"sifted" poems
It's hard to catch sunshine
In a jar filled with words
Sifted and strung into coherence
Since it enjoys slipping through my fingertips
So I'll just sit and watch
As you dance across the sky
Falling, laughing sunshine.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
~
Of light at play…day’s end, to cease
Now mirrored of a rippled sea
Casting long in shadowed dreams
A drifting silhouette…at peace
Sail on, sail on,
currents feed this destined course
Arcs, spun gold…on dance card wings
Lemon dust, the sifted sound
Framed of flowing tangerine
Silence sings…as truth is found
Sail on, sail on,
captured breezes…quiet source
Abstract waves…in curtained sweep
Drape this ocean’s fantasy
Melodic so the depth to breathe
Champagne tints the tapestry
Sail on, sail on,
horizon’s beckoned rendezvous
Citrine jeweled on zephyr’s flight
Calmly cools in twilight feel
Motions quell the rhythm’d night
Beliefs this sun shall soon conceal
Sail on, sail on,
as daylight disappears from view
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
I had a dream that my thoughts were
sifted out of my head into a bowl, they
were grains, a million dahlia beads that
surfaced on a cerise reef, split from top to
bottom, I didn't mind so much, to be
honest
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
It didn't matter if it was
August, and the air felt like an
oven on broil, or if it was
February, and the dumpsters
were icecicles to the soul.
We needed ***** and since we
didn't have jobs, the cans, at
5 cents a piece were our
aluminum tickets to sweet relief.
The magic click.
Enough cans meant a bottle of
whiskey
*****
gin,
anything to dull the
sharp, vivid pain of life.
We sifted through
cat ****
catsup
***** diapers
discarded ***** mags,
and all the other
garbage from the
rich and the poor.
One winter morning,
I threw back a heavy metal lid,
and there was a fat
raccoon looking up at me.
If Bacchus or Dionysus were
smiling, we found a
full bottle.
It happened once in
a while during summer when
the college kids headed home.
Miles of walking,
freezing or burning up,
We were the aluminum
cowboys.
Jul 2, 2025
Jul 2, 2025 at 12:34 PM UTC
Her Name is Woman
~for Woman~
The body replenishes, even the signs of decay
that come for reparation,
Positive confirmation
her organism survives, alive,
tree circles yet measuring time,
Till a devitalizing time comes, when,
this cellular process concedes degeneration
Then the wondering shifts; new facts sifted;
now the reckoning is not a calculation of
Mortality but of her living immortality;
dive to divine neath her black cloaking, reading
Wounded word revelations, her own Bible stories,
giving nomination to Woman-name
The long shadows that her souls excavations cast,
costs of her stories individual,
Highwaymen robbed her with glass knives
but each remaining black hole lights a story, lost, but
Burning icy inviting, pulling us into book boxes inside,
compost of sheets of composed white clarity
Care not that each riddling reference is obliged to be
oblique, inexplicit,
Woman her name, all encompassing,
her views codified in lines of faith,
Woman, is that not
a mining, and a manifest,
of hidden birthing,
comforting us in warm shades of
Human courage
12/26/18 5:51pm
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
When the first sweet scent of summertime,
sifted through the sea-salt scented air,
so many things and everything
were bright, light and happy-go-fair,
the Summer Life with you was finally here.
As soon as our bare feet hit the wood bridge,
running from the road up over the dunes,
great grey seagulls squawked, dove and swoon,
we held hands together, one and one
made two,
dash-dancing across the shiny sand with you,
dressed and undressed in our Summer Life moods.
Colours like pinwheels spun like yarn,
flashed and clashed bright orange to blue,
you danced and giggled like a loon,
pulled me up and so close, so close
to you,
that I had to dance, I had to dance like a loon,
I just had to laugh and dance and laugh along with you.
How we played, we frolicked beneath the beachy sun,
belly-surfed upon the waves just for funny fun,
flicked flecks of sand from our sticky picnic lunch,
shared swigs from a big blue thermos jug
of fruity-fruit yummy punch,
sharing and caring beneath the Summer Life's sun.
By evening-tide the air grew cool,
you called me 'lover,' I called you 'fool'
-with a big ol' blanket draped over our shoulders,
we kissed and cuddled, growing much bolder,
falling flat back
upon the mighty mattress of sand,
feeling the mists of the waves licking our hands,
as the Man-In-The-Moon arose and shone,
to dance and laugh with us on the Summer Life's throne.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 1:46 AM UTC
The breeze sifted through the trees,
And the leaves started to fall.
A shower of orange, red, and yellow,
Littering the forest floor.
Summer had came to a close,
And autumn was here.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
The plane is emotion.
The form is a gentle rider,
she pushes bullets off cliffs, she hugs the stars.
Catches the moon eyeing her with one
great big hand wrapped on its ****
spins the bell of her dress
round and round.
Sifted from the Earth, man moody
cleft in heaps of his entrails,
no progress has been made.
My metal mother pulls hula hoops for zulu,
she rips down the shelves and pulls
Bobby Dylan from the wall. She says,
"grrrplleeopzhrka." And the smoke gets into
my eyes and burns my nostrils too.
In the great wind screen, footprints of man,
Native American blood weeps on my bright
Summer burning, no regency cleared. The
outlook denied. It sits stagnant, maddening
with its blockhead on sideways. Heavy, old
mutter hubbard wilting gold in her stare.
Mess comes. She spoils, her skin is loud
and anointed, her fecund white placard
is thinner than air. People look at each other,
a goblin, two trollops, the green woolen winter-wear
of a soldier in despair. Only a putrid noon, escaping,
cuts the flesh from the garden. Cuts out all the weakness,
the hope, the love, every thing owned, every one cleared.
The skin trap and oyster flap. The rich mixture of voices,
nothing holds common that bond, that few could look upon,
that youth could-
none of the old things work anymore.
Just a wicked boredom trickling in blood down her legs, just
the lust trickling down her legs, dear mommy, I obey.
And when the summer months set in mahogany, and the icicle
feat swallows us up, dear-
death
Winter
lips
moths buzzing
mouths
fuzzz
your sweet bomb
bon bon
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
There was once a child
born beneath the sign
of unburial.
She carried too much—
not in arms
but in tethered memory.
Things with no names,
only weights.
A cracked watch
that ticked in reverse.
A button from a coat
that no one had worn
in three generations.
A feather
from a bird
dreamt once
by her grandmother,
never seen again.
She believed—
as those marked by absence do—
that keeping meant remembering,
and remembering meant
nothing would vanish.
Others crossed her path,
offered to help unfasten the straps.
She refused.
They did not know
which talismans bled
and which only looked like wounds.
So she walked.
Through salt seasons,
through bone-rattling frost,
through forests with no floor
and skies that never asked her name.
The bag grew heavier.
She grew cleverer.
Silent.
And then—
on a day that wasn’t special,
under a sun that wasn’t kind—
she set it down.
Not as surrender.
As an experiment.
The earth did not crack.
The ghosts did not scatter.
Her shadow did not abandon her.
She sifted the contents.
Some were dust.
Some were still singing.
Some curled away like dried petals
and begged to be left behind.
She took a key.
She took the bell.
She left the rest
for the moss.
She walked on.
Not lighter, exactly—
but less governed
by the shape
of her grief.
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 10:23 PM UTC
my mouth hung like an overwhelmed option
i swivel at the window facing
and stay out the entire day in this one gawked position
amazing heat and an ugg shy of thought
withdrawn in a mut of mental paralysis
by an alcoholic system
on a day off
the day dunks into the eve before i shift any movement
having sifted the ull
i mix a jar of *** and orange juice
in the open fridge door
Mar 13, 2024
Mar 13, 2024 at 5:58 PM UTC
I (Bread and Music)
Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.
For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,--
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.
II
My heart has become as hard as a city street,
The horses trample upon it, it sings like iron,
All day long and all night long they beat,
They ring like the hooves of time.
My heart has become as drab as a city park,
The grass is worn with the feet of shameless lovers,
A match is struck, there is kissing in the dark,
The moon comes, pale with sleep.
My heart is torn with the sound of raucous voices,
They shout from the slums, from the streets, from the crowded places,
And tunes from the hurdy-gurdy that coldly rejoices
Shoot arrows into my heart.
III
Dead Cleopatra lies in a crystal casket,
Wrapped and spiced by the cunningest of hands.
Around her neck they have put a golden necklace,
Her tatbebs, it is said, are worn with sands.
Dead Cleopatra was once revered in Egypt,
Warm-eyed she was, this princess of the South.
Now she is old and dry and faded,
With black bitumen they have sealed up her mouth.
O sweet clean earth, from whom the green blade cometh!
When we are dead, my best beloved and I,
Close well above us, that we may rest forever,
Sending up grass and blossoms to the sky.
IV
In the noisy street,
Where the sifted sunlight yellows the pallid faces,
Sudden I close my eyes, and on my eyelids
Feel from the far-off sea a cool faint spray,--
A breath on my cheek,
From the tumbling breakers and foam, the hard sand shattered,
Gulls in the high wind whistling, flashing waters,
Smoke from the flashing waters blown on rocks;
--And I know once more,
O dearly beloved! that all these seas are between us,
Tumult and madness, desolate save for the sea-gulls,
You on the farther shore, and I in this street.
2.5k
"It is a deepening,"
she said
and took his hand
to her watery bed,
beaming her light
upon those almost
invisible threads
in particles subtly
speaking
in sparkling aquatic tongues
like colored crystals,
felt in shards of icy wine
shells sifted
in far-flung
seas of time
Shining down as
we dive to the depths
we lead each other on
We are the
explorers of the dark
We have
powerful equipment
to attempt to clarify
radiate it all up
and if it fails,
the light from
our eyes and hands
is enough to illuminate
the murky
waters below
our salvation,
deep-sea secrets
revealed—
churning in undertow
In fact, if you dare
to penetrate the dark
and cast aside
fear of predators
you will see-
the ruins of
an ancient temple
waiting,
just waiting
for you
for me
to dance amongst
the algae-coated
alabaster, green
wisps moving
in hypnotic motion
to weave in-between
the fish and corals,
a magic breathing in
of ocean
in sync with our own
breaths
This expanse of endlessness
…..so many layers to discover
to sway and trip the light
in quiet,
breathless joy
The feel of electric
flow around our feet.
Saltwater,
turning sweet.
It is time
for the next stage
to begin
So tip your
head back,
my love---
and
drink it
in
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
I wasn't asking for attention- nor was I looking for sympathy.
I didn't need someone to save me.
I knew the unspoken consequences when I had all those thoughts and urges..
they'd be there forever.
you'll never be able to wear anything that comes a few inches short of the knee.
you'll be sore for a quite a while- you know how much it stings.
I didn't care about that- it didn't matter to me.
I didn't care about myself.
Back then, I was too naive to consider that some of those consequences might be much heavier than I was led to believe.
*do you not understand this could **** you?* -so what? Wouldn't it be best anyway?
it'll hurt your family, they care about you -no they don't; and even if they did, they don't have to know.
what will your future spouse think? -are you kidding? I'm never going to get married. No one will ever truly love me and all that I am.. all that I've done.
your body is a temple, made by the Almighy Go- -God doesn't want me. I'm a ***** over. He couldn't care about me even if I asked Him to. No one should.
How could anyone want someone who talks too much, laughs too loud, and loves too little?
I wasn't asking for attention- nor was I looking for sympathy.
It was purely because I felt the need to be punished-
And that punishment was what felt good to me.
I was out of my mind.
Way out of line.
The thoughts and wants and needs kept intertwining
and I couldn't think clearly anymore.
I didn't know just how wrong I was about all of that
Until I met you.
You showed me who God really was and how His love is always unconditional.
Even in the mess I had made, He sifted through it, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into the sunlight.
And then He stayed there and helped me sort it all out, fix the broken pieces, and create in me a new being.
He showed me that the pain I'd been dealing and the feelings I'd been feeling weren't the feelings and dealings He would have dealt.
He spoke in kind words that echoed through the people you introduced me to.
He moved through the winds of change that brought me to new places; and even though I was scared, He gave me the courage to continue on strong.
He rearranged my life so that I can wake up every morning without the feeling of hopelessness hanging off my heels.
So I could be grateful that I am alive.
He did this for me.
He blossomed everything around me.
Slowly and painfully, He changed me.
But the amazing thing about that pain
is that pain doesn't have regret chained to it.
It doesn't have long lasting impressions
that stay for years on end reminding me
of my worst mistakes.
It doesn't make me look back and wish
I had done it differently.
It makes me think
that I am someone
worth cherishing-
that I am someone
worth saving.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
I am a miners daughter. I am a gold panners' wife.
He is busy gold panning while I run around the forest enjoying nature.
Left alone, of no interest, no comparison to the prospect of gold.
As I sit here naked, I wish that I was an interesting as the prospect of gold.
I wish my gold were being sifted from the sands, with his hands.
I am pure gold, why can't he see.
He bought the claim, he has the deed.
But my gold goes unnoticed, as does my needs.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
Shall Christ hang on the Cross, and we not look?
Heaven, earth, and hell stood gazing at the first,
While Christ for long-cursed man was counted cursed;
Christ, God and Man, Whom God the Father strook
And shamed and sifted and one while forsook:--
Cry shame upon our bodies we have nursed
In sweets, our souls in pride, our spirits immersed
In wilfulness, our steps run all acrook.
Cry shame upon us! for He bore our shame
In agony, and we look on at ease
With neither hearts on flame nor cheeks on flame:
What hast thou, what have I, to do with peace?
Not to send peace but send a sword He came,
And fire and fasts and tearful night-watches.
2.4k
Conflicted, conflicted
My mind so encrypted
There is no escape, my memories inflicted
Pouring through thoughts as my emotions drifted
Searching for absolution, through sands of sorrow I've sifted
Conflicted, conflicted
My spirit isn't lifted
Entombed from mistakes wondering what I did
Errors and consequences and a farewell I do bid
Conflicted, conflicted
Thoughts and emotions contradicted
Standing here hollowed, my heart evicted
Still is the world, not much to be gifted
Error, error
Fear and terror
Time to shut down or be lost all over
Again and again with my soul torn asunder
Error, error
Shut down or be caught by despair
To late, it's here, it caught me unaware
The damage is absolute with no way to repair
Error, error
It will never be better
Not a shred of care
Caught in Medusa's stare
Begin rebooting sequence
Letting shutdown commence
Countdown has begun
Five, four, three, two, one
Nothing but darkness
Soul as a black screen filled with emptiness
Clearing all of my thoughts, my whole head
If I didn't reboot, I'd be as good as dead
Startup commence
Beginning with mental defense
Fortification complete
Open emotional files, hit delete
Blank canvas and nothing more
An empty shell of what I was before
It will happen again and again
It will stop, but nobody knows when
I am a blank slate but in the depths of my mind
Are the thoughts and feelings I wish I could leave behind
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
My favorite book, you know,
the one I read over and over again,
the one I never get tired of talking about,
the one with the story that hits me the hardest,
the one that makes me think,
the book I can’t put down
and makes me say
“just one more page”
before I go to bed.
The book that I never want to end.
The cover is brilliantly put together;
colorful, eye catching, yet fragile,
It’s beauty is not only in the cover,
It lies deeper within its contents.
A story so spellbinding it puts
Harry Potter and company to shame.
Pages filled with a love, so magnificent
John Green’s characters can’t compare.
A story and adventure so wildly vast,
not even Jodi Picoult could keep up.
Here’s the dilemma
the book I love most
Is sifted through with a fine tooth comb
when really it does not need to be,
And the worst of this dilemma
Is when I came to the realization that
My favorite book of all,
The one I have read and reread,
scribbling notes in the pages,
memorizing my favorite quotes,
and putting my own heart and soul
into its existence,
is when someone borrows it
and never gives it back.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
In the warmth of my emotions
written words are weighed
for someone new.
They listen for something more
than this poet ever found
in that intricate box of you.
Nothing keeps me from smiling
at a single breath
of that which I love more.
When I feel those morning winds
brush across my words
of unknown shores.
I’m a moment
carrying a brilliant idea
with a voice soft as petals falling.
Listen to my poetry come alive inside
the empty space
of your heart’s calling.
Your eyes sing the words
I wrote for you
each time a tear rolls down your face.
Your poet sifted the sands of time,
written words
have been erased.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
the gray grasses sang sweet songs,
without even a breeze to move them
the coyote howls were marrow yellow,
crimson, as their sour colors sifted
into the night
lightning streaked my charcoal
sky, and I could taste it, a salted butter
that tickled the throat on the way down,
the sonic booms it hatched smelled of baked bread,
and I hungered for more
then a white owl spoke to me,
but I did not hear it call my name
no, not mine--though its hoots formed ice,
chunks which pummeled me, froze me
to the bone
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
Unseparated atoms, and I must
Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust
Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,
There are none, ever. As a monk who prays
The sliding beads asunder, so I ******
Each tasteless particle aside, and just
Begin again the task which never stays.
And I have known a glory of great suns,
When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
Threw down the cup, and did not understand.
2.2k
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
2.2k
I am not old, yet.
My skin is not powdery and white, see-through like a paper lantern.
But there is a part of me which
When I dare to reach for someone I love
Reaches with brittle ***** fingers, soft and cold and fluttering like white moths
That edge closer to a flame until they catch.
There is a part of me that feels old, and fragile.
And already even in the crest of my youth I’ve cursed this body
For its frailty, its needs.
It suffers and complains, always crying out for something,
Never sated, never still.
I’ve said it feels like living inside a porcelain doll
A look, and cracks can spider out along an arm,
A word and blood can bloom beneath the surface, seeping up into
Bruised pictures and symbols.
I must always be gentle,
I must always be
Watching.
Too passionate, and fissures form, marring the cheek, spreading like shadows thrown by a lace curtain.
I stare out, burning to touch everything,
And yet I pull back:
To dare is to risk, and I’ve seen
Both reward and loss.
I have seen a thousand shining colors spread across me like sunrise,
Warming my skin,
Calling to me like prayer until a bit of light escaped through the spaces between my atoms and reached another person’s palms,
But I have also seen the pale, flat shards of myself,
Sifted through white dust in dismay
For a salvageable portion.
Indeed, there are rooms in this world where sharp edges of me still linger
Waiting in obstructed corners and beneath heavy refrigerators
To gouge a foot or snag a hem,
Interred
In the dark and hollow places where they flew when I shattered and could not gather them all.
I have known
Intimately
My own fragility,
How maddeningly breakable I am
And how difficult to mend.
And there is a part of me now, always,
Which whispers to me when I would be bold,
“You are not old, yet.
But wouldn’t you just love
To live that long?”
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:36 PM UTC