want to.
I need people to love me.
I will break all of their hearts.
I imagine late nights in underground clubs…
Marlboro, rock & roll, Howl by Allen Ginsberg–the bible.
Tanqueray;
falling down in a graveyard muttering in Romanian,
hoping for salvation,
but while I’m called an angel night after night
I’ve got the devil in me.
Rosewater runs through my veins,
the blood has already been spilt.
I won’t ever belong to anyone, not even myself.
When you have the knowledge that nothing’s real
it’s hard to do what’s expected of you.
I relate to flowers a lot.
They’re beautiful, but they don’t last.
Sometimes no matter how hard you try to take care of them,
they just run out of life.
I think I ran out of life the day I was born.
Everything is nothing.
The gods don’t want you to know that,
but that is the one truth.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
There was a girl
I used to swap paperbacks
and spit with, once
I fixed her wiper blades,
I remember the soft dead wings
on the windshield, pretty
as you please
She was alone in her shoes
listening to something
that kept getting darker
and glowing like morning
on the oil spilled under her truck,
she was drifting through
the rosewater of her soft red hair
She only wanted to be rolling
off a swollen river, sliding
out of a clean slip, turning
over in a deep sleep, trailing
a shimmering thread, hiding
under a pile of wet leaves
Then there she was sailing
in her river of blood, going
white and smelling like smoke
from a struck match behind
closed blinds on a ceramic floor,
a white blouse red as a sharp knife
collecting the light of mourning.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:19 AM UTC
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
Celebration
A child of God on his creation
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
A cake
The sweet smell plus the time it took to make
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
Blowing out candles hot dripping wax
65 candles fire to the max
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
Singing the song
A sadness lingered all day long
Is A Birthday A Birthday
Without
A friend to share it with
Or are all these reasons just a myth
Pouring Rain fierce winds rocked my car
I walked the mall
Beauty Salon new look cut style my hair
No one to notice or to care
Shopping
Victoria Secrets, things I did not need
But made me smile
The happness only lasted a short while
See’s candy, picked out my favorite kind
Still sad loneliness on my mind
Bed bath and beyond; rosewater candles
Surely the scent would cheer my mood
Perhaps
Chinese’s food
Wonton soup and *** stickers To take home
Painful knee ended my time to roam
Reading comments ,well wishers who
Remember my Birthday
I’m done celebrating now
Ready for the end of this Day
Text messages Facebook too
I wish I understood I wish I knew
Why I feel this way
Tomorrow
Will be
A bright
New Day
Inspired Song
1) It’s my party by Lesley Gore
(And I’ll cry if I want to)
2) Happy birthday the new kids by on the block
3) Happy birthday by John Lennon
4) happy birthday by “Weird Al” Yankovic
5) happy birthday by Loretta Lynn
6) birthday by Katy Perry
7) happy birthday by Stevie Wonder
8) birthday by The Beatles
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
my boy with fig leaves and lightning bugs
tied up in his hair, he kneels with
crimson palms pressed to the unquiet dirt
and hums an abandoned melody.
my boy with sunbeams shining through his skin on the riverbank,
neatly coating the grass in thin white trails, woven into footprints like cotton twine, snaking their way across brown earth,
ankles slick with mud and the dead things that lay just underneath.
my boy with rosewater and stained glass ashes
feels me bless him with blackberries and the softest crush of words,
ice cubed, beneath my lips,
as he wipes the ichor from my chest with callouses
worn down gentle.
the light echoes from his skin
there are no symphonies nor sacraments,
only cicadas singing warmth to shivering willows.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
This sheen, it is a soothing glow of moonlight,
This night, it is a calming show of moonlight.
I ponder, thinking about the rosewater
Of love, seeing it in the flow of moonlight.
I see silver-wings in the waving waters,
Spread widely, as if it's a crow of moonlight.
I view something in my imagination:
It's smelling like lilies that brow of moonlight.
Is that an ode to moonbeams, that silver shape?
In the sky there's a bowing bow of moonlight.
Let's sway like the trees in the midnight breeze!
Silently in the meadow of moonlight.
The silence penetrates the lonely night,
Mâhî, that it is calm, you know of moonlight.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
Ephemeral lips blooming fully crimson, loosening
Harmonious conjugation of rosewater and saltine sweat
Underneath my effigy of innocence
3 brittle thorns stick detached and of no use; pressed precisely, pinned to place
Making of me a bumblebee, lifeless in strong uninvited arms
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
your breath is hot on my shoulders
heavy
with pomegranate juice
purple drops of condensation on my skin
your face
drips of rosewater
tears never salty
or reminiscent of the sea
always sweet
always of spring
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
Goodnight anthropocentrism—
Mitochondria swim in your stardust
But Contraverse awakens on the
Frontiers of the Valerian Kingdom
At the gnarled staff of the Oil Sage
Taking root between the Earth’s furrows
Springing forth fountains of sweetest Nard
The Jewel of Jatamansi emerges glistening green
In it the eye of the beholder finds the
Seeds of a once forbidden dream
Germinating in the juices of this Gem
Out of it the silent roar of a thousand fields pressing
Aromatic oceans through bursting buds
Of Lavender pagodas rapturously trumpeting forth
Framed by stacks of soft sweet musky Sage
Broad and leathery like elephant’s ears
Curtained with a soft cascade of Orange blossom snow
The sweet kiss of Neroli on your brow
Imbibing the senses with paralyzing pungency
Tangling tendrils to heartstrings
And pulling us beneath Rosewater pools
Floating breathlessly ensconced in a dream
Primordial songs whispering wordlessly,
“Wake whenever you’re ready . . .”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
The parched earth echoed the wails for the dead
as flames devoured the crowd of corpses
mouth agape with unquenched thirst.
The sky had mercilessly looked away
having spit fire on them down below
sparing not one waterhole on its way
and the mother if only she could
use her tears for the baby to drink
but her eyes had turned dry as the earth.
Yet dark as the depth of love
the King's pond mirrored the princess' face
and would still beam the moon in her eyes
strangely hiding from the wrath of the drought.
One night sleeping on her ivory bed
her silken skin cooled with rosewater
the princess heard a voice:
*When the fury of God
blinds him to the pains of men
an angel rises to break his heart
stakes her life to rend heaven apart
so his tears on earth fall as rain.*
The windless night was deadly quiet
watched by moon in awe wide eyed
the trees sparkled in firefly's light
when the princess stood by the pond's side.
For awhile her eyes roamed around
resting on the marble's gleam
the sleeping grass her sweet playground
a home smelling all earthly dream.
She felt like swimming through the air
love glowing warm in her peaceful eyes
till she reached the end of stairs
that bore her frame with deep sighs.
The heaven broke down with thunderous rain
the seeds sprouted filled field with green
upon that land wasn't a drought again
never before had such harvest been seen.
In the depth of night if you hear a cry
from the clouds pearly by dawn's embrace
know God's tears will fall from the sky
as dewdrops mourning the rain princess.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:22 PM UTC
She kisses me with cream
and lemon yellow
making me pucker up
for lips
that are like doorknobs
covered with red velvet
driving me crazy
for birthday cake that I don't need to taste
just light all the candles
and blow me away.
Wishing for things I don't think
I am allowed to tell you
and even if I could
I'm not sure I would
because her body is my church.
And
that's not what I mean but it's the closest my tongue will get
with words.
My god
is merciful.
She plants kisses with rosewater
and
green seeds across my landscape
and confessions are
sincerely *****
Forgive me mama,
I have sinned.
And
she does
with gifts of limbs
from a better half
the pagan's god
split.
Because this kind of man
with this kind of woman
made them weep for symmetry
and envy
how permanent every one of our moments
are.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
Why on earth was I made this way?
Someone sure must have been drinking that day.
This body feels like it's from outer space,
from the tips of my toes to the nose on my face.
These mens clothes feel like they came from mars,
they're the most absurd things I could wear by far.
So I hide in my dream, a most comfortable place,
that smells of jasmine and visions of pink lace.
Soft silk sheets that cover my curves,
nightgowns and rosewater, my female mind's cure.
Long flowing hair, with a sweet smile and eyes,
finish my dream as I fade in the night.
by Lj Mark 2015
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
Let’s go back to 1.
To start again, to meet you, to seventeen, to yellow
and hugs, to hammers and strings.
Nobody knew me then, and I ****** up
told them the true story.
Let’s go back, and I’ll tell you a different one.
It started out a prepschool fantasy. I had a
Great Perhaps, and you
(were there, probably)
And then I ****** up, my friend.
I’d like to revert to 1: a second round
I’m ready, now.
Hello, nice to meet you
Would you like to have a drink with me?
I will say yes. I will be thin again for you
And when you touch my arm
I will not shrink
from you.
Let us. Let me, at least
Revert to 1
and promise
(I do—to do better now).
On money-soaked leather, we’ll make angels
no I’m sorry—we’ll make amends
I will talk breathy and flutter my eyelashes; I will be Daisy Buchanan
a rosewater anachronism that needs no cigarettes and no pretense, only
Attention
(I stood at, when you said goodbye)
There will be no end. There was no end. Not a goodbye.
On rust-red rooftops we will soliloquize
(about what?) (it doesn’t matter)
We will throw lit matches and watch how fire makes its mark
And we will separately wonder where it goes
and—are you listening?—we will watch the sunrise
and I will tell my daughter about that day when she is older.
A prepschool fantasy. We will drink to the word “contraband”
and it will be 1966—the rich kids’ 1966, the whitewashed one we pretend we are ashamed of.
I will be Daisy Buchanan, and thin again for you.
Let’s go back to 1. I would love to
try again, and better now.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Time moves forward,
The earth spins its silk,
On mornings wed with buttermilk,
Your ingénue sleeps,
Under a honeycomb sky,
Weeping sweet into her dream soaked eyes,
The walls of your heart were a dusty rose tapestry,
An interior of toothache and sticky ghosts,
He called for that criminal kiss,
For the warmth of the reminisce,
Her limbs were snug,
Gathered like a bouquet,
Thrown at your temple floor,
Sleeping wrapped within his holy grail,
Blossom spilled from his hallowed lips,
You whisper I taste of rosewater and new worlds,
Meaning the summer was lost inside us,
Consumed by a religious hunger,
In a locket of wild heat,
Arrest your memory before I forget,
As us criminals often do,
I fly alongside hope,
Like a honeybee in rain,
And pray I will make your sermon change.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
morning incense
on a dancing
meadow
breathes an air
of rosewater essence
swept in a
breeze song
of gentle reverie
her dayspring
flower blooms
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
*I zipped her trembling
Cascades of hair—rosewater
Poured into a dress*
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC
The bourne conspiracy isn’t held in shades of reflected gray, but the raging current of rosewater.
Soldiers of fortune draped in dandelions uprooted from Napoleon’s farm.
Bronte’s web grows thick inhaling inherent rice.
Nonsense picked up in jabberwocky from a novelized wookiee.
IQ bound success clubs playing the most dangerous game, hunting Will.
Ents chopped and sold over borders, bought back sixfold as disassembled chairs.
Hard hitting lines of north Dallas long past the forty, placating the rules for larger shares.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
compilations of cold coffee cups,
dancing about in my candle-stained room
to French music from the 50's, today,
contrasting with the cacophony of construction
four stories beneath, below,
the day is blush.
rain as rosewater, fossilizes into flakes on the cheekbones, the lashes.
a quick reading of Kerouac reminds one to
believe in the 'holy contour of life,' whatever 'holy' means,
if it exists at all,
whether America is overrated,
whether i rather play in puddles of Scotland
or some foreign place,
how delightful it sounds, as Edith Piaf's
voice trances my loveless memory.
i'm cold. but we have to be.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
Marble lilies
Fingers crossed while I kiss you
You dip into my atmosphere
Suckle at my firebed
Press a penny on each eye
I bite my cheek and then your neck
I pluck the torch from the old man in the corner
Jagged fingerprints, metronome breaths
Spell my name with your heartbeat
I'll spell hers
Lean over the wretched vessel
I'm with her now
Rosewater, braided love
A brush, a wish, a linger
Your lilies shatter on your own expectations
She laughs like butter
I lick my lips
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 2:09 AM UTC
Tell me again of the body culled
from the creek; your calves how
they stiffened in its heavy red flow.
Remind me of her neck porcelain
plum scent, rosewater cheeks, and how
you watched their color fade between
the light of weeping bottlebrushes.
Tell me that you’ve known her.
That the bellies water was an act
of song; this poor swallowed ballad.
Or say that this is only the beginning.
How you still believe we will meet
on the other side—-
this brook carrying Spring then to it’s
sides and you and I are not mournful,
but as one as much as the apple rock moss.
The one holding her back before raising her out.
Hair half in air, hair half spread underneath.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
A lily pad over the humble
Stringing through my veins
the willow filling down to tumble
fighting through the stains.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
I trembled zipping her,
Cascades of hair— rosewater,
Poured into a dress.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
I’m looking for fossils on my skin for the people who have once touched me
Sometimes I hug myself and feel like a stranger
My bruises match the violet colored sky you used kissed me under
press honeysuckle sunlight and rosewater into my wounds
I woke up ****** with a cherry pit in my mouth
I’m sorry I’m so hard to love
I’m an angel who’s body you mutilated by your honeyed words
your kisses feel like hell but your body feels like heaven
lift up my skirt and I’ll show you where the moonlight stained me
skull **** me on the floors of an abandoned house with pink wallpaper
it rains so much in my heart it began to grow spores
touch me on my stained bed covers while your on speed
dig through my chest cavity and pull out all the weeds
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
I trembled zipping her,
Cascades of hair— rosewater,
Poured into a dress.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC