"sills" poems
As Autumn approaches,
my mind drifts to the decaying leaves,
Halloween,
the cool, crisp breeze...
The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with
death—
that Summer must always go.
And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations
for an exalted Spring.
Oh hell...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay—
like a host who lectures his party guest for too long
so he won't look at his watch.
Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills!
Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa,
the misty light rain in the gray of the morning,
the high canopy of fleshy red flakes!
And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed
with sacred rituals and good company.
I need Autumn personified—
a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl.
A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm.
Someone comforting like oatmeal.
Someone surprising like the first day of school.
I need Autumn.
I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
*Stranger I have roads in my eyes ,
The cement lies wet in solitude
Your footprints it waits to imprint
I robbed the sun from the world
In my eyes the sunflowers turn to him
On the sides I planted
Honeydew and daffodils
Their fragrance bids goodbye
to linger on my window sills
Come stranger visit them someday
While you resist your world to be on my way*
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
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In a city full of tall buildings and unspeakable views,
breathtaking unknowns and unfamiliar faces,
there are those sitting on window sills
chugging bottles of brew,
leaving cigarette traces
She spends her days in a haze,
sharing little laughs that make her ribs ache,
all in attempt to erase you
It's only then she sees,
an imprint on the
soul is the kind of
stain that can't be
scrubbed
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
There’s a copper covered floor
swept in by father’s hand.
And a sweet scent dwelling in the thick air
of mother’s sigh.
Streams leak into the sills
upon my face.
And a blindfold
drapes the *****
A mesmerizing buzz
echoes within.
And irrationality
fills my presence.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it's cool.
and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
geraniums
and the half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
everywhere.
this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.
it's like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
else.
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I keep finding peaches
Peaches
I don't think it's possible to not smile when you say the word
they turn my cheeks the same color as their skin
it makes me grin and laugh to see them sunbathing on the banister
lining the window sills like shining trophies
on my porch like children climbing to Set upon the tallest object They can find
beaming as children do
Maybe it's cuz I grew up in the south
Knowing you have to set them out And wait for them to be soft to
the touch
let them ripen in the Sun so you can then pick your fruit that up
until now has been forbidden
it's like a little fuzzy ball of gold Sunshine warming your face and
your mouth
I love the word peaches
maybe it's the memory,
the name,
Peaches
“chin up, peaches”
it carrie's such an innocence such a light-hearted, free-spirited
happiness.
something warm and welcoming and something I could only find at home
maybe it's the breakfast
peaches and cream
three ingredients
so happy, so creamy, so sweet, smooth, summary, comforting
it's what my grandma would give me
so sugary, yet so filling
it reminds me of her
it tastes how she act
it is her hyperbole
peaches and cream is a grandmother
it's as sweet as her voice
as comforting as her touch
as filling as her hug
and as smooth as her skin.
maybe it's all three
either way
this time of Peach field windowsills will come again next year
and the year after that
and the year after that
until I am the grandmother they represent
and every year, I will smile.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC
It is still blurry,
The times you held me helplessly. Holding this flesh that blinked with desperation. The glasses of problems brought to bed. Complete care with a side of beauty. Electric fingertips flowing along my sides. Stunning the flow in these veins.
It is still blurry,
The words that pressed off your tongue. Words that finished sleep and solid thought. The same mouth that has changed lives, comforted family, cursed like a sailor. Giving strength to simply continue. Moving mountains, depending on your approach. Making mornings sunlit on cloudy days. Your sunlight showed this life dissipated darkness.
It is still blurry,
Angst and tension between bones. The tension that can't be resisted nor denied. Giving me the strength transverse miles each way, just to sleep next to your breath. Open this heart, cuddle with its inners. Cut this tension with your actions knives.
It is still blurry,
The elation you delivered to my doorstep. Served purpose in my life. Giving me a chance to release all those dusty window sills in the attic. I complied an archives of you in my senses. The way you gave that heart of yours.
It is still blurry,
The times you settled the fears resting on your ancient dresser. Yeah the one you brag about. The one that held our water during rest, held our alarms to begin another day, and even our books of education shared. We have split these lives in so many directions. All ending in the same bed. Closer than my skin is to its bones. We were one in that bed. One after a life lived in every direction.
It is still blurry,
Your purpose. Actions and words in separate realms. All it would have took was a phone call. You insisted the benefits. Leaving us in seperate beds, different countries, different mind sets. Why not just enjoy love. Love lost in a storm of self discovery.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
When we began to love each other, in my mind, I saw a room. The bedroom of an old farm house; windows open, and soft, pale, green curtains moved lazily about the sills. Light of late afternoon slipped in, whilst a faint, blue summer sky waited outside. The door to the hallway is open; the rest of the house - still. A bed is the only piece furniture in a room with wood floors and white walls. There are only sheets on the bed, old cotton sheets, heavy, limp, and cool. This room was our togetherness. Since he died, I am not in the room, and light in it is cooler. It is evening and no one is home.
I am waiting at the door of the story with peaches in my hands. The door is shut, and the peaches are unripe. None of their warmth and sweetness can be smelled, their fuzz clings to them like tight new skin. When we wait patiently for things to open, we stay with them and be, and they ripen, and the door opens. I wait for the peaches and the door as they wait for me. A story through that door will show me and harm me, it is with peaches I may come through.
I was a small child when my mother told me a story of peaches. When I remember it, I remember the peach tree across from our old house. Short and squat, with shining, skinny leaves; the tree crouched in the rose garden. My mother told me about the peace and bliss of heaven, and that when we went there we became angels. She told me that angels longed for the earth sometimes, and have bodies, because angels cannot taste peaches.
When I taste and smell peaches now, I try to give myself over to them, to live and feel the taste of them, to not take them lightly, to not keep them foreign. The day that he died, I found a nectarine in the kitchen, and carried it with me, praying to it to keep me in the world of life, to remind me that moments of peaches are worth the pain of aliveness.
Every story starts with the breaking off an indefinite number of things that have come before. To try and tell the story of Lucien from the beginning, means I will omit the stories of before, the peripheral stories which came before and bled into his, like color on wet paper.
I suppose there are so many ways of telling a story. Not one will be perfect, but each is a prayer. Can you feel this? Can I make something? Are our lives commensurable? Do my words mean what your words mean? We shall see.
This story, too, is a prayer.
A prayer for a new house, a new tree, and a new beginning.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
Oh, fuming teardrop!
You’ve boiled over from wrath and anger,
leaving painful blisters as you sear the heart
Why you don’t evaporate is a wonder
but there must be a valid reason…
If only to let the heart know it lives
Oh, fuming teardrop!
Will you ever learn how to forgive?
Oh, defiant teardrop!
Teetering on the edge and glistening,
refusing to fall to make yourself known
It is not fickle mindedness playing,
rather, a power play of emotions
a blatant refusal to show what’s within
Oh, defiant teardrop!
Why even stop yourself before you begin?
Oh, crocodile teardrop!
If you were truly so, slink back shamefully,
recede to your lacrimal gland and stay put
There is no need for your insincerity,
the world is chaotic as it is, too troubled
Fall not, trickle not, trick not who see you
Oh, crocodile teardrop!
How can you be so heartless to fool people so true?
Oh, pensive teardrop!
How gracefully you streak down window sills
Wash away grime and grit, cleanse everything
Flow unhindered, purify hearts you fill
Laughter may be the music of the soul,
but you are pure— the distilled spirit
Oh, pensive teardrop!
Will you course down blackened hearts, pay a visit?
Oh, jubilant teardrop!
Married to laughter, frolic and dance to its tune
Give birth to hope then soar with elation
Brighten faces, sparkle days, light up the moon
Let souls remember that you speak of pain, joy
Let them remember, then allow them to heal
Oh, jubilant teardrop!
Why did I ever doubt that you are spirit revealed?
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 4:24 AM UTC
Burgundy, the color of a dress I’ve never worn
to an occasion that never occurred
Velvet lined
coffin
Where lies the violin
There lies its song
The heart of fiddle strings
that bare of arms
That heart that sings, speaks, no, yells
to the hands that can’t respond!
to a mind that can’t remember
I was drowning in some future
not a violinist’s
“Alive with Pleasure”
read the billboard slogan for cigarettes
behind the happy couple
running out into their future
Forcing the hand of marriage
Waving goodbye to my life
from a rooftop in Scranton
as the wind hauled my laundry three city blocks
dumping my unders on Saint Luke’s sills
sailing my sheets up Wyoming Avenue
I lay on the tar and pebble roof
watching pigeons swirl
listening to traffic pass on the street below
The moment you know you’ve made the mistake
you can’t return from....
Wherever my towels have blown?
I wish them well....
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
you call yourself an acosmist
walking around believing nothing exists
filling window sills with forgotten promises
and burnt out joints
spending every minute high and out of your mind
it's a comforting delusion if nothing disappoints
well, I think you've forgotten the hair I cut last summer
the weeks it took to get you out of a slumber
the nights I spent a room away
brooding over ways to have you stay another day
spending early mornings smoking cancer sticks
sorting the magic in my bag of tricks
see, I have yet to forget the pain I felt against your hip
the countless songs sung together in harmony
the way I fit above your voice, like a symphony
how come it's bitter if I'm better and it's lonely when I'm not
a disease that will surely make me forget her
it isn't something I could be taught
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 1:32 AM UTC
"The past is a bucket of ashes."
1
THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
2
The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
2.4k
I'm
drowning
in light,
In blinding light:
Lights on cars; and buildings;
and lit up trees lining lit up streets;
Houses with sills all lined in gold
And diamond; silver glitter glued onto mould;
Street lamps; and laser pointers; and
Towers; neon lights dotted with flowers
Of plastic sun; hoardings and billboards,
With bright teeth and skin and red words
Everywhere you turn,
Telling you what you want
And never knew you wanted;
Shop windows; chandeliers;
Presents for that time of year;
Cell phone pylons with twinkling,
Bright lights on top, like Christmas trees;
Christmas trees, with stars and angels
Speckled, Frosted,
Dusted on the tops;
Disgusting glare on sunglasses,
And a smiting gaze along the arms;
Bridges and fountains with gold poured on;
Platinum bands in every size, laying all forlorn;
Bedside lamps; and taxis; and taxi stands;
Every window, but the ones
Being jumped off of;
TVs and refrigerators, opened
Thoughtlessly at night;
Screens shooting onto impassive glass
That used to be faces;
Cameras, going off in quick succession,
Quicker than you can keep up;
I'm drowning.
We are taught desire, in light,
We learn to read in light
and scarlet letters of fluorescence
We are blind,
Now that the road is paved for us,
To the light that was before.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
They look in the windows to see if I'm sleeping,
Through the sills and holes they'll come a creeping.
Darkness and shadows and scary things fun,
Will always keep you up on the run.
They mess with your mind so you see things at night,
They're bark is far worse than their sharp bite.
You might think about how they aren't real,
But do you ever realize what they come and steal?
Sanity, sweet dreams, and peace of mind,
Are what they feast on, they take what they find.
Ghosts and goblins and all thing frightening,
What they bring is not to my liking.
Pray for your children with all of your might,
When you go to tuck them in at night.
Pray for sweet dreams and safety throughout,
Pray for demons through the night without.
And when they come and curl up in your bed,
You know what came and found them instead.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
Kisses under the mistletoe, holly, Santa's list,
Rudolph's red nose aglow,
Sleigh bells ringing,
A donated toy, presents galore beneath the glistening tree,
The rich, soft scent of green pine, wreaths to behold, angels above,
A wish made upon a star,
The wise men's gifts from afar, the drummer boy,
Satiny ribbons, big red velvet bows,
My hollyberry dishes,
Wondrous white fallen, holiday snow
With lights at night - a shiny, sparkling fairyland show! ! !
Christmas time magically brings dreams about heavenly things
Back to life again.
Boxes of candy are ready to go
Except for the bows - a must for shoppin'
Around the world Santa, driven by reindeer,
Will stop for good kids Christmas eve night.
Soon I'll get some seeds the scarlet cardinals and other woodland birds to delight.
Christmas carols were played past years
On our piano
With two old fingers and more.
My grandpa who had a heart of gold could play songs by ear at his memory's door.
Days have long ago gone by since
My grandfather so dear to us
Told me how they use to put
Wax candles on the window sills
And the tree - to light Christmas's way.
Around the deep, magnificent boughs, too, a scallop trim with splendor
Made by hand from strung popcorn and pure ruby cranberries, danced along its adorned, lovely strand.
A glorious tree it must have been!
Grandpa didn't have a red Christmas stocking.
He got a piece of chocolate
And an orange in his sock
Early Christmas morning.
Wishing you all a snowy, Merry Christmas
Filled with sweet dreams of sunshiny days
Tops my list like winter's cherry cheeks
On children whose laughter brings cheer while they play! ! ! !
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 4:08 AM UTC
The girl was scared of puddles
And she was scared of rain
Every time the thunder clapped
She raced back inside again
She was given beautiful umbrellas
And coats of waterproof silk
But still she sat inside
And read on the window sill
As she grew the rain poured harder
And the girl cowered away
She hid behind her mother’s back;
She never ran to play
She was afraid of what the droplets were
So she sat and watched them gather
She still refused to step outside
And so she grew ever sadder
People came along
And people quickly left
They found the girls odd cowardice;
The way she counted every breath
There came a day when it was too late
And the girl was forced outside
She was lost without her silken coats
And with no place that she could hide
The girl was chilled clean through to bone
And her shy life came to an end
In her silken coats she reached the gates
And the golden stairs she did ascend.
In God’s own home she lay down her fears
And she swore that she’d be brave.
For there there are no window sills
And no pouring rain or hate.
Saint Peter smiled and praised her,
The girl who’d been inside,
And Saint Peter whispered truthfully
As he watched the young girl cry:
“Now, girl who’s scared of puddles,
And girl who’s scared of rain,
Did you ever think that when the thunder claps
It doesn’t have to mean your pain?”
“There’s others out there, like you
Who have suffered just as much
Yet they stay strong and they pull through
And they do not lose touch.
“I’ve been here always to protect you,
And that will never change.
So when you’re scared next just think of that,
And stand to face the rain.”
You must learn to love the puddles
And embrace the freezing drops
Dance under the thunderclouds
Until the lightning stops
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
The sky transformed in a matter of seconds
From a bright powder blue
To a sickly gray that reminded me of my darkest days.
The teardrops from the sky came trickling down
bit by bit
Slowly picking up speed
As I could hear the pitter patter on the window sills.
I walked over to my window to watch the show.
To watch the raindrops maneuver its way
past the nooks and crannies of the trees
and soak up into the ground.
I noticed something odd.
Right outside my window, lied a spider web.
A huge one, about two feet in diameter
And in the center, sat a beautiful maroon colored spider, curled into a ball to protect itself from the penetrating water droplets.
The web had to be one of the most
beautiful creations I'd ever seen.
How could something so minuscule
Create such a wonderful piece of art all on its own?
But as I was looking at this web
I was watching something devastating.
All of the spider's hard work
Was being battered by the rain.
The web was shaking violently back and forth.
Surprisingly, it was remaining mostly intact.
Unlike the fragile spider,
Clinging onto the strings of its creation for dear life.
The rain continued beating down
As I stood there admiring the web's strength.
The web was withstanding everything the storm threw it's way.
But its soul, the creator, didn't seem strong enough to.
The storm faded away.
The web, a little beaten down,
managed to stay strong enough to survive.
The spider, however, did not.
This reminds me of myself, you know.
Beaten down with words, mockeries
Beaten down by my past
My memories
I keep my outer shell perfectly intact
So that no one knows what is really going on inside me.
When in reality, my soul is dying.
My depths are shallowing, just like the spider.
I am not the only one like this.
I was oblivious to this fact
Until I watched this spider
Take his last breath before drowning.
Why couldn't the spider be as strong as its outer shell?
Why can't I be as strong
as I make myself out to be?
Maybe I'll find out one day.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
It is a summer evening.
The yellow moths sag
against the locked screens
and the faded curtains
**** over the window sills
and from another building
a goat calls in his dreams.
This is the TV parlor
in the best ward at Bedlam.
The night nurse is passing
out the evening pills.
She walks on two erasers,
padding by us one by one.
MY sleeping pill is white.
It is a splendid pearl;
it floats me out of myself,
my stung skin as alien
as a loose bolt of cloth.
I will ignore the bed.
I am linen on a shelf.
Let the others moan in secret;
let each lost butterfly
go home. Old woolen head,
take me like a yellow moth
while the goat calls hush-
a-bye.
2k
to her thighs....
my taste buds
so eager to say hi,
if I was asked to describe
I'd say just look
outside, Around the
time... when the moon
was destined to hide and
air conditioners kidnapped
the space windows and their
sills used to collide
While i strive, tongue
kicks a lure for her
sweet surprise.... That
collapse in time mimics
the anticipation of a
hydrant's refreshing
jolt when it's hot outside
her satisfactions
introduction feeds me
the thrill of that last
day of school during
dismissal time, freedom
for what seems like forever
it's two month limit always
fled past your mind
When she divides
and reveals the treasures
her structure was built
to hide... My taste buds
reunite with the flavors
of summertime
taste like summertime
© 2014 viewtifulink
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
*Freezing cold, a strange night of rain and thunder,
it got registred deep in his consciousness,
as a squiggling liquid presence;
an abstract painting, taken in, with layers of meaning,
a deluge, the result of injustices heaped against the female principle.
The rain lashed out, in the flashes of lightning
in between, through the window sills
when the curtains where swept aside
by a subversive wind, painful face
of a frightened girl was visible,
at the window of a highrise building,
shameful secrets kept concealed peeped out
yelling out "HELP"in the shocking words of silence.
That night was difficult for an exile from life like him to endure,
subconscious echoed terror filled cries;
sewer water flowed, towards oblivion,
carrying embryos, not fully formed from terminated pregnancies,
he heared tree toads speaking in strange tongues,
like jilted women seeking vengeance,
coyotes hunting in packs with blood thirst howled in delight.
In his nightmare, blood dripped from wet trees,
"who will rescue our bloodied orphaned planet?"
his heart with a collective guilt , beyond words wailed.
From denuded mountain slopes, muddy red water
copiously gushed downhill, nature's menstrual flow
out of cycle, devastated hillsides cleaving gashes,
like scorned woman's fury baring long sharp fangs-
landslides opened gaping wounds.
Liquid's rule took over the space of night,
lying awake on his bed,
he became conscious of the burden of women,
who moved around with invisible bridles
pretending free, nervously smiling.
Swimming in the amniotic fluid of the past
he is forced to recount the past sins,
nature and women have endured and ask
for forgiveness seeking salvation.*
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
I met a man.. that I believe..I have dreamt into existence.
He spoke life into my dreams, dried my tears, when I cried from my ever healing soul, planted lavender below my window sills, surfed the ups and downs of my complicated moods and patiently waits..
He's the constant, I never knew was real, the strength that keeps my back from bowing, the gentle...that soothes every doubt.
He's the description of what Love..is truly meant to be.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
They gave you all these crazy pills
So when you look on window sills
You will see a daffodil
And want nothing but to sit still
While the warden gets a thrill
From all the monkeys' howls and shrills
Knowing that in time the will
Will succumb to pleasant ills
After all it pays the bills
And you can't line em' up to ****
Might as well get your fill
Entertainment with the frills
Meanwhile a man with brain of quills
Is breathing like a fish with gills
And looking up, out to the hills
Where he sees young Jack and Jill
Dancing 'neath an old windmill
Or maybe it was all just nil
Guess we'll never know until --
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 9:40 PM UTC