"securely" poems
Touch me
With the tips of your fingers
Gently
Across the small of my back
Touch me
With both hands
Securely
Fastened to my hips
Touch me
With the rise of your chest
Intimately
Pressing against mine
Touch me
With your lips, your tongue
Hungrily
Tasting the salt on my neck
Touch me
With the rest of you
Finally
Becoming who you touch
Those little electric currents
That pass from your skin to mine
Frankly
Keep me alive
That's why I'm dying
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges
most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs
vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores
hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark
schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen
businessmen
remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve
I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year
or were it better
that we also took a rest?
* * *
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
Community -
it's not so much a social force
it's not out to coerce
it's an embrace
and in the end
that's what it's all about
it's a focus on people
it's a focal point on community
a common unity of those entwined
common folk connected and over-lapped
those over-wrapped by common loves
securely bound by common ties
occupying common ground
filling common space
with a wrap-around embrace
that lasts a tight hold longer
that ignores odd body odour
an embrace that lasts
a whole lot together
- It's what we have
in common
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
This thing I thought I could grasp,
Desperately I try to hold on to it,
This thing I never had,
I knew this illusion wouldn’t last,
It disappears as soon as we reach for it,
It’s as thin as the mountain air,
For a moment we lie to ourselves,
placing it securely and safely on a shelf.
Even though it is a forced perception, A contrived illusion.
Once we leave the room...
As soon as we lock and bolt the door...
we wont see it anymore.
We never realize the freedom there is in letting go,
We would be happier admitting this concept is completely fictitious.
We could break this circular pattern, this cycle so vicious.
I've spent too much time trying to hold it in my hands,
Making myself the victim of my own laid out plans.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
I'm made of all;
The books I've ever read
Poems I've ever written
Faces who have smiled at me
Hugs that have wrapped around me
Caresses that have graced my inner thigh
Countries & continents my feet have touched
The lovers as we simultaneously reach ecstasy within
Lonely nights shedding tear drops
Nights gazing black skies moon & stars
Children falling asleep to my heartbeat
Animals whose soul was found through reflective eye stares
Conversations spoken in French, Spanish, Italian, Xhosa, Afrikaans, Norwegian, German
Years of ****** cognitive-, dialectical-, art-, drama-, music-, mindfulness-, trauma-, psychiatry-; therapies
The drinks & drugs & mind altering substances dispersing my mind
In all I'm made of;
Love
Lust
Greed
Fear
Joy
Freedom
Longing
Dreams
Despair
Sadness
Anger
Frustrations
Happiness
Anxieties
Insecurities....
In all I'm made of;
A soul; securely contained within a body of battled scars;
over;
pain & triumphs, losses & gains, rejections & acceptances, dishonours & accolades...
With the hope; she too, can live life through.
© Sia Jane
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Rest in this, my bruised and weary soul:
I was a wretch, chosen to be a beauty;
a slave, chosen to be a bride;
an orphan, chosen to be an heir;
an enemy, chosen to be a friend.
I deserved nothing but wrath and death
yet received everything of life and grace.
I am loved beyond any dreaming of it
and blessed above all worldly wealth.
I have the incomparable birthright of those
whose Father is God and whose Lord is Jesus Christ—
righteousness from Him and peace with Him.
I am a cherished gift from the Father to the Son.
I was paid for by the Son’s own blood
and am "engraved on the palms of His hands."
I am the living temple of God’s Holy Spirit
Who empowers me to do His pleasure and bring Him glory.
I am the LORD's, chosen and set apart for His delight.
***What more could I ask?
But that's only the beginning...***
I will live as blessed as I believe myself to already be,
for "I have been blessed in the heavenly realms
with every spiritual blessing in Christ,"
"given everything I need for life and godliness"
through knowing Him and His precious promises,
"an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade—
kept [securely and eternally] in heaven" for me.
I've been "raised up and seated with Christ";
my "life is hidden with Him" in the Father,
and "He will fill me with joy in His presence,
with eternal pleasures at His right hand."
Oh, that "the eyes of my heart would be enlightened
with the spirit of wisdom and revelation"
to see what’s already been prepared and given to me
and to know much more fully the One Who has
so meticulously prepared and lavishly given it.
As I walk intimately with Him and rest confidently in Him
(based only on His merits, never my own),
I am given free access to my account
in His heavenly storehouse and enabled to appropriate
its glorious riches to every circumstance of my life,
even the most searingly painful and confoundingly difficult ones.
I have a spiritual Fort Knox available to me
through knowing Christ Jesus my Lord,
but He Himself is my greatest treasure.
Without Him, nothing else matters.
Nothing else has meaning if I am not found in Him,
clinging to Him and carried by Him.
When I finally become desperate for Him alone,
I begin to understand the profound reality
of all He desires for me and offers to me
in my spiritual inheritance in Him.
There are infinite presents to be unwrapped
in His presence which cannot be told
in human words or comprehended by mortal minds,
but they wait to be taken hold of by
any and all who would take hold of Him.
***For He gives and gives and gives and gives,
and even when He takes, He gives.***#
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:22 AM UTC
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight *** When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.
The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.
Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.
We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.
We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.
I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.
Everything has gotten so crowded.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
They will not be the same next time. The sayings
so cute, just slightly off, will be corrected.
Their eyes will be more skeptical, plugged in
the more securely to the worldly buzz
of television, alphabet, and street talk,
culture polluting their gazes' dawn blue.
It makes you see at last the value of
those boring aunts and neighbors (their smells
of summer sweat and cigarettes, their faces
like shapes of sky between shade-giving leaves)
who knew you from the start, when you were zero,
cooing their nothings before you could be bored
or knew a name, not even you own, or how
this world brave with hellos turns all goodbye.
10.1k
Translation From Catullus.
Equal to Jove that youth must be—
Greater than Jove he seems to me—
Who, free from Jealousy’s alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms;
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserv’d for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though ’tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch’d to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o’erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And Life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil’d in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.
8.2k
You brave heroic minds,
Worthy your country's name,
That honour still pursue,
Go, and subdue,
Whilst loit'ring hinds
Lurke here at home with shame.
Britons, you stay too long,
Quickly aboard bestow you;
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretched sail,
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer,
West and by South forth keep;
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,
When Eolus scowls,
You need nor fear,
So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea,
Success you still entice
To get the pearl and gold;
And ours to hold
Virginia,
Earth's only Paradise.
Where Nature hath in store
Fowl, venison, and fish;
And the fruitfull'st soil,
Without your toil,
Three harvests more,
All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vine
Crowns with his purple mass
The cedar reaching high
To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine,
And useful sassafras.
To whom the golden age
Still Nature's laws doth give,
No other cares attend
But them to defend
From winter's rage,
That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land,
Above the sea that flows,
The clear wind throws,
Your hearts to swell,
Approaching the dear strand.
In kenning of the shore,
(Thanks to God first given)
O you, the happiest men,
Be frolic then!
Let canons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven!
And in regions far
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came,
And plant our name
Under that star
Not known unto our North.
And as there plenty grows
Of laurel everywhere,
Apollo's sacred tree,
You may it see
A poet's brows
To crown, that may sing there.
Thy voyages attend
Industrious Hakluit,
Whose reading shall inflame
Men to seek fame,
And much commend
To after-times thy wit.
8k
“i haven’t seen her in years,”
said the hospital bed,
“though i’ve seen many others,
who sobbed violently like her,
who sunk into me like a young, rusting anchor.
who could not get comfortable in one position or
one mindset or
one truth.
i have felt them dig in their heels
and try to ache and and fight and
scream, just quietly enough not to wake their roommate.”
“i remember their shapes,”
said the hospital bed,
“how their voices rose slowly like a far-off ambulance siren,
how their faces fell when they remembered the emergency
was right here.
i have been kicked, punched,
clung to, held on to,
as if gravity switched suddenly and they feared
yet another aspect of the universe was against them.
i’ve seen ***** sheets and i’ve seen clean ones. i’ve
seen boys with tattoos on their faces and
razor marks on their arms. i’ve seen pain.
i’ve seen girls who wouldn’t turn off the lights,
girls who couldn’t turn off the lights,
girls who had turned a light off once and never wanted
to do anything else. i’ve seen pain.
i’ve felt love before
more often than the lovers thought they loved,
more strongly than the fighters thought
they could fight.
in shaky hands folding down blankets
more carefully than they have all week
in heads that flop ungracefully onto
pillows, securely,
fulfilled.
in the slow turn of a hospital bracelet
around a pale wrist,
in large, golden brown hands,
inspected through tear-blurred eyes,
through scratched glasses,
picked up off the floor after discovering
force won’t carry a ring of thin plastic
as far as you thought.
i hear change in whispers,
good night, good luck,
in hushed acceptance, in ‘yes,
i really am here’. in
screams that send nurses in panic only to find
you were laughing. in numbers,
in ‘five hundred milligrams,’
in ‘three gained pounds’, in
‘one more day’.
i hear shock, i hear fear,
in echoes of parents’ voices,
‘why here? why now?’
i have heard and seen and felt all of them.
but she,”
continued the hospital bed,
“hasn’t been in here in a while.
i haven’t heard her whisper
to her roommate about what she did
‘that night’, i haven’t seen her
sneak away from her pile of pajamas
as if she didn’t just hide something there,
i haven’t heard her empathize
with a pencil sharpener.
it’s been so long,
it’s hard to imagine,”
said the hospital bed,
‘i hardly remember her'.
if only the hospital bed knew
that she could hardly remember
herself from then either,
if only it knew she hadn't stopped
fighting once she left
if only it knew
how she felt when they said
she only needed to go to therapy
every other week.
it felt like progress,
and it felt like hope,
and no one better than
a hospital bed
could understand that.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Capitalism swings securely
from the crook of her arm
while Slavery gently
coils itself
around her
beautifully damaged waist...
Racism coats the
soles of her
brand new shoes
and leaves print print print
on the harsh
unforgiving
unemployed pavement.
The world cried, died
as she dyed her hair
to Honey Suckle Blonde.
It hangs: drab, limp,
strangled by the Ignorance
sitting firmly
on top of that
pretty little head.
Jagged, matted wrists
rattle around inside
imported bangles
(or manacles)
of Oppression and
Depression and
Suppression
They're in fashion.
Her eyes are drowning
in Jealousy Mascara (new)
and I Hate You shadows (old)
and, together,
her weeping heart
and painted nails
claw at Fame and Fortune
but the new shoes
and gorgeous boyfriend
just aren't tall enough.
She limps
past shattered windows
in which she glimpses a girl,
or rather, a young lady
who is very much a
prisoner of today and not
A Leader Of Tomorrow
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.
And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.
And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.
I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.
And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.
And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.
And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.
And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.
And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall,
You'd rise above it all.
And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
He was lean, his aesthetic back stretches
Into neat trunks tied at the waist with cord
Sand sprinkled dipping in the circular pool
Where the shells and seaweed floated about
Like newly washed hair his shade of brown.
And this is how I remember him next to me
With our spades and colourful beach towels
Our clothes draped across rocks in the sun
And those plastic sandels with the salty buckles
Cutting into our fleet especially when new.
We were not very affectionate but occasionally
Romped the floors in our nightclothes at bed
Dragging the eiderdowns, downwards in disarray
And taking a length of string between bedrooms
So that we could keep connected by a joining tug.
This was childhood at its most fierce and beautiful
Before adolescence set its patterns on our forms
Marked us out for education and dress codes
Until then we were still securely latched in time
Asking each other, now and then, for piggy backs.
Love Mary for her brother ,Richard.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
i had a go at baking i tried to make some dough
what i had use i really didnt know
first i got some flour and tipped in a bowl
then in the centre i made a little hole
then i put the eggs in and rubbed it round and round
till the eggs and flour were securely bound
i placed it on a tray and then i began to bake
to see what would become of my homemade cake
i left it for a while to slowly bake away
but it wasnt moving it seemed to take all day
then i looked again and all the heat had gone
i looked the **** i hadnt switched it on
my patience had run out so i put in the bin
wasting all that food was really such a sin.
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 8:45 AM UTC
Sunday's newspapers
come on Saturday,
coupons spill out
torrentially.
weekend manna
from
publisher's hell.
makes my breathing heavy,
from studious inspection,
so many needs unmet.
I fall to pieces
every weekend,
securely knowing,
I'm lacking in
so many things,
feeling my
insecure neediness
keenly.
my Target is
feverishly simple,
solution oriented.
no can find any discounts for
new rhythms,
new rhymes,
life high fivers
to satisfy,
adhere,
and revere,
that would be my
Best Buy.
but I'm clipped,
the coupons, not.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
*This poem is dedicated to the memory of Admiral Albert ***** Potter who displayed amazing bravery by wearing full drag through several major sea battles. He was cashiered for insisting the Admiralty rename his ship HMS Butch instead of HMS Fearless. In fact the vessel was eventually renamed HMS Damp **** because it was full of ******
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When England's ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
The Captain stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
The bosun went to the main gunroom,
**** Deadeye at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For little midshipman Freddy.
"Strap him o'er that cannon, lads!"
Roared the hirsute fellow,
"Gag his mouth securely, lads,
In case he tries to bellow!"
The sailors did as he had bid -
Refused and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
After the bosun had finished.
The bosun went up the poor young lad
And soon was going strong;
Midshipman Fred looked rather pained -
The Bosun was THICK and LONG.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they set to with a will;
Little Fred could not say no
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our sailors had then,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And cabin boys wore silk *******
A life on the ocean wave, **
With the rolling sea and the spray.
Sinking the Frogs and murdering Wogs
Kept England's sailors so gay.
OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ!
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
Dad didn't want a coffin.
"Cremate my last remains,"
And so we did.
Cool and dry,
His ashes, urned,
Lie beneath the sod
And prairie sky
Waiting some clarion call,
Some trill of hope,
Bright, re-constitutional,
Faith-affirming.
Mother's wishes rise before us:
No crematory,
No embalmer.
Just her blanket,
Just a hole
Dug beside our Dad.
The law would let her wish be true,
But her children won't.
We're searching coffin plans.
Reverently grim,
Lovingly deferential,
Dutifully rebellious,
Solemn this journey be.
Pine boards to honor her thrift
But smooth and tight,
Rope handles, fitted lid,
Perhaps a little trim,
Perhaps a sheaf of wheat carved
For the old farmer she was.
We'll bury her,
Wrapped in her blanket,
Tucked securely in pine
Beside my father's ashes.
Like a grain of wheat she'll lie
Silent in her final say
Inside our final say
Waiting Resurrection Day.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
You are one of a kind.
One without equal.
Very unique and very remarkable.
There's no copies.
You're an original piece.
Highly respected.
Just one remarkable woman.
Securely protected.
Held to high degree.
Constantly deep within many man's dreams.
Because you're a remarkable woman.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.
And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.
And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.
I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.
And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.
And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.
And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.
And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.
And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall.
And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
Your beauty touches of a stars heavenly radiance
For in your face is captured their celestial glow
In blissful pools of endless starlight splashing
And I alone my love will always deeply know
The value of your beautifully enchanting eyes
Which securely hold in bond my heart each day
In a powerless confinement of cupids sweet adore
Where my love easily grows in an abounding way
For deep in my dreams I have always sought
Your heart's love which daily endears my mind
For it has always been my heart's fervent desire
To of your sweet love belong an infinite time
For to serve the daily needs of your lovely heart
Each day leaves my face with an enthralling glow
Knowing I will never have a single desire to depart
Those beautifully enchanting eyes who love me so.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
A twisted form of angel,
he's a demon in the light.
Brilliant array of feathers
'fore the eagle prepares his
strike. Tsunami risen to ruin
from a gentle hazel tide. I
came to love his pretty things
since pretty never lies. But
beauty couldn't hide the
burning sun, he wrought me
dry. Oasis wasn't deep enough
to stifle up my cries. I wrestled
brave with golden chains that
locked me to his side. Securely
bound on his wicked ride, I'm
afraid of pretty things. Yet, I
decline to run when my heart,
it sings: What a pretty thing. What
a pretty gooorgeous thing - to see
a demon while there's light. Ready
to burn though he owns the night.
His vices I thought a pretty thing,
I'd faith, drowned in his soulless
eyes, that his pretty must not lie.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC