"sash" poems
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
But I am relieved.
Not being confined in bright velvets
of the West, or shimmering silks of
the East. Each hand-stitched with
animals and flowers, crystals and
furs, with gold and silver to
parade around in Court.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
I find far more splendour in a simple
iris-purple kimono-robe, lightweight,
silk-satin and printed with lilies with
a pink silk trim. It strokes my ankles,
and the sleeves, they billow; the sash
firmly fastened around my waist.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
My handmaid, Ilazi, presents a gilded
bowl with the purest form of fruits -
the ones that were rain-washed. I have
a variety to choose from - strawberries,
blueberries, peaches, green, red and
black grapes which I pick and nibble
on. Hmm, a succulent balance of
sweetness and ****
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And then my senior handmaid, Anihana,
arrives with a tray in hand, clearly made
from stainless steel with rose-gold accents.
'Sweet Queen,' says she. At the wave of my
hand, the music stops. 'Forgive me for
keeping you waiting. I know how particular
you are with your pearls so I narrowed
them to your favourite three choices.'
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Thank you,' I say and as I lean up, she
presents three cream-hued scrolls.
'Lists,' says she, 'of all the ship's
inventory. Would you like to
inspect them, my lady?'
'I will after some tea, Ainhana,
thank you.'
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Anihana nods and moves by my side
as my eyes fall on the tray's contents.
A small silver five-minute sand-timer,
a glass teapot with bamboo handle,
an infuser and steel lid half filled
with hot water; steam dancing
out of the spout. Then, a lovely
glass teacup, one of the most
beautiful I've seen yet.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
As the years go by, give me but peace,
Freedom from ten thousand matters.
I ask myself and always answer:
What can be better than coming home?
A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash,
And my lute is bright with the mountain moon.
You ask me about good and evil fortune?....
Hark, on the lake there's a fisherman singing!
6.2k
School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look—
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings—
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick—
like a carnation each holds in her hand—
they mount the lonely street.
6.2k
That's Mugwort
and that's Red Sorrel
and that over there
is Red Campion
Jane said
we were walking
on the Downs
the sky
summery warm
almost cloudless
cattle mooed nearby
a flock of birds
flew over
our heads
her hand held mine
skin on skin
warm
soft
I sensed an appley scent
about her
we had kissed
the day before
and it had been
other worldly
and now
I wanted to kiss again
but didn't want
to push forward
but wait to see
what happened
and that
she said
is White Deadnettle
smiling at me
you know
the countryside well
I said
well you Londoners
know nothing of it
but at least
you want to learn
she said
I liked the flowery dress
she was wearing
red and yellow
with a yellow sash
tied about her
and the white
ankle socks
and black shoes
(slightly muddy)
I observed her carefully
wanting to know
more of her
of nature
of us
and that bird back there
was a pheasant
she said
we paused
in the corn field
and looked back
up towards the Downs
and she turned to me
and kissed me
and held me close
and I felt almost
absorbed into her body
and wanted
to feel more and more
and she parted
and said
I'm no expert
on kissing
was that all right?
not sure
I'll need to try again
I said smiling
and she took my hand
and squeezed it
and kissed me again
and the cattle
mooed louder
and a bird
flew overhead spying
before it took off
in the sky high flying.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
I was awoken from a dreamless sleep
By a boy with short brown hair,
Who, with an urgent stare,
Told me to head to the showers!
As my eyes creaked open to recognize,
The orange glow of this unfamiliar room’s lighting,
In front of me, in handwritten writing,
A page on the wall showed three in the morning.
When I glanced around a room of shared bunks,
I saw all sorts of people and things,
Running around with things to bring
To these showers I had yet to see.
In a winding line down a high ceiling’d hall,
I stood with so many,
Who like me, hadn’t any
Idea what was going on.
With a whirlwind flurry of commotion
Steam crawled from the showers and water sprayed,
As we were told in a big disarray,
To wash off the place from whence we came.
In a neat little stack, I was handed my clothes
A tunic, with a sash
And a captivating mask
To “celebrate our exciting return home.”
Down dark rustic stairways, I watched like a child
The vibrant light and affinity,
Radiating with enchanting divinity,
From the otherworldly people and creatures below.
Through that noisy, jolly crowd,
We were led as a group
And the boy said with a whoop
That we were all to stand up and dance.
His eyes glinting with excitement,
The brown haired boy explained
That our spirits would be ordained
Through a celebration of our inner light.
Onto the stage I was led
As I stood with my class,
Nervous amongst the mass
Of silent, numerous spirits before us.
As the boy hit the music
I felt something from deep inside
Rush out like a tide
And through tears of joy, I danced.
It was at that gleeful moment
That my friends and I,
Realizing we'd died,
Knew we'd returned to the forest.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
At the sound of my name, I see the faces
turn and smiles of many friends;
Queen Sue of Ruikruya in her lilac silks,
Queen Sarita of Khaikar in orange silks,
Queen Deb of Daegeral in magenta,
Queen Kim of Geniael in creams,
Queen Robin of Naeneiana in periwinkles,
Queen Fawn of Yuamor in red-violets,
Queen Dawn of Khesian in dandelion-orange,
Queen Jugnu of Enuryn in jade-greens,
Queen Yidna of Puhan in indigos,
Queen Cne of Phelyra in turquoise,
Queen Xaela of Lonusea in peach,
Queen Ayumi of Wadia in tan-gold,
Queen Sheila of Naizzuzia in cornflower-blue,
Queen Stars of Yurithireatha in green-yellow
✿⊰✲⊱✿
King Edmund and his wife in matching
forest-greens attires,
King Omni of Khaniel in silvers,
King Emeka of Ghalali in white,
King Devon of Monait in blue-violets,
King Fugue of Thavia in blacks,
King Yacov of Igrador in olive-green,
King Joseph of Eaqellurene in bronze,
King Fredrick of Emirinait in mauve,
King Rob of Balan in sea-green,
King John of Khesian in melon-red,
King Aslam of Ikaesa in deep plum,
King Brandon of Huarean in ocher,
King Kikodinho of Izugalla in taupe,
King Jobira of Zavalon in orange-red
and many many more.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
And last but not least, King Paul of
Luciuscemi himself in emerald-and-gold.
He wears his favourite emerald green
jacket with ruby buttons, bright gold
embroidery of suns and lions; his sleeves
stitched with pearls and rubies to match
the red sash across his chest; his trousers
black as are his boots, but even they have
gold laces.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Maid in China
she was my ayi in Shanghai
a diminutive young lady with a beautiful smile
tough as nails though small and shy
everyday she would walk a dusty mile
to cook and clean at my whim
and bathe my tense body of beaded sweat
after working out at the private gym
her mastery of sponge I would never forget
her soft hands and pale skin a visual treat
her dark hair and eyes that glitter like an Asian moon
large Persian towel there to dry my feet
offering me a taste without the use of spoon
she was my maid but more my lover
though her duties she refused to dash
she had pride like no one other
her naked body shown thru undone sash
I sweep her up and take her in my arms
carry her to my bed of silken sheets
for hours I avail myself of her charms
with rice wine and candied sweets
her kisses sweet and always select
the beauty of her warm wet ******
she knew the ways to keep me *****
she was my perfect maid in China
Gomer LePoet....
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
She loosens on tiptoe
the latch of her window,
slides upward the sash
and the shine of the moon
pours over the sill,
like it's rushing downhill
like a silver stream,
flooding her room.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
Some days I am Ana's teacher, some days she is mine.
This morning, we look through her kitchen window,
the one she can't get clean, cobwebs massed
between sash and pane. The sky is blue-gold, almost
the color of home.
Ana, I say, each winter
I get more lonely. Both of us would like the sun
to linger as that round fruit in June, but Ana says
it's better to forget what you used to know...
4.6k
I
The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and the Tongs,
They all took a drive in the Park,
And they each sang a song, Ding-a-dong, Ding-a-dong,
Before they went back in the dark.
Mr. Poker he sate quite upright in the coach,
Mr. Tongs made a clatter and clash,
Miss Shovel was all dressed in black (with a brooch),
Mrs. Broom was in blue (with a sash).
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
And they all sang a song!
II
'O Shovel so lovely!' the Poker he sang,
'You have perfectly conquered my heart!
'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! If you're pleased with my song,
'I will feed you with cold apple ****
'When you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound,
'You encapture my life with delight!
'Your nose is so shiny! your head is so round!
'And your shape is so slender and bright!
'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
'Ain't you pleased with my song?'
III
'Alas! Mrs. Broom!' sighed the Tongs in his song,
'O is it because I'm so thin,
'And my legs are so long--Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
'That you don't care about me a pin?
'Ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room,
'Ah! why don't you heed my complaint!
'Must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful Broom,
'Because you are covered with paint?
'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
'You are certainly wrong!'
IV
Mrs. Broom and Miss Shovel together they sang,
'What nonsense you're singing to-day!'
Said the Shovel, 'I'll certainly hit you a bang!'
Said the Broom, 'And I'll sweep you away!'
So the Coachman drove homeward as fast as he could,
Perceiving their anger with pain;
But they put on the kettle and little by little,
They all became happy again.
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
There's an end of my song!
4.2k
I should have lived to thank you more,
where the blue dots and the green dots
met on a stormy porch-front streaming
crack-paint, blank and dirt from years
of games on the blurry tabletops.
Years of games.
We should have walked in the fields,
you the tide swelling and falling and
ultimately disgorging universes of all
you used to know: the good and the small
and the stern and the silly and the cruel.
The good and the small.
He will take your place in the shows,
in all the nightlies and the dailies,
grey hat and black sash. He is taller
by far, and you can't look up to someone
that unabashedly taller than you.
Grey hat and black sash.
You would have made time for me between
strides on the honest diamond of the sky,
and I? I might not listen at all, but
the pearl in the glasses, those awful
brown glasses would stay with me.
I might not listen at all.
She sat with us many evenings as the
winds raked the small lights of our speech.
What has become of her, I wonder more
frequently, but sleep with my head
on my hands all the same.
Sleep with my head on my hands.
They call me under the door, they call.
They fill me with themselves until I'm out.
Just what they want from me and less. Still,
they can't tell me the good and the small,
The fact that deep down I am nothing at all.
The fact that deep down I am nothing at all.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
I
On a little piece of wood,
Mr. Spikky Sparrow stood;
Mrs. Sparrow sate close by,
A-making of an insect pie,
For her little children five,
In the nest and all alive,
Singing with a cheerful smile
To amuse them all the while,
Twikky wikky wikky wee,
Wikky bikky twikky tee,
Spikky bikky bee!
II
Mrs. Spikky Sparrow said,
'Spikky, Darling! in my head
'Many thoughts of trouble come,
'Like to flies upon a plum!
'All last night, among the trees,
'I heard you cough, I heard you sneeze;
'And, thought I, it's come to that
'Because he does not wear a hat!
'Chippy wippy sikky tee!
'Bikky wikky tikky mee!
'Spikky chippy wee!
III
'Not that you are growing old,
'But the nights are growing cold.
'No one stays out all night long
'Without a hat: I'm sure it's wrong!'
Mr. Spikky said 'How kind,
'Dear! you are, to speak your mind!
'All your life I wish you luck!
'You are! you are! a lovely duck!
'Witchy witchy witchy wee!
'Twitchy witchy witchy bee!
Tikky tikky tee!
IV
'I was also sad, and thinking,
'When one day I saw you winking,
'And I heard you sniffle-snuffle,
'And I saw your feathers ruffle;
'To myself I sadly said,
'She's neuralgia in her head!
'That dear head has nothing on it!
'Ought she not to wear a bonnet?
'Witchy kitchy kitchy wee?
'Spikky wikky mikky bee?
'Chippy wippy chee?
V
'Let us both fly up to town!
'There I'll buy you such a gown!
'Which, completely in the fashion,
'You shall tie a sky-blue sash on.
'And a pair of slippers neat,
'To fit your darling little feet,
'So that you will look and feel,
'Quite galloobious and genteel!
'Jikky wikky bikky see,
'Chicky bikky wikky bee,
'Twikky witchy wee!'
VI
So they both to London went,
Alighting on the Monument,
Whence they flew down swiftly--pop,
Into Moses' wholesale shop;
There they bought a hat and bonnet,
And a gown with spots upon it,
A satin sash of Cloxam blue,
And a pair of slippers too.
Zikky wikky mikky bee,
Witchy witchy mitchy kee,
Sikky tikky wee.
VII
Then when so completely drest,
Back they flew and reached their nest.
Their children cried, 'O Ma and Pa!
'How truly beautiful you are!'
Said they, 'We trust that cold or pain
'We shall never feel again!
'While, perched on tree, or house, or steeple,
'We now shall look like other people.
'Witchy witchy witchy wee,
'Twikky mikky bikky bee,
Zikky sikky tee.'
3.5k
All these knives in my back
They don't even hurt anymore
I mean, I'm sore
And it's intense
But it doesn't make any sense
I must be at war
With myself
Tearing apart the insides of my brain
Have I gone insane?
Why do I
Keep letting these things
Happen to me?
Is there a sign taped to my back
Saying "Torture ME"?
"Take Advantage Of ME"?
"Love Me And Leave ME"?
What's wrong with me?
All this backstabbing
Take this pen
And drag the ink into my spine
Use the blood drops as a tattoo design
The scars from all the knives
Will just make it look more divine
Maybe some Angel wings
With a sash torn apart
and "Nobody Loves ME"
Written across the heart
Might as well throw it all away
Throw it all out the door
I'm sore
But all these knives in my back
Don't even hurt anymore
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look—
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings—
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick—
like a carnation each holds in her hand—
they mount the lonely street.
2.7k
You, story master of comparison
Can you see without your Claritin?
Even the tools of your insight
Have they helped to make things right?
The story of your life
Is one among many
Your unique point of view
May only be true for you
And those that think like you do
There really is something to this wish fulfillment
But don’t think because you saw it out there
It’s the lords’ prayer.
So thinkers think
and
lovers’ love
and
dreamers continue in dreams.
Still, everything is not what it seems.
We think we are above
the beautiful greenery
scenery that we see
but did you ever see a tree
compare itself to another
Said one tree to another:
Your foliage is a pale shade of yellow
Your bark is a lark
And you can’t play the cello
Like me
What kind of tree can you be?
Do the bees share their honey
or
does one crafty bee have a secret stash
hidden below the window sash
that he’s saving for a rainy day,
A getaway?
Did you ever hear a songbird say
My song is sweeter than yours.
My high notes higher
On swifter wings do I soar.
If you’re tempted like me
To let a bee be a bee
And a tree be a tree
You will understand
If you want to soar
Don’t first attempt it from the highest floor
Don’t think there is a highest floor
Don’t think you need to soar
Don’t try to understand
Just let a bee be a bee
A tree be a tree
These are the things will set you free
Like the wind
You will wind like a gentle breeze
Then gust if you must
Never making a fuss
Don’t think you are,
Were, will ever be, anything
More or less than me,
Us, you, they, whoever
It was when I realized that all my trying
Simply wasn’t working
And I gave up.
But all it caused to say was
****
I get it,
I really do
But,
Personally
If I want to keep you near dear
I must set you free dear
Understand it’s very hard for me
I think you’ll agree.
I know what to do
Doesn’t mean I’ll do it
I’m not like a gentle breeze
More like a hurricane than a sneeze
Depends on your point of view
Because you see me,
Through you.
It’s true.
I have no idea what that means
It may be true
For all I know
I said so I should have meant it
I think it’s more like
I see through you,
Too
You can come out of the closet
And I will come out too,
But only with you.
Because we are the only two in there.
I don’t see anyone else.
Do you?
I’m not suggesting what you think
Far from it
So far from it
You know what I mean
No point in explaining
If nobody gets it
You do
And you’re not complaining.
So if you don’t want to be a bored buddha,
Eat some bread and buttar
Don’t forget to shutter
Stutter
Flutter
Mutter
Never rebut her
Never say mame
Because you found the only ******
And now you’re in a jam.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
AY, 'twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk "She had
heard all that nonsense before."
She'd the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she'd done up her hair in the style that
the Empress had brought into fashion.
I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri -
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That "the place was so crowded and hot, and
she couldn't abide that Dundreary."
Then I thought "Lucky boy!
'Tis for YOU that she whimpers!"
And I noted with joy
Those sensational simpers:
And I said "This is scrumptious!" - a
phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.
And I vowed "'Twill be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white,
and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!"
O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise -
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear,
by a tempest of sighs.
Then I whispered "I see
The sweet secret thou keepest.
And the yearning for ME
That thou wistfully weepest!
And the question is 'License or Banns?',
though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest."
"Be my Hero," said I,
"And let ME be Leander!"
But I lost her reply -
Something ending with "gander" -
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no
mortal could quite understand her.
2.5k
Old age think good quiet
Everything not concern heart
Self attend without great plan
Empty know return old forest
Pine wind blow undo belt
Hill moon light pluck qin
Gentleman ask end open reason
Fisherman song enter riverbank deep
Now in old age, I know the value of silence,
The world's affairs no longer stir my heart.
Turning to myself, I have no greater plan,
All I can do is return to the forest of old.
Wind from the pine trees blows my sash undone,
The moon shines through the hills; I pluck the qin.
You ask me why the world must rise and fall,
Fishermen sing on the steep banks of the river.
2.5k
my breakfast of thesaurus
and chorus.
as to not miss
that quick bliss,
moment
of genius.
forcing wit; i’m done with it.
i lay in bed and moan:
"mouth was a blue sash of rain
raining convocations of flesh."
like Sonia Sanchez said in her poem
to Nina Simone.
“owls coo, only see blue,
and through storm windows,
they yawn like nothing’s new."
what did my words just do to you?
i hate all the rhyming
all the timing.
the
whining.
all this meditating
and levitating.
but if you don’t swat the fly,
you become the fly.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
Blood on a show white landscape
Grace of the dancer in silk wrapping
She seduces, sleek and ornamental
Wearing a masterpiece of the sunset
Burnt orange and gold adorns her
My Geisha, my ultimate Queen
With eyes like the sea, she flows like water
She’ll break down my **** without exertion
With her sash of mahogany around her stomach
Binding back her heart and free will
Eventually I will cage this fluttering bird
Steal her and keep her in my guardian walls
With eyes averted she keeps the sake flowing
Giving me a quirk of lips before fleeing
A sigh escapes my wary body
Will my white dove ever follow me home..?
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
She writeth mellifluous calligraphy
When she speaketh in her mother tongue;
She's ineffable, irresistible,
Tis, she's mine chosen one.
Her kaleidoscopic ambience
pirouettes around mine being, heaven's own, the most beautiful soul; O' how I'm blessed with this queen.
Supine I layeth, looking aloft mine glimpse, a brightness flashed, in Asian sash, turtle shell's around her hips.
At that moment, I hadst an epiphany, I was finally living, to God I owed thanksgiving, for this archangel he hadst sent to me.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
Pink Muhly blushing in the April winds , White Dogwoods tell
of their direction as cloud cover divides the storm tempted distance .. Native grass sash shays across the motherland dale , seedlings ride the afternoon whispers , boldly appear from her earthly protectorate , epochs born of magenta horizons and Peregrine ballads ...
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
There is a beetle on the high street,
pushing the sun along at a fraction-
0f-a-mile-per-hour. He is pondering
his plans for the summer.
Perhaps different venues?
Perhaps different dung?
But he knows it's all foolishness.
He never goes anywhere.
Then a god falls out of the sky.
Not a particularly large one,
a medium-sized god as far as
they go. Roughly human-
shaped. Not counting those
streaming banners of fire
that pour from his eyes.
Few humans have burning eyes.
A dagger drips from an open
wound and he clenches his
blood (it is his own blood) in his hand.
More are coming he realizes.
All of them. And he's quite
correct. Without trumpets or
lights or choruses or bowls or
scrolls, it starts to rain.
The beetle pauses in his
pilgrimage to survey the
man underneath the god's feet.
A hand in a crater of asphalt
with a keen, nigh-inaudible
wheeze of breath. A cough
and a choke.
And the beetle scuttles on.
They fall from clouds that aren't,
I mean, actually in the sky. They crush
buildings and businessmen, They
eat fountains. They descend into an
unthinkable and unthinking
age like a dizzied chorus that cannot
pick up on the beat. Purple sash
and green helm, They build mountains.
Teeth chip around the clay- the men
and women- like fireworks.
The gods' great works resolve
like a finished slider puzzle, like the
back of the sun. Mannequins watch
the moving marble for a moment.
But the Mutes eventually find a voice,
they shout, they run into the fray.
Tantalus' mouth fills with
wine. The beetle walks around his
head. Sisyphus' back was broken
by a boulder. The poor little fellow
descends into an inferno and
climbs the devil's back like a
Purgative mountaineer. Such struggle,
thinks he, to have to take a detour.
Sky sets fire to the shell pink
sun at night.
The liquid spheres engulf ideas
on a dry stretch of ocean.
Clouds splinter in a victor's hands,
are frozen shut.
and everything sinks back home
in the middle of a wor
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 2:32 PM UTC
tickity-clickity whirr went my father to set
the little merry-go-round musicbox by my bed
with its adorbsable mini-suction cups lining
purple porcelain tentacles
winding round and round
lulling gently with that nostalgic ice-cream truck tune
reminding me of sweet tang juicy mango slush
on a hot afternoon
where the posh-painted ponies fly by with the tide rising up and down
in a seaside villa of some spanish town
in all the grandness of their primary colors so carefully chosen to brush
at the command of a fairy princess with her crown gold-gilded
she's twirling whirling, a mechanical ballerina on springs
gracefully petite her frame, so small the sash on her shoulder
that slips in the breeze to catch the eye of a little soldier
in his regimentals properly fitted, buttoned in brass
a lass like me lovingly adoring bunnies in top hats and bow ties
spats on their feet to tap dance for me
in my dreams the never ending spin of a teacup party
the catch of a hook where the lullaby loses flight
but I'm already asleep with a kiss goodnight
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
She walks on velvet, swaying hips
Flashes a grin, the poise she keeps
And for her query:
What makes you happy?
She waves her hand ever gently.
She walks in skin and bones collapsing
Flashes a grin, but near to fainting
With this she answers:
Loose clothes and shivers
She eats her dinner in reverse.
Blood is her carpet, blades are her sash
She keeps on walking - feline
Fits the crown of purging - rash
'Til she gets to be the beauty queen.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.
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