"sidling" poems - Hello Poetry

"sidling" poems

Pellets of rain pestered the cotton swagged sky, cloudy purses grew black with scowls coldly spelling their injustice. A chapter of sunrays shot shamesless shards, irony perched between chaperones; a truce maybe, rains restless pathways of rays bleating their appeal, rooming in, black balaclavas, rooting for blue beams, itching bony beads of cloudy sweat, out of reach In turn, limbs colour coated grassy spaces tides of sun worshippers laughed out loud their inner duets, hand in hand the sweltering dance floor bathed them, sidling cotton clouds Swiftly passing the sunscreen, laying back, beckoning the sun from beneath neatly positioned cloud baubles. Within an inch of our lives the splodges began, light heavy, heavier, to the swell of April in full tune Instantly the greedy green spaces groaned, ejected sweet harmony, rolled out goodbyes, tongued stiff breeze longing for its thirst to be quenched, and so torrents rushed in where fools once lay A lonely sunscreen bottle, remnant of warm minds soaking heat, long days teasing into belief. Yet April fooled us once more with beguiling banter, chorused a chanting cheating lullaby of lamentation

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May 5, 2013

May 5, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC

laura-susan-smith

Beguilingly April

Pellets of rain pestered the cotton swagged sky, cloudy purses grew black with scowls coldly spelling their injustice. A chapter of sunrays shot shamesless shards, irony perched between chaperones; a truce maybe, rains restless pathways of rays bleating their appeal, rooming in, black balaclavas, rooting for blue beams, itching bony beads of cloudy sweat, out of reach In turn, limbs colour coated grassy spaces tides of sun worshippers laughed out loud their inner duets, hand in hand the sweltering dance floor bathed them, sidling cotton clouds Swiftly passing the sunscreen, laying back, beckoning the sun from beneath neatly positioned cloud baubles. Within an inch of our lives the splodges began, light heavy, heavier, to the swell of April in full tune Instantly the greedy green spaces groaned, ejected sweet harmony, rolled out goodbyes, tongued stiff breeze longing for its thirst to be quenched, and so torrents rushed in where fools once lay A lonely sunscreen bottle, remnant of warm minds soaking heat, long days teasing into belief. Yet April fooled us once more with beguiling banter, chorused a chanting cheating lullaby of lamentation

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*to be or not to be*... he stands at the lamppost, screened from view evening light slopes across the street and cuts an oblong square of light from the Hotel de Ville lobby-entrance. she wonders who he is, standing there so almost melding into post, his nondescript shadow sidling alongside while early eve strolls through Le Parc des Céléstins steady presence, half but not quite menacing. he gazes down at his silhouette, Gauloise alit and it, in turn, looks into the kerb...or up at him... he turns his head up slowly, hazy wisps as bewilderment draws reredos. she hears footsteps clack across the parquet floor as someone leaves the rez-de-chaussée she wonders what he wants; why he stands there who he waits for; and why so long..... she can never see his face, ponders much on this she longs to understand, yet feels afraid as if she's seen that shade before, across the road moving slowly, as the hours steal away... visible from her second floor, she eyes daddy-long legged limbs and dangly shapes he has merely wandered into his past seeking only the one he hopes to find. traveled so far and sought so wide crossed oceans, traversed treacherous terrain perseverance the clutch word of the day only to linger long to recover dashed prize. later, as she peers into the heavy night from windows shut, all her eyes can pierce are nought but empty shadows 'neath that solitary lamp post seems the mist carried off her spectral fear.... as well. *or... did it?* S T, 28 June 2013 (Fry-day:)

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Jun 28, 2013

Jun 28, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC

N O R M A N D I E

*to be or not to be*... he stands at the lamppost, screened from view evening light slopes across the street and cuts an oblong square of light from the Hotel de Ville lobby-entrance. she wonders who he is, standing there so almost melding into post, his nondescript shadow sidling alongside while early eve strolls through Le Parc des Céléstins steady presence, half but not quite menacing. he gazes down at his silhouette, Gauloise alit and it, in turn, looks into the kerb...or up at him... he turns his head up slowly, hazy wisps as bewilderment draws reredos. she hears footsteps clack across the parquet floor as someone leaves the rez-de-chaussée she wonders what he wants; why he stands there who he waits for; and why so long..... she can never see his face, ponders much on this she longs to understand, yet feels afraid as if she's seen that shade before, across the road moving slowly, as the hours steal away... visible from her second floor, she eyes daddy-long legged limbs and dangly shapes he has merely wandered into his past seeking only the one he hopes to find. traveled so far and sought so wide crossed oceans, traversed treacherous terrain perseverance the clutch word of the day only to linger long to recover dashed prize. later, as she peers into the heavy night from windows shut, all her eyes can pierce are nought but empty shadows 'neath that solitary lamp post seems the mist carried off her spectral fear.... as well. *or... did it?* S T, 28 June 2013 (Fry-day:)

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She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.” Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade. I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor. She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle. I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice. She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers. My mind was her mind. Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder. Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep. Did I want her, or did I want to be her? Alison Wonderland. Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own. For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me. On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst. My mind was her mind. And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down. Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple. Carnival infatuations… Alison Wonderland.

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Jan 23, 2016

Jan 23, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC

The Heterosexual Duo ...In Theory

She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.” Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade. I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor. She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle. I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice. She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers. My mind was her mind. Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder. Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep. Did I want her, or did I want to be her? Alison Wonderland. Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own. For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me. On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst. My mind was her mind. And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down. Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple. Carnival infatuations… Alison Wonderland.

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We caught the tread of dancing feet, We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the harlot’s house. Inside, above the din and fray, We heard the loud musicians play The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss. Like strange mechanical grotesques, Making fantastic arabesques, The shadows raced across the blind. We watched the ghostly dancers spin To sound of horn and violin, Like black leaves wheeling in the wind. Like wire-pulled automatons, Slim silhouetted skeletons Went sidling through the slow quadrille, Then took each other by the hand, And danced a stately saraband; Their laughter echoed thin and shrill. Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed A phantom lover to her breast, Sometimes they seemed to try to sing. Sometimes a horrible marionette Came out, and smoked its cigarette Upon the steps like a live thing. Then, turning to my love, I said, ‘The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust.’ But she—she heard the violin, And left my side, and entered in: Love passed into the house of lust. Then suddenly the tune went false, The dancers wearied of the waltz, The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl. And down the long and silent street, The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, Crept like a frightened girl.

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The Harlot’s House

We caught the tread of dancing feet, We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the harlot’s house. Inside, above the din and fray, We heard the loud musicians play The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss. Like strange mechanical grotesques, Making fantastic arabesques, The shadows raced across the blind. We watched the ghostly dancers spin To sound of horn and violin, Like black leaves wheeling in the wind. Like wire-pulled automatons, Slim silhouetted skeletons Went sidling through the slow quadrille, Then took each other by the hand, And danced a stately saraband; Their laughter echoed thin and shrill. Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed A phantom lover to her breast, Sometimes they seemed to try to sing. Sometimes a horrible marionette Came out, and smoked its cigarette Upon the steps like a live thing. Then, turning to my love, I said, ‘The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust.’ But she—she heard the violin, And left my side, and entered in: Love passed into the house of lust. Then suddenly the tune went false, The dancers wearied of the waltz, The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl. And down the long and silent street, The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, Crept like a frightened girl.

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Just up ahead is a trail Where people seldom go, Sidling down the gravel hill Into growths of ash and birch and elm, Thickets of wild plums, Chokecherries, leaves turning dusty, Verdant armies of stinging nettles Protecting coveted stands of juneberries. Bittersweet vines entangle aged elms, Siphoning life, to produce four petaled reds As summer goes down to autumn. Leaving the wind above To batter the old truck, I descend into the silence, Trees stand tall, but low Below the breeze. Down in this steep place The wind cannot come, The sun, when it finds its way, Warms gently on the coldest day. The spring my father dug Before I was born, Set into the weeping gravel hill, Runs steadily, Strong enough To fill the battered tank, To keep a goldfish or two alive, To host strange crustaceans: Tiny shrimp, just larger than ants, Pebble crusted creatures More insect than fish, Frogs in the tank, Toads out..., Mosses and mud Thirty years or more At home. Deer come to this tank, On hot days or cold; Coyotes, too. Porcupines dine on treetops Swaying quietly A hundred feet below Wild Montana winds. Cattle in winter find life In the quiet, constant water Flowing here. I am taken back To a stifling July afternoon, But cool here in this protected place, Dragonflies floating And cicadas sawing in the trees, My mouth full of juneberries As I circle my way, Eating more than picking... Coming face to face with a coyote. Was he dozing? Passing through? Or, do coyotes eat Juneberries, too? We stop hard, Stunned. Then bolt in opposite directions, My juneberries flying From the milking pail; His tongue between his teeth, Tail low, Feet flying into the brush beyond.

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Jan 5, 2016

Jan 5, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC

Juneberry Picking

Just up ahead is a trail Where people seldom go, Sidling down the gravel hill Into growths of ash and birch and elm, Thickets of wild plums, Chokecherries, leaves turning dusty, Verdant armies of stinging nettles Protecting coveted stands of juneberries. Bittersweet vines entangle aged elms, Siphoning life, to produce four petaled reds As summer goes down to autumn. Leaving the wind above To batter the old truck, I descend into the silence, Trees stand tall, but low Below the breeze. Down in this steep place The wind cannot come, The sun, when it finds its way, Warms gently on the coldest day. The spring my father dug Before I was born, Set into the weeping gravel hill, Runs steadily, Strong enough To fill the battered tank, To keep a goldfish or two alive, To host strange crustaceans: Tiny shrimp, just larger than ants, Pebble crusted creatures More insect than fish, Frogs in the tank, Toads out..., Mosses and mud Thirty years or more At home. Deer come to this tank, On hot days or cold; Coyotes, too. Porcupines dine on treetops Swaying quietly A hundred feet below Wild Montana winds. Cattle in winter find life In the quiet, constant water Flowing here. I am taken back To a stifling July afternoon, But cool here in this protected place, Dragonflies floating And cicadas sawing in the trees, My mouth full of juneberries As I circle my way, Eating more than picking... Coming face to face with a coyote. Was he dozing? Passing through? Or, do coyotes eat Juneberries, too? We stop hard, Stunned. Then bolt in opposite directions, My juneberries flying From the milking pail; His tongue between his teeth, Tail low, Feet flying into the brush beyond.

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I love you what more can I say? You're brilliant, wonderful A new kind with every line I write about you you're the base of my heart I tend to you, nurture you take care of you with every breath you're scarred though shattered, scratched, tortured in every way possible your heart's been broken your mind's been cracked open she's busted you busted my lover, my pride I walk on a thin line don't pull it open don't leave it closed how far can we go on this path an inch off the cliff sidling by, barely holding on we'll fall if you don't hold on to me on to my hand, my heart the soul you breath upon which I have given to you all those years ago that you have ignored you're hanging onto a thread I'm grasping the other side you either let me pull you up and stand close by my side or you let yourself fall down and fall dead to the ground I want to save you, I swear I do saving you is what I'll do for eternity an angel, I've told you a guardian knight you have to trust me, princey trust me your life for which I live no matter who is pulling you down I'm always there to pull you back up because I love you and I always have I've said it countless times before yet you never listen to me stop crawling in the lion's den stop following trouble around you're no use to me if you're dead come live with me, and let it be forget about this history I don't care if it's haunting me stand above land and sea broadcast all your magesty although it's one small step into my arms it's a giant leap away from all harm

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Sep 25, 2017

Sep 25, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC

hanging by a thread

I love you what more can I say? You're brilliant, wonderful A new kind with every line I write about you you're the base of my heart I tend to you, nurture you take care of you with every breath you're scarred though shattered, scratched, tortured in every way possible your heart's been broken your mind's been cracked open she's busted you busted my lover, my pride I walk on a thin line don't pull it open don't leave it closed how far can we go on this path an inch off the cliff sidling by, barely holding on we'll fall if you don't hold on to me on to my hand, my heart the soul you breath upon which I have given to you all those years ago that you have ignored you're hanging onto a thread I'm grasping the other side you either let me pull you up and stand close by my side or you let yourself fall down and fall dead to the ground I want to save you, I swear I do saving you is what I'll do for eternity an angel, I've told you a guardian knight you have to trust me, princey trust me your life for which I live no matter who is pulling you down I'm always there to pull you back up because I love you and I always have I've said it countless times before yet you never listen to me stop crawling in the lion's den stop following trouble around you're no use to me if you're dead come live with me, and let it be forget about this history I don't care if it's haunting me stand above land and sea broadcast all your magesty although it's one small step into my arms it's a giant leap away from all harm

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you are a pause you are the second before the air raid an anticipation so loud it's deafening you are the stillness, the static, pins and needles between lightening and thunder. 1. . . 2 . . . 3. . . you are the heartbeat, last blink separating bullet and flesh crescent cuts bleed from empty hands you are red lights. stop knuckles white through a raindropped windshield you are elevators early morning coffee stains shifting eyes. look away. you are the dead air on a faraway radio station bent antenna. turn the dial. silence you are the needle on that half broken phonograph sidling arthritically away, back to sleep you are the skip a beat nervous lip bitten hesitation, envelope stamped staring into the letter box. just let go you are punctuation. . . you are the hyphen splitting words in two leaving lonely nothings on different pages you are 0:00 you are the force that draws our eyes together if only for an instant

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Oct 15, 2012

Oct 15, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC

what if we were moments?

you are a pause you are the second before the air raid an anticipation so loud it's deafening you are the stillness, the static, pins and needles between lightening and thunder. 1. . . 2 . . . 3. . . you are the heartbeat, last blink separating bullet and flesh crescent cuts bleed from empty hands you are red lights. stop knuckles white through a raindropped windshield you are elevators early morning coffee stains shifting eyes. look away. you are the dead air on a faraway radio station bent antenna. turn the dial. silence you are the needle on that half broken phonograph sidling arthritically away, back to sleep you are the skip a beat nervous lip bitten hesitation, envelope stamped staring into the letter box. just let go you are punctuation. . . you are the hyphen splitting words in two leaving lonely nothings on different pages you are 0:00 you are the force that draws our eyes together if only for an instant

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Crystalline gliding. Clippin' cuticles in cubicles & itching for a kaleidoscope dance with The Phantom sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold. Glazed eyes from a friend. honey crueler. Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears & my pores breath the calcification. Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss & pollen still buries it's way deep into the tree trunk, Bleeding like a sour calf just to stroke a coconut leaf in the musky village. I live inside a cantaloupe so I can't elope with status quo. Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots so the Queen calls me swamp belly. She looked like she was carved out of rice. bitten & frail steps with gentle linger teased soft grass in the concrete canal where the streets glistened with mustaches drenched in honey brown ale. His brain is a tickled cauliflower encased in Papier-mâché, Lima bean boogers & nicotine stained chestnut shells. Gears torque and crudely animate his sluggish form and peanut butter body. Diabetic eyes, that bark like a sloth & lay a thick layer of custard over their last nerve, intrigue mine own to stare into the vague emptiness.

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Jul 25, 2014

Jul 25, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC

Crystalline gliding. Clippin' cuticles in cubicles & itching for a kaleidoscope dance with The Phantom sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold. Glazed eyes from a friend. honey crueler. Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears & my pores breath the calcification. Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss & pollen still buries it's way deep into the tree trunk, Bleeding like a sour calf just to stroke a coconut leaf in the musky village. I live inside a cantaloupe so I can't elope with status quo. Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots so the Queen calls me swamp belly. She looked like she was carved out of rice. bitten & frail steps with gentle linger teased soft grass in the concrete canal where the streets glistened with mustaches drenched in honey brown ale. His brain is a tickled cauliflower encased in Papier-mâché, Lima bean boogers & nicotine stained chestnut shells. Gears torque and crudely animate his sluggish form and peanut butter body. Diabetic eyes, that bark like a sloth & lay a thick layer of custard over their last nerve, intrigue mine own to stare into the vague emptiness.

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Tired Brain spits words in fits and starts The internal running commentary misfiring badly Ideas stuck in bottlenecks Traffic backed up and down the on-ramps Leading off the congested thoughtways Tired Stormwater overflow pours out of blocked drains Sidling up the gutters of fallen leaves And other assorted detritus of modern existence Spewing out over footpaths and under cars And over the tops of the boots of downtrodden dawn treaders Tired Mountain pass impassable under it’s mercurial precipitate mask Features only glimpsed in snatches Like looking through a white picket fence while running Thought trees bunching up around the middle Warping under the sun and the scrutiny of others Tired Collapsing under the weight of the wave function Subatomic particles currently in a state of nonexistence Abandoned altogether by the Higgs, thoughts vibrate and dissipate In extraordinary frequency and noise Drowned out by the audible hum of the big bang Tired As if running a marathon in treacle Start with a whimper then dribble to a halt Running barefoot on salt flats Or over pillows in stilettos More time spent on face than feet Tired Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more The court jester prances for the Big Queen ***** And her merry King of Fools with his band of merry drunkards Quickly losing the point of it all As words start tumbling down in random order Staccato signal messages like binary or Morse code Information overload threatens to upend the boatload Like the military dumping refugees into the harbour Buckle up armour and wait for the onslaught Of somnatic visions, twisted psychedelic impressions Land mine concussions in the fevered dreams of veterans Who witnessed limb torn from limb In the name of something nobody remembers Lose their tempers and start a war on home turf Jungles petrified into concrete monstrosities that blot out the sun From the flowers that feed in the cracks of the pavement Everywhere bereavement and none shall take leave From the cold, impassive logic of Death Who comes knocking as you read this Wired No chance of sleep now This is why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night

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Sep 26, 2012

Sep 26, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC

Why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night

Tired Brain spits words in fits and starts The internal running commentary misfiring badly Ideas stuck in bottlenecks Traffic backed up and down the on-ramps Leading off the congested thoughtways Tired Stormwater overflow pours out of blocked drains Sidling up the gutters of fallen leaves And other assorted detritus of modern existence Spewing out over footpaths and under cars And over the tops of the boots of downtrodden dawn treaders Tired Mountain pass impassable under it’s mercurial precipitate mask Features only glimpsed in snatches Like looking through a white picket fence while running Thought trees bunching up around the middle Warping under the sun and the scrutiny of others Tired Collapsing under the weight of the wave function Subatomic particles currently in a state of nonexistence Abandoned altogether by the Higgs, thoughts vibrate and dissipate In extraordinary frequency and noise Drowned out by the audible hum of the big bang Tired As if running a marathon in treacle Start with a whimper then dribble to a halt Running barefoot on salt flats Or over pillows in stilettos More time spent on face than feet Tired Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more The court jester prances for the Big Queen ***** And her merry King of Fools with his band of merry drunkards Quickly losing the point of it all As words start tumbling down in random order Staccato signal messages like binary or Morse code Information overload threatens to upend the boatload Like the military dumping refugees into the harbour Buckle up armour and wait for the onslaught Of somnatic visions, twisted psychedelic impressions Land mine concussions in the fevered dreams of veterans Who witnessed limb torn from limb In the name of something nobody remembers Lose their tempers and start a war on home turf Jungles petrified into concrete monstrosities that blot out the sun From the flowers that feed in the cracks of the pavement Everywhere bereavement and none shall take leave From the cold, impassive logic of Death Who comes knocking as you read this Wired No chance of sleep now This is why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night

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Flush-faced, his broad chest full of might In such mellow growth so slow and sure Abides he like the yellow moon at night Hung sidling by in silence evermore A flame that struggles ‘gainst the cutting gale Then hides inside so that its force conserves Or rather like the wax that waits to melt For light that burns until its last exhale Oh Love of mine, who glows and warms So softly that he almost can’t be felt.

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Oct 6, 2013

Oct 6, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC

Ode to My Steadfast Lover

Flush-faced, his broad chest full of might In such mellow growth so slow and sure Abides he like the yellow moon at night Hung sidling by in silence evermore A flame that struggles ‘gainst the cutting gale Then hides inside so that its force conserves Or rather like the wax that waits to melt For light that burns until its last exhale Oh Love of mine, who glows and warms So softly that he almost can’t be felt.

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Sonorous sensation seething sorrowful Sagacity serendipitous Sing-song similes sidling southward Seemingly slipping ****** spectacular symmetry shows sputtering soul Fallacies fall fluttering fecundity fearlessly flaunting former friendships foundered narcissistic N u a n c e s nearing nightshades nymph-like nuptials nocturne destiny Disposes damaged defenses duly dramatizing dour dowager dreams declaiming drowsy doleful deeds Euphemistic elegiac embargo/encounter exiled emissary endless ecstatic echoes echoes echoes echoes echoes .............................................

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Nov 24, 2010

Nov 24, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC

Sonorous sensation seething sorrowful Sagacity serendipitous Sing-song similes sidling southward Seemingly slipping ****** spectacular symmetry shows sputtering soul Fallacies fall fluttering fecundity fearlessly flaunting former friendships foundered narcissistic N u a n c e s nearing nightshades nymph-like nuptials nocturne destiny Disposes damaged defenses duly dramatizing dour dowager dreams declaiming drowsy doleful deeds Euphemistic elegiac embargo/encounter exiled emissary endless ecstatic echoes echoes echoes echoes echoes .............................................

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I'm thinking out of order last things first, the middle at the end. help me stay alive my eyes are open wide images are blurred, ideas, they collide I'm hoping that somehow out of this I can write out my indecision and my crippling over-inspiration beauty and detail are leaves shivering and sidling up to me in the wind trembling, and swiftly only just out of my grasp when i reach out to muse upon their frail lace, veins of understanding an intricacy for which I am greedy distractions are taking me on paths I never desired to walk they're dark and unfeeling though endearing, engulfing, whispering, promising I find wonder in nothings diction is taking me I am kidnapped the ransom is specificity I'm falling further into impermanence reaching for reality

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Dec 13, 2011

Dec 13, 2011 at 7:47 PM UTC

on to my only salvation (never see clearly)

I'm thinking out of order last things first, the middle at the end. help me stay alive my eyes are open wide images are blurred, ideas, they collide I'm hoping that somehow out of this I can write out my indecision and my crippling over-inspiration beauty and detail are leaves shivering and sidling up to me in the wind trembling, and swiftly only just out of my grasp when i reach out to muse upon their frail lace, veins of understanding an intricacy for which I am greedy distractions are taking me on paths I never desired to walk they're dark and unfeeling though endearing, engulfing, whispering, promising I find wonder in nothings diction is taking me I am kidnapped the ransom is specificity I'm falling further into impermanence reaching for reality

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I was just the summer to you. Just the easy bloom and the easy blue and easy heat. I was only the flowers that opened to you as you walked, a light sundress, delicately, tenderly, the grace of your thighs warmly anticipating the tender youth full brightening day. I was the colors sidling nicely in flitting spots along the periphery of living life like lavender, cerise, and cerulean smiles blushing, the dripping geraniums and chamomile sprinkling you with fondness, that dote upon you adoringly and would even ingratiate themselves for you. I was the kiss only of a sensible sunlight, the embrace of a quick breeze, and your pleasant thought of your legs knee-deep in your ocean’s cupped hands to cool for a day your flushed skin in turquoise, swirling coolly salt fresh. Will someone be your four seasons ever? Will someone be the cold silence too, of a winter that can keep you staring lucid and glazed by a fire? Will someone be the frost that nips your skin to remind you of the fire in your own skin? Will someone ever be the color of fallen leaves spread over a hidden field like a hidden retreat of dreaming flowers before waking ever? Or the snow before it releases itself as moving water resting upon the yearning bud before it releases from itself promise

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Mar 27, 2012

Mar 27, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC

Your Four Seasons

I was just the summer to you. Just the easy bloom and the easy blue and easy heat. I was only the flowers that opened to you as you walked, a light sundress, delicately, tenderly, the grace of your thighs warmly anticipating the tender youth full brightening day. I was the colors sidling nicely in flitting spots along the periphery of living life like lavender, cerise, and cerulean smiles blushing, the dripping geraniums and chamomile sprinkling you with fondness, that dote upon you adoringly and would even ingratiate themselves for you. I was the kiss only of a sensible sunlight, the embrace of a quick breeze, and your pleasant thought of your legs knee-deep in your ocean’s cupped hands to cool for a day your flushed skin in turquoise, swirling coolly salt fresh. Will someone be your four seasons ever? Will someone be the cold silence too, of a winter that can keep you staring lucid and glazed by a fire? Will someone be the frost that nips your skin to remind you of the fire in your own skin? Will someone ever be the color of fallen leaves spread over a hidden field like a hidden retreat of dreaming flowers before waking ever? Or the snow before it releases itself as moving water resting upon the yearning bud before it releases from itself promise

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belie the notion that one is complete uncompromised, unmodified, in thought and in motion. as we reenact and memoralialize ourselves with our past and our wholesomeness of ego we walk towards a chasm of chaotic disruption put there by our inner consciousness as we progress we are filled with trepidation, avoidance and reticence our thoughts sidling around the task at hand procrastination taking its cold grasp upon our reasoning our forward compelling movements appear unnatural and stilted as we slowly progress our inner bearing pretentious all thought and motion merged into a lifetime of physical mental torture a prison of our own making so who in this blinding darkness dares to step forward into the unknown future that we have woven for ourselves with the strips of blue and crimson flesh we have flayed from our own portals entwined into the tapestry that depicts the epic battle that we have fought and won over time immeasurable who will take the double edged sword from the lady in the lake and strike it once again into the backbone of our mother where we will lay cradled against her bosum till she weans us from her suptle breast and sends us once again to do her bidding without our capacity for love our understanding and compassion are tools we still have yet to master

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May 3, 2010

May 3, 2010 at 8:45 PM UTC

belie the notion that one is complete uncompromised, unmodified, in thought and in motion. as we reenact and memoralialize ourselves with our past and our wholesomeness of ego we walk towards a chasm of chaotic disruption put there by our inner consciousness as we progress we are filled with trepidation, avoidance and reticence our thoughts sidling around the task at hand procrastination taking its cold grasp upon our reasoning our forward compelling movements appear unnatural and stilted as we slowly progress our inner bearing pretentious all thought and motion merged into a lifetime of physical mental torture a prison of our own making so who in this blinding darkness dares to step forward into the unknown future that we have woven for ourselves with the strips of blue and crimson flesh we have flayed from our own portals entwined into the tapestry that depicts the epic battle that we have fought and won over time immeasurable who will take the double edged sword from the lady in the lake and strike it once again into the backbone of our mother where we will lay cradled against her bosum till she weans us from her suptle breast and sends us once again to do her bidding without our capacity for love our understanding and compassion are tools we still have yet to master

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I built this desk higher than was reasonable. Apparently, I wanted the pleasure of my own excitement more than a comfortable writing life. The legs rise, Dr. Seuss spindling, a long way toward ceiling, and I bungee corded an aviator seat onto a tall stool at a breathtaking angle so that I have to be very careful sidling my **** up and finally, oh, er, off, on! This batting about of language, at great heights is not for the faint of heart. It’s much warmer up here, and I’m too high to get down. So I stay a course through powerful urges for Chips with Dip or One More ******* Load of Laundry and occasionally, in my bored willingness, I stumble upon some shimmering confluence of words that makes me want to rip out my hair and buy a new howl, or spend my life trying to become a white sheet, hanging alone all day with the sun and the wind and then the stillness of night and the dew, leaping from blades of grass to sway a ways with me in this soft shiver of not yet morning.

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Jan 14, 2012

Jan 14, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC

natalie-marie-kinsey

I built this desk higher than was reasonable. Apparently, I wanted the pleasure of my own excitement more than a comfortable writing life. The legs rise, Dr. Seuss spindling, a long way toward ceiling, and I bungee corded an aviator seat onto a tall stool at a breathtaking angle so that I have to be very careful sidling my **** up and finally, oh, er, off, on! This batting about of language, at great heights is not for the faint of heart. It’s much warmer up here, and I’m too high to get down. So I stay a course through powerful urges for Chips with Dip or One More ******* Load of Laundry and occasionally, in my bored willingness, I stumble upon some shimmering confluence of words that makes me want to rip out my hair and buy a new howl, or spend my life trying to become a white sheet, hanging alone all day with the sun and the wind and then the stillness of night and the dew, leaping from blades of grass to sway a ways with me in this soft shiver of not yet morning.

Continue reading...

belie the notion that one is complete uncompromised, unmodified, in thought and in motion. as we reenact and memoralialize ourselves with our past and our wholesomeness of ego we walk towards a chasm of chaotic disruption put there by our inner consciousness as we progress we are filled with trepidation, avoidance and reticence our thoughts sidling around the task at hand procrastination taking its cold grasp upon our reasoning our forward compelling movements appear unnatural and stilted as we slowly progress our inner bearing pretentious all thought and motion merged into a lifetime of physical mental torture a prison of our own making so who in this blinding darkness dares to step forward into the unknown future that we have woven for ourselves with the strips of blue and crimson flesh we have flayed from our own portals entwined into the tapestry that depicts the epic battle that we have fought and won over time immeasurable who will take the double edged sword from the lady in the lake and strike it once again into the backbone of our mother where we will lay cradled against her bosum till she weans us from her suptle breast and sends us once again to do her bidding without our capacity for love our understanding and compassion are tools we still have yet to master

0

May 3, 2010

May 3, 2010 at 8:46 PM UTC

belie the notion that one is complete uncompromised, unmodified, in thought and in motion. as we reenact and memoralialize ourselves with our past and our wholesomeness of ego we walk towards a chasm of chaotic disruption put there by our inner consciousness as we progress we are filled with trepidation, avoidance and reticence our thoughts sidling around the task at hand procrastination taking its cold grasp upon our reasoning our forward compelling movements appear unnatural and stilted as we slowly progress our inner bearing pretentious all thought and motion merged into a lifetime of physical mental torture a prison of our own making so who in this blinding darkness dares to step forward into the unknown future that we have woven for ourselves with the strips of blue and crimson flesh we have flayed from our own portals entwined into the tapestry that depicts the epic battle that we have fought and won over time immeasurable who will take the double edged sword from the lady in the lake and strike it once again into the backbone of our mother where we will lay cradled against her bosum till she weans us from her suptle breast and sends us once again to do her bidding without our capacity for love our understanding and compassion are tools we still have yet to master

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Power flexes downward: a hulking, indifferent appendage obscene in its obviousness, but the obviousness is the point, you remind me. This latest one was only twenty- six and seemingly healthy, but no matter— in Hokkaido by now the larches have all dropped their needles, and the fumaroles of Mount Asahidake still hiss, even while covered in heaps of snow. I wish that you could take me there. I wish that we could set off into that pale oblivion and never return, immersed for the rest of our days in the frigid, accurate waters of Nature’s reality. But she has no dominion here, you remind me, and we are all just tourists in this place anyhow, sidling beneath cornices and sidestepping crevasses aslope an angry volcano in winter, that warm, glowing lodge at its foot seemingly never drawing any closer.

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Dec 14, 2024

Dec 14, 2024 at 11:51 AM UTC

Whistleblower found dead

Power flexes downward: a hulking, indifferent appendage obscene in its obviousness, but the obviousness is the point, you remind me. This latest one was only twenty- six and seemingly healthy, but no matter— in Hokkaido by now the larches have all dropped their needles, and the fumaroles of Mount Asahidake still hiss, even while covered in heaps of snow. I wish that you could take me there. I wish that we could set off into that pale oblivion and never return, immersed for the rest of our days in the frigid, accurate waters of Nature’s reality. But she has no dominion here, you remind me, and we are all just tourists in this place anyhow, sidling beneath cornices and sidestepping crevasses aslope an angry volcano in winter, that warm, glowing lodge at its foot seemingly never drawing any closer.

Continue reading...

the big fat bus with the big fat yellow bootay soon began to see steam billowing out from under her big fat yellow hood. so trembling, and idling rough she pulled into the first stop, a rough-looking roadhouse to set a while and cool off. sidling up next to a brand new big shiny new tour bus, she rather pleased, for he, was a sweet lookin', and kinda handsome lookin', kinda thing, till he opened his mouth. reminded immediately of an old song, her enamor did not last long. "when i need something to help me unwind i find a six foot baby with a one track mind. smart guys are nowhere they make demands just give me a ***** with talented hands. i go bar hopping and they say last call. i start shopping for a neaderthal. i like em big and stupid i like em big and real dumb.” ah that Julie Brown… there’s a girl who knows how to belt ‘em out! she cast a furtive glance at Mr. Oh SO Brand New Bus the big galoop, waiting for his load, when out of that rough roadhouse spilled, THE drunkest, MOST obnoxious, herd of redneck cowboys, she had ever seen or would care to ever see again. hootin' and hollerin' shootin' off their guns, just narrowly missing her big fat yellow face. a shovin' and a punchin' blood flying here and there, sounds of a cracking bone or two. shaking her bumper gently from side to side, quietly eased she, her way back on to the throughway. and off she shot! into the night! pedal to the metal! like a bat out of hell! another romantic fantasy disaster narrowly averted!

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Sep 17, 2015

Sep 17, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC

Big Fat Yellow Bootay Pulls into a Roadhouse Parking Lot

the big fat bus with the big fat yellow bootay soon began to see steam billowing out from under her big fat yellow hood. so trembling, and idling rough she pulled into the first stop, a rough-looking roadhouse to set a while and cool off. sidling up next to a brand new big shiny new tour bus, she rather pleased, for he, was a sweet lookin', and kinda handsome lookin', kinda thing, till he opened his mouth. reminded immediately of an old song, her enamor did not last long. "when i need something to help me unwind i find a six foot baby with a one track mind. smart guys are nowhere they make demands just give me a ***** with talented hands. i go bar hopping and they say last call. i start shopping for a neaderthal. i like em big and stupid i like em big and real dumb.” ah that Julie Brown… there’s a girl who knows how to belt ‘em out! she cast a furtive glance at Mr. Oh SO Brand New Bus the big galoop, waiting for his load, when out of that rough roadhouse spilled, THE drunkest, MOST obnoxious, herd of redneck cowboys, she had ever seen or would care to ever see again. hootin' and hollerin' shootin' off their guns, just narrowly missing her big fat yellow face. a shovin' and a punchin' blood flying here and there, sounds of a cracking bone or two. shaking her bumper gently from side to side, quietly eased she, her way back on to the throughway. and off she shot! into the night! pedal to the metal! like a bat out of hell! another romantic fantasy disaster narrowly averted!

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I have not indulged in any liquid vices yet I am enchanted into a drunken stupor. I have not driven my bottom limbs 6 miles yet I am exhausted into endless days in bed. I have not excused myself from privilleged meals yet I am starving, scouring around my establishment for staples to satisfy my belly. Two days locked in my bedroom and my skin has lost its colour, a white sidling pallor the housekeeper. I gape at the immaculate grey walls and soon their mouths emerged. Tales of fantastical fancies lulled me into a ghostly realm in the state of my insensibility. My ivory marbled legs gradually stood rooted to the ground, lifeless logs longing for bustle. Stiff buttocks molded into the cheap cushions of a black swivel chair. My head feels heavy and my eyes feels heavier. Will you take me to solace?

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Oct 2, 2015

Oct 2, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC

I have not indulged in any liquid vices yet I am enchanted into a drunken stupor. I have not driven my bottom limbs 6 miles yet I am exhausted into endless days in bed. I have not excused myself from privilleged meals yet I am starving, scouring around my establishment for staples to satisfy my belly. Two days locked in my bedroom and my skin has lost its colour, a white sidling pallor the housekeeper. I gape at the immaculate grey walls and soon their mouths emerged. Tales of fantastical fancies lulled me into a ghostly realm in the state of my insensibility. My ivory marbled legs gradually stood rooted to the ground, lifeless logs longing for bustle. Stiff buttocks molded into the cheap cushions of a black swivel chair. My head feels heavy and my eyes feels heavier. Will you take me to solace?

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The groomed dog lies Clean upon my sofa, Resting, His reward. Resisted he The urge to flee Or bite the handler While the groomer Plied over the sopping **** Clipped the carpet-ripping nails, Coiffed and primped him Head to tail. Waking, He nuzzles me With a brown-eyed stare, Sidling close to my old brown chair. This canine friend, Just a dog in mien, Communicates his needs, Comforts me in loneliness, Amuses me with dog-face grin, Reads and responds To the state that I'm in.

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Feb 28, 2019

Feb 28, 2019 at 1:45 PM UTC

Tucker, Sheared

The groomed dog lies Clean upon my sofa, Resting, His reward. Resisted he The urge to flee Or bite the handler While the groomer Plied over the sopping **** Clipped the carpet-ripping nails, Coiffed and primped him Head to tail. Waking, He nuzzles me With a brown-eyed stare, Sidling close to my old brown chair. This canine friend, Just a dog in mien, Communicates his needs, Comforts me in loneliness, Amuses me with dog-face grin, Reads and responds To the state that I'm in.

Continue reading...

Unfortunate? Unforeseen? How a future life unfolds. Unmade, unloved. Unlit. Unwound. Merciless moments. Their memories mashed mindlessly into the mud. Barbs and barbarism crippling and cutting to the core. You slip slowly, slinking, sidling sadly into the shadows. Darkness descends, days drift by in a doze. Time trudges and turns. A timely toss is taken. The coin climbs, circling against circumstance. YOU WIN. Love lingers in least looked locations. Hearts thawed, filled full from frozen formation. A tender touch transforms. The brittle, broken bones begin to bind. Sunshine smiles against sallow shores. Laughter leaps from lip to lip. Loving looks linger. Doodles become Da Vinci. Darkness a dawn. Dourness a day trip. Detriment to divine. Deep breath... and dive.

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Aug 23, 2023

Aug 23, 2023 at 6:24 PM UTC

Unfortunate? Unforeseen? How a future life unfolds. Unmade, unloved. Unlit. Unwound. Merciless moments. Their memories mashed mindlessly into the mud. Barbs and barbarism crippling and cutting to the core. You slip slowly, slinking, sidling sadly into the shadows. Darkness descends, days drift by in a doze. Time trudges and turns. A timely toss is taken. The coin climbs, circling against circumstance. YOU WIN. Love lingers in least looked locations. Hearts thawed, filled full from frozen formation. A tender touch transforms. The brittle, broken bones begin to bind. Sunshine smiles against sallow shores. Laughter leaps from lip to lip. Loving looks linger. Doodles become Da Vinci. Darkness a dawn. Dourness a day trip. Detriment to divine. Deep breath... and dive.

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like a smithy's bellow my chest blows and puffs stoking the embers of life which burst into flame with every other stroke roaring in mild anger yet playfully dancing. my limbs lie dead my face too not even a hint of movement to punctuate Life and yet im soaring through labyrinths gliding, sliding, sidling, sailing seeing all, touching all, living. here and now. and at this very point I am. and at the next and the one following in the continuum. I see you everywhere. and i know you as i know myself. how about you my love? have you been through your own labyrinths too? soaring, sailing like me looking for me at every momentary stop? I know this and i think you do too that somewhere at one of those points we meet. and then nothing else matters. we'd be wide awake then, won't we?

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Jan 31, 2021

Jan 31, 2021 at 6:20 PM UTC

anilkumar-parat

like a smithy's bellow my chest blows and puffs stoking the embers of life which burst into flame with every other stroke roaring in mild anger yet playfully dancing. my limbs lie dead my face too not even a hint of movement to punctuate Life and yet im soaring through labyrinths gliding, sliding, sidling, sailing seeing all, touching all, living. here and now. and at this very point I am. and at the next and the one following in the continuum. I see you everywhere. and i know you as i know myself. how about you my love? have you been through your own labyrinths too? soaring, sailing like me looking for me at every momentary stop? I know this and i think you do too that somewhere at one of those points we meet. and then nothing else matters. we'd be wide awake then, won't we?

Continue reading...

sliding excuse again sidling nearer gin in hand. a mess. sodden and part ****** for what you call you or what they call you. matters naught to innocents. eyes tell hearts only what is taught by mind. my child knows only of tumbling and faces messy from trembling in joy. you are the happiest person in the world of his heart.

0

May 13, 2016

May 13, 2016 at 7:47 AM UTC

darkness perceived

sliding excuse again sidling nearer gin in hand. a mess. sodden and part ****** for what you call you or what they call you. matters naught to innocents. eyes tell hearts only what is taught by mind. my child knows only of tumbling and faces messy from trembling in joy. you are the happiest person in the world of his heart.

Continue reading...