"ruffles" poems
They bruise their pupils with the sharp red roses.
They built in an empire with fur ruffles & sequins.
They lived with poise spark & jealousy.
Burnt yet alive,
torn yet together.
Eyes, prudent of all,
Minds, dangerous of all.
Survive, said the Father
Believe, said the Jesus
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
The wind ruffles my hair as I sit atop the hill and stare at what I see.
A normal person would see buildings, cars,
anything you would find in a typical concrete jungle.
However,
I see racism and sexism.
Prejudice everywhere.
People assume.
People speak without knowing what the truth is.
People hurt others intentionally
These people who hurt others do not stop to consider that
their victims are human, like them.
All of us,
mere flesh and blood.
We're the same.
Male, female, homosexual.
Asian, Caucasian, Middle Eastern.
We're all bones, muscles, blood.
We are the same.
There's no need to discriminate.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
311
It sifts from Leaden Sieves—
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road—
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain—
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again—
It reaches to the Fence—
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces—
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack—and Stem—
A Summer’s empty Room—
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them—
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen—
Then stills its Artisans—like Ghosts—
Denying they have been—
3.6k
Unapologetically Human
I am **** on the mezzanine
facing the darkened wet road
illuminated with acrid yellow tube light
better reds and blues surround towering palm trees
wooden fingers of ancient giant hands buried below
growing leafy green nails stretching skyward
little things, orange ribbons, endless cricks and dollops
bobbles and winches
Spirits
Play among the windmills
climb to the top of trees and sing into the warm wind songs of *** and heartache
as the universe ruffles along
Dive head first into the opponents forehead
grind the sand into his flesh with ram like resolve until the skin is red,
determine to die
This life is worth proving,
the stars are worth gazing,
and this body is worth bathing in the Maui air with naked delight
The ocean calls to my heart
water is a true lover whispering, kissing
inescapably feminine
I submerge my soul in joyful waves
always the tides follow the moon
like my silly heart, eclipsing
both light both night both day
simultaneously cycling
fully the light shines and our eyes perceive shadow faces in the dark blanketed clouds
the mountain gargoyles stand as titans, forgotten creatures
shoulders and heads, waiting for the moon ball
the ocean moon, tranquil bays
the air is sweeter with you near, a distant thought
cast about the horizon, the sun melting easy golden into my dreamy eye,
bless my drunken lips
dripping doltish songs into the friendly night
Wrestling with bulls of men
we kept our shirts on this time, yet blood was drawn in the sand
we madly danced in the moonlight to clapping hands,
kicking feet and knees
the ceremonial struggle toasting the stars
bottles were shared, some puffed on cigars
Come surf with me in the morning
or anytime the sun shines
even under moonlight would I meet you and we could paddle
come fill your heart with life and lust and romantic passions idyllic as freshly fallen snow undisturbed by worldly concerns
be not abashed for this embrace is a natural wonder of the soul,
join me,
forget what words of yesterday the prophets of doom chant,
we make our own tomorrow
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
Jupiter Mars P Moon
VENEZIA, "May" 19"th", 1910.
Jupiter's foursquare blaze of gold and blue
Rides on the moon, a lilac conch of pearl,
As if the dread god, charioted anew
Came conquering, his amazing disk awhirl
To war down all the stars. I see him through
The hair of this mine own Italian girl,
Adela
That bends her face on mine in the gondola!
There is scarce a breath of wind on the lagoon.
Life is absorbed in its beatitude,
A meditative mage beneath the moon
Ah! should we come, a delicate interlude,
To Campo Santo that, this night of June,
Heals for awhile the immitigable feud?
Adela!
Your breath ruffles my soul in the gondola!
Through maze on maze of silent waterways,
Guarded by lightless sentinel palaces,
We glide; the soft plash of the oar, that sways
Our life, like love does, laps --- no softer seas
Swoon in the ***** of Pacific bays!
We are in tune with the infinite ecstasies,
Adela!
Sway with me, sway with me in the gondola!
They hold us in, these tangled sepulchres
That guard such ghostly life. They tower above
Our passage like the cliffs of death. There stirs
No angel from the pinnacles thereof.
All broods, all breeds. But immanent as Hers
That reigns is this most silent crown of love
Adela
That broods on me, and is I, in the gondola.
They twist, they twine, these white and black canals,
Now stark with lamplight, now a reach of Styx.
Even as out love - raging wild animals
Suddenly hoisted on the crucifix
To radiate seraphic coronals,
Flowers, flowers - O let our light and darkness mix,
Adela,
Goddess and beast with me in the gondola!
Come! though your hair be a cascade of fire,
Your lips twin snakes, your tongue the lightning flash,
Your teeth God's grip on life, your face His lyre,
Your eyes His stars - come, let our Venus lash
Our bodies with the whips of Her desire.
Your bed's the world, your body the world-ash,
Adela!
Shall I give the word to the man of the gondola?
3.4k
HOME MADE VALENTINES DAY...
Back in the 1940's when I was young
Valentines Day was so special
Everything was homemade
from the Valentine box,
the Valentines,
and Valentine cookies.
As the room mother one year
my mom was asked to make a large
Valentine Box
I remember the doilies that we
colored in, we had ruffles,
glitter on little hearts,
everything was pink, white and red.
The big Valentine box was put on
the teachers desk
Then as each child came in
they deposited their Valentines
in the beautiful Valentine Box.
I can't remember seeing the teacher
remove the Valentines from the box
but somehow she did, and a couple
of us kids got to pass out the cards.
We took them home in a paper bag.
But first we opened them up....
Always excited to see if we got
a special one from someone special...
Did you get one from Jimmy,
or best friend Sue
Here's one from the teacher
with a sucker too...
As the years passed by, and I became a mother
I helped my children make their own
small Valentine Box.
With Doilies, red hearts and
the most important part was glitter....
and they came home from school
filled with cards picked up at the
Valentine Store...
But
as years passed on
the Grandkids were more creative.
A Valentine Box
that looked like
a Lady Bug
each year they became more creative.
But
none as beautiful in my eyes
as the big large Valentine Box
my mom made.
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY...
by judy
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
Where the wind ruffles my hair
The rain kisses my lips
The sunrays embraces to keep me warm
And the serenity makes me break into a song
Or just a simple humming and wiggling
Where I can lie on the grass to catch my breath
And for hours watch the birds fly
And watch the kids play
Where the innocence once more beats in me
That I run up to them just to taste the shear joy in playing
Where I can spontaneously plunge into a river and then decide Whether to drink it's purity or drown in it's abyssal depth
Or just watch my reflection on its glistening surface
And drift off to distant thoughts with the shepherd's kulning
Where the farthest stars lead me to my deepest emotions
Where the silence of the dark night awakens my soul
There I'll make my bed
On the grass under the sky
And not sleep a wink
For I'll be already living in my sweetest dream
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Maybe it was the first time I gazed upon brilliant brown eyes that needed a second look to satisfy my desire. Maybe it was the moment when greetings dropped from your mouth, my eyes transfixed on the sound resonated from within. The seconds we spent swapping hellos down hallways made my smile glow, I can’t define perfect but, you’re the only one close enough to tickle its chin. Skip five paces forward, now we aren’t like two peas in a pod, we are too tight to snuggle up close to anything. I can still smell the scent of cheeseburgers and teenage angst as you and I wasted away our day with jokes filled with *** innuendoes and american stereotypes. The face you make when laughing causes me to reclaim my thoughts of what universal beauty can be. You made forest fires look like buckets of ices when you stepped in a room, wearing that navy blue dress with ruffles filled with humility and self-confidence. Maybe it was the moment you can to me for help. I would do anything for a third look at brilliant brown eyes, enough time for me to escape any painful memory from first period. It could have been the first time I saw you blush when I called you beautiful. Rosey red cheeks never looked so good on tan skin before. I don’t think I could go without saying, it might have been the first time I was able to wrap my arms around your waist and lift you from tiled floors, giving you freedom to fly. My dear Julia, I hope these words shine a light of perpetual friendship, because that’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. So in your native tongue, Eu te amo.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
And the prophets all dressed in their Sunday's best,
Waiting for the secret of the sacred test
While the little red birds and the big black crows
Sang a tune, "One above, one below"
And as she whittled the knife cross her wrist,
She came across an ancient tryst
A place she knew from way back when;
The place she knew that she would end
It had hands like hers, and vulnerable eyes,
But the mind did not shake, the soul not disguise
It drug her away from the beady-eyed ones,
While she stared from below with a mouthful of guns
It took her away to a quiet room,
Where around her was no one she knew
She turned to look at its face, but only emptiness
She turned to ask it a name, but only vagueness
And what did you mean when you said you had a dream
Full of colorful squares and the butter king?
And why did the man drinking gin from a can,
Provide such a riddle on the night of the ******
"He'll come to you in chains, so take what he gives"
Does this mean that I'll die, and he lives?
Is redemption the path for the doomed and the great,
That comes only when called upon by your fate?
Where then is this world, with chips, ruffles and pearls?
Where is my ticket to? Heaven or Hell?
Either way, I'm not meant for this realm,
Where I'm flying blind with no one at the helm
The haunted attic days are over
No more crimson, no more clover
The lollipops are frozen, the crisps have turned black
They possess everything; I only love what I lack
So rid me of here, or obliterate it all;
Being "self-contained" just isn't my call
I could be strong and keep a tight trigger,
But these unborn chicken voices are bigger
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:33 PM UTC
Each morning I lie in bed and anticipate your arrival, my awakening, our escape
To the fair ground lights outside the city, and I dream that as we peak on the Ferris wheel,
And, with stars as our witness at this paramount moment, all of Texas comes into view.
Autumnal air ruffles your hair, and I'm reaching for you like always with little gestures:
My smiles, your smirks, my laughs, and our quirks. Mingling at the summit,
A hand brushes slowly along a knee with the smooth reintroduction to an old friend.
Long fingers fumble with need, and it's just you and me distancing ourselves
From our every day studies in distraction, comforted in our mutual procrastination.
With you I catch up on my anatomy and you excitedly review me in structures and railways.
On a train homeward bound, the heat of blood rising in your cheeks and lips
Sends an electric surge to my head and heart, and nerves tingle from anticipating home.
Under your tutelage, I soon appreciate the bridge of a nose finally unstressed by glasses,
The dynamic arches of a worn out back, and the strength of pillars erected in urgency
'Til daylight exposes last night's mysteries, and we rest in our ecstasy perspired,
Both of us finally relinquished from the weight of anticipation for this weekend to arrive.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 11:50 AM UTC
Some days you have the ability,
others on a shopping spree.
Dressing clean, ultra supreme.
To live is just a dream that only you can see with binoculars.
I live in our own aura, the World and I. Where we can kickback, sleek the ruffles out of our curtains.
With blood sleeking down the glass window pane, the beginning of a crystal clear scheme
with crimson stains.
A passing by expert, I have yet to earn what removed hastes to which I should come to a slower pace.
Push you into my fool, a clown to a stalemate.
Copping everything on a shopping spree, my feet don’t touch the ground, they elevate.
Now I’m trying to jam using these hands, but one grips at fear.
I don’t have time for tainted misused feelings.
I have to make them squeal for me. Hide in the bushes, they want to be seen with me. Using correct of muscle, I hold me. Carrying all these packages, I’m the one you want.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
It smells like freshly mown grass and a
Soaked one piece Ariel swimsuit—the pink ruffles that
Cling
To a toddler’s stomach rolls as she squeaks and squelches down the plastic
Into the dark blue Made in China kiddie pool
That has creatures from all levels of the ocean together
And she doesn’t care.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Has visible handprints on the sides from
The toddler holding on for dear life before
She gathers the courage to balance on top on her own.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Sits in that yard for almost a decade at the end
Of the sickly green swing set that lifts up out of the ground
Whenever the toddler pumps too hard,
And is a end destination for the intense races across the apparatus
That occur every Sunday noon amongst the Sunday School kids without fail.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit and
Under it is one of the best places for hide-and-seek in the winter,
When it is almost buried under the glistening snow
And the toddler can’t feel her legs anymore but she doesn’t care because
She can’t be found.
At that age she has no limits, no mental restraints that
Cut her dreams off before they bear fruit.
The slide has a 60 pound weight limit,
And of the world beyond it she is only a
Prisoner of fierce fascination.
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
Every morning, the touch of her skin. Each feel of her fingertips awakens the senses, and I remember, for one second, that I am loved.
Its easy to forget when she's not around, and I harken back to that dark corner that holds me, holds me harder than she ever does. She knows little of it, only beckons my freedom for her nights and her pleasure and then disappears in the morning.
She seduces me with lasagna, did you know that? Promises the contents of her fridge and then leads me elsewhere, a place I know she's leading me, but I eat it anyway. She stares at me while I eat, always begging with her eyes to begin the dangerous tango that I can never ignore, and I pretend not to notice, but I do.
Then she asks me how it is and I say delicious, even when the meat is dry or the noodles are hard, its always delicious. Her lips look delicious, her skin look enticing, her curves and entrancing. Truly makes up for the questionable lasagna.
I know I love her. She knows I love her. But she doesn't care, and just plays with me at night and in the morning, makes some excuse of how she must go, ruffles my hair and says thanks for the good time, sport, like I am some child. But I'm not a child, I am a man who loves her.
Love doesn't seem to be enough for my Lasagna girl, and every Tuesday she proves it. The loves not enough, the *** isn't enough, I'm not enough. Just another pawn in her game.
Every Tuesday I come back though, and I always will, until the calls stop and her beauty stops and the world stops.
Maybe it'll never stop. Maybe I've found my soulmate over a plate of half-baked lasagna, but the funny thing is, she will never bother to find me.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
in lagoon the lotus ruffles her wind.
in monotone the lizard shrills his song.
the wild goose homing,
slumbered rushes oozing.
hushed lie the sedges
of beamed nuvole, vapors creep
late cranes, heavy wing, and lazy flight.
Sail the silence beneath the nearing night.
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 11:30 AM UTC
I saw you walk away from me, your eyes like burnt pastries
Tasteless was your gaze and tainted was your smirk.
I saw the last of your silk locks, saving themselves from my satin ruffles.
Useless was the lingerie I'd run my fingers through when you'd lean closer.
You told me my smile was the sun, yet you left in your spacecraft
Flirting with the stars, you left my glowing figure in a mist veil of polluted smoke.
You said I would drown in each lingering kisses, deep in a sea promised to never dry up.
You held me down with your addicting anchor; tempting was your touch and hopeful was your blush.
I saw you walk away,
Tasteless;
Tainted;
Useless;
Refugee;
Polluted;
Suffocating;
Addicting;
Hopeful.
I love you.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
From sandy shore you stare,
watching the ebb n flow.
Your blue eyes like a stormy sea,
beckoning Calypso forth to thee.
To be one with the tide evermore.
She does not rise from her depth,
in fear she turns her eyes from you.
For if you were a maiden of the sea,
a queen, she would no longer be.
The salty breeze ruffles your hair,
causing a wave to crash in your mind.
a seagull's cry ringing in your ear.
The clarion call from your heart,
The clarion call from your home,
The clarion call from the ocean.
It calls you to return from the land,
Cast off your legs, return to your scales,
Become our queen and cast down the poser.
Come home to me, my true Calypso.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
God has been in and out of my life
Like the tides on a beach
I've experienced feelings of loneliness
Like the dry sand spells that find their way to the sea
But there has always been a part of me
that senses his presence
Like a salty ocean breeze
that ruffles the fruitless, dry sand
Without God
My life wouldn't exist
Like how a beach would be a desert
without the ever-roaring sea
With God
My life is alive
But not only is it alive
It is free
Through wrenched storm
and delightful sun
God will always be a part of me because
In covinent we are one
and he loves me
like the sand
is to the sea
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Ruffles your hair in the soft of the summer patch, sunbeams cling to you like honey then later cling to my ever growing hopes of happy happy love. silly silly silly winky-dink he bruises you with stains of purple-pink which later fade to yellow like 'le soleil' friction burns will come from 'le soleil' and linger and cling to your chest like an arrow through the heart. heart-throb. you belittle me one too many times doodle-bug.
Rosie roses are nice to fancy and fathom but thorns only puncture pale skin and drain you of your ruby juice until you are nothing but a dusty, hollow skin shell. pale naïve and empty to be filled with dreams, desires and demands as well. hate is not easily boiled in your kitchen kettle water but I think that's a good thing munchkin.
Hold back your disdain bite your tongue crack your teeth and do not repeat what your brain whispered it has been lying to you since the day you were born you silly silly silly... this is a ripping seam in your moonbeam and your emotions begin curdle and to leak out like fish but then you remember crying is okay but **** such salt water back in and say naught. distraught.
At witching hour it will come at you a cold sweat in the night where your fingers tingle and your meat twinkles faces before you with holes for irises. they have been sent to inject mishap and upside down rainbow viruses. when was the last bedtime you had cloudless soul with organic thoughts? oh fleshly girl tip-toe lightly as blood trickles down your ego and melts it away to stardust to form another cheeky doodle-bug munchkin grin
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Gauge Symmetry
It was an eminent arrival: to awake in a definite
location in time and space, involving the single
***** with more zeal than the rest. But where
am I really? Staring at these thorny lines engraved
in my palm during an hour I should be asleep.
I can’t help but think that the love of a life
should have spared me.
A caption below the photograph in the times reads
It’s an illustration of a tactic employed by Hezbollah
and Hamas to use their own civilians as human shields.
And somewhere else laying on rubble, once road, a blood
smeared newspaper ruffles in the breeze, then violently
unfolds from a burst of wind, never to be read, a stray dog
licking a wound pauses and perks it’s ear.
Earlier, in the library I walked the spiral staircase
and traced my fingers down a dusty spine:
“How
we
became
Post-Human”.
It must have been an artificial insemination.
My skull throbs from an inoperable legion
of fractal thoughts which I developed upon listening
to the sounding tremble in Pathetique, too immature
to know the power of what it heard like that time
I foolishly laid my eyes on a carnivorous
tulip, it spat me out alive.
Moon is no comfort, only an aperture. The day
is overexposed and my eyelids clasp
down like a shutter, I try to fall asleep
to remember where I really am and where
I've always been.
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 7:56 AM UTC
She ran a boarding house in Boston,
But they used her size to terrorize men
And lead them to the lock-holes.
Or was she a lady clad in black ruffles,
Presented to the Queen in 1844?
Perhaps she was a racehorse
Foaled in Harlem and won a prize.
She had peddled drugs and run a gang
In the chaos of Civil War,
Black Mariah escaped from the darkness
Of Edison’s studio to roam the world,
But in it found herself re-imagined.
They named police wagons after her
It’s said, but no one knows the truth.
Did she cross the battle lines again,
To tread on civil rights?
Or swing the batons in Chicago
And fire rifles at Kent State?
She seems to take time out to charm
Gruff-voiced men who sing her praise.
She prowled the streets of Brixton,
In 1983, with truncheons at her side.
Through gas clouds, dragging men to jail.
Black Mariah is with us still,
Helping to create tyrants and traitors,
To stop the mouths of those who defy
She’s an accessory to the killing.
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 7:09 PM UTC
It is not yet dawn,
but still, I awaken
to the soft patter
of nighttime summer rain.
Gently it falls,
the warm breeze
ruffles the trees.
Branches caress my window,
reminiscent of some nightmare
now long gone.
Startling at first,
the rustle of branched fingers
soon melds with the soft drizzle.
Soothing and tender,
Nature’s melodies lull me
back to sleep.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
Anybody etches the longwave, tadpole lyrical,
and its a poem (woa- teakettle, tweaker)
Satellite poem, thunder poem, ******** poem.
Sevens sluttiest angel writes a eulogy so beautiful that we give her the title of funeral director.
We just give it away. (Its still only a eulogy)
I have ten toes and ten fingers. Ive counted on them. I wrote a poem about getting
a bikini wax, and its still only a poem. A joke. Only tadpole lyrical. I wish it had a
revolutionary hermit to choke it with fingers that taste like black pepper and motor oil,
and then to rake its fall crumbles into ruffles,
and then all aboard the sci-fi fantasy. /Radiant,
radio the masses, raffia slipping, I got the zipper of my winter coat stuck in orbit, you sea/Ive got a poem to
write about synthetic jungles deep underneath our cities, lush with fiber-optic
wire, you say. Air rich, the mountain.
Find yourselves in dungenous traps: dead-blue thou art.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Eyelids part,
readjusting from dark hibernation.
Sleep -
peaceful;
warm.
Silence,
sings the extravagance
of a new morning,
a new day,
a fresh start.
Dewy are the leaves
and the grass.
Barefoot.
Sunrise;
sunshine.
Warm against tender,
sun-kissed skin.
Brilliant is the morn;
the awake.
Breeze ruffles hair
as dresses swing,
birds sing,
gliding.
Rejoice in the brilliance -
the jubilee of the day.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 4:46 PM UTC
Dawn breaks as the sun appears over the horizon, swallowing the darkness of an insatiable night.
A fresh breeze ruffles the hair, and the heart, with a peculiar spell as the sounds of rattling trees settles in.
The stains of tears are replaced by the shine of joy, as the sorrows of night dissolves in the mist of a promising dawn.
A sight of a dew shining on a flower, like a beautiful Pearl, instills something pleasant inside..
As the eyes travel further, they're pleasantly surprised by the bed of flowers; the spread of meadows; the colorful birds.. Chirping.. Flying.. Playing.. Nothing to bind them. Free spirits.
A heart envies them for a while.
And when looking upon the vast sky - the sheer vastness of it, leaves one enthralled.
Upon closing the eyes, one could hear the silent whisper of the clouds, of the trees, carried by the passing winds. A strange sense of belonging settles in. Leaving one calm. Inspired.
Perhaps, the birds have felt it too. One wonders.
A mind then engages into a divine contemplation, as the mystery unfolds.. Feeding on the pleasure of unravelling dreams.
A sheer bliss.
PS: Just another perfect dream of a blessed moment.
Hashim.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC