"scarves" poems
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
Four blocks down,
A man who never gives the same name
Stands every day selling condoms
With Tiger’s face telling us to “Protect Our Wood”,
And next to him is the vendor where
I just bought my new favorite scarf.
His name is Lorenzo. He’s 6 foot 4,
Old school Italian, and after two months
I’ve yet to see him wear the same shoes twice.
Natalie played softball in high school.
She now owns a hot dog stand just outside
That I’ve seen fifty people wait in line for.
After a heartfelt conversation we had
On a certain rainy Thursday morning,
Natalie now throws me a free Polish sausage with peppers
Once in a while when I open my second story window.
She hasn’t missed once.
My one neighbor is a Latina grandmother named Sofia.
She brought her kids here illegally,
And they’ve since used their success
To cut all ties to dear old Mexico
And to her.
I eat with her once a week,
And we share cooking recipes
And small tales about life BNY
(Before New York).
There’s a homeless man downtown
Whose sign says “A quarter a day
Keeps my teeth off your leg”,
And ever since he’s proven it to me
I’ve dropped fifty cents a day,
Hoping for extra protection.
When my friends from college come to visit,
They were all curious about Lorenzo’s shoes
And Natalie’s pitching arm
And when Sofia’s daughter would show up
(Tyler had a thing for hispanic girls).
I never tried to explain, because
I never felt the need to know the answer myself.
All I cared about were Natalie’s smile,
Sofia’s homemade tortilla chips,
And how a guy like Lorenzo ended up in New York City selling scarves.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
pigeons still
wait for meals
by that bench
where Sun once grew
in tufts of gold
girls skipping classes
to window shop
their scarves wild
and their nails chipped
tough boys go out and smoke
and cough and dance
and act brave
and cut their hair
in the dark
and words of a new language
tumble down our tongues
head over heels
tasting strange
but falling into place
after all
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ----
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ----
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
******
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old ***** petticoats) ----
To Paradise.
11k
Delicately pink hearts gently unfurl
From nests of lively minds;
There is nothing weak about Southern women
We are supposed to wear ugly dresses,
Enamel bugs,
French scarves that wrap around and
Tie us all together from the inside out
Football and sassy new haircuts might not make faces look younger,
But they can lift spirits
And just because you spend all day advising others
Of their secret trials
Doesn't mean that you can hold your family in a cage,
Golden and happy though you may want things to be.
Remember that if you feel new, an outsider,
Your personal tragedies seeming too much to bear,
You will always find comfort in laughter
Especially if laughter through tears is your favorite emotion.
You might not pick up boys or money,
But friendship steeps in small salons
Like sweet tea.
Prickly sarcasm and pessimism aren't always the hallmarks
Of a heart devoid of caring,
It's just a natural response after two deadbeat husbands and
Three ungrateful children; somewhere in all of it is a promise
Of hope.
And even in a barren womb new life is discovered,
And even in death joy is found,
And even through pain,
Sisterhood blooms,
Delicate steel petals enveloping grieving hearts.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
to the hometown i hate,
i miss seeing the october sunrise while taking the train to school every morning
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to wear uggs, hats and scarves already at the end of september,
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to buy 90 cent face masks and my favorite protein bars at the drugstore 10 minutes away from me
to the hometown i hate,
i miss seeing the porsches and mercedes c-classes parked on the curbes of our sidewalks
to the hometown i hate,
i miss the quietness of my area
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to speak a language i know fluently, not worrying about the anxiety i get if i get into a complicated situation
to the hometown i hate,
i miss running in the quiet, clean, green forest next to us
to the hometown i hate,
i miss sleeping in my own bed, in the room i did not like
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to go to my fully-equipped kitchen and bake whenever i want to, which i complained was too small until i moved into my dorm
to the hometown i hate,
i miss you
Oct 31, 2021
Oct 31, 2021 at 3:26 AM UTC
I didn't mean to distract you, upon first interaction with you, I saw the sun lights refraction shining upon human polka dots
I have a thought that I won't say,
Ill write you In the plot of a book, that takes place far far away
Most times I speak with haste, life is no computer, but I can still copy and paste, my thoughts in a manner that properly compiles grace, and with some glue, you trapped your hands upon plastic keys, and played for me, a melody, and said I've been waiting my whole life to do this, I am alone and I am free, and I will stay that way for a while, so don't look at me with smile, and as quickly as it was created my memory can be cut and pasted into a file you keep beneath your bed,
The cold is coming, and I hope you wear hats upon your head and scarves upon your neck, for I hope you realize I am a sled, I don't stop until I reach the bottom, of a barrel filled with luck I live my off of,
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
While they noticed the stretch of kohl in her eyes,
I could see a pacific of emotions trapped.
While they admired her blushing cheeks,
I could read the paleness she painted red.
While they were going gaga over her smirk,
I could fathom the depth of pain that debarred a hearty gale.
While they were lured by the cascade of her hair when she unscrewed the bun,
I could feel the onus of the tantrums she wanted to turf out.
While they were hypnotized by her mesmeric curves,
I was stunned by the withstanding efficacy of such a fragile body.
While they adored her attire and scarves,
I could trace the bruises she carried with poise.
While they were hung up by the glory of her face,
I could do no help but ride out at the scars she concealed with sprightliness which was the most beautiful thing my eyes could ever have a view of and it left me dazed...
And my mouth wide opened.
-Aparajita Tripathi
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
Do you know the meaning of "stop and frisk"?
I'm sorry black brother, you do.
Have you ever had to change your voice in order to get a job?
I'm sorry black sister, you have.
Have you ever had to remove your hijab because you needed to take a flight?
I'm sorry brown girl, you have.
Has anyone ever insisted you have extensive knowledge on every school subject?
I'm sorry yellow friend, someone has.
Have you ever been told to go back to your country, despite the fact that you're already there?
I'm sorry red man, you have.
Have you ever been called and illegal immigrant, but you were born in the u.s?
I'm sorry Latino friend, you have.
Have you ever been told that racism doesn't exist and, by someone with pale skin?
I know I have.
So this is to the ones who have been told that they "aren't black enough" because they use proper grammar and their pants don't sag.
The brown boys with beards that get called "towel heads"
To the Asian kids that are just as smart as the next guy.
To the native Americans that still get called Indians.
To the brown girls that get told that they don't have to wear their scarves because "we're in America"
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
she had a heart that
could light up the sky
she had a smile that
would brighten the gloom
on a winters morning
but she hid her beauty
beneath scarves and
long sleeved shirts
she didnt show off that
beauty until
he told her what
she had
that day she learned
that not every
thing is judged by
the outside.
italic c.s
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
The month of crescent moons and indigo flamed candles.
Of burning sage and twinkling hooded lights flickering in frosted windows.
Of chipped nail varnish and lips chapped with bitter cold.
Of darkened mornings with knitted scarves wrapped beneath pink noses and wet lashes.
Of lonely evergreens and sleigh bells a distant howl in the wind.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
relaxing? relaxing would be a sin against myself. see God spun and wove golden bits of wisdom in these curls that are mine. see these curls spring loud with
songs of my Nubian
mothers and war cries of my Rasta fathers. see these curls bounce proud to the rhythm of tribal drums and the foot prints of my sisters from Manila reside
there as they roll
lumpia between the coils and springs. see these curls have moved sandstone bricks cross deserts, building divine architecture so perfectly aligned
with cosmos and
planets until Moses told Pharaoh to Let My People Go. these curls have traveled cross oceans and triangles packed like sardines squalid below the decks
of ships. see these
curls have been ***** by the nasty ***** in the big house and suffered sun strokes in cotton fields. see these curls sing loud and strong. See these curls
were branded and forced
at gunpoint behind ******** barbed wire fences gassed to death in the name of so called purification. see these curls bleed the pain of fire hoses and dog
bites and whites
only signs. see these curls wont back down gainst no burnin crosses gainst no swastikas gainst no elephant ******** talkin all that jazz on fox and cnn. see
these curls dance
wildly off beat to straight rhythms that drone on in 4/4 time c major sixty bpm. see these curls are Mas and my Grammas. see my curls are too proud to sit
back and chill and won’t take no **** or heat or hot air. see these curls cannot be contained in braids or scarves or jars of creamy crack. see
these curls dare you
to force them to
coerce them to
straighten up
their act. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls will not
******* relax.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC
It was December 27th,
Nineteen and fifty one
The day the Christmas snowball war
Had officially begun
It started in the schoolyard
It was supposed to just be fun
But, by the time the whole thing ended
No one knew just who had won
The grade five class were ready
All lying there in wait
As the kids from home form seven
Approached the schoolyard gate
With a yell the whole thing started
They were served up on a plate
the kids from home form seven
would not forget this date
The air filled with projectiles
Launched from wet gloves by the score
As the victims ran for cover
They were hit by four score more
They were bruised and hurt and battered
As they ran for the school door
Now, the kids from the grade five class
Lay waiting there for more
Two teachers came to stop them
Get them back into the school
but, the kids just launched more snowballs
Using scarves now as a tool
They would catapult their snowballs
which was really, really cool
And the teachers ran for cover
In the safety of the school
They'd built a wall near four feet high
To protect them on both sides
It channeled all who entered
The walls acted as guides
At most their little walkway
Was only eight feet wide
and their victims ran for cover
For the school, a place to hide
It was dark when the attack happened
The form seven kids came back
They'd left the school from the front door
And had now planned their attack
Their first snowball hit it's target
With a loud resounding crack
It was clear that old form seven
Was truly fighting back
The teachers had a huddle
Met inside and chose to fight
They would wait until the battle
Had gone on into night
They would sneak out of the building
With the absence of the light
And attack the grade five children
And show them how to fight
The air was full of snowballs
Bodies, gloves, scarves abound
there were children hitting adults
And there were children on the ground
They'd been at it for six hours
When they heard the alarm bell sound
It was time to get inside for bed
Before the prefects came around
The snowball fight at Wellesley
Public School in fifty one
Is the one that they remember
Out of all of those they've done
In all one hundred people
Were involved in all the fun
For next year they are building
A snowball launching gun!!!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
I was your crutches when your heart was breaking
I was your scarf and gloves to keep you warm in the winter.
But when the sun came
You didn't need me.
When your heart healed,
You tossed aside your crutches
And I waited for the cold to come
Leaving your heart broken
begging for warmth and support.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
I want to be my own muse
maybe if I write poems to myself
finding a pretty way to describe the stardust hidden in my hair
the perfume I leave on my scarves
the fact that my hands are always, always cold
so cold I just got used to it
maybe if I write about
how my tears taste like the sea
how my tea tastes more like sugar instead of, you know, tea
how kisses -technically- taste horrible to me
and still I find them so incredible
if I paint pictures of my neck or my chapped lips
or the way my hair just falls nicely when I just woke up
if I write about my favorite sweaters
and I sing sonnets inspired in my high heels
and how they make me feel taller
higher
four point five inches closer to the sky
maybe if I write for my muse
I can make her fall in love with me
and with that maybe
just maybe
I will
-finally-
be in love with myself
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
When crystal droplets of rain fall on the ground
When the smell of rain mingles that with the sand
I will remember you
When petals first open their very eyes
And emit fragrance, showing their colorful dyes
I will remember you
When a rainbow forms, a prism, a multitude of color
When plants germinate, drink rain and grow taller
I will remember you
When autumn leaves begin to fall on the countryside
Crinkles of red and orange, carried with the wind's tide
I will remember you
When full ripe Granny apples and Smiths begin to grow
And the river's sound rhythmically flows
I will remember you
When you harvest your crops and gather your wood
When you light a candle, wait for winter as you should
I will remember you
And when winter snowflakes begin to fall
And you wear your gloves and scarves for warmth
I will remember you
In the long dreary dark winter days
Lingering smells of coffee and apple cinnamon bakes
I will remember you
As the children's laughter slowly returns
And your smile that I long for and yearn
I will remember you
When the sunflowers directly gaze at the sun
And the windmills across the fields begin to run
I will remember you
When drunk are the freshly squeezed lemonade
And along the wind sways, little girls braids
I will remember you
A seasons love, I will remember you
I will always remember you
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
I fell out of time
into wavery scarves of seconds
glittering of snowflake anticipation, and
minutes of quiet purring joy.
Tonguing thickening clouds of breathsteam
he has always been a familiar stranger;
every joint is a champagne cork, white
marble smile that bubbled
over wooden lips. Tell a story
in ten words or less, tap fingers pointed like guns
twice against her hot temple, smile
and half a tooth still ****** Tell a story with one
word, bang, and sock away the other nine.
Turn to a cat and say, I’ve got your tongue.
We sat together on our heels in the smoke
and snowfall, the plumed weapon of breath
melting. Cars slide into the lot, ice over easy.
The alcohol tasted like soap. It is not enough
for maybes and not-know-hows---grating
cheepcheap common sense, fail me now.
Maybe you didn’t write LOVE on her
battered wrist but LIVE instead,
maybe you stole all the magnetic a’s
off the fridge, you’re not the one
who highlighted instructions on a macaroni
box, so you broke all the chalk and wrote
the name of your childhood dog above the sink.
Maybe “hostile” is a fuzzed blue comforter
three months past laundry day, every lint
ball sharp as the word “cut”, the word *****
the word “scream”. Maybe I’m naive, sentimental, but
I believe in a common kindness
like the common cold running thin
in threads of worn-out heart chambers.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
The yellow, early evening sun feels heavy and warm on my legs.
Like a cat curled up to enjoy a small nap,
It rests on my pink and rainbow blanket.
My mother snores in the old blue chair next to me,
******* in worry and exhaustion and the scent of basil,
Oblivious to the small-town sounds of birds and cars and children playing,
Unaware that her daughter is something she claims to not understand.
"Pansexuality, honestly, just sounds
Horrible,"
She had told me.
"I don't understand pansexuality and gender-fluid and stuff,"
She said,
The car sliding smoothly over the highway under grey skies.
I tried to explain, but I was swamped in
Confusion.
"Well...there are more than two genders, like being gender-fluid and agendered and bi-gendered and third-gendered......
And pansexual people like all of those genders."
"That's what I can't understand. I mean, I kinda get the concept, but..." Her voice trails away like blue cigarette smoke, still deadly even after it has dissipated into the clouds.
I feel like I'm choking on it, raw pink lungs tightening and swelling, forcing yellow stars before my eyes,
Not able to explain the way
I don't care what you identify as,
I only care about love.
My mother's grandmother didn't know that non-straight people existed.
My mother's mother didn't know that bisexual people existed.
My mother doesn't believe that more than two genders exist,
Or know that I find all of them attractive.
But she had already dropped the subject,
Instead filling the awkward lull with discussions of
Colleges and books she's reading and and what my younger sister is doing in school.
I could feel my soul bubbling up behind my lips,
Pink and yellow and blue,
I wanted to tell her to stop and listen.
I wanted to tell her to be quiet,
And to be accepting,
And to try to understand.
I wanted to tell her
'I'm pansexual.
There.
Now you know.
Would you have said that it was horrible and that you can't understand?
That, in essence, I am horrible and you can't understand me?'
But I didn't.
I sat, the warm sticky grey leather under my thighs
The same as the warm, sticky grey clouds,
The yellow sun just peeking out into blue skies beyond the pale pink dogwoods.
She wakes up, warm sticky breath catching in her chest
As she opens her eyes.
She mumbles quietly about oversleeping
Before she rushes out the door,
Leaving behind a daughter
She thinks she knows,
As she claims to not understand
My label
That I have hidden inside my closet door,
Next to my pink, yellow, blue scarves.
Maybe tomorrow I'll put it on,
Pin my heart to my sleeve,
Wear my colors proudly.
But not today.
Never today.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
I am NOT a size ZERO
My skin is spotted like a dalmatian
angel kisses and acne
My teeth are not pearl white
Chubby feet and lots to love legs.
Muscle is not defined
unmatched clothes cover my body
just a hint of mascara is found on my face.
rarely
My hair is not long and beautiful.
Choppy & Short
fingernails have chipped polish
I am the go to girl.
Not the: go to because she is so drop dead gorgeous girl
But the go to girl "because she knows everyone"
"She can hook me up with him/her" girl.
I will never be a size zero.
My hair may not cover my back and sway while I walk
My teeth are that awkward shade of in between almost looking perfectly white
I don't wear expensive clothes. Let alone match what I do wear.
My skin is far from being as smooth as a "babies ***
My eyes have wrinkles around them already.
SO...
That does not mean in any way, shape, or form that I do not have a soul.
I have feelings.
My heart can only handle so much.
To the boy who laughed at me in the gym:
I am sorry that I do not have a perfect body that is "eye candy"
To the boy{s} who stole my heart, and then hit on my great friend:
I'm sorry I don't use large words and have an opinion on everything.
I'm sorry I am not a poetry goddess or have the ability to pull off wearing
red lipstick and scarves.
To the boy I hardly know in church:
I will NOT give you my roommates number
after you flirt with me to get it.
To all of the boys who look past me while I am walking next to ANY girl:
I'm sorry, I guess I really am not worth "your time"
&
To the boy, who will hold my hand and heart for the rest of, well {forever}:
Can you hurry up?
I am ready for someone to like that I don't plaster myself in powder
and stiffen my hair with hairspray everyday.
I am ready for you to love me for my thousands of small freckles covering my body.
I hope you can love me, unconditionally...
even though I am curvy.
I know you are out there somewhere.
And if I knew you now I would send you to beat up
all of those boys hurting my feelings.
Or just hearing how much you care for me,
that would help too.
I'll be waiting.
xoxo
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
sitting hungry in the halls
reading holocaust novels with a morbid fascination
two identical scarves knitted by two identical souls;
both hungry for self-love, god-love and the night
one is rewarded by he who weaves the long, black tapestry of his own destruction; the other destined to sit lonely & forgotten
standing idly, lost in the dance of delusion
& moving wildly intoxicated
seeking love, seeking chase
giving flight to the demons of the age
the technological drug-fix of instantaneous communication
the lobotomy of both mental hemispheres
the horse collar choking struggle to escape clinging home and mother's spinning round & round
turning wheels and daisies
kicked up in the dust of the twilit road
retched from the stomachs of a thousand children lulled to sleep
by the sickly glow of orange floodlight
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 12:37 PM UTC
There is a lot I love
About spring and summer,
The warmth, the freedom
From scarves and coats.
The flowers in bloom,
The outdoor pools,
The hot days with ice cream
And cold coffee and slurps.
But most of I all I love the trees in my city,
that sway in the summer wind.
And I can stare at them forever
As my car passes by.
And they are colored not only green
But of many more hues pleasant to my eye.
There are orange, and purple (my favourite ones), and pink.
So when the ground I walk upon
Is littered with these colored petals,
I feel like nature has a lot of beauty to show
But all we do is step on it.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
~
*Pretty, soft scarves
are my 'shoes'.
I love to wear them
with every outfit
and have many
in different colours
and designs.
They just seem to
'add something'
to what I wear
and they feel
such a comfort
around my neck,
offering a warmth
that I need.
On Summer evenings
when it is just too warm,
very occasionally,
I'll wear nothing
but
a scarf*
~
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC