"russet" poems
I...I love you.
That is the only way i can dis scribe this,
i love it when you kiss me,
your lips are soft,
and gentle,
no ones kissed my like this before.
you say you love me,
and my heart roars,
its a gushing volcano of hot lava.
you touch,
plants gardens.
your eyes,
big,
beautiful,
Russet ,
orbs,
i cant look away.
the way you look at me,
speaks a language,
without words.
You are Virgo ,
and i a Gemini.
you are kind.
and loving.
i cant let you out of my head.
BOOM
you broke my heart.
the way you kissed me was terrible
the volcano is inactive
the garden is a decay of mold, chopped trees, and weeds
your eyes are the color of ****
and now everything is silent.
I can't believe i let you in.
at least i didn't give you anything important.
its just a heart
nothing special.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
in my backyard
beautiful!
with alluring flowers
wild flowers, purple haze
green, with a shade of russet
Nature at it's very best,
the visual perception,
of my garden
brings,
to the mind and soul
a great aesthetic rapture!
This is my pagoda
I come here to meditate,
in the spectre
of beautiful aura
and to be at peace with nature,
Amidst my temple
a spliff I shall spark
with a profound purpose,
to bless my mind
and to bless my soul
with sagacity,
from the universe!
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
I was with the ocean last night and your body
Was its vessel, overflowing. Words were frail,
Drops indwelling about the shapeless sky,
Water reaching for its own height and breath,
Like touch, were as desperate letters exchanged,
Endlessly read, until like loamy vellums, they
Disappeared in our hands. Inklings of tide-
Pool and driftwood.
My blood was a river that ran
Its course. Members feeding your deltas and birds
Breeding where the water-russet sheds on pampas
And inverness. Eyes like wing through ever—
Green, empties the fossil shell. Fire, brimming
Mountaintops that were, for countless millennia,
Sleeping. Did I mention that the earth moved?
No? Her displacement was involuntary.
Then came the waterfalls, lifting throughout
Time. The scent, searching for its identity,
The wave, calling to its own name— Ocean,
O— cean. And flowers, opening like galaxies
In the after-light. A universe of face and hand
With hunger for salt-rain and then the cloud
Burst-blue and spilt and spun more redolent,
Deities, in joyous creation.
I breathe, in your ocean, like a child unborn.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
You agree
When you want to shout, curse, and swear
The Almighty....answer this weeping willow
Made of concrete air
Of unfeeling movement
You cower behinds browned bodies, montezuma minds, and your license
Power to go as you please, be as you please, please help me to see
The inner child trapped in mordant cornerstones, and sitting on your own weight
To grasp the folly by the throat and twist him into existance
Not so much absolution
In agreement with other fancies
Prayers unanswered
Dwelling on ginger hands and knees
In *********** when his course has never enter into being....real
Or really close
His path to plunge thick into purple passionate trance
His path askew from my own
Though a followed trendy line
A drink
When it makes your journey into trees, and speed, and gluttony
A laugh
When scorned mouth spewed and sput into russet wounds already *****
A smoke
When it clogs your memory into patchwork and quilted thoughts unwoven
Youre unspoken!
You agree?
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC
WHERE has Maid Quiet gone to,
Nodding her russet hood?
The winds that awakened the stars
Are blowing through my blood.
O how could I be so calm
When she rose up to depart?
Now words that called up the lightning
Are hurtling through my heart.
7.2k
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.
Humbert Humbert 1950
Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
i dream of silk and black lipstick, leather and ice-burn
i fashion thoughts into clouds of smoke i ghost out of my mouth
into necklaces i will only ever give to you; you
are burnt russet bitten lip bleached bone coalesced into
constellation; you burn brighter
than any constellation i have ever breathed
i dream of your hipbones; stretch marks flicking over them
like lightning glimpsed between fingers; like wishbones silently pulled apart
in promise; you are wishbone you are gold plate you are sunshine
through a stained-glass window; my heart is glass
a cemetery to your footprints a cathedral to your broken
dreams; i can taste the honey in your scattered thoughts
like a prayer on my tongue
i dream of deep purple and yellow and green and
black and fading bruise and blood
at the corner of your lip; i can taste iron in your breath
rotting in my dreams slow-burning ice in my veins; vengeance
is a dish best served cold i know
that if i unfurl my skeleton and tuck you into the spaces between my
ribcage and my lungs you will taste just as sweet
i dream of ruby emerald sapphire in brooches pinned onto black i
think of the bruise-giver of the blood-spiller of cracks in my
ribcage of wishbones of constellations of iron-taste of ice-burn of you of you of you
and i let you in
and i am cathedral i am cemetery i am bonfire i am in l o v e
with constellation
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace
what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart contents?
hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic
mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips
with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?
later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity
from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat
her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;
I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally
rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,
*sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,*
which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies
5/29/17 i
12:43pm
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
*veins of my fingers in riots of blossomed colours
like threads made of lilac, lavender, blues and leafs.
for the blues are essences of the Elysian skies,
while lilacs, lavenders and leafs were stolen from an old man's farm
every dawn the sunlit blue wept for the docile stars' hide
I knock my knuckles red and wild, like the raspberries from the monsieur's farm
my chin against the beige, I gaze to where the magpies talk too loudly on the garden moist
swollen and offended by the loud chirps of boisterous dins, the grouchy neighbour cry.
I fill my baskets with wild things and papers,
I have cheese and juices, fruits and sweet carrots.
I have peach trees on my nails for jam
I have cherries in my toes for pie
I have snows in my lapin's soul for some ice creams
I have poppies in my worn pants for a good sight
And there's even vineyards of all Verona in my mind
the ribbons on the hat loom into the gardens' tunnel;
I have herb gardens, I have secret gardens
And I have my old books and pens in there.
when my laces are riven, the embroidered flowers are not.
the canvas shoes is painted in petrichors and soil
my dresses go tattered, sewn with patches
into the vines, thorns and russet throats I lilt and leap
against smells of rustic wood pencils and redolent flowers
There, under a green willow is where to sit and devour wisdom
and to drink some saccharine wine with mon lapin and maybe some picnic pies.
The abominable tremors will be gone,
My morn soul diving into fairy pools of sensuous europhias.*
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
once worn with pride
eat the wearer
up inside
they have wrinkles
lines of care
but a person isn't
what they wear
wether pink
or brownish lace
wether russet...
freckled face
wether taupe or
still ecru
wether me
or wether you
we all wear colors
on our bones
it matters not
their depth of tone!
let's take the rags
and by God's grace
make a quilt
of Jesus' FACE!
instead of hate
and wishing harm
this manifold quilt
will keep us warm!
wether you're
old aged or a youth
you're part of the quilt
and that's the TRUTH.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/8/2016
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
Winters can be tedious.
Sun dips into early dusk.
A dead fire refuses to ignite.
There's a quick repetition
of opening and closing blinds
over a barred window.
In need of reflection
I search a familiar face
in an unfamiliar landscape.
I have her in my grasp,
half illusion, half real,
a symbolic mask denies
her true face,
her glittering crown
divides us by its radiance.
Groping in darkness,
I stumble over objects
of wood and stone,
my unsteady tread tripping
over their contours.
I light a candle.
Bathed in amber light,
our shadows merge.
A new door opens,
stretching the perspective.
No formal borders here,
they wouldn't survive
the present climate.
In their place,
intricately carved
figureheads and totems-
a vision of the past.
My eye is a camera,
retinas branded with imagery
for the photographer's delight-
coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals,
tin cans, bones.....
....A Glass Sentinel
(though she isn't visible)
I can see right through her-
a vision of smokescreens
and subterfuge.
Past stumps of driftwood,
past the uncut grass,
a few flowers...
...to the fabricated backdrop
of a burning house, black smoke
rising
in
a
thin
stream.
At the open door -
The Guardian,
(I know her inside out)
unmoved,
(she didn't bat an eye)
defiant in a new skin,
a softer version-
The Mother protecting her children,
arms splayed, prepared
for fight or flight.
A russet flame
Licking her spine exhales
'Get out of my way!'
but she wasn't listening.
Smile fixed,
eyes of a phoenix,
a lion,
a raptor,
protector.
We all need feeding,
but not this way!
Throw me a cloth,
a napkin,
a man-size tissue
a lifeline!
She wanted this,
no, wished it-
this symbolism,
this burning of ironic portraits,
to clear the deck,
make way for new.
It shook the house,
its fate sealed behind closed doors.
I compose myself,
pull her back from the perilous edge,
gather her in my arms.
Fragments of shattered words
flutter in the ether.
What is real?
What is fiction?
A carbon copy of thousands?
A charred corner?
A forgotten candle?
WARNING:
'Eating fire' is a risky business
but can attract a large audience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Aquiver mellifluous ineffable hiraeth nefarious somnambulist epoch sonorous serendipitous limerence bombinate luminescence ethereal illicit petrichor iridescent supine aurora solitude syzygy phosphenes oblivion ephemeral incandescence denouement vellichor eloquence defenestration Sondra effervescence cromulent cellar-door debridement
Illustrator icon verdant cerulean aeneous albicant amaranthine azuline argent chartreuse damask ferruginous haematic hyacinthine ibis ochre primrose russet sanguineous virescent mystborn transcendence
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
*March 2002
(inspired by William Shakespeare; and an eerie
floating drowned woman in the movie Titanic)*
Adrift amid the bindweed, through the reeds,
Watching the sky with deep unblinking eyes,
She passes where the turquoise mayfly feeds,
Oblivious of all that swims or flies.
Red flowered chiffon billows to her hands
Open like water lilies in the sun,
Her skin's the colour of tropical sands,
Her russet hair shines bright as copper spun.
Fabulous jewels languish on her breast,
Rich spoils of love rendered useless in death,
Her parted lips make unspoken behest;
The rosy portal of her final breath.
Now all is cold where roiling passion flamed,
As jealous earth mourns what the river claimed.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely mood
I’ve seen the winter floods their gambols play
Through each old arch that trembled while I stood
Bent o’er its wall to watch the dashing spray
As their old stations would be washed away
Crash came the ice against the jambs and then
A shudder jarred the arches—yet once more
It breasted raving waves and stood agen
To wait the shock as stubborn as before
—White foam brown crested with the russet soil
As washed from new plough lands would dart beneath
Then round and round a thousand eddies boil
On tother side—then pause as if for breath
One minute—and engulphed—like life in death
Whose wrecky stains dart on the floods away
More swift than shadows in a stormy day
Straws trail and turn and steady—all in vain
The engulfing arches shoot them quickly through
The feather dances flutters and again
Darts through the deepest dangers still afloat
Seeming as faireys whisked it from the view
And danced it o’er the waves as pleasures boat
Light hearted as a thought in May—
Trays—uptorn bushes—fence demolished rails
Loaded with weeds in sluggish motions stray
Like water monsters lost each winds and trails
Till near the arches—then as in affright
It plunges—reels—and shudders out of sight
Waves trough—rebound—and fury boil again
Like plunging monsters rising underneath
Who at the top curl up a shaggy main
A moment catching at a surer breath
Then plunging headlong down and down—and on
Each following boil the shadow of the last
And other monsters rise when those are gone
Crest their fringed waves—plunge onward and are past
—The chill air comes around me ocean blea
From bank to bank the waterstrife is spread
Strange birds like snow spots o’er the huzzing sea
Hang where the wild duck hurried past and fled
On roars the flood—all restless to be free
Like trouble wandering to eternity
3.7k
1082
Revolution is the Pod
Systems rattle from
When the Winds of Will are stirred
Excellent is Bloom
But except its Russet Base
Every Summer be
The Entomber of itself,
So of Liberty—
Left inactive on the Stalk
All its Purple fled
Revolution shakes it for
Test if it be dead.
3.6k
WHO will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.
And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.
3.4k
drought dry only a fortnight, and no trace
of the swimmers--not a bloated bass or a skeletal carp
only a few lily pads burnt russet by the sun
all else, perverse interlopers from modernity:
bullet banged beer cans, truck tires,
and the ubiquitous bottle water plastic
waiting patiently for the next ice age
no sign of one fish that emitted a last gilled gasp here
deep beneath the bed though
progenitors rest, theirs and ours,
antediluvian, Permian, as permanent as the word allows
my footfalls above them today
tomorrow silent where they lay
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
Lumber and lacquer
Nails and elbow grease
Blood from the splinters
Before you were stripped down
From the wood
Of the forest behind our home
Standing sturdy and steadfast,
On the patio
I laid
Brick by brick
Gate keeper of the orchard that grows,
Thick in the summer
And curls up barren,
In the cold months
As if sitting on its mahogany shoulders there are
Mountains to the North West that seem
To smile with their peaks,
And valleys against the blue satin
Sheet of a sky
You who bare witness to my body and the bodies of
Countless others
Those that would just simply use you and fewer,
That would become your very grain
You are watching our conversations,
Through knots for eyes
Through bird-burrowed holes,
Hearing us,
As we break bread as brothers
Wood through the trees
Flesh from bone
Feast to famine
You are,
Beautiful and complete
As the steak,
Cooked rare
A glass of summer port–wine:
The color of the red russet potato,
And the earth-soiled hands that dug them up
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 9:25 AM UTC
*
*
Sitting in the shade of ****** lilies, is
the blessed beauty, the Heart of Summer
Her skin, shimmering russet
Her eyes, molten gold
Her lips, pouty rose buds
Her hair, a slick raven halo
Her body, curvaceous and slender
Flaunted by her diaphanous lilac robe
Through her sculpted nose, she inhales the
warm clime; her feet upon the verdure.
As she walks through the gardens, the
flowers burst into blooms, trumpets
to the song of working honey bees.
Ahead is a lake, clear, crystal and celestine,
stars dance and wink upon the surface.
She picks the daisies and adorns it in
her hair, thinking of her great empery.
Here in the palms of light and love, there
is no sin and no pain.
She hears the ringing bells of
nature, the song of wings.
'For I love all life and light,' she smiles, 'and more,
I will bring.'
*
*
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC
Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller's joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.
Posses, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger's feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.
2.9k
where do they go?
to mountains of synonyms
pushing lilac or purple
or puce or lavender
from valleys
of russet metaphors?
do verbs frollic?
nouns place themselves
before mirrors
asking themselves
"who am I?"
adjectives, do they
answer?
do the long words
most people don't
understand
do they go on
spending sprees
with their
million dollar
Lotto winnings?
do conjunctions
play matchmaker?
or hitch up
boxcars for
the more expressive
poetic engineers
to haul through
the long winds?
ghosts of past tenses
invade present
and mixed metaphors
haunt the nightmares
of learned readers.
gerunds run on
their little wheels
and stuff their cheeks
with prepositions.
where do words go
when they die?
they must hang as
DANGLING
PARTICIPLES.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
The smoke swirling upward
From my lit cigarette
Is blue and grey and silent.
The air kisses my bare skin
Cooling the summer from it.
Autumn is coming.
The trees will show their russet hair
The skies will be clouded
All will smell crisp and clean
And in this time where
Everything is dying,
I will begin anew.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
Autumn, like an Indian classical dancer, dressed up
Arrives with soft rhymes and quickening steps
She comes aglow, aglow with a rare beauty
Dancing to the bracelet's tinkling song
Her floating robe falls in deep folds around her feet
As she mesmerizes all with moves full of grace
Viewing the flaming colours in assorted display
We are apt to wonder if Nature carefully saved up
All that is best for the closing grand finale
Autumn tints look enchanting all through the land
With pervading green, offset by crimson, citrus yellow
Flaming red, lustrous gold and a faded russet
The air stays crisp and sweet in the ripening fields
While stray clouds ramble in flawless turquoise sky
When autumn is thus all agog like a frenzied dervish
It gives us morbid pictures of death and decay
The trees wrestle to free themselves of their worn cloaks
Causing a cascade of withering autumn leaves
Now they fall scattered in endless stream and lie in piles
Like charred carcasses after a fierce forest fire
The rustle of dry leaves blown by the wind
Falls in our ears with the gabble of migrating birds
Pale sunshine sifts through leafless trees of maple and oak
All those leaves once stayed regal in stations high
But now tossed out like worthless chaff
They come nose diving and fall several meters below
Spreading a hazel curtain over the moist earthen crust
When trampled mercilessly by careless feet
They silently mourn their thankless fate
Graying that comes at the end of each autumnal fall
Reminds us of the pall of gloom that awaits
It is disturbing like the parting song of birds
As they fly southward before the fall of winter
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
The nightingale gives way
to the ruddy dawn and foam blooms
overhead among the early watercolour
skies.
I hear a blue-tit (or robin) whistling it's tune
through the bulbs which rise bouncing
from the rippling sea of soil,
growing in seamless swathes beneath
the leaves silken pink.
The sun dapples through, reflecting
a rosy hue into the glass
dew drops fast melting
into the thirsty earth, and peeps
over the treetops before
gradually bowing his glinting head.
Old daffodils turn russet
in the golden day
and wrinkle
as the clouds blush.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
A crumpled dress thrown like rags
upon the floor.
The hopeless, desperate appeal
of rumpled bed sheets, a fortress of
your own.
Waiting for a message in silence,
curled and surrounded by your
dismembered pieces.
The days when you shy away from
the light;
Wrapped in a wall of quiet,
except this isn’t calm.
It’s an unbearable weight,
marking impressions on your skin.
It’s a deep, roaring stillness;
gushing, rolling and sweeping around
everything you touch.
People can leer,
eyes prying to find what
little cracks you speak of.
But they are immune to what you feel,
layered beneath your skin;
what you see etched in coloured mixes,
painted brushstrokes making art around you;
what you hear and sense;
what you think, to yourself,
the countless visions and places you peek
behind doors unknown to them.
The freedom you alone shall know;
yet all the painful days to follow.
The brilliance you alone can seek;
yet the relentless torments you are to meet.
The feats of strength, russet desire and
hidden depths you could show;
yet all the nervous energy,
self conscious woe you show.
You can be the exhibit of both worlds.
You know what it is to feel the deep burn
of quiet pain inside,
yet the warmth of healing and the
fiery blaze of strength.
Be the exhibit you know you are.
Render even the most lonely and heartbreaking
of your moments beautiful.
Because they truly are.
You may feel broken, torn and ripped in places
you long forgot could be wounded.
You may feel empty, insides carved out for
another’s purposes.
You may feel bereft, lost, confused and vague,
feeling the frightening gaze of the unknown making you
their favourite puppet.
But burdens can be treasures.
Use them and invite people to your show.
Make them laugh, cry and grow.
Your burdens and treasures are necessary,
to be the exact person you are.
Without them there is numbing, nothing.
And you,
you can be more beautiful than that.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC