"shawled" poems
The desert is not the grave of the sea.
The heaving reign of pharaohed seas,
Rule in bloodline of palm wine and embalming fluid of brine.
The tides are their mummified lips,
Whispering the coming forth of spells eternally to the sky.
All goddesses, like shawled Isis, in lamentations of hair
And past-wept somnolence for Egypt,
Lie across the heart-bound murmur of waters
From their dead kings and the kingly divine, Amun-Ra,
Whose bird-starred eyes fill the canopic jar of the cosmos.
The sea is the grave of the desert.
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC
do you know
how much light you have to have
to play in the dark
ask the lady of the moon
my trilling lover of comatose dreams
**** queen dressed in fallen roses
on her knees
her head a cocked jaw
throat; a giraffes
for shirts of skin and magic wands
she prays to be broken
split saliva jewel
kink clutch
little crying angel
hugging her ball and chain
shawled *** a trussed cathedral
bound in silk
a vomiting flower of *******
her feet bound
puddled black crimson
crumbling at every teasing cuddle
and darkened bite like ghost fire
flame on flame
her ****** buttered Kasbah dark fruit casaba
i take a bite
red teeth and stretched tongue
adorn the hood of lust
and sink flying
into blood scape's womb
she screams hooked on satin's *** nail
wailing; hideous mirth
and folds sweet and sour
siracha tang
her mouth a gagging river
of ***** and oleo tubes
eyes gazing globe video games
**** brewing perfume's of delirium
**** star ships at apogee
riding the glitter rim
my ****
a rabid swoon of towering babble
is full tonight
brimming with white blood
red and trembling milk
to fill your mouth my love
and the bitter honey of my soul
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
it stopped raining after
some long hour had passed
the rain had simply faded like
shawled figure moving through the afterlife
just the signature of presence evaporating into the still air
like the quiet thunder of a doves wings in the evening shadow
a sense of walking the day down through its years
a child at dawn full of promise and wonder
a man full of strife and the heat of passions at noon
an old man gasping by the witching hour
see the day walk its life to the tomb
before the grand spectacle of night has finished
and the very damp ground was littered with leaves
pulled from their high towers and cast down by
the winds strong hand
dirt in clinging clumps decorate the once
vividly clean surface of her lawn chairs
she pecks at the debris with a rapid motion
wipe away the inglorious world with
her chatter is subtle but not unfriendly
as she offers tea
the long hour passes
as we instilled with small conversation watch
the overcast slowly dissipates
like her charm
it is fleeting
she at last asks about your day
with hands folded in her lap like two neat doves
fearfully waiting to fly in panic at such slight provocations
the rain left its signature on my life
both beauty and troubled thoughts gather beneath its wet canopy
all reach life in the waters of the world
all rise from child and fall to tomb
like rain falls back to the earth which birthed it
we all return to the soil
thick and rich loam full of the savaged remains of the fallen
and the seeds of the yet unborn
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
We sit in the still
and through tiny buffeted windows
watch the stubborn shore arrest the fierce sea.
An old clock tocks as slow as winters
as we recall the beach of crowded summers
The cold wind whispers along the scurrying dunes
to throw the sand in abstract arcs
against the ice blue sky
In large coats, billowed scarves
and stout boots
we trudge against the bickering wind
blustering in its niggling argument
far into the sea.
I never thought our steps
could be this close
as we huddle and cower
against the wind
and in a tiny distance
the gale rips up our prints
as if no foot had ever trod.
Yet behind our watering eyes
We know that once two footsteps touched
Our shoes kissed
in the wild wet and wintry night
There will be warmth
in the accordion blessed bar
with pipe smoke leering to the rafters
and yellow light from candled glasses
casting tall shadows
of the shawled women
waiting for the long lost sailors’ return.
Shall I be a sailor then
to board the narrow boat of your body
in all the crash and yaw
the swell and deep
the thunder and breech
the pounding and clamour
until in the safe soundings
in the harbours of morning
we drift like flotsam
on the shoreline of sheets.
And driving home on a damp Sunday
will we marvel at the twisting rain
and how the tiny ship of our footsteps
survives the howling gales
and the all wild wide oceans of our watery ways
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Fresher than the sky after a rainy day, us was found strongly subdued in intrigue and properly shawled in ****
Higher than hippies can ever attain yet the ocean envies our deepness, back breaking as if our love were a tile floor that doubled as a bed at night, yet we are still comfortable. Still striving for the placement next to the historics and enjoying the wait, the ascent toward remembrance and the ascent from stupidity as we learn each other like Spanish class.
Let me know you, let me feel your energy. Why? Well, why not? I'm an alienated settler, so I suppose I need closeness? Or better yet,
I need you.
Why are you looking around? Move the stranger in front of you so that you can see my finger pointing at you. Yes, you, I need you. I'm interested, curvy swaying hips that deserve my caress, **** luscious lips that deserve my attention, she's a love-starved apparition that's deserving of the meal that I feel I can provide.
We are instruments, feel the beat of my drum, ba-da-da-dum-di-dum-di-dum, the sound my heart makes when you talk to me. The sound I hear when I know I'm ****** to make a fool or myself in front of you. My love, we are satire beings, embodying principles that we formed in a sheepish state when our fantasies were formed and our dreamy hopes became lost wishes.
I thought I knew love, but I didn’t know you, so what I knew was the fact that truth and lie could be twins at times. Right and wrong could be cousins.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
Some are my
angels
Halo'd and winged
Others my
demons
Horned and singed
These words I speak of,
these ill-fated feti,
doomed remnants on the yellowed page.
Lie lonely,
and shawled
found in attics and cobwebbed mem'ries long gone
in scrapbooks and photos of loved ones moved on
Wicked words can devour
the feeble and weak
as they bump into walls in the night.
Sightless,
and hushed
Yet there was once a vision
They once had a voice
And I am not God.
The weak make their own choice
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 8:01 AM UTC
iconising by her walk
averting sight when shawled
female comes 'round corner.
on-ward, foot-looker, shaming
self due to abundance; shaming
self due to ennui of purpose.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
I was in a place in UK where they actually
spoke this way .. A long time ago ..And I
wrote this ..
Twas to be that thine alone twood stand
Twile moon and star and wind twood be~
Twen shiver twood endure thus so
Failing the likes of time and thee~
Shawled in stance beyond the brush
Two shadows the night produced~
And thy meeting became a meeting thus so
As oneness from twosome reduced~
Walketh thine twards yonder hut
Twere fire burnt there brightly~
Twas there alone twithin this home
Twood love exist so tightly~
Twen moon it slept and clouds they wept
Twith water from heaven it fell~
Holdest thine in arms entwined
And dwell in the home of hunters dell~
From a being of wealth ye came from thus
To a being of both fur and gun~
Twere true love could be forever free
Thus no more eyes of jest in fun~
Twas there that thine chose to be mine
Twen moon and star it shone on high~
Love twas then born as night owl yawned
To vow love till time to die ~
Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright 2018
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC