"sheathes" poems
i asked her, does it look the same?
she gave me that funny look she gets
whenever i say or do something a little dim
it's a mirror image for a reason she said
in the mirror i see muscles, and strength
hips a little too wide and fleshy
but still muscular,
strength all the way down
but when i reflect on myself,
no mirror necessary
it is never the same
i don't feel as strong as i could
don't look as sharp and sturdy as i could
those fleshy sides, too soft
for a battle-hardened brain
and turbulent thoughts
i need angles, i need straight lines
but there's nothing straight about me
and that's half the problem
and the other half
is that i hate the softness that lingers
but everybody else loves it
and i don't want to be warm and
able to be cuddled
i want hard edges
and nimble, spindly fingers;
when i play my chords
i want my bones to tap the strings
and when sadness sheathes itself within me
i want eyes as dry
as my eczema-bitten hands
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC
On this inclement day,
Night sheathes light.
Seamless transitions,
Wake my dreams.
It's neither nor now.
Just one moment before.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
[Dedicated to Allan Bennett]
I
Hail to the golden One
Seen in the midmost Sun !
Hail to the golden beard and golden lips,
His whole lige golden to the finger-tips !
Hail to the golden hair in golden showers
Hiding the eyes like blue blue lotus-flowers !
His name is Ut, for He
Hath risen above all things that be.
II
Ardent and white, the Lord
Whirls forth a strident sword.
Its blade is broader than the great World-Ash ;
Its edge is keener than the lightning flash.
Brighter than all the lights of heaven, it whirls
Out in a chaos of creative curls
And sheathes itself in Me,
Arisen above all things that be.
III
Even as the burning tongue
Og God to God that clung
Dissolved his being to a nameless naught,
Brake all the wings and waves of time and thought,
So in the quivering flame that hurled
Its founts of life to the remotest world
Supreme stood Death, and sware
Destruction to all things that were !
IV
Child, father, warrior,
I worshipped thee before ;
Friend, bridegroom, now I yield me to the rod.
My God, and very God of very God
As breath, as death, as all, as naught, unknown,
Known, is there not an end, when one alone
Stand I, and thou, and He
Arisen above all things that be?
2.4k
A carnivorous beast lies pitted deep inside.
It devours its prey, gorging till it subsides.
Living in the heart of man, this beast doth reside.
It stalks upon carnal thoughts yet to betide.
A reincarnate knight seeks a kingdom of glory.
To vanquish the beast: his reoccurring story.
Oft' has the beast left the field torn and gory.
Yet, the knight strives for resplendent victory.
Fanfare pierces the soul; the champion sheathes his sword.
Returning to his dais, the knight returns as lord.
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 3:14 PM UTC
overnight
the humidity broke
release
underfoot discarded Cicada sheathes
litter a cooling pavement
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 11:36 PM UTC
Mold me a helm of platinum.
Plate my neck in ornate roses
and arc both ******* in tongues of steel.
Spill an hourglass of silver sheets
to silhouette each torso curve.
Sculpt iron vines over each hip.
Caress my keep in chastened press;
form gold like liquid down my legs.
Engrave a crest of two joined doves
upon my hexagonal shield.
String leather sheathes with your golden hair.
Equip a morning star with spires
that mock the dullness at your rest,
yet forge my sword of diamond strength
formidable as your excited state.
Look on me where I stand armored.
Embrace away my fancied suit.
Please…
lay me down, Love, gently Love,
and place a flower in my hair.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:34 PM UTC
From my Dark Watcher Series;
A heart carries a shield, which to hold at bay,
the demons of the night, that want to play.
Warding off the tears, that joins the game,
with feelings of hate, giving birth to shame.
Swords drawn, the duel begins once more,
sheathes of angry words, slamming doors.
Ruthless sparring that cuts to the soul,
their points dipped in poison, take their toll.
Lethal cuts, rivers of tears that run red,
through gouged cliffs of unknown dread.
Spiteful jousting of controlling speeds,
that ****** deep, to finish the fateful deed.
Kathleen Kohl/Levinski
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
And when we devour our fantasies,
love interests of reality will turn to misery:
nothing lovely will exists again,
nor any news worthy items upon CNN.
And we detach ourselves from all conversation,
listen to no new information:
brains will meld into unfathomable canyons
with sulphur red walls, fossils for companions.
But with elbows akin to mine,
(wrinkled and creased sheathes of skin)
our dance will be passionate and fine,
one more smile, another grin.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 9:20 AM UTC
This beauty is a guilty Curse,
leading thousands to a horse drawn herse.
these supple lips and wanton hips,
are taunting as the Goddess sips.
blood sprays on hands that are not mine,
that on these walls Apollo makes shine.
Aphrodite of beating bliss,
let Paris free with your sweetest kiss.
release me from their tortured dreams,
and repair these fractured and broken seams.
To Hades depths where no light reaches,
To Persephonies chamber far from beaches.
Hear my plea my lord and master!
**** me now and stop this disaster!
make all swords return to sheathes,
so once again my lungs can breath.....
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 4:23 PM UTC
All the good sports
go out for a run
into the ice storm.
They grimace and squint
in the headlights of cars
on Riverside Drive.
And they run as if for their lives
in this freezing rain
that sheathes and has broken
the leafless branches
along snow-plowed bike paths;
ice-pellets ping off
their pricy goggles, their fluorescent shells,
as they struggle north
to the pole where
they always turn back
for the Christmas lights strung
over the porches
welcoming home
those who might have been
men.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 6:02 PM UTC
Upon the trail, I will tread
Hoping that the darkened avenue
Will conceal the fears that I have fled
Feeling upon my chest the tempest beat accrue
Floundering to gasp my escaping breathes
I toil through the depths and groves
That time’s hand sheathes
Questioning anew my past roves
Knowing that within the question lays the truth
Shall I not search the woeful past?
To expose the crestfallen forsooth
That has amassed
Finding upon the grains of time the paths I took
I wonder if regret would be etched upon the decisions I mistook
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 12:44 PM UTC
To keep a routine, that's the thing,
that's what keeps it at bay. But
is that not just playing a game -
the shaving, the brushing, the toenail-
trimming every four weeks?
I think depression is no more
than the sudden dropping of pretence.
You keep up your image, because
that is what works, and then when
you should be at your happiest, it comes
like meteors come - not with the cold
efficiency of a mechanical bird,
but like the damning hellfire
of a heavenly body curved off-path.
Say you are going for a walk,
and it is Spring, and say your
love-of-the-moment is a short
distance away, as silent as peace
because she knows how you can get.
Say it is the first bright day,
but still chilly - the moon, having
been on a binge all night, holds
a silent tune so blissfully, a
dog whistle in the deep blue, and say
the fields are endless sheathes,
the crosshatch reeds of farmed corn
forming a mosaic riddle on the ever-
stubborn mud, and there are ghostly
rainbows in the hidden puddles,
and it is joyful unlike anything,
and there's the feeling of being lost
as a child is, comfortably lost, unphased
and focused only on the patch of
ground in front - the only patch
that is, not a patch on what's behind.
And say you feel a smile arrive
and you feel too clean, if anything,
too new and looked after, like a baby,
and just as quick you think: this is not the idea,
this is not my retirement, how dare I pretend
I deserve a moonlit walk in the middle
of the day, how dare I play this game?
What next? Will I drink the sun?
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Wish i knew what to say or how to lift weight but remember, you are as you think. and i know it's hard, sometimes, to see the light that casts shade seemingly everywhere, but it can be as simple as turning eyes to the great warmth floating up on the sky and knowin' life is a joke if you make it through laughing, right?
we skim, as so many stones, on an endless pond's vague and indifferent face, more directions to feel than anyone can see, and lay, cold n warm, in alternate takes. but time continues inerrant, and the world slips through the sheets of everything, as always. through the bent sheathes, somehow, i felt the great warmth: now, not the cardboard circle in the sky, but inset, on firm land, lapping in waves, far over and under each depth; right down to the last, misery, where sometimes i sit and wait, knowing you visit, too.
so keep lifting yr lips and
tryin' to swim, and
i'll do the same,
okay?
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
A bleeding butterfly
wings it's way
of a content cry
kissing the dull day
The sun sheathes
its piercing blade
as perfect moves
for beauty
like a smile
with genuine eyes
(tear)ing their insides.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Crater and crevice,
Your surface yet sheathes,
A heart still beating, A core still aching,
For you have been torn,
Asunder your whole,
Her hands sent you tumbling,
Cast into the light,
You traveled past boundaries,
Oh great god of flight,
But this, you knew, would be your last fight.
Your surface ripped clean,
Yet you still endure,
Through frigid cold, through torrid heat,
Your surface still sheathes,
A heart still heating, A core still quaking,
Your form it still breathes,
You have melted, You have hardened,
Yet you still stand firm,
Shrunken and shaped, yet standing tall,
The smallest god still of iron will.
Krater and kylikes,
Do drink, Dear god, from silver sheen,
While time does move, and remakes, removes,
Temples and hymns once shouted to you,
Forgotten not, though lost to name,
For in the heavens, you do remain,
A pinprick framed by a praising sun,
Oh swift-tongued god, now etched in night,
Unshaken still, you burn so bright.
Mar 30, 2025
Mar 30, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC
writhing thorns engraved in bark
the wood creaks as each breath clones dark
ancient thrones of malevolent sprites
thus thrusts in everglade crevasses alike
dew drops, swirls, a complexity
masks nature's generosity
authenticity aching bones lost completely
as flesh groans in lacerated deeds accordingly
quick, hold your breath
as the earth moans in discontent
ivory, savory whimsical delicacies
the thrones topples atop star ridden daisies
sigh, beloved, my beloved king
splinters etched in wooden sheathes
close your eyes, dreadful king
as the children of you forest
grow tall to die
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
A sea of silent people with
Zippers instead of lip and teeth
So long it’s been since they’ve unzipped
They calcified like coral reef
And sometimes it is hard to breathe
When your captor is a feeling.
Their words are knives stuck in their sheathes,
At nightfall, they dream of screaming.
Their shoulders slumped, they knew that if
They sang or sighed or gave a speech
Before it was too late, their scythe
Would never have to reap and reap
And reap, but no, they sowed the seed,
If only they’d been believing
But they dug a grave, where they sleep
At nightfall, to dream of screaming.
Their kids don’t cry, instead, they writhe
Inheriting their voiceless grief
No words to soothe the kind of life
That never, ever knows relief
As it was stolen by a thief
And his name is Never Needing.
Their fear, it thrums to its own beat
At nightfall, they dream of screaming.
They waste away, they cannot eat
But now, death itself is freeing.
Their dreams once were the sun and sea—
Tonight, they just dream of screaming.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC
The New Year looms,
a blank page
awaiting the first
wondrous words of winter.
The poet sheathes his pen.
The poet sheathes his pen,
an instrument of imperfection,
awaiting the first
incisive inspiration
of the looming New Year.
The New Year looms,
the depository of the past,
awaiting activation.
The poet sheathes his pen,
practicing a passive role.
Practicing a passive role,
the New Year awaits
consecration: December 31st
whitewashed of all its sins.
The poet unsheathes his pen.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
the surgeon wields the knife
crowded minds give out
tongue bitten hurts like mad
someone died today a million times
cash was king last century
everyone wants out of here
bombs bullets blood and diamonds
two lovers meet and kiss
man can only give what's received
there's nothing left someone said
the surgeon sheathes the knife.
Sep 12, 2023
Sep 12, 2023 at 2:05 PM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
Unpack your thoughts. Be free and frank with me.
Pretend yourself my junior cabinetman,
For my own court is often at a loss.
What vague agenda does this fleet announce?
TEUHTLILLI
They masquerade as peaceful legates sent
To haggle wares and flaunt their god, no more.
MOTECUHZOMA
Ridiculous!
TEUHTLILLI My sentiments as well.
MOTECUHZOMA
Then what’s your own misgivings of their aim?
Don’t gild the pill for me. Who are these men?
TEUHTLILLI
I’d bank they’re vigorous, new, cruel foes,
Now swiftly winging from the Eastern Sea
To spoil, maraud, shed sheathes and buccaneer.
We’ve Mayan authority to warrant this,
Hence their determination for the fray.
MOTECUHZOMA
But I have poor rapport with Mayaland.
What do my coastal subjects make of this?
TEUHTLILLI
They call them minor, maverick deities,
As yet unknown, yet fancied devilish.
MOTECUHZOMA
And what if they will prove, as prophesied,
Our long-lost rulers coming home?
TEUHTLILLI Perhaps.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 2:13 PM UTC
Chest flowing red rivers
Sheathes her dagger
Ends her swagger
Swerving like a drunkard
And falling into
The dark hued
Deathly abyss
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
particles of us
*you
soft and sublime.
easy with generosities.
voice of honey
breath of flowers.
so difficult to leave.
I swallow your goodbye
but it sticks in my chest.
me
only footsteps away from you
I look into the yet innocence of earth.
and seek the familiar things.
flavors of my life that I need
elements of you
particles of me
in everything I see.
today I see the shoreline of the lake.
the soft sheathes of the willows
swaying in the light breezes
filling me with tranquil promises
of our life yet to come.
full of the flow of your hair
swaying soft waves on my bare skin.
endless Sunday mornings
with tea and shared newspapers
conversations of confidences.
I hear our whispers
in the branches
like moths .
At Night
the wise moon pours light
onto the silvered pavement.
it tells me of you
and how your love
will be waiting for me
as it waits for the darkness.
patiently and full of forevers.
All I can breathe
in its milky light
are the possibilities of you.
slowly and silently
the world changes
until all that is visible to me.
is something of you
and something of me.*
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC