"ruffling" poems
•helping the kids with homework•
no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy
taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself
you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later
the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability
doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much
ain’t exactly his strong suit
sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,
i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes
“a home work”
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Caribbean blue sail's a galaxy
rivers gushing, mumbling for an eternity
reflections of Love forms to thee
Suddenly silence adumbrate
aesthete, A lustful tint of Peruvian trees
petrichor whiffs of earth's virginity
A syzygy that I can't apprehend
but, can fully appreciate its denouement
rebirth of once I fell in love been
Listen to its sotto voce ruffling
preterlabent streams, resplendent hymns
humming grasses cues to sing
Upon the mountain tops hidden
rocks of geos sighting a treasure within
only to discover lore’s of forbidden
Cascading trees whispered a cold
a journey I never knew how to go as told
trap between floras along the road
Propinquity of my eyes closing thin
soul reserved for death, till breath hops in
trodden a land ****** for me to begin
A minstrel with hands like marbles
strung a fiddle of tessellated symphonies
open wonders the eyes never seen
A bouquet of amaranth revealed
the longing heart found someone of new
sighs my feelings and away I strew
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 3:22 AM UTC
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
(And I've been picking dandelions)
The rush of wind chases a wayward cloud
Over the foliage's luscious green mounds
It billows on its good fortune allowed
Feeding flowers leave stock's
roots underground
Petals bloom; centered bud's pollinations
The sun burdens and caresses at once
The bumble lost its edge to pollutants
Overcome in the tepid meadows grace
The seasons start to grow long and narrow
Encompassing the changing of our times
within their altering breadths; to and fro
It's shown upon the rocks face's in tides
She's beauty, ruffling with sents of sweet dew
And in her pluck, spring has become renewed
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
4.3k
I used to be your birdhouse.
I could coax you out from your seat in the treetops
from behind the camouflaging greens
and watch you edge out shyly with the wind ruffling your blush feathers.
You'd cling to me when the spring showers started falling
and I could keep you safe and dry, I could always do that.
I'd be there to hear your youthful songs, and I'd whisper back in a language just we knew
and then I'd hug you goodbye and watch you step precariously from my perch,
flapping in the wind, unsure, unaccustomed.
and I'd be there for you the next day and the next
because I thought you'd still need me.
I never thought I'd see you, the point of a flying V
soaring with your head held high,
not even glancing down at
my tired wooden walls
and faded empty perch.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
They were all looking at the bubbles then it popped.
“Argh! My eyes! Ma!”
“I told you, you’re not supposed to stare at the bubbles when it floats right on your eyes”
“But it’s beautiful and I see the mini-rainbows while it wobbles in the sky.”
The mother and the child went staring at the bubbles floating as they fly above the orange skies.
He blew another, carefully - eyes shining with excitement.
“Look, Mom! This one is bigger! I blew it slower than the other, this one will not pop.”
The cold wind blew with the ruffling of the grass as if clapping.
The bubble wobbled and wobbled on the orange sky
Passed by the resting sun, magnifying its beauty, it glittered.
The boy’s eyes shimmered in excitement.
Pop!
“Not again!” the boy sighed in exasperation.”
He asked, “Where do bubbles go when they pop?”
She looked at him intently.
She smiled, “they become the clouds, like tiny bubbles watching over us.”
“Why would they watch over us?”
“For in time, they will know that the sun will burn our skin, then they will come as rain.”
“Well, let me make more bubbles, so we can play with You in the rain.”
Don’t Forget the Bubbles
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 3:38 AM UTC
She paints herself, to better blend in;
She pampers and softens,
she plans all the right moves.
She frets, ruffling her dusty feathers,
so battered and dull, the sheen lost
to empty restless nights alone;
alone and growing cold in the night.
She panics, blood rushing in waves,
crashing against her organs,
breath blown like strong wind.
She picks her clothes,
covers herself in shrouds;
she knows you will be looking.
She knows you will map her out;
the rivers and channels that create her landscape.
She paces, wondering if she will be
enough for you.
She only wants to be what you desire.
She wants to be the last thing you see
before you fall into sleep;
the memory you search for in your dreams.
She only yearns to have you coming back;
wishing to see more of her.
Be with her.
Love her.
Is this what we must do?
Morph into another, less wholesome,
creation of ourselves
to secure love and emotion?
How many forms can we take?
Is this just going to be a
battle;
a raging brutal clash of
shape-shifting and anxiety?
Are we just going to tally
the numbers of different self
we can create walking out
of bloodied bedrooms?
The scars of each transformation
hiding on secret patches of skin.
I’m running out of choices…
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
I sit on the same well-tended grass by the water as I did
when I finished my novel about the place where love leaves us,
and I'm looking out across the lake to the dock
where we lay the other night.
A seagull sits there now,
atop a small white post, and there
is nobody else. The bird is unmoving
save for its feathers, ruffling in the wind, and I realize that everything
will very soon be seagulls because
if that spot there-- where we watched that Chinese lantern
float skywards and where you said that you knew me better
than you ever had-- can be a seagull,
well then so can be and will be every other place where I sat
watching things that weren't Chinese lanterns
do something other than float skywards.
While I'm tempted to say you made your mark on this place,
the seagull begs to differ-- no, you made your mark
on me.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
This collecting; this laying out of treasures. A piece of watercolour paper cut to fit the sill of a window, then each object placed in a sequence. Stones and shells at first, then slivers of wood, a crab, a starfish. Eventually, small objects from inside the Fishing Station. Strange and so different away from their location. Strange to be displayed as distinctly separate rather than a gregarious jumble of ‘finds’. Their shadows fell with such delicacy across the paper, turning as the light turned, sharp-edged now, smudged later. I would catch her sitting before these collections, observing their properties as the window projected different qualities of light with the passing day. I had them to myself in the early mornings when I crept from our bed into the grey blue light of the dawn. I would sit before them with a china mug of tea feeling my body come to terms with its own self having left its shared part of me in bed. Every day seemed more precious than the previous. As the calendar moved relentlessly forward I realised we had begun to speak in whispers, beyond whispers in fact. I would look at her and speak silently in my head, as I do when I ‘say’ our silent grace, when I close my eyes and pause before the delight of a meal shared. She would nod, or answer with only the barest movement of her petalled lips. The most delicate stroke of my arm was a poem; a hand resting against the neck a chapter of novel. The volumes of words that we had between us come to own tumbled away into the machair. And living slowed right down. Every movement had a graceful turn, bend or flow to it. If we stood close to each other there was rarely the need to venture into an embrace. For once we were not about to part, we became completely, utterly together. We would listen to each other breathe until even that became absorbed into the sea's great breath we could feel from the cottage windows ruffling the waters.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Blissful the wind feels my skin
Touching it smoothly, blows against it, ruffling
More and more, I find a sense of calmness.
A purity overturned, and made pure again.
Stars shine, but as they age they turn different colors.
Compacted, these aged stars of life become beautiful jewels.
But moreover, the persons mean more to us,
Because of their heart, and their character.
The love purifies our impurity somehow.
Not long ago, I was so miserable.
I wanted to take back all of those years.
I thought the pain I caused made me the most evil thing on earth.
I felt like I was nothing worth anything.
The fact that you didn't seem to care when others would've..
That made it worse.
But I have no regrets.
Everything has woven together beautifully.
And through love, purity is now pure again.
Purity in a richer form.
In the midst of gloom,
No one sees the immense pain I carry.
Fearing the worst, I always died before the actuality.
I was so immune to feeling.
This purity I feel I now have -
No it is not innocent, but it is beautiful,
Blissful, unforgettable, unimaginable.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
Blinded, blinding
the sweet aroma
suffering, binding
around your neck
A fear of the fallen under
starts to grow
Need to take cover under
a black eye crow
your mountainous cup
cusp the silhouette
filling it up
rust of the sun
licking the salt
liver and all
I'm ruffling exhaust
burnt in the leather
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
You are a tulip seen to-day,
But, dearest, of so short a stay
That where you grew scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower,
Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower
Will force you hence, and in an hour.
You are a sparkling rose i’ th’ bud,
Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew or stood.
You are a full-spread, fair-set vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine,
Yet dried ere you distil your wine.
You are like balm enclosèd well
In amber or some crystal shell,
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty violet,
Yet wither’d ere you can be set
Within the virgin’s coronet.
You are the queen all flowers among;
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.
2k
The quiet shuffle of
Those two people in the hall.
The sound of the chalk pieces falling
As my teacher grinds it
Into the board.
The shouting of the man teaching next door.
The ruffling of papers when my teacher tells us to take one out.
The jangling of keys out in the hall.
The clicking of calculator keys
(Even though I'm in Chemistry).
The squeaking of various doors.
The three people who all just cleared their throats
At the same time.
The unevenness of the bell tones
(One's a concert A).
The flower resting in it's
Bunsen burner vase.
I love being an
Introvert
And noticing.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
The doves, the doves
they fall from the heavens
for you, love
The doves, the doves
at your feet
they bow and kiss
your sores
heal your wounds
The doves, the doves
in your locks of brown and bark
they tangle
bring flowers for you
sprinkle their petals into your strands
The doves, the doves
they breathe your scent
lavender incense,
the first snow of winter,
trees and moss
The doves, the doves
lost in your eyes,
agleam, a striking color
mimicking the forests,
soft,
kind
The doves, the doves
they melt
at the chime of your voice
you laugh
you sing
like jingling bells
riding the winds
The doves, the doves
they worship your compassion,
the way you stroke their necks
and kiss their beaks
with such ginger touches,
absolutely mesmerizing,
ruffling their feathers
The doves, the doves
will follow you
until their wings
no longer sprout feathers
they will raise generations
to fill their spaces
to continue their love
for as long as you live
they will love you
your children
and your children’s children
The doves, the doves
will cry tears
of sunflowers
when you pass
and will scorn the Gods
when they take you
from them.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC
October fifth, the night begets
Midnight hallways of uncertain threat
A whooshing of trees marks ambiguity
The cold hovering beneath my very feet
Sacrosanct creatures in Epiphanius state
With dust in shelves and candles that melt
A frightening woe nigh unsaid nor upheld
Twas an airy voice lurking the dark
Such lush but nothing of any spark
The floors were tilted and web's shifted
Fixated minds suddenly felt desolated
With all the corners of every dorm
She yearns something, finding her prose
Crossing borders, ruffling like a storm
The woeing wind woes as she goes
Nothing to keep, nothing to show
Her runic is fading, losing its tone
It never stopped till morning and all is gone
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
that should be the name of a song
or a poem
or a memoir of a man who remembers nothing but
danger that passed him by,
ruffling his hair as it passed,
ignoring his pleas:
stay please stay please stay
i just want to mean something,
he would say
(that could be the subtitle
or the blurb,
something to draw the reader in; if floating bodies aren’t enough)
i just want to mean something,
and near-death experiences are the flavor of the day.
i’m not brave enough to do it myself,
i’m not a hero
or a villain,
just a lonely boy, undefined individual,
and your 350 teeth can help me mean
so much more,
350 individual teeth that float above my head,
falling out one by one as you bloat with seawater
(and here the first chapter would end,
here we would break for intermission,
audience smiling over martinis.
only 32 teeth, did some fall out?
too many maraschino cherries will do that to you.
too much sugar on the rim of that glass)
dead sharks in the current and none glance twice
i keep yelling but they just
deflect my bubbles,
and the surface swallows them like the heartless ***** she is
i keep yelling but they just move farther
i keep yelling but stay please stay please stay
i just want to mean something.
i just want some blood on my hands
is that so much to ask?
i just want some of my blood in the water,
to be a survivor
or a victim
(whichever gets more press coverage;
who cares about a memoir that nobody reads?
who cares about a memoir where nobody gets hurt?)
i just want shark teeth in my heart,
he would say,
i don’t want to make a mark on the world,
i want the world to make a mark on me.
that should be the name of a song
or a poem
or the eulogy of a boring man.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
A sad, lonely song
A violin thrumming across the strings
Fresh night air,
Stars hanging in the sky,
In fire and beauty
Shining across space
A slight breeze blowing
Ruffling hair,
With sighing sound
Gazing up at the stars,
Watching the world spin
Under the light
Of a full moon.
Life couldn't be
More real
More there
Or more
Perfect
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
ruffling through the cedar
she plucked the cigar from her palms
and into the pocket of his plaid button-up
it was in these moments that we steered away
from our harsh reality
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
White as a sordid awakening
Hollow, shallow, swallows
Me like an aged cavern
When mother comes in
She is scared to find me
Pale and blue
The window is a hole
Curtains like bedraggled women
Clutch at themselves
She stumbles through a gathering
Of talkative charcoal
And pastel on the floor
Scattered and sallow
Turpentine twists in sweet sashes
Round and round her neck
She calls, wavering already
Diving obliquely through the sea
She reaches for me on the mattress
In the bookshelf,
Behind easels, pallete
Beneath the bridge of the table
A thousand gales of hues blow
Ruffling a thousand shadows
Thousand murmurs decieve her
Into breathing relief.
I see her heart a flickering flame:
Waves of my deathlessness
Shove her around.
Mother, mother, come closer
I call from the lean wooden
Parapet of the canvas
I dance her about in the sky
Stroke the hair, as
She cries, holding my solidity
Thin, bony; her hands shake
Like factory floors
Rancid blooms of a stubborn faith
Scotch her oak-brown skin
And all the walls watch our show
Disintegration occurs
As she searches for me
Kicking clatter and dust around
I a pebble in the pebbles of me
She picks, examines, throws
Picks examines, throws
All while tumbling
Into into into the stench
Of my keen blue decay
Brushstroke, word, scream and plea
She takes all the noise along
Into the beautiful world
Gaunt, I crawl clawing out
I am monster now
And she is painted.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 10:55 AM UTC
At his face it got harder to stare
But in his truth he would glower
Into this looking glass
That looks right back
At the years of age
That washed his face
Over that disgraced fortnight
and it’s dragging scrape
What was his counted,
that ruffling came natural
In a sentiment of the innate
and the inner mechanics of his climate
Co-Walkers, he thought viewed him a cynics ornate
From then on, became perpetually discounted
Though his face got harder to look at
by its contents,
Optics inflamed
and wrinkles elongated
to his whiskers growing skyward
a striking true spruce in essence to become
Nevertheless a bedraggled authentic
Just before a flooding pooled his lids
or the dawning of his tears
Until this vanish to enhance
These characters took on relevance
Apropos of what he saw looking back
The girl, his love, the spirit inside his drive
She could see all directions, like hands on a clock,
Every hour the dialed sun would tower
Giving her all his angles,
She could anticipate all of this,
including all opposites
She could see all that
To her,
His face was not hard to stare
Still chiseled but shaved,
like polished marble glare
Her love was true for years
Opposing claims would be intercepted when asked if during she dabbled in deception
Then immediately accepted their quiz, taking near comfort as she’s done for years placing her lips closer to his eyes,
she kissed his cheek and licked his tears
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
I am right as the rain that is pouring itself down onto your face, just to get a taste of those sweet lips. The rain who is forever at your service, fulfilling your biological needs, absorbing deep into your skin. Mixing with your perspiration and running down off your body. Thankful that it ever had a chance to know you better than the clouds that hang above your head.
I am right as the air you breathe, filtering through your lungs everytime your body is craving a fresh breath of the world that surrounds you. A breath of fresh air to clear your troubled mind, air of the world, to fill your lungs and stimulate your senses. To clear your vision and to clear your soul.
I am right as the food you consume, the very food that makes you sick to your stomach. The food that gives you the fuel to survive, the drive to move on through the day. The food that you want to avoid because you feel it too much, you know exactly when you've eaten because it nearly kills you to do so and live.
I am right as the time that ticks on when you're not there, the time that you spend avoiding yourself or consumed within the afairs of others. The time that passes ever so ticking, passing along in it's own sweet control of nothing. The time, which affects all just by being, not by doing or changing a single thing. The time that is only given meaning by those who make use of it.
I am right as the wind that passes through your hair, ruffling the sweet frame of your face. The wind that blows through your phone everytime you walk outside. The wind that kisses your body and is then gone, leaving you with the effects to brush off with heat. The inconvienient wind who dares not stay to freeze you but will come around once in a while to make sure you never forget what it feels like.
I am right as the lysosomes that are digesting your cells, killing themselves for the benefit of your whole self. The lysosomes that are eating you from the inside out, a beautiful death for the sole health of every inch of your body. The lysosomes who will eventually digest all the cells that she affected with her touch.
I am right as the love that you bleed everytime you pierce your skin with the silver blade sharpened to a point. Mixing your pain with bittersweet release and spilling down over your skin. A gift to the world, so that maybe one day when your beautiful soul reaches heaven to meet her, maybe you can realise that she always belonged in hell.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC