"sashes" poems
Today I feel light and free
As my hair is caressed by the breeze
Bright, beautiful, magical
Today has promised and will fulfil
Today, I rise in glory
Like a Phoenix reborn from ashes
Beautifully clothed in red satin sashes
Glorious like Pegasus on Mount Olympus
Today I rise, I soar in splendour
As the day keeps unveiling all her grandeur
Let the chains of yesterday break away!
Today is here, I will not cling to yesterday!
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
A friend sends her perfumed carriage
And high-bred horses to fetch me.
I decline the invitation of
My old poetry and wine companion.
I remember the happy days in the lost capital.
We took our ease in the woman's quarters.
The Feast of Lanterns was elaborately celebrated -
Folded pendants, emerald hairpins, brocaded girdles,
New sashes - we competed
To see who was most smartly dressed.
Now I am withering away,
Wind-blown hair, frost temples.
I prefer to stay beyond the curtains,
And listen to talk and laughter
I can no longer share.
2.6k
My heart is what it was before,
A house where people come and go;
But it is winter with your love,
The sashes are beset with snow.
I light the lamp and lay the cloth,
I blow the coals to blaze again;
But it is winter with your love,
The frost is thick upon the pane.
I know a winter when it comes:
The leaves are listless on the boughs;
I watched your love a little while,
And brought my plants into the house.
I water them and turn them south,
I snap the dead brown from the stem;
But it is winter with your love,—
I only tend and water them.
There was a time I stood and watched
The small, ill-natured sparrows’ fray;
I loved the beggar that I fed,
I cared for what he had to say,
I stood and watched him out of sight;
Today I reach around the door
And set a bowl upon the step;
My heart is what it was before,
But it is winter with your love;
I scatter crumbs upon the sill,
And close the window,—and the birds
May take or leave them, as they will.
2.3k
The wrinkles
they are a bit faded
but have a gentle presence
that fits with the folds
of the 16thC altar cloth
once ****** white
but now stained
through years of use
bread and tears
or wine
and tiny rice biscuits!
The Christ on the cross
is very old
made of painted wood
and the altar is surrounded
with a fence
of turned table-leg like posts
pale blue
as is much of the interior
perhaps denoting Heaven
and as the psalms
waft music round about
we look through the windows
to the listening hills
and streams
the old birds
wise
will sit watching too
and all the people
will suddenly feel their age
wow what a display of flowers
the church was as full of them as people
I put in the only black dress I had with dark pink roses on it too and I cut the rim of a black felt hat that had cost only Kr. 10.- in scollops and diamond cuts around the crown as it was too big for me.
Then I walked down to the valley to the church, and when I entered was ushered to the very front pew, I said there must be more important family members than me to be seated, I could hide in the balcony or something but he insisted. So I had a good view of the proceedings!
It think several hours waiting the ***** playing quietly in the background and finally things began to happen.
I sat next to a black man, he was already dressed in black!!! The white robed "prest" came into view and with his powerful voice sang twice as loud as the congregation.
After all the flower sashes had been repetitively read out, we left the church following the coffin to its final resting place.
And just as had happened in the church the priest mentioned the sun and its rays came through the windows, and as he threw on the "earth to earth, dust to dust," it broke through the grey clouds again and lit up the gay flowers, the frame of black and white onlookers many in tears watching.
Margaret Ann Waddicor
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
Amerikeisha tapping out the drumbeat with her see through plastic mechanical pencil
Me sidewinding my way through highschool
Dizzy Gillespie's trumpet waking the souls that are buried in the lockers,
Chick Corea and I are returning to forever
The land where summer is the only season
And daisy dukes are greatly appreciated,
John Coltrane is helping me realize
How beautiful girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes are,
I've been dancing to Dave Brubeck since this morning
And I can't get Maria out of my head
I just picture Maria
As this girl
Feeling Pretty
Oh so pretty
I imagine if I saw her in the street
I wouldn't double take
But Take Five
Charlie Parker playing saxophone like
It's as easy as brushing his teeth,
Nat King Cole
Serenading Hispanic women with his soothing tone
Robert Glasper experimenting with his music
Burning you brain like mentholated cough drops
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
*Raindrops on roses,
And wiskers on kittens,
Don't know if I really wore mittons,
But I can be sure,
Nothing came in brown paper packages,
Which were tied up with strings,*
*So I asure you,
These are not some of my favourite things!
Cream colored ponies,
No! Crisp apple poodles,
Sorry if I made a mistake,
I'll go with noodles,
White owls that fly with some
Food in their beaks,
I assure you,
These are some of my unfavourite things!*
*Girls in white dresses,
With blue satin sashes,
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes,
Silver white winters that melt into spring,
Well,
These are a few of my favourite things!*
When the dog barks,
When the bees sting,
When I feel like shouting!
I simply remember my unfavourite things!
and then all I feel is,
too bad!
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
We all own other people.
In parts.
We cut out the things we want with words and wear the pieces as badges
Medals.
Blood dripping sashes.
Words are knives and we ask for the cuts people may deign to give us
We want to be owned in those parts so we can own them in turn.
I wonder what pieces
I've let people take from me?
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a ***** I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM 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
I'm told that I should dream so brightly
Light bound blades and angel swords
Care not to close my eye too tightly
So long as it's right side of war.
But I can't sleep with lights so singing
Torture methods loved by good
When bright roots down my words mid-winging
My walking tiptoes turn to wood.
Let me go where winter follows
Play with wisp-lights in the dark
Friends with larks and darker swallows
Bending trees to leave my mark.
A candle lit midsummer night
Burns stronger come the Yuletide snow
Mirrors lie more than lover's sight
March's Ides won't blind me so.
So let me taint my wings with ashes
Chip my sword with ****** smiles
Wear my words in tattered sashes
Beat a path towards every mile
You color with a paper paste
Richer blends don't fit your mold
Now isn't that just such a waste?
You've lost your palette to the cold.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
October butterflies
game against blue skies,
wind that gusts indifferent
fading buddleia’s
purple sashes
give one last hurrah
to the peacock, admiral,
as the lowering sun
sees through wings that were
#autumn #fall #october #butterflies #turnturnturn
Oct 24, 2021
Oct 24, 2021 at 7:51 AM UTC
I want my heart to feel like the great Salt Lakes, reaching towards each other, constantly suspended in the moment just before contact. I want to build this anticipation, but my patience is shorter than your last haircut, when we sat by the river to discuss model trains.
I want my mind to feel like a hummingbird when it finally lands to rest on the red plastic device filled with sugar water outside my mother’s kitchen window, but I’m quite a ways from home now and have been for a while.
I want my stomach to feel like the tree roots, the red oaks, the ones that dwarf me and that I know would let me get my favorite kind of lost in their home, the kind we planned on visiting after graduation, but I am usually stuck in maple sap.
I want my mouth to taste like strawberries, ripened scarlet in the sun, the kind my tall friend’s mother mashes up with sour rhubarb for the perfect jam to last us through winter, but more often than not, my teeth are coffee-stained and my tongue tends to be too sharp for delicate berries.
I want my skin to feel like satin ribbons, the kind that tie little girl sashes before holy events and parties where they dance on their father’s toes for the first time, and find it perfectly marvelous, but I am covered in scratches and marks from building enormities.
I am a patchwork from the most meaningless scraps. I was a junkyard doll with mismatch buttons eyes and melted cardboard shoes. My head is a garbage heap left out too long, my eyes are scooping all of it up, and my dress is made of someone else’s throwaway linen. My aluminum can hands stretch out for anyone’s how-town while I think of shoestring revues and paper mache.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Diluted in fluency
Whirling through a world
A canary in a coal mine
Burning the oil
Sashes of solubles
Solvents of solidarity
Emptied cages
Gleaming from a cave
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
I want to roll down that grassy hill,
Again in Mississippi bare-footed
In my ‘petticoated’, polka-dotted flouncy dress,
Sashes hanging untied down the back.
And walk through the fragrant gardens
Of brogan wearing old-maid great aunts;
Hiding half-way behind her dress,
Clinging to the wrinkly flesh of my Granny’s arm.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
I look forward
to real smiles
to seeing friends I haven't seen in awhile
to looking into your eyes when you tell me I'm beautiful
And knowing it's true
to feeling loved
to feeling so full
I look forward
to frayed ends of ribbons tied together
to sashes and passion all about
to happiness and fairness
to being with a person who would understand
to having more than just my pen
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
The road to the South Hills always
has a message for me, always wants
to whisper something secret to me.
This special autumn day it's a
message that the hills have groomed
themselves and are ready for me
to be overwhelmed by their beauty.
The hills await me, the road whispers,
and the road reveals to me how
the hills have clothed themselves—
brightest autumn finery brought out
again this year from stuffy, hidden
trunks, with gold and yellow dresses
now covering the spindly legs
and knobby knees of quaking aspen,
while brilliant saffron sashes gird
the expanse beyond the trees,
with willows trimmed in scarlet
and ochre meadows completing
fall's wardrobe, but for the mist.
Above it all, a misty veil hovers softly
between trees and mountains on days
such as this. Of course I'm perfectly
willing to be lead by the road, for
I relish where it always seems to lead—
for this road never lies to me.
--
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 2:46 PM UTC
Ocean eyes
so deep and blue
I drown in their hue
beautiful and intoxicating
I promise I’m not overrating
Long lashes
silken sashes
but what enthrals
most of all
is the love that I see
When they gaze at me
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
And the jejune...just like that
it leaves my life.
And the mundane of it all?
The looking of both ways and crossing,
The tieing of shoelaces...
the washing of hands.
And the dullness of it all suddenly shines like a sharpened knife
on a darkened shelf
in a forgotten home
That is now just a house.
Glistens like that. Out of place and unexpected.
And all of the sudden
the sun lifts her goddess body
stretching forth her sinewy limbs,
just for me ...playfully fondles my skin with heat.
Undeserving, inconsiderate me.
And without any predisposition
the ocean dredges the finest, tiniest grains of sand
for me,
for me.
Vain.
Reckless me.
Turns over an hourglass glistening with his diamond dust
and just like that...
And I am grateful, yes I am humbled.
And I will clutch it, I will seize it.
I will patronize, I will hoard.
And I will covet it, herald. Proclaim.
And I will know that time? Seconds hands, he stroke me now. Hours wind around my wrist and bind my eyes with red slithery silken sashes-
And Love? Fickle stroke of her pen and just like that
I am chosen.
Moved from the side of the street where a damp mold covers the crumbling bricks...
and the people I pass, they look up at me now
nodding with a secret knowing. Because
we are chosen for this love, We are the elite. Plucked from the remaining pugilists.
And just like that he loves me.
Just like that it swallows me whole
...And just like that, love.
Sahn 7/2/2014
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Still Gabriella swears by the colour red,
Torn sashes of yesterday can only consume
the mindset of her forgotten azure,
as the neck of dawn sneaks accidentally,
Yellow's parody the greater shame,
no school or satchels of mouldy black,
behind the lumme
she needed more time,
like a fulcrum balancing taciturn's turn.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
In the quiet of the night as the world slept
well into December, there were no spirits to dredge nor scars as such. I didn't have vices that demanded much. NON SUCH.
A few insomniacs from my tribe burned fresh wicks of discontent as flickering light from static devices crept through half drawn sashes living rooms. But for me
Non Such.
Smell of sweet night grass and stilted Oleander,crickets startled into apnea.
Dogs sending smoke signals of solitary
illumination. But I, non such.
A pace of great deliberation.
Resounding over dated concrete tablets do mark my time in moonlite.
But peace of mind.Nonsuch.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:46 AM UTC
Tempest triumph turmoil tomb
Seeketh life or seeketh whom
Ashes, bones lay beneath me
Humble yourself, so you can see
A wide range of locus holograms
Pinched around like metal prams
Escape none to route a way
Knuckles grit, sinking everyday
Dark puffed, stuffed grey matter
Auction solidarity is no better
Speech of silence, clouds of rain
Piercing pledging pleading pain
Thy grace, I praise as heavens open
Not above but a voice has spoken
Walk the steps downs, the voices called
Come to us, you belong to our world
Pushed dragged and pulled a few miles
Clowned faces, greet with smiles
Mummified shrouds hang like dolls
Eyes spring out like the tennis *****
Dredged with stinkful skillful spills
Rainbow colored infinite pills
Wide-eyed blinks match the flurocent
Contour light lights up the magnificent
Bridges burn birthing ashes
Torn ripped ***** worn sashes
Two hands praying, Lord save our nation
Two legs walk, it's another fashion
Rotten forgotten the limpage lives
All hands stuck in the money hives
Online tariff tragic traffic terror
Highlights viral vital error
Known unknown captured in doubts
Strapped bodies spillage by mouths
Shots of needles through my veins
End of life, foregone with pains!
©sim
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:54 PM UTC
In the streets of Delhi advertised on every sign,
Is the British army’s need for you to buy buy buy.
It may cost your turban, your home your family, and the worn clothes.
But it’s for the greater good right? of the empire of them ‘s and those.
When you pass the gender and notice his cracked lips,
And coughing and dying son,
You feel sympathy as you would for anyone.
But you can parch him as your son cant starve too,
And that’s just the law of the untouchable that are below you.
Despite your status being not much better,
You walk a stranger to their leering eyes,
As you were the clean white sashes and ties,
But they don’t realise the shackles you are also in.
As the phrase goes that you see on all the ads.
“You can’t make your own confections,
You can’t save your own possessions,
You can’t even built out of your own wood,
Because for the good of the empire of the greater good,
You will serve to pay the fees that are higher than you can afford to do.”
When you think of that as you walk these deep streets you can’t help walking in a way of shame,
As you know you can’t blame these overlords,
But the submissions and laws of old,
That they stole and now uphold.
Never to be loss of my shackles,
I pass these streets, and go on to Mumbai for the next delivery meet.
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 3:20 PM UTC
My life is a string of periods drawn out in a line ____
A garland of punctuated pearls only worthy divers can find. . . .
Haters treated it like a dump of dashes --
Hurled their "quotations"
Shoved me into (parentheses)
And struck at me with oblique slashes /
Then “lovingly” draped it all on my frail torso
Like Miss Universe sashes
But as a bold series of commas,
I learned to hum between rhythm and rhyme
With a necklace of exclamation points around the throat of my heart and mind! ♥
A dangling pair of ellipsis earrings... Playful as a wind chime
A wristband of semicolons;
Clutching my watch’s face
As my face watches time
Haters tried so hard to dictate my life’s story
But those words are Allah’s composition throughout eternity
I embrace His decree
And I name the punctuations mine!
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 3:31 AM UTC
Amica mea columba,
I whisper to Amy
as she prepares my bath.
Domitia has left us
after a long afternoon
of talk and gossip.
Marcus is off
on one of Caesar's
campaigns;
his love making
(as such as it is)
has ceased.
Amy is now
my bed mate,
my love,
my dove.
Puella,
Domitia had called
to Amy,
as if Amy were
her slave girl
and not mine.
Now she prepares me
for the bath;
undresses me,
undoing the sashes
and undoing me
in heart and mind.
Last night her fingers
slid into me,
aroused me
from deep slumber,
broke me in like
a wild stallion is tamed.
Last night
I kissed her *******
lips touched soft flesh,
mouthed teats
as an infant greedily.
I am naked now,
ready for my bathe.
Annona,
she whispers,
the water is done.
She stands
and watches me,
her hands nearby to aid;
her eyes feeding
on my body;
her tongue at the side
of her mouth,
lingering,
that too,
last night,
inside me,
like *********
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 3:17 AM UTC
Sashes on the pavement, lovers in a ditch
singing their own love songs in the highest pitch,
the Heartbreak City banks, full of disgusting ****** and tramps -
welcome to your new Empire of dust, forever lit beneath low phosphour lamps
strutting down those streets with your hands on your hips
filthy smile smeared over those tempestuous lips,
stinking of the latest high maintenance fragrance
the ****** arrogance that flips and fits
the hottest ***** I've ever seen
from a nobody to the penultimate Killer Queen,
champagne, diamonds, expensive tastes,
spending money on luxuries and other waste
oh I love your exotic ideas, your shattering impatient thoughts
spreading the *** craze that warps and distorts,
your people slumber in poverty, weep at your knees
instead of mercy you gift them with drug addiction and disease
children crying upon high streets
lawyers demanding prostitutes for tax receipts -
oh here they come -
the worst is un-seen
oh here they come -
both unjust and un-clean
the beautiful people are mannequins and they hide in shadows
birthed from ****** within Satan's abysmal gallows
clicking fingernails rotted and curled
whispering everything makes sense in a senseless world -
this perfection is not what it used to be
your quest is useless, for can't you see -
the beautiful people are plague, and they hide behind trees
and sooner or later they'll catch you, steal and contort your dreams.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC