"smooths" poems
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
spills from my tongue,
and makes up my lips.
because everything feels right when we're laying down in bed like this.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
shakes in my bones,
and folds over and over inside my head.
because we're both in wedding dresses and i fall in love all over again.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
smooths over my skin,
and makes an extra layer of love to drown in.
because this is my life and a girl makes it worth living in.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
the red glow of her cigarette.
the fingers of her left hand
yellow with nicotine
clutching dying flowers
"buy a rose for your lover," she says,
"buy one for your wife. buy 2."
"the flowers are wilted."
"maybe it's your eyes that are wilted.
she had black hair
black as the night
the violent night
and gray eyes
the shade of ***** ice
"you must love
someone,
some of the time, no?
put a rose on
your father s grave, then."
"love is like lost pennies
falling from a broken jar."
she smooths her hair with one pale,
long, fingered hand, "you re crazy."
"my mom says so."
i was born to
have adventure
I followed her up the steps.
i was born to chase the night
through the forest
of dead roses.
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 4:16 PM UTC
Contemplation for days and hours
As all the beautiful flowers devour their worst enemy
Trying to defend me, no decency cause I tell myself I’m horrible
Gravity slams me to the floorboard of a moving car
Let me go, let me breathe
My reality deceives the truth that you and I were once meant to be
I overlook, my eyes force me not to see
All the pain, all the lies
**Just **** you**
I despise you and your ******** *** ways
And I’m still sitting here in this haze
Of my sweet mary jane, that takes away the pain
Because she actually gives a **** about what I have to say
And she don’t question me
She smooths the depression out of me
There’s not a doubt in me that I won’t see better days
You’re in the past
There’s no way we would have been able to last
But I be me, I do me
I don’t give a **** about what your eyes want me to see
They see what they want to see and I be what I want to be
I laugh at your failure to attempt to change me
I’m invincible, not dispensable
You can’t just use me, I’m insensible
Good luck finding someone as valuable as me
There’s no next time, there’s no meant to be
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
let’s go back a
hundred-thousand years
to these ragged edges
torn rains
raw greens
biting seas
to the first sunrise,
now understood.
tears of calm joy –
a return.
we find ourselves
in this,
a kinship;
our brother is
our keeper,
and we
its’ guardian,
walk the edges
and the smooths;
our planet,
Earth’s children
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
I turn my head to the most beautiful sight of all - the sapphire, green-brown, grey ocean.
(Breath In)
The thick blue ocean that rolls, churns, and glistens.
And the glisten slices, the glistening currents. The ripples that move the ripples that have no ending or beginning.
(Breathe Out)
____
Every shape, form, and structure captured in the liquid.
It smooths out.
It rounds out.
It rolls out, it crashes down.
It’s smooth clarity. It’s smoothness it beyond me.
Its beauty is truly found within its movement. It’s constant change, exchange between all forms;
Connections throughout,
Different experiences of the same object throughout,
And out and out.
I see this giant blue gulp, of sea of truly magnificent bodies of water held in a single space.
As I see the land overturn over:
In new shapes, colors, lengths, and everything that contrasts one thing to another
I just see so much brightness, dimness, and something that overturns into another.
,,,,
I can not believe this sea
How it makes that sound
And when nothing is around
It just profound,
How every jewel of the dancing ocean
is a collection of drops
connecting forms throughout
_____
When I feel the truth of this beauty
I see,
the ocean, something I never created
It was there to touch us
To hold us
This ocean was made to believe in us.
Without realizing it I just fell into a deep sleep.
I fell into something so deep.
I felt the ocean's arms
embracing me
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 9:51 PM UTC
For Her
She looks in the mirror at herself
and smooths out a wrinkle on her waistline
Feeling pretty anxious about tonight
but also floating on cloud nine
She comes down the stairs
thinking don't fall now girl, please do not fall
Then she says to herself I got this
As she sees his face and suddenly feels ten feet tall
She loves to play dress up
and loves to please her man
So she puts on the little black dress
As all part of that strategic master plan
For Him
He looks at her and thinks wow so stunning
as she stops at the top of the stairs
For a moment he forgets to breathe
He forgets that he has to have air
As she comes down the stairs he watches her
and he knows she is waiting to see his first reaction
He hopes that she truly can see what he feels
Way more than just any mere physical attraction
That little black dress is so hot
as it is hugging all those luscious curves
but the best thing about that little black dress
is watching it fall to the floor so he can worship her and serve
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
You are the
liquid sugar
I rub into
my skin
soaked
through to my
pores so
deep within
on a cellular
level as I
gulp it down
swish in saliva
in liquid love
sounds
washed through
my system
in textured
spin
you balance
out the thickness
of my insulin
you
pique
hot
energies
into blush-fused
crush
swirling
endorphins
and hormones
in maelstrom rush
my cheeks
on fire,
ripe fruits
drip
juice
I must
breathe
in staccato
to control
this
sluice
But when I
get peak-high
and then
slope
so
low
you harmonize
the taut,
slick pull
of my
undertow flow
It's just a matter
of a few
words, syll-a-
bles spoken
velvet-voiced
cool
smooths
the rough
of my
broken
So please
inject it,
fresh
into the river
of my blood
Bring it over,
hot sugar,
before I
surge
into
flood
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
Ice crystal image genuflection upon the ground
Frosted wind passes around you it speaks with a howling sound
Sleet smooths your surface your body of crystal mirrors portray your soul
Sun light captured within you speaks a language of answered prayers
Rainbow whispers of reassurance to this purity of soul, the woman who kneels upon the ground of freshly fallen snow.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
Spring creeks born from infinite knowledge
gaining speed
riding cloaked horses that show
Peter in the stained glass surface
young creek
carry
salvation price televangelists can't match
melt bullet proof screens between altar and flock
wash the old mans feet
Summer river border
bring
fresh water to stagnant minds
earthly limits can yield no nutrition
salt smooths David pebbles to fly straight
Journeys from the Abaddon threshold
(leave the salt behind)
riding
clouds like the cloaked horses to stained glass Peter
past our own existence watching self hematophagy
all things are one
Fall crosses river styx
until we are wise enough to take the coins from our eyes
see
his lonely gold coin fall from the mast
economists miss the beauty in a negative slope
Cold winter brooks
forget their age
babes no longer baptized in ***** whale heads
no longer giving squeeze to oil that fights the freezing point of time
no longer running from the mouth that carries you west
are we anchored to god or do billions of monkey ropes join to give him life
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
'Lay me in a cushioned chair;
Carry me, ye four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.
'To stable and to kennel go;
Bring what is there to bring;
Lead my Lollard to and fro,
Or gently in a ring.
'Put the chair upon the grass:
Bring Rody and his hounds,
That I may contented pass
From these earthly bounds.'
His eyelids droop, his head falls low,
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Falls in sleepy streams.
Brown Lollard treads upon the lawn,
And to the armchair goes,
And now the old man's dreams are gone,
He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue
Upon his wasted hands,
For leading aged hounds and young
The huntsman near him stands.
'Huntsmam Rody, blow the horn,
Make the hills reply.'
The huntsman loosens on the morn
A gay wandering cry.
Fire is in the old man's eyes,
His fingers move and sway,
And when the wandering music dies
They hear him feebly say,
'Huntsman Rody, blow the horn,
Make the hills reply.'
'I cannot blow upon my horn,
I can but weep and sigh.'
Servants round his cushioned place
Are with new sorrow wrung;
Hounds are gazing on his face,
Aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apart
On the sun-smitten grass;
He holds deep commune with his heart:
The moments pass and pass:
The blind hound with a mournful din
Lifts slow his wintry head;
The servants bear the body in;
The hounds wail for the dead.
2.2k
Elaine folds
and unfolds
a flowered
handkerchief
in her lap
in the bus
(the school bus)
her sister
beside her
talking to
her best friend
Elaine knows
the boy John
sits near by
she can see
him if she
leans over
the seat top
but she sits
where she is
feeling down
and depressed
she'll tell John
when she can
what they say
the others
Old Frumpy
they call her
her hand smooths
the flowered
handkerchief
in her lap
corners neat
edges straight
it is John's
handkerchief
he gave it
when she cried
the last time
it was clean
and unused
when he gave
smelt of soap
and fresh air
it absorbed
her wet tears
when held there
and John said
at that time
the kiss was
meant to show
what I feel
and she can
(if she sits
quietly)
feel it still
on her lips.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Back behind Gianni's bar
The Bluesman sings his tunes
To all the local n'er do wells
And to the stars and to the moon
His voice is coarse as forty grit
His playing smooths it out
He plays upon an orange crate
Comfort is not what he's about
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One sung just for me
One that paints pictures in my head
A song that I can see
Buskers, lined the concourse
The street where he was not
This was just a place for tourist fare
He was where the world forgot
His tunes were sung for no one but
Himself and to the air
Out front, that was another world
Bluesman, did not live out there
A crowd has gathered slowly
More of a group, than a real crowd
They heard about the bluesman
And out front was too **** loud
In back, you heard the feelings
Felt the music, heard the strings
You experienced the atmosphere
That a good old bluesman brings
Out of the crowd of fandom
Working his way through the mass
Was a young, tousled haired boy
Everybody let him pass
He rocked in one position
He felt the music ebb and flow
He looked where the notes were airborne
He saw the music go
The bluesman sat and watched him
playing stories, telling tales
Of drunks in old Las Vegas
And of sailors fighting gales
the young boy stood and rocked some
always looking at the air
He wasn't looking at the bluesman
He didn't know that he was there
He walked up to the old man
staring out into the space
that streamed the bluesmans music
right into the young boys face
the bluesman watched intently
As the young lad touched his hand
And he held the bluesmans old guitar
He became a member of the band
The boy moved even closer
If that were possible at all
He was feeling the sweet music
He was having quite a ball
The crowd watched as the bluesman
and the boy became as one
The boy resting his head now
On the guitar, having fun
He couldn't see the bluesman
But the music, it was there
The boy was blind, autistic
He saw the notes that filled the air
The bluesman kept on playing
For that was what the bluesman did
He was playing for the starry sky
And for this wondrous little kid
His mother came and held him
She took the bluesman by the hand
She said thank you for the music
For letting him be in your band
In a voice as smooth as Bourbon
The bluesman told her that her son
Could come and feel the music
The music makes us one
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One that's only just for me
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
That only I can see....
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
I can think of so many ways to ask you to stay. I feel like I’ve already emptied out my mason jar of them to the half-way mark. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what anything means. I just know that you’ll never feel for me the way I feel for you. I know that you will find someone that will love you in every way you need, and I know that person may not be me. If I said the idea of that made me happy, I’d be lying. I can’t be the ever-positive ex, I can’t promise you that someone else can know the right moments to touch your back. I can’t promise you that someone else will force you to open up to them when you’re upset. I can’t promise you that they’ll be able to hold your weeping head to their chest and they’ll feel the heartbreak I did every time you cried. I can’t even promise you that you’ll wake up holding another girls hand and it feel the way it felt for me. I can only promise you things I know. I promise you that every time you hear a song off of take this to your grave you’ll remember the night we all sang those songs drunk and in love with the worst and best of each other. I promise you that when you read these things you won’t look back at them and they probably won’t really even phase you. I promise you that you’ll always do your best to get to Moe’s on Mondays for your burrito that you won’t most always don't finish. I promise you that you’ll always have the best taste in whiskey, and you will always love the playlists I make. I promise you that the sun will rise every morning just for you, and you will smoke a cigarette to welcome it. I promise you that you will wear a striped shirt at least six out of seven days of the week, and blue jeans five out of seven. I promise you that you will have a soft hum of my voice in the back of your head every time you buy a new pack of marlboro smooths, better yet I promise that you’ll never buy the 100’s because of that. I can promise you all of those things, I can promise you myself.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
After years on this earth, I have weathered and grown.
As a child, I did things, I had joy, love, and goals.
In early summers, my life was a canvas for scar tissue:
hot pebbles burned soft skin into calloused glory,
the sun beat down and leathered my skin,
chlorine and dirt turned my young hair to gray.
When I was young, I etched tunnels in my bones,
with crayon and marker, I forged deep ivory valleys.
Some see this as cruelty, a sad deterioration,
but this atrophy is experience, the catalyst of life!
Years later, I sit here next to a painted sunrise.
With jell-o, gray matter rots on my styrofoam tray.
I wish for the summer, hot pebbles, and crayons,
for the laughter of youth and its calloused adventures.
But I've retired, so I sit idly in this plastic wheeled chair,
watching monitors beeping with ebbing heart lines,
grieving for my gray hair as it turns back to brown,
mourning, as my unused bones fill with marrow to the brim,
watching, heartbroken, old age clutching my hand,
as my wrinkled skin smooths away.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.
It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.
My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.
I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.
Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.
Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’
‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’
Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’
‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!
And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
I'm caught in a forest
My glass frame is jagged and shattered
I give in to a distant call to rest
And I search for somewhere to lay my head
The forest is quiet
A whisp broke me and left
And I'm alone to care for a grove
I am broken, I am scared, I am upset
Something ahead of me
Trapped in the overgrowth
It can't be!
My armor, my friend, my beautiful cog!
Oh! What have I done to you?
I check it's inner workings
Gears clogged with vines and branches
Iron rusted through
Until I wander deep enough
And I find the source of my distant whisper
My hearth
Once a great and burning flame
To move my cog so powerfully
So patiently
Subserviently
I climb in
And flames long dead begin to burn once more
It melts my glass
And smooths me out
And I lay my head to rest
I close my eyes
When I open them again
I see through the juggernaut's eyes
And I burn so hot from my pain
The overgrowth burns away
Rusted parts shatter away
A plume of smoke billows from me
I am a cog once more
I feel so heavy
So tired
But oh so powerful
A great machine finds me in this grove
And offers me a place in it's inner workings
Other cogs inside, made of shining steel greet me
We grind and toil away
And I feel so at home
After harming and being harmed by a beautiful whisp
Who I now understand never truly understood me
Nor did I understand them
They fled from me
Left me so alone
But I am strong once more
I am so tired
I feel safe and complacent
So I will rest and let my body fall into routine
I will sleep
I will obey my new machine
I will dream
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 11:46 AM UTC
Loving you was a winter full of summer, and a pocket full of purple wildflowers.
Your smile was a warm breeze in late October, and your touch, the cool grass on bare feet.
Your kiss was the taste of raindrops on a July afternoon, and your voice the water that smooths the river rock.
You were childhood without the sting of the bee.
~B. Elizabeth G.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 10:58 PM UTC
A darling girl of three
Violet ribbon cradles golden hair
They fuss over her porcelain skin
Blushing cheeks and baby blue eyes
“Eyes you just want to steal,” say They.
She crayons pictures of castles
And heroic princes.
Her little dolls are played
Then locked in their little dollhouse
A fair girl of fifteen
Mornings she is taunted and condemned
By the mocking mirror.
She stares
And draws a smile on the vacancy.
Head, shoulders, knees and toes-
Strings attached to all.
Puppetted by the fetters of Expectation,
She smiles, and acts,
And dresses in little outfits
To please Them.
A charming girl of seventeen
Immured little fingers cradle the wiled world.
A Crayoned face fronts the masquerade.
Mangled in tangled strings,
She offers her heart and scissors to a little blonde boy
And cries, Kiss it better.
He smiles and smooths her brow
As his honeyed whispers tear her open
And he ties a heartstring.
He stitches her up with the thread of Promises
Leaving ribbon-scars delicate as lace.
Blueblack bruises blossom across
And stain her porcelain skin.
She shatters
While screaming his innocence.
Thieved eyelight
Makes for a jaded girl of eighteen.
A darling girl of three
Plays with toys
As They toy with her.
Just another broken doll to be.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
Paper, it even sounds cool
Remember Paper Mache at school
Paper is a versatile beast
Paper can be folded and creased
Paper can hold your chips and cod
Paper holds the words of your god
Litmus paper turns a different hue
Paper you use when in the loo
Newspaper to get all your lies
Paper comes in many a disguise
Paper anniversary first year gone
Blank paper ready to write on
Sand paper’s rough but smooths things out
Paper cuts, paper tickets from a tout
Paperless office never to be
Remember paper comes from a tree
Rice paper, sugar paper, paper that’s embossed
Printer paper, blotting paper will absorb the cost
Carbon paper, gold leaf paper, cotton papers too
Origami, baking paper just to name a few
Paper for your love letters, notes to her indoors
Old discarded wallpaper to line your chest of drawers
Paper table cloth and napkins, paper plates and cups
Paper when your computer fails you, just for your back ups
Paper planes, Christmas decs, sticky labels to remind
Envelopes and stamps, paper roller blinds
Wrapping paper for presents, to make someone’s day
Fivers, tens and fifties, to help you pay your way
Paper mills keep turning, magazines and books
Paper muffin cups for bakers and for cooks
Paper bags to shop with, bunting to celebrate
Fancy tissue paper, paper to laminate
Paper for all of mankind, paper pocket diaries
Paper trails and shredders, papers for your enquiries
Paper in the wastepaper bin, paper piles so high
There’s nothing like a piece of paper 1,2 or 3 ply
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
Soothing, mothering hand of a soft day
smooths away a wrinkle in my head
pressed there by the grimace of constant self-reflection.
The warm rain offers me solace, the grey
sky seeks to calm and I notice now for the first time
the leaves unfurled and the dandelions ticking.
A coffee and a glass of water, a cigarette
and some poor-man’s lunch shape my day
until another slips away into the furnace.
I’m seeking affirmation. I keep asking:
“do you think I’m coming off the rails -
Or was I always running off the sleepers?”
It’s met with a **** of the head, usually,
or a ‘hmm… you’re great fun though’.
I know but that’s not what I’m asking.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC
There's a poem hidden on my tongue
but I just can't find it,
my mouth is numb.
I've been sipping on winter for way too long,
this city is colder than your bubbler ****
but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,
and I like how you take them at full throttle
playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-
-As if you don't find it every night;
like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.
And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,
because your favourite superpower is anonymity.
And you don't mind if I show up when I'm ******* high,
because I'm a god **** child who can't handle life.
*I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,
I'm the age old dragon,
I'm the youthful sprite*
I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,
I'm the pipe that you **** when you got no rollies.
I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction
I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.
I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,
I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.
Now I'm the lover of your discontent,
I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.
It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,
but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.
Using whisky and water as lubrication-
it numbs and smooths through our expectations.
And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our ***** and starve our feelings,
But my belly feels full like the waxing moon,
and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.
*Naked and hungry-
we share your bed
-searching for the words, in each other's heads.*
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
I got a little canoe
and set sail to the moon
I took my bandanna and pulled it tight.
Grand Dads bottle of Makers Mark was my good supply
some Marlboro Smooths and a old swiss army knife incase I got shipwrecked.
I cashed in my last paycheck and told my boss I wasn't comming back
I had a Full Moon to catch and the sun was already setting.
I ran into Johnny **** Eyes at Holiday Gas Station and asked if he had any of them mushrooms still and if he had a extra couple hits of acid..... "Infact he replied I just got myself a quarter and about a 10 strip of acid for myself but your going to the moon right... in that old *** canoe your Grand Dad gave you when he passed away. I replied " Yeah Johnny I got a Harvest Moon thats not gonna be waiting long mind if you just toss me a deal and give me the whole shabang." I pulled a friend card and mentioned the time I hooked him up with 4 double stack X pills back in the day and also cut him a deal on a Rothbury ticket. Needless to say he handed that **** over. So back to the river shore where I began the tale I was scared of what was to come, I was scared to just leave without anyone knowing. I put on my old converse sneakers strapped up my suspenders put a little engine oil in my hair to slick it back and rolled my sleaves up in my flannel said a little prayer to Grand Dad that his canoe would make it... I remember watching him build it with his strong hands before the parkinsons kicked in... I remember him telling me that this ****** could go to the moon and back.... so I popped 3 hits of acid took a big swig out of the Makers Mark, Lit a Cig and said to the sky well Grand Dad you better be right.... You better be right
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
Unpolished weathered wood plays on my palms,
I pull and reach and pull an even beat
Attending algae'd oars aqueous psalm
Altered by the tangled grass I meet,
in counterpoint small waves percuss the prow
Accentuating the pause before I cull,
Mellifluous zephyrs bowing across my brow
Enhance the exposition of the gulls,
Above the hem of heaven's dress the bright
Cerulean bodice trilled with Cirrus lace
Beguiles regard, but maddeningly polite
She smooths her skirt across the score of space
Eclipsing a poet's want to read the ruse,
This lady only lingers to amuse.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
The beach stays here all day when I am at work and does its thing.
Waves back and forth.
Birds on the water.
Surfers.
People taking pictures.
Walking.
Throwing ***** for their dogs.
But the beach stays here even if I am not here to see it.
Waves like breaths in out in out.
So alive.
It has its moods. Has its rests and is quiet.
Changes the sands like brushing its hair.
Flat and smooth sometimes and messy and ruffled when the wind and the people feet mess it all up.
Then the tide comes in and smooths it down again.
It reaches towards me at high tide beckoning, calling me, reminding me it is there.
At low tide it goes back into itself and takes care of business.
Maybe the tide pools are exposed maybe not.
It doesnt care.
The beach the bay is taking care at low tide.
Reconstituting.
Recycling, reclaiming itself.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
Dry white pills rattle
in their dark green chamber.
Large and hard and pure,
they leave soft dust
where they clack together.
The cap spins free easy
when I fumble the bottle
and they trip eagerly
into my hand, so that
I must select my savior.
It takes hold of my muscles
and releases their grip on me,
fills my hanging head with its
whiteness rather than my red,
and gives my grinding teeth peace.
It ushers in sleep,
who has circled at the door,
smooths the sharp edges
of my breath in the
darkness, and tucks me in.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC