"sheathing" poems
Fold me
into
your blanket
like sheets
your soothing flesh
cooling my heat
sheathing my rod
into your mesh
we mesh
our flesh meets
gates pressed
firmly against me
like raw meats
we simmer from the heat
our hearts beating
like a drum beat
we're set
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
Just a Game. . .
In the comfortable stockade of my mind
Hide and seek cannot be won
Tiptoe away and find a hollow,
The solitary spot
Slipping between turmoil
Festering in alcoves
Always waiting; back tensed,
Adrenalin sheathing the silence
If I remain undetected
Perhaps the seeker will ease off,
Forget the ollie ollie in comfree
Leave me stowed away.
Much later, I could creep into safety
Call a truce, change spots...
Yet unmarred, the same old rules;
Vicious whispers that ask of unknown.
Meaningful glances and gritted teeth,
The shock of lush green eyes chasing down memory lane.
Wake up, Maple. Wake up.
But I wouldn’t, and it didn’t matter.
Because the stabbing whispers would continue inside;
Dueling emotions I long ago left at bay.
Reside there, waiting.
Counting.
Watching.
*Ready or not,
Here
We
Come.*
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
*Moonlight, sheathing the earth,
lost its heart to a shining smart satellite,
"moving speck of light, inching forwards infinity,
alas! our love lasts, not even a cosmic minute"*
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
I accept and digest,
The changes being fed.
A necessary medication,
Essential to the operation.
Sequential,
But not complete.
Heard skipping on repeat.
Temptation lingers slowly,
Beneath the darkness,
The mask.
Sheathing,
Veiling,
Protecting fragile skin.
Because the pain that truly ruptures us,
Ignites from within.
In sin,
In harmony,
In truth.
Cast upon the world at large,
Stand alone.
It’s you.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
In a sphere of infinite narcissism
Wicked homosapiens tread the horizon
Daunting threats of turbulent tragedy
Dawn upon the hopeless, roaming souls
Sheathing them with treacherous shadows
Of atrociously, covert crucifixion
The elite coquettes hearken
The tumultous sound
Emanating from multiple, acrid massacres
Tainting these notably wounded hearts
Within a satanic plethora
Of acrimonious equivocation
By nightfall a harrowing suicide
By daybreak a dreary mourning
Catastrophe is all that occupies
This infamous wasteland of avarice
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
I've always itched
For perfect mahogany
Chimera doubles.
Cavorting into her,
Psychologies
Fullest emptiness.
Drastic is the
...Vow...
One which
Most perceive.
I let it
Palpate
My sheathing...
And my entrails
Lay open...
As she played cello.
With intestines of mine,
Her smile planted
In mist.
Painted on sawmill
Hinges...
It began.
To sieve serrating
..Arms...
Back to my tissues
Within.
My bones; refused
Seeping aqueducts.
Only to quail from sin.
We wetted; our contour
Tongues on....
O-negative streams.
So animalistic,
I dwindled upon
Her lancet...
And we let our
Collage begin.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Wendy, Wendy, she gave me a thimble;
She held my world and made it crumble.
The tender orb's icy sheathing starts to melt,
thawed by the enigma's hearth it felt.
The thimble she gave, it dawned upon me;
makes me wonder will she not, or will she be.
Is she the raison d'etre I've long been searching for?
Though one thing's for certain, her thimble, I'm yearning for more.
Her fairness, her beauty, there's more from within.
Surpassing even the cherubic vessel she's in.
Ethereal Perfume, she draws me near;
in the sonorous silence; two hearts twained dear.
She made me, no longer the rougish Peter Pan;
Her thimble transfixed me into a man.
She took me out from Neverland's imbecile bliss;
But for you to see, Wendy's thimble is her secret kiss.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
And she lay... spread like the petals
of a dew dampened rose......
Drenched in the 'throated' moan
Of your kiss, I bask in the flood
Of your gaze...
Sweet torment, in each intake
Of breath...
Where
Your tongue pours fire
Sheathing me
In flames of want...
You speak...that voice; pouring
Creamy...smooth,
D
O
W
N
My throat, and
I am melted, a whimper-ache
Naked, but for the blush of moon
Lain unashamed,
Beneath brown eyes deepening....
My flesh consumed against
You...burning red in my veins,
Filling me with the breadth of your rhythm;
While the hours burn
Enormous pale candles,
Frozen eternal in spangles and lace...
Slide across these aching *******
Weep me wild with ecstasy,
Pulse me deep in vibrant ripples,
Plunge me.... into the worship of your passion-breathed breeze
Wield the strand of flame against my silk..
As I ...
TASTE
You...lingering on the surface of my tongue...
Cast me lost, in the soft,
Precious wind-song of heart's beat,
Casting shadows against unheard music;
Until...
My blush beckons a firestorm between finger’s grip,
Burning untamed, beneath your skin...
Cast up your spell beloved,
Drink me in
Where lips play... a searing ache;
Lay lush with me, inside the meld of my heat,
While I submerge in endless seas of you.........
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
Wither your wings go
Yet, forth you walk
To parting lips, blackened
Breath
Sheathing nervous impulse
Behind roiling haze
You were immortal, once
Gazing without seeing
A glass heart
Full of hope
Life flushed your veins gold
Sunk its teeth
Into warm pulse
Carried two sets
Of two strands
To a place, called home
But fear
Etched its make
Into the hollow of your soul
Creasing aspirations
Careless in their birth
And growth
Lying, in a lull
You flicker through
Replays
Fingers lacing
Soft wake,
Soft skin,
Immeasurable
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
Forgive me if I seemed brusque at the airport,
these churches to farewell
are not where I choose to worship
and saying goodbye is like sheathing a sword,
the danger is not over until it’s out of sight.
You’re an introspective man, covert with your passion,
but I suspect you were as glad to see us
as we were to see you.
It’s been said that you are a perfect foil
to my extroversion,
we are a sort of Laurel and Hardy of the emotional spectrum.
One of the perils of transience
is the absence of solid friendship
so that we sometimes become
like wings without a body.
Having a friend arrive on our doorstep
is to find something we did not realise
we had lost.
A holidaymaker is as bright in the workaday world
as a mint coin on sunlit concrete
so that our biggest concern
was to polish your days
to the consistency of your previous excitement.
We are rusty entertainers at best.
One of life’s more pleasant surprises
is that we never know how or where
we will forge a friendship.
Friendships forged in the workplace
can be the most enduring
because there is no mandate to like our workmates.
For a few, too short days
you brought back for me all that was good
about my life in Auckland
and I can ask a friend for no greater gift
than to reflect a little sunlight.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
Should grief be drowned in waving thrones of sea
bereft as me; shall boat and venture deep
until that ever spanning moat has me
then salty hearse's cleanse - that I not weep.
If seagulls flock the sky above this scene
then fly them lower here and feast debris
for little worth has lovers' break - that been
as sheathing sinks, the fishes then agree.
No shrine would rise beneath the liquid tomb
the ocean bed shall crest my seams as shells
tho' here no flag nor plankton mark old bloom
concealed in sand, from shores and tiding swells.
The bay entices me, whom sprayed with brine
but I shall wander on; in shards of mine.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
Midnight strikes
You’re on my mind
Silently wishing for you to be mine, again
Those wishful thinking, kills me slowly
In this slow silent solitude
But you, in the biggest magnitude
of happiness
While, I, a mess
How could you leave me alone
In this winter cold
Shivering and sheathing
From the bloodcurling lies spewed
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 1:10 AM UTC
Every night walking to the door
I have gazed upon the heavens
Seen the radiance of the moon
Unless the rock beneath my feet
Has extirpated all its light.
Nine times, over these last nine moons
I resisted the lonely howl
Lest the moon cry out back at me
Lest would it grow arms to embrace
Lest its craters could catch my tears
Nine moons, have I opened the lock
And entered into my repose
Shaking until the morrow dew
Learning to forgive those who wrong
Forgiving myself to move on
Nine rainbows, have passed through my tears
Yet, now, the tenth shall not be mine
Let the river drain to the sea
Let this heart sow up the open ****
And thus become the servant heart.
May 16, 2010
May 16, 2010 at 2:53 PM UTC
My heart writhes of pain, in the chilling fire
The fire for which she gathered, tinder
My quill and his ink froze, in the chilling fire
The fire which she gathered for my pyre.
My vellum sits bone-dry, in the chilling fire
Her fire, which burns my voices to cinder
Every fortnight, I see her glistening eyes
Reciting a monotonous sonnet of grey
That sonnet would never ever suffice
In sheathing me from her stagnant voice
As she smothers my final embers of life
As she “graces” me staleness from life’s fray
Her brushed hair, smooth in bronze.
Her florid face, baroque and supple.
Her lips, curled to a fluttering smile
Her gait, silent, steady and subtle
Her eyes, icy daggers skewering my heart
Her fingertips, flames freezing my breathe
I await in void as her hand rests on mine
Glaring the gloaming sky with heavy eyes
She drained my soul into a dead mine.
But... she birthed my precious Daphne
A shallow stream began from my dry eyes
“I miss our waltz, I always did, Ania.”
The ink on my quill began its flows
My heart repose, as my Ania mellows.
But sorrow, clutch me, she was my Ania
I shall see her very soon, in our meadows
We will have our Final Waltz, Ania
Yes, Ania; Our joyous waltz to Follia.
Aug 19, 2020
Aug 19, 2020 at 2:28 AM UTC
I wrapped my hands up in your hair
to feel the pulse - your heat, your beat.
I reach again
feel naught but air:
the essence of a love,
retreat.
Often do I venture back,
roam into an abandoned past.
Dis-embalm these memories true,
packed on ice
yet damp with dew.
Cat treads heavy the surface of heart,
imprints
indenting,
g, d
n e
i s
d c
n e
e n
c d
s i
a n
g,
scarring my thoughts, my rhythm,
my whole.
Shifting my sacrum,
sheathing my soul.
Doggedly I trail behind
with a twisted eraser
just "try the eraser"
you said with a smirk.
But still I reach and I reach and I reach
rapt in your attentions as a wave to a beach.
There is a grain of sand in my eye
that can't be washed away.
Salt, fresh, spring
they all caught her.
But I've tried every type of water.
Still you persist,
a rotting orange's mist.
I allowed you to come; I also let you leave.
I remember with crude clarity
what happened in between.
Go, my love you let.
Go, your love I let.
The only question now I have:
Why then can't I forget?
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 9:50 AM UTC
Don't hate the Playa,
hate the game.
But do you believe in a brave
new Gaming World?
A Halo sheen,
sheathing ancient veins,
pulsating, and spurting
forth the same old sins to love,
while we saunter and strut,
pointing at taunted sinners to hate.
It's hard loving Playas,
cuz they smells, and cuss like a ************
Dumb ***** singing
beautiful Indri morning
wake up gospels from an old extant
lemur memory trace.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
maybe i'll go
go all hard and wiggly
when the bread of earth is suffocated
perfectly the surly bending twig,
my follicle of sheathing mortar
and you.ll be soundly
quiet too
and you,ll love me more than god
and maybe
together
our softs will blunder
irrevocably against the sun
who's on our in's
our outs
and stapled on the supple
tweed of grass and laughter
(our fingers in the earth
the righteous
who think with hearts
of copper vermilion hush
) i'
ll call you heaven
and you;ll just
just
just
just
just
just just
just
just
just
t s u j
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 3:24 PM UTC
luscious corpse meadow salvation
wet waxy journal scrawled generous
be straight narrow crooked armor amour
fractured ferrous magnetic skin
dry husk sheathing thee: she spun metallic
so, yes, i will
but just this
once
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 12:03 PM UTC
(Man Lady Plain- Both of them or the narrator)
The powdery snow, slowly sways down,
Sheathing the mountains in soft, pure white.
The two inside a run-down house in a barren village,
Huddle together in the cold winter night.
"It has also been snowing on the day we met,"
*You murmured with a smile,
And I'd hidden my face, flushed from each cheek,
Within the shadow of your large sleeve.
With a breath of joy,
I sang a spring's arrival along with the chirping birds.*
"Your voice is beautiful," *you told me,
Just those words, and those alone, made me so happy!
"If someday, I no longer had this beautiful voice,
Would you still, even then, love me?"*
"Of course," *you said, softly smiling,
As your large hand, gently stroked my cheek.*
**"A crane... snared in this weather?
Wait I will set you free"**
And it flew ever so elegantly.
*One hot summer afternoon,
You coughed blood and collapsed...
Our poor married life,
Couldn't afford it's cure...
The next day came by, along with the following,
I did nothing else, but purposely weave...
I wouldn't let your life,
Fall like the fleeting autumn leaves!
The seasons flow by,
And the bell crickets shriek.
The end of summer is marked by their cries.*
"Your fingers are beautiful," *you told me,
Delicately clutching my wound-covered hands...
But yours were much too cold!
"If someday, I no longer had these beautiful fingers,
Would you still, even then, love me?"*
"Of course," *you said, coughing,
As your large hands caressed my aching fingers.
Day and night, don't stop weaving...*
~~Ah, the sunset's cool breeze~~
Hurry,hurry, I need to buy medicine...
~~Sways the sluggishly decaying fruit's scent~~
Just a bit more, only a bit more; before the autumn leaves fall...
~~Until it goes out~~
*Until these fingers can't move... Until these feathers are all used up!!!
"If someday, I were no longer a human,
Would you still love me?"
The truth I feared left untold,
I softly pluck the final feather alone...*
**"Of course," I say, warmly smiling,
I promised I'd embrace you, even if you've lost your wings!
And that crane which had beautifully taken flight that day...
I've always remembered, and never forgotten, even now!**
And just like always, I love you
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
White, in visual sense is the purest hue of them all.
However, white also provokes monotony.
If the sky was nothing but clouds,
Anyone with an artistic perspective would go insane.
For our whole world is an empty opus,
and we can’t fill it without destroying the atmosphere in which we live in.
But our conforming society does that now.
The blue acts as a sheath from the already existing,
continually spreading damage.
But there’s beauty in small portions of destruction,
And we tend to over dose quite a bit.
There’s always comfort in the grey clouds of a boisterous front.
We shed flowers of their pedals,
So we can be reminded that even the most beautiful pieces of nature,
Can be reduced to nothing.
We destroy each other,
With love.
Not because it’s healthy,
But we feel as if it’s a necessity,
That although the same stories have been told
Over, and over,
We are willing to reread them,
Hoping that one-day we can defeat the writer,
And have our own endings.
Visually, we don’t want to see white,
because humans cannot stay pure for long.
But in terms of words,
all we crave is white,
Except so many people spew black
and everything is so easily mixed together,
it’s hard to depict between the two,
and before you know it,
words you thought were white,
pure,
are burned to a crisp
without you even lighting the match.
The grey is no longer comforting.
You could never light a match,
and still receive the second-hand smoke.
It seems that the strikers forget,
Not all have stooped to their level of greed,
pity,
and have kept the matchbox closed.
Then there’s the artificial,
callous,
Speech of sky blue.
The same blue that sheaths our polluted sky,
is sheathing our polluted minds.
Some are too cowardly to face the white,
and must sheath it with plastic blue.
The worst part of it all:
the strikers only make the plastic stronger.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
The sheathing of this bulb
has broken, filled with scratches
Although it still shines bright
Hub of its joy: serving me
It has seen all of my doodles
but gave away nothing
My infant poems often think
that its light is their mother
My sweat, my tears, my nightmares
are its insignia, its tatoo
It imputes its capability
of breathing to me
but I am the apprentice here
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
The memories of raven black obsidian
Well up at the sight of my new blade.
A midnight blade, with a red groove,
Running it’s own comet like streak
Down the center of the curvature.
The handle is made of an ebony wood,
A wood as dark, if not darker than
The blade it so reliably holds together.
A thin silver band wraps the division
Between the blade and handle,
And blocks the sheath from over-sheathing.
The sheath is also made of the same
Shadowy wood as the handle,
Giving off an aura of pure functionality.
This was a weapon made purely to ****
The air around the blade shadily undulates
Like heartbeats through crimson arteries,
Telling me it’s immense bloodlust.
Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 1:36 AM UTC