"sightly" poems
It is over. What is over?
Nay, how much is over truly!--
Harvest days we toiled to sow for;
Now the sheaves are gathered newly,
Now the wheat is garnered duly.
It is finished. What is finished?
Much is finished known or unknown:
Lives are finished; time diminished;
Was the fallow field left unsown?
Will these buds be always unblown?
It suffices. What suffices?
All suffices reckoned rightly:
Spring shall bloom where now the ice is,
Roses make the bramble sightly,
And the quickening sun shine brightly,
And the latter wind blow lightly,
And my garden teem with spices.
4.3k
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Though glass, it is rimmed with gold
around the cup, handle and even the
saucer. Skilfully painted chrysanthemums
of various shades; the vermilion horizon,
Spring's honey, songbird's magenta,
sangria's fine wine, a parakeet's breast
and the Aegean sea.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And then, there are three sightly tea
caddies with lacquered wooden bodies;
one rosewood with red dancing fans,
one burr-oak with golden mountainous
landscape and one maple wood with
green bamboo. Ainhana gently removes
each of their lids by using the cloth, and
presents the pearls that were wrapped
in sun-kissed foil.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
She first lifts the rosewood caddy towards
me. I close my eyes and focus on the scent.
Without peeling back the foil, I know. It takes
me to the far distant Province of Yunnan,
past the snow-kissed mountains and rice
terraces to a very still lake. I noticed that
it began to bubble before a large splash
rose.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
At that moment, I meet the lake's Guardian,
the Imperial Wingless Dragon of legend.
With its wet emerald-kissed scales drinking
the sunlight. It's great body now entwined
in a wispy clouds as it stares at me with
eyes of liquid moons. Its tail crowned
with a peacock feathered eye-spot whips
around in the air, leaving an iridescent
trail of colours.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
With a great leap, he soars through
the air, trumpeting his great roar
that rattles the skies. Just as quickly
as he rose, he descends down with
a Pearl Moon in his brown claw. By
the stroke of its sienna-brown whisker,
the small Moon cracks, presenting me
it's contents, a long kept secret.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
The pearls are the colour of seaweed
with streaks of yellow and burnt umber.
With earthy notes whirls around my
nose, along with some floral sweetness,
burnt caramel licks, dragon spice and
a wisp of apricot. Ah, so I see! One great
guarded secret that he reveals to me!
His best pearls ferment in the womb
of the Moons! Purified by the Star
Virtues of Elysia's Harmony!
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Wonderfully rich Pu-erh Pearls,'
I say, my eyes now open.
'My Lady's nose is as sharp as ever!'
'I just know my tea,' I chuckle, 'it's
very unique in smell and taste. I will
save such fine broth for another day.'
Ainhana nods, places on the tray and
lift the burr-oak caddy. I close my
eyes once again and my mind
wanders yet again.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
Watch me as I fall from here
I do not wish to speak of such misfortunes
unfortunately other options have quickly began shortening
their obvious attempt for what can be logical decision
such incision with a knife also a master of the fiddle
fear me not the sky is lightened
now the dark began to set
How I wish it were to echo,
as the moon was put to bed
Yet my life has become ill gotten,
a thorn of crown upon my head,
yet my troubles seem so meager
then those of mice unlike us men
Gently weep into the silence
go forth brother hear your cry
may the sightly wind be with you
guide it deep into the sky
cause of thunder and then lighting
limit those who fear the sound
hear them weeping at the door step
as if the cat had made a sound
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
from the plains drawings of smudging hands
and the palms of warriors
whose caves glittered in symbolic otherlands
flowing into yesteryears with shifting tones
abstracting melodies awry
in the songs of language growing,
from the blood of worldly pains
and passionscapes of grounded glees
which surge in transtemporal veins,
to the gifting of a poem;
cosmic movements
ever novel
in the constant flux of fleshy presence
follow us in meaning—
every dot and cursive plane,
carries more than caligraphic feeling
beneath the graphing of our patient, formal, brainy gestures
(often blind to fools in Spring and better fates
of wholly kissing lovers over flower-oaths)
whose blindness in such sightly feeling,
graph so many moments black:
syntax, manner, unformed poems of wisdom’s grandeur;
stifled in the academic dust.
9:30 pm
above: praise gone awry. 12:52 pm
still, this universe expresses its possibility
through this minute verbia;
prolix trivia swinging by
the inquiries of existential mania
and the hope of solid, open value.
1:29 am
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
Enamoured by sightly existence
clinging to every glimpse
though nearly impossible to track
she was lost amongst a crowd of infinity
So captivated my mind races to the future flow of the current of bodies to where one would be in step and time to pace rhythm and flow and know ones whereabouts in premonition
Where my meditations meet reality I've dreamt love into existence even if only one sided her smile made me think otherwise
Who's to say that the love I found within just a momentary lapse in endlessness isn't an energy that persist through the age of ages
and feel as if they were made for you and you in turn for their moment of hope and possibly
one could find the cure to all sickness experienced
Jan 28, 2023
Jan 28, 2023 at 12:05 AM UTC
A star died in my eyes
A black hole in my iris
A light I thought I shined
Instead casts hazard alert signs
•
My horizon is lack lustered
The fall is an everlasting lost
I want to believe these eventful dreams
Are preparing me for the relative of death
Or maybe to rest on a point of no return
Such as my eyes looking too the past
As the iris collapses
•
These thoughts are micro
Yet weigh on me heavy
My eyes engulf aglow
Yet dream only sightly
Jun 21, 2021
Jun 21, 2021 at 9:05 AM UTC
As far as I can remember you’ve RAN my life,
From my father and mother and also Ex-wife,
We all have been your worthless slave,
Days we refused are the days we craved,
Desolation and destruction in your wake,
I’ve offered you my useless life to take,
As I fail to get my life on track,
I just shoot bigger loads of twack,
I’m as lost as the orphan boy in the woods,
I’m not remembered for doing much good,
Only wrongs and misplaced hate,
Had me wander into my fate,
I blame them all but not once me,
I blame them all one, two, and three,
So as I pointed out all their flaws,
I became immersed by your powerful jaws,
Your claws are sharp, long and pointy,
So where’s the right path can you please point me?
My direction is sporadic as my thoughts,
I knows there’s this one thing that I’ve been taught,
And that is never show weakness not in this game,
Or you may end up killed by what’s his name,
He burned you badly beyond repair,
Because you tread with little care,
I get that you were naïve,
But in my words you should believe,
I’ve been down this road my whole life through,
I beg that you won’t do these things that I do!,
I had a soul as my Fathers son,
And as my mothers youngest one,
I’ve watched these paths taken lightly,
The scenes I’ve seen aren’t all that sightly,
I’ve been young and as I grow old,
I started to learn to do as I’m told,
For if I hear those words nye,
Soon I’ll be the one to die!,
Im so lost, alone, and misunderstood,
Sorrily the high I get just isn’t that good!,
Good enough I think inside,
But it could be better if only I tried,
Tears and blood oh I have tasted,
But its nothing to the years I've seemingly wasted!
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 8:10 PM UTC
Everything is gnawing like what you gnawed on last night,
Salmonella, Desdemona, E. coli', which plight.
Wanting to exhale yet holding on to breath,
diaphragms help gag and heave but no relief is let.
rib cage throat and mouth expand.
but nothing works quit like fingered hands.
sightly stroking epiglottil muscle.
tightly choking back the particles
.
to live to release
to mutually be
just go back to sleep
no time for sick bees
cant enjoy the flowers
while you sit in the honey.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Firelight, ‘fading quickly from the quiet night,
O, fair queen,
Quell my fearful dreams, and
Be here while I fall asleep.
Flame
Slowly snuffs itself,
Choking for oxygen, so to stay alive,
But alas, at last, it dies.
No longer was her stay
Than but one phase,
As the moon hid away
Into the black.
A mockery in the sky,
She darkens the dusk, and
Passes us by as she tries to keep it alight.
But alas, at last, it dies.
As departs the dark,
Ambitiously arrives the day,
Who leaves but no need for fire’s blaze to stay.
Sunrise, sweetly presenting in sightly colour,
She slightly flutters
Peacefully
Into uniform blue,
And soon,
A new slate.
Last night, fire did fade swiftly,
Whistling wonderfully as her ungodly gasp failed to remain alive;
To keep alight.
O, she tried,
But alas, at last, it died.
And just as so, she and I.
But what is love?
Whether love for tomorrow
Or love for a night,
Love is love.
Right?
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:10 AM UTC
And at the end of the day,
There's always more to see
In your life, through your eyes,
And in your dreams, through your mind;
So don't worry.
The world is in no hurry,
And in the flurry of scurrying that is a city street,
Remember to stop sometimes and take a seat
On the bright yellow-line next to the speed-limit sign
Because those who work overtime,
Always seem to turn into ***** of slime in the thrush of free-verse that is society;
And all the technicality as a result of liability issues is fine with me,
Providing they allow me to peak at the real reality to remind myself I'm free and more sightly than the tightly-knit and frightening father-figure CEO
Who can't go to sleep without affecting the lives of at least 1 million civilian bystanders,
Who forget to meander on the bright yellow-line next to the speed-limit sign from time to time.
Stop to make sure at least some of your words rhyme
When you write your hectic poetry through the overwhelming cries of 7 billion lives pushed into overdrive as a result of the 21st century.
Through all this I would like to pose a question:
Is it better to be happy than free?
Or greater to be free than happy?
And either way, if I'm working to hard,
I'll leave it to you to slap me back to reality,
Because honestly...
More than half of this was never real to begin with.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 2:42 PM UTC
a roadtrip to somewhere,
just so we could watch a meteor shower.
we didn't even know exactly where to go,
only that we wanted to watch the shooting stars without the city's glow.
at first adrenaline filled our somber and tired selves;
we were all fueled with the idea of seeing something magical at twelve.
then came the rush of being lost in lonely, secluded roads.
suddenly we realized, this trip, to our parents we should've told.
*whose is that car parked at the other side of the highway?
were they here even before we stopped to look at the meteors fall away?
should we flee or should we stay?
i don't want this to be our last day.
**oh god please help us
we're running out of gas***
and just as we are consumed with panic,
and fear of strangers in places, dark and exotic
we drive back to the city,
where the people are awake and much less creepy.
when the lamposts became brighter,
and the surroundings no longer sinister,
where the stars we so longed for became much hazier,
we simply laughed at our cowardice,
and at our overly-hightened suspiciousness.
as dull, yet terrifying the world can be,
even with rare astronomical phenomenas that are oh so sightly,
adventures are really, no less scary.
yet everything can still feel mesmerizing,
and even reassuring,
so long as you are able to find just the right company.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
What is it about these tired, melancholy streets
That has you all hidden in your little houses?
My feet tread one over another and yet the only
Sound is the echo of my footsteps. Where are the other bodies?
I see no lovers holding tightly, hands in hands and arms
Intertwined as if the cold wind could pull them apart.
I saw you peek from the beat up little house, I was
Enjoying a conversation with your father. Loud laughs resonate.
I saw you peering through the trails of cigarette smoke and
Tattered blankets which keep you hidden in the shack.
Those blankets, much like when I saw you. Tattered and
Not so sightly. Worn by age and smoke. Sickly and stained.
Alas, my dog runs up the field and there is not a soul in sight;
The osprey have left their perch on the cellular tower.
Where are your huddled little bodies, little town?
The winter has not reached its age to have created anxiety.
The anxiety that forces them from their homes
In an earnest search for the sun's warm rays.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Maiden in the ashes
Robed in silk
Robbed of milk
No mark on your tender skin
No sign of turmoil within
The coal does not yet scorch your soul
...
You walk your delicate path
Bearing the sightly, brightly beaten cut bloom of spring
Luscious petals not yet knowing
They will drop from the stem
No seeds to plant, and not her fault
the only water here tainted with salt
And the ground here is hard, turned up in its roots
And the soft garden bed tamped down by boots
Do you know the path you tread does not want you?
Do you not yet feel the cut of the stone or burning of the coal to your sole?
Or does this black earth need your bloodstained steps as much as you need to bleed them
Is it possible for one woman's blood to nourish this dead soil back to life?
And one woman's love to seed them
Apr 10, 2024
Apr 10, 2024 at 5:14 AM UTC
An aesthetic storm settled in the
wee hours of creation.
What of it strikes favor or disfavor?
Beauty's immediacy comes with
fatalistic sweep--demanding
principle, demanding ground.
Unveiled beyond time constraint
all over our world--in praise, in
revulsion, eyes score the gamut.
As if image begs love, to be so...
or unrequited.
What's plain of light exposes all
flaw or beauty in a single sitting.
The sitters vary the material world,
with eyes creation asks us to paint
what we see.
The eyes paint the sitter if the sitter
be deemed beautiful, instantaneously
sight's canvas may be left cold...
burdened.
Beauty aspires to affirmation of being,
to have it echoed.
Beauty's lain raw, holds what's held it--
as such...desolation is easy.
Eyes bespeak their volumes...beautiful
or ugly?
A sightly, unsightly moment given to the perpetual.
Epidemic pageantry--ordered by creation
make due...irregardless.
If beauty--eyes are for you--if ugly...eyes
are not.
Thus...of being, of affirmation, of visible,
of invisible--you...beauty are.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
She looked so sweet but she had black eyes
That charming little smile was surprisingly sly
An innocent act she continued to play
There was never a rumor, for there was nothing to say
She constantly, craftily, stole the upper hand
Guilefully cunning, appearing offhand
Triumphant she was when her deception succeeded
Prancing away from the hate that she seeded
Her friends were like puppets, their fate she controlled
A friend to no end, when she spoke she cajoled
She listened wide-eyed, and blinked in surprise
She was begged to help, and begged to chastise
So she fixed the stories in her own way
Discarding the remnants, displayed to decay
Contented and sprightly she talked very lightly
So sweetly and sightly she left ever brightly.
And now you know of the girl with black eyes
With that charming smile that's ever so sly
So don't be fooled by her false disposition
Otherwise, you will find
yourself
in a most
unfortunate
position.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
That which I pay for, dearly -
The mattress beneath me is imagined to be your chest.
You would cradle me, the way I feel cradled by your gaze.
That which I pay for, dearly -
The lack of holy fiber, which strain to kiss my bones.
It is these very bones - how they ache.
A deep burn, down to the charred marrow.
That which I pay for, dearly -
I pain to hear your voice.
I fear it is warped by the stale heat within my brain.
Its echoes vibrating within the damp cave of my memory -
The pitch now sharp, I suspect.
It rings, a ghostly bellow - to that I cling.
That which I pay for, dearly -
Draw the line in wet concrete.
I fill it with pitch black ink when dry.
It is a line I dare not cross.
This blue pool ripples after the sporadic thumps of my heart.
I bottle it.
Fill the blue glass with beads and pearls - an effort to make this ugly thing sightly.
But it is bottled, I swear.
That which I pay for, dearly.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
The neon nights did shine again,
At the place of Tokyo, really bright.
The girls did gleam with beautiful clothes,
The guys did glow with aflame fashion.
There were many mazes to be found at midnight,
In the city streets, sightly here.
''Midnight Pretenders'' was on tonight,
Breezing and blooming in the bright streets.
The pinky pearly view paced as
Raindrops as diamonds dancing in lights,
And fell fairly upon the shoes
Of gleamy girls glowing and adorned
With ribbons red and rosy hues.
Nobody at night slept, at the afternoon
Everyone woke up again after
Days of dozing off, and at dawn
They went away, towards their beds.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 5:59 AM UTC
Lulling to the cicadas screeching
nightly
Bulging dew drops shimmering
brightly
Tree limbs grasping moonlight
tightly
Fireflies flickering ever so
slightly
Fairies tickling flowers; so
sprightly
Centaurs galloping bare, but
knightly
It's true that I should admit
rightly
Nights at the grove are nothing but sightly
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 6:47 AM UTC
Stop and look around
Hold the bullet in your hand
Mull over the emotion
That fills you as you stand
Blood rushes up, down, pumps
And now you're all set
Body like a tree trunk
Feel the weird funk
Coming on and taking over
No survivors, no leftovers
Look left and then turn right
Sit down and take flight
Like the green leaves
Off the mighty oak
Falling up instead of down
Float up and let your body soak
In the light of the bright sightly
Glorious Sun from above
Taking blood lightly
Spilled and vacuumed up
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
You would seem
So far away,
So old and gray
From me astray
Estranged in nightly,
Out of sightly
Slightly differing decay
Complacent discontent
Is swept
Under delusions
Wanting more,
What more perfections,
Burning questions
Could you possibly
Need answers for?
Is no
Togetherness
Of us
Enough to turn our bones
To dust
What must
Befall
Before it’s just
All future ideation
Hushed
Aug 8, 2023
Aug 8, 2023 at 1:34 AM UTC
And I awoke to a thought-
a particular trance
of books burning and a bishop in hand-
I dreamed, I did
perchance of love,
of creaking snow globes shattering from above.
And a mantle lit
a fire blazing-
I'll fill this void with my gazing.
No one asked your opinions so why do you speak?
A voice so small
A voice so weak
Thrown to the floor with the shattered glass
Are you free now?
Free alas?
I'm doubting this quietly,
Such a sight so sightly-
Enrapture my hands and
poison my plans,
But you'll never win
while you're waiting to begin.
The game is starting dear
now come,
gather your fears-
Kiss them goodbye, send them afloat
they're bringing you down,
your passions they choke.
So breathe in this warm air of delight
Please notice the beauty of the night-
Resplendent stars will relume your way,
and carry you through
the haze of a day.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
My friend tells me he gave up on his girl because she got lazy and smoked crazy dope too much and got sightly fat and got too much of a barrel of bombs that shouldn’t be around no more, throw her over the bridge, he gets fit and I get drunk and get lost in the streets and this little belly on me from something is soft and mean, good night I never hear in this house, crumbs on the table, crumbs and maybe mice- something- will feed from my food crumbs in the black night.
***** floor and the carpet in my bedroom stinks and it feels rough and I don’t have that girl to clean up for me, and no food to cook, I cook something and it tastes good, I’m a good cook, I should have been a cook.
I should have been something good in life but laziness takes over and ambition is nowhere to be found- how it felt to have you around once not eating for two days and you gave me your food, your soul, It made me fall for you more in some room that we will never touch again.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
*I have sought answers to the query what makes a person perfectly sightly, yet have not I found it.
Is it in the curl of his hair, or the warmth in her stare?
The touch of her skin as she lays bare?
Or is it in the hue of his eyes - deep sea blue? Or the beating of her heart, as if on cue?
Is it in the lines of his jaw, or that perfectly white teeth? The blush on her cheeks or the rise of her chest as she breathes?
I know not if it is in the grace of her gait, nor if it is her weight. Or his broad shoulders or the size of his feet.
Is it in the lobes of his ear? Or her view in rear? Is it in the curves of her waist, or his abdomenals like hills? The complexion of his arms? Or her hug that warms?
Is beauty in the arch of her back or the contour of her ******* Or his suit and tie and his Sunday's best?
Does it have anything to do with the fragrance he wears - warm and woody? Or is it in her pair of sneakers and a hoodie?
Can it be found in the protrusion of her clavicles or the density of his brows? Or in the depth of his voice? The color of her toes?
Is it in the ball that he plays or the gentleness of her face? Ah! How can someone be so angelic in demeanor?
It isn't clear to me if splendor in countenance can really be found. Should not it rather be felt? Or should it be perceived through sight?
One is beautiful because people say she is. But beauty could be forfeited at the thought of the beholder that she isn't.
Does one tell himself that he is as Adonis in loveliness when he looks in the mirror? Or does he say he is like Hephaestus in visage?
Is beauty defined in the standard: dark hair, appealing stare;
aligned teeth, sharp nose;
tan skin, shaved brows;
waxed legs, hefty breast;
mild touch, sweet caress;
cheeks sans freckles, six feet tall;
flamboyant voice, and foxy lips?
What about molls and vagrant rips?
To say one is grotesque - is not it just in your perspective? And to say one is gorgeous - what is your basis?
Is it her beautiful locks? --but she is a ****
Or the emerald windows of his soul? --but he is a criminal--
Does beauty still nest on them?
I say the efficacy to arouse fascination is not found in the facade of a person, rather found somewhere more profound.
To put beauty in the way that it is in the eyes of the beholder is quite narcissistic, but let people fancy you not for the sightliness of your face, but the goodness of your soul, though it is heir to sin; the mercy in your eyes, not its color; the care in your touch, not its balminess. Because the only thing that is undying and immortal is not your cast but the heart.*
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
To a man
That inspired many
And left swinging
A bolted flaming gate
I took something from you
A thing I cannot name
Though it rests inside of me
I don't know where to rest
Or where to be
Too long have these hours past
As my minds been moving fast
I type to an unseen crowd
Swallowed and in deep dark wallow
A Dark night outside trickles
As well as fiendishly tickles
The fiendish crazed eyes
That never seem to abide
Could it be
That you were the one
I was destined to travel with
Fast and on the run?
No, no, no...
This can't be
There's another task
I was meant to do
Before I met
This lovely flowing doe
Oh the last ray of the shining sun
Left me feeling naked and alone
A child crying loudly in the carnival
Made me feel so naive and so cold
A refugee I became
In a lone bar far past two
I left there nightly
With a sightly cross hair
On a heart I never chased to know
But the temples that many pray at
Are crumbling fast
Because a God they thought they knew
Tested time
And did not last
I dissolve into time
Where parents that bore me
Say they no longer know me
They'll blame the fact
On quick changing images
On absolute divinity
And with frosty smiles
That were traveled lovingly
I ask myself yet I know not myself
So I expect no comforting answer
As Rimbaud
And all the rest
Did the quite the same feat
Lo' I am answered
With oh but a horrifying answer
From a source unseen and unknown
For the life we struggle through
Is a search
For a ball
In white snow
Inspired by the dead
By words that seem oh so real
And a toiling woman glances as she rises
Dressed so serenely
In touched' abnormalities
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 8:47 PM UTC