"splotching" poems
Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp
Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse
Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating
In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright
Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
Step one is waking up
and writing about your day.
I want to talk about language,
your mothers cheapest wine and worst blueberry jam
staining all your best clothes with verses.
Vignettes appearing all over
the rented tuxedo from the wedding.
Dark ink and oil separates in a margarita glass
soaking into the cuts on your dry lips,
dusting your hair and the spaces
between each individual vertebrae.
Syllables dripping from the tip of your nose
and fingernails
leave novels on the linoleum and
books of sentence fragments on the hardwood.
Poets bleed into cracks on fine china
pooling into poems.
Space heaters emit quotes from dead people
I sign each word when
the analogue clock ticks,
each poem adding another minute to the day.
I’m always hoping I can squeeze in a few more hours
so I can watch the ****** orange sky
with grass in my shirt,
the Pixies mumbling in the background
leaving lyrics trapped in my teeth.
Anthologies of letters
between man and his dog
hidden onomatopoeias in every backyard.
I'll write you 364 days of the year
too many paragraphs to fill the barbecue.
Burn through pages with paper matches
making enough poems to last a decade.
Transfer phrases into the soles of my shoes,
I want to walk on water,
the "W" curled up beside my baby toe.
Every inch of the fabric we call skin,
stamps and ink pads,
turn everything to poetry.
Despite seas of fog
where breathing stops the words
from forming in your throat,
the only way to express is by experience
and frantic fountain pens.
Smoke on the balcony
writes starry sonnets about the girl in your bed
lining the waxing moon with poetry,
a **** homage to Shakespeare himself.
Serendipity;
finding something good without looking for it.
A feeling I have encountered
keeping my breathing sporadic,
rarely setting me on fire.
Living Chinese finger traps
burning blue poems on my palms
splotching the back of my neck
licking up my thigh and hips.
Let me throw away my common sense,
the final step of becoming a poet.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
I read your words etched on ancient pages.
From a different time,
Drifting through the ages.
What intricate thoughts passed through your mind,
Tingled the nerves of your spine,
And escaped through the tips of your fingers.
Is it a mirror image of a generation lapsed or a talent that still lingers?
When I compare our thoughts
And write down mine.
Different as they are, the intention’s the same.
To channel your feelings that are lying inside.
And to spill them out line by line like the ink splotching over your pages.
I’ve got along way to go to match your talent.
It might take a while,
With our opposite styles.
But maybe I’ll have my words drift through to another time.
Read in the future.
Passing down our line.
Your words may not have inspired your next generation, but, please, do not worry for this one.
The sunlight of your dreams may still be realised through the eyes of your grandson.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC
I know how hard it is to feel without being felt;
what it's like to look out a window and not see the beautiful view;
to only see yourself jumping.
I know what it is like to be the broken chair in disguise
that everyone thinks is just fine to sit on;
to be the broken egg fallen from the tree while all the sparrows fly.
I am the dandelion in the middle of the field of grass, yet I am the only **** picked.
The world is parachuting through clouds while I sky-dive, free-falling,
into the dirt.
Free, free, free to change anything...
But unable to cope with a thing out of place;
able to dream and do whatever you wish...
but unable to do anything.
I love you so much because you are my mirror;
I love you so much to help.
If you stare long enough at your own brilliance,
it will scar like the sun on your eyes,
and you will see its technicolor splotching
everywhere you look.
Know it is okay to cry but know when it is time to get up;
know it is okay to be sad but know when it has been enough.
You think you can't do it, but you do not know,
and I promise I know that you can.
You just need a hand to help you stand up.
And I hope that this poem can be that hand for you.
Or maybe it won't mean **** I don't know.
But I know you're reading this and you're thinking,
what the hell does she know?
Look forward, not down, and be who you are
and do not give a ****
The right people will love you because you will love yourself.
Develop your wingspan and refuse to flee;
fly and be free.
And you will soar into the sky and be as beautiful as you always wished.
Just remember to always come back down and give a hand to those on the ground.
And maybe write a poem.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Love is vulnerable.
you extend yourself into
someone else
hoping
wishing
I look to you as you used to look
at me until
I have to stare at myself
and realize
I never let you see
those before you
Nor did you let me see
Ones before I
Maybe you shouldn't lie.
My walls were up around me
and covered with mirrors.
and your lies were arrows dipped in ink
splotching what I wanted to see in
myself.
I open up a crack
only to be hit
and hit in the eye
I closed the crack up
only to be blind
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
Flowers growing in my heart..Bees will make love to their faces. Empty spaces in my chest iv yet to find replacements...Something in your aura, foreshadowing adjacency from blazing loves euphoria.
The birds would sing about her, The trees were always watching, I often dreamed about her, until my blood was splotching..
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Tell me of the mystified Isle's,
the dampening subheader
splotching itself upon
a concrete rug
that calls itself
"AMAZING.
SO PATHED, SO SMOOTH, SO GRANITE,
GRANDEUR, AND GRENADE-THROWN
A M A Z I N G G G G."
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
From a mouth tasting sour from an empty stomach, and whispering from dry, cracked lips, comes desperate pleas.
Perhaps they beg for silence, or simply to be heard, but either way no desert will speak and each mouth is certainly one of these.
Each tongue is white and wrung out, then hung out to dry.
There are still always screams, and the sound of fighting, so speakers must settle to merely cry.
From red eyes, with vibrant and bright irises and endless pupils, tears threaten to slip mutely down sunken cheeks.
Silent criers with departed, desensitized beacons embedded in their faces do not plea for help nor quiet to reflect their own demeanor.
Simply secreting their eyes, they wish to see no more.
Oh, they've seen too much to continue watching!
So they press their hands to their sockets and let their tears continue splotching.
From hands, with scarred knuckles and only callused skin, there slip the tears that forced their ways between eyelids.
Something terrifying, opposing grabs at small palms and nimble fingers.
Hands tugging and pulling, they escape their bane.
Hands shaking and numbing, they begin to dull the pain.
And in their brain, chemicals and hormones cry out for the body and the mind to stop racing,
but their body image and their self esteem and worth are rapidly defacing.
Oh, this act of suicide is quite technically a crime.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
Drip, Drip, Drip goes the ink from my quill. Splotching the paper as I sit frustrated with myself. Scribble and scratch as the writers block stifles me. I push to find the words but they will not come. I squeeze the pen in frustration only to stain my face with the blood of my trade. I then come to understand how easily the ink can flow and that for their work a poet must sometimes bleed.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC