"squints" poems
The clouds looks painted
And the suns light burns a white
In which every colour lives
And inside squints a perfect circle
An inner eye
Which will watch irregardless, over all,
In it's path, it's vision,
All are small
All are
Irregardless.
And the clouds looked painted
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Parallel tremors follow your heavy footsteps through the moss that carpets a maze of tired oak. Solemn warnings calcify soft thoughts and point you at the coal on the horizon. Its splinterglow peeks hot squints through the arboreal tangle. Topaz streams convene and braid themselves around your spine. The stones in the riverbed grow smoother and each becomes a grain of sand. You let the sand console your roots as you curl your toes and fall asleep.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
three sets of withered, wrinkly hands
with chipped
tired
pale-pink nailpolish
flutter in the air,
describing.
three froofy perms
one browny-gray
one white
one salt and pepper
bob
jutting forward,
one
wobbles a little.
Grandma wears
a green-foam party hat
with a thin, white elastic band
that runs under her wrinkled chin
it sits atop her fuzzy perm
comically...
she smiles
at me.
"Ah! my cappuccino! you remembered i like it, didn't you?"
she chucks her great-granddaughter
under the chin,
grins
"oohh! look at these gardening gloves! Cidi! look at these gloves! i like the green ones."
she hands them to her white-haired sister
aunt cidi told me
this year she is
ninety-one
oh, and the gloves were really
blue.
aunt cidi
misses uncle harland
he was buried three or four years ago
in his uniform
i remember sitting next to him
at awkward family reunions
eating hotdogs
i never saw so much mustard
in my life
he could never hear me
when i tried to talk to him
but he smiled
anyway.
the talk turns serious
suddenly
over our black coffee
crossed legs
sweaters
and chocolate cake
grandma turns grim
in her lime-green party hat
"did you end up killing that trumpet vine in your yard, Jeanie?"
aunt jeanie's head wobbles a bit
she squints
wrinkles her nose
"i TRIED to!"
she scowls.
schemes of ******
plotted by three chunky-earringed
sweet
old ladies
who are a little late
for the 1940's
but never too late
for a handsome
soldier
"we're older..."
says aunt jeanie
"but not THAT old!"
they all
giggle.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
River bamboo arrayed in lace tiers
consoles the birdbath on its loss of robins
Intemperate August staggers in liquored air
of wavery heat and layered sighs
Leaves relinquish their rush
toward this “ripe on time”
Blackberry brambles have ceased to reach
now bow to ponder their plunder
while petunias, those bold delinquents!
bloom as if the frost’s lethal cling
were some myth
the antique roses had made up
Bud, bloom, revive!
See the generation of the bee!
Bud, bloom, survive—
to do it all again
for the single sake...
of treasuring beginning in the end...
Her bicycle, my geranium
have found eternity together
on the sun spattered patio
She—
opens the screen door
as I—
climb the morning stairs
She—
squints smiles amongst sleepy freckles
who has not brushed her hair
in a late August moment of not caring
And I know it will all happen anyway
no matter what I do....
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
She looks at me
Squints in one eye
Runs her tongue around her lips
From one corner to the other
My heart races, head flutters
I'm just so hot inside
Burning up in fact
Beads of sweat pour from my forehead
Drip down my nose and I realise
She has what I so very badly want
She pulls her hand away from her mouth
"What the **** are you looking at?"
I choke on my words before they come out
I'm so embarrassed
"I'm sorry love, that cornetto looks amazing right now"
For it is a British heatwave
We're strange enough in our usual
Cold and wet weather
We're freaks in the sun
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
You are as deep as i am in the universe, for the constellations in your eyes know no boundaries. Your soul which moves your hands and squints your eyes, was made up of fallen stars and burnt out suns. Your mind which no other will ever fathom, is connected to mine through silent words, and screaming galaxies.
-Sandoval
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
Sitting outside, she watches the rain fall down.
she closes her eyes and sniffs the air
Wet Cement... yum.
her thoughts bring her back to earth.
Shutting her eyes tightly, she tries to think about something else
anything else.
because mentally saying goodbye to an old lover/friend/partner, takes a toll.
She looks are her beautiful garden being watered by mother nature.
She squints as she sees one of her beautiful plant begins to wilt.
running towards him, she tries to save the plant.
digging up the root, running home, and putting in in a ***
Keeping it safe.
but it's already too late.
she was already too late.
too late to save the plant.
too late to realize her true feelings.
too late to save them.
water drips down her face, she doesn't know if its tears or the rain.
She decides to save the other plant from the rain, but this one, she carefully touched it, carefully places it in the ***
The plant seems strong, healthy, beautiful.
Sitting in her kitchen, on that beautiful island top, she stares at these two plants.
Its too late to save one of them, but she saved the other one before anything.
Her heart turns ans twists that she allowed it to happen to this beautiful plant.
To that beautiful plant.
Too late to save them.
too late to save him.
too late to say im sorry.
friendship tainted,
plant dying,
she places the dying plant outside in the rain.
wiping her face she goes back to her kitchen and sees the healthy plant and smiles. She had plenty of time to save this one. Her favorite.
A warm arm wraps around her waist and fingers caress her sides.
Heat engulfs her and she feels better.
Turning around,
she faces him.
the plant she saved early.
changes will bring them closer.
Save their root so they can grow healthy.
Love. They have love. The plant had plenty of love.
They hug and entwine like vines.
She stares at the window and watches the rain continue to fall
but this time, with a smile.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 6:24 AM UTC
*Staring at a pale white canvas, his fingers twitch
Doesn’t see the point or understand it
Fifty shades of the very same color. Artistic?
He squints at the thought, thinks the joke is twisted
A woman walks his direction; this man is wearing a question mark
Seeing her coming, he’s sweating, not knowing where to start
Not being awkward, standing right beside him
He’s had it with the confusion staring at the item
“Do you see the white rabbit?”, she asks him.
The man looks again, takes a much more thorough pass at the image
Focus diminished, he’s staring blindly at it. Like a fool he tells her,
“Point him out to me, would you kindly?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Now she makes him ponder.
But somehow, his frustration has since been turned to wonder
“The rabbit’s not in the art, but within you, so close your eyes
and let your heart tell you a story that you can listen to”
He closes his eyes, then inhales slowly,
While she mutters, “While you’re at it, don’t be afraid to show me.”
He exhales.
A cool snowflake kiss is very innocent
Murderous mind makes you question just who the menace is
7th place in a race, you want to win it
But the mission is holding on to your wits and hope you finish it
Hate to admit we live in a place of affliction
With war, famine and depravity - an endless tragedy
People praising rulers like prophets, men of profit
Looking down at each and every soul like drones for their shady goals
Toy soldiers in toy boxes, a boy in a boycott,
Strapped to a baby stroller, momma broke her shoulder
Screaming for peace and prosperity for her people,
Attacked for her beliefs as a human - thought we were equals
So hop, little bunny! Come and get your carrot
No, thanks! He doesn’t need it or your filthy merits
‘Cause he’s stronger than what you take him for, don’t need to chase him
Leaves your bait right at your f*cking door, and strikes you at your core
The harsh winds of winter are now behind him
Eyes open and happy she keeps him warm
A habit keeping his soul torn, she holds him
As he hops back to life just like a rabbit in a snowstorm.*
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
The eagle searches, circling, senses strum like spider silk.
Sorrow’s scent slides up on a sea breeze.
A solitary slave spits sullenly into the spray.
Silently, suddenly, the sentinel streaks down.
Beak breaks skin, breaches bone, crimson blots the ocean’s foam.
Defenceless, relentless, the bird blurs in a barrage of blood.
Banished, betrayed, the ravaged titan sways -
between the rocks that form his cage.
His foe retreats; a closing caw as crooked claws cleave meat.
Head bowed in defeat, our hero strains as chains bind
hands and feet.
Enduring bonds cut deep and bleed him bittersweet.
Cast against the crags,
this castaway’s castigated cries call out
to no-one.
Chastised, he squints with hollow eyes
towards a lifetime of the bird’s reprise.
Furious. Fists flex,
thrashing against his fortress.
Face furrowed into a frown he flings forward
and for once finds his foot…
unfettered.
Bindings broken, his bonds bite terra firma,
as first a foot and then a hand finds favour.
Boundless, he bellows at the sky
as the flotsam of his freedom floats on by.
Reprieved. Aggrieved. He is restless in release.
An errant righteous line repeats.
Relentless in its beat, it rings out like raw steel on teeth.
A ricochet that disturbs his sleep
“Is this victory, or defeat?”
Racked by reminiscence,
his reality and responsibility remain.
Warped roots rammed down
with rock-filled boots.
Resistance seems obtuse against such reoccuring fruit.
Reluctant, resigned, he rattles out a sigh -
the last gasp of this transitory high.
Reaching for the rope and tack he re-binds the knots
that hold him back.
With one last glance towards the past
he hoists his soul upon the mast.
Ceaselessly.
Senselessly.
The
sentinel
streaks
down.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
The bookbag leans
on the aluminum column.
The column is blurry,
someone cleans it
only when their are inspections.
The bookbag has been sitting
collecting the sounds
that leave the Staten Island Ferry
by foot,
for God knows how long.
When you get off,
everyone looks ahead,
but out of the corners
an entire black sea of iris'
rotates to the aluminum column.
It might be a bomb.
The girl behind the Ms. Anne's counter
is skinny almost,
but her *** is too big,
almost.
Munching on the semi-soft pretzel,
you think about empty calories
and the corners of your mouth get sticky.
The Ferry won't be back,
for another thirty or so
minutes.
Somebody takes out a guitar,
and starts playing
a little Dylan. People
form a circle around him.
This is the American Pow-wow.
You reach in your breastpocket
for the Marlboros,
but you can't smoke here,
and an official looking person
squints at you,
just to drive the point home.
******* smoking laws,
some places just feel good.
This place with all it's ringy sounds,
like the guitar,
and phones beeping with texts
and babies,
deep fathers,
and high mothers.
Just to puff and puff
and push that sugar down
with nicotine would really
up this feeling of comradery.
A guy with a gold-plated shield
on his breastpocket and a blue-button down.
Walks over to the bag.
The iris' move,
people keep talking but
they're just saying words
to make it look like they're talking.
By the time the ferry
rings in baritone,
the bag is gone;
the column is still blurry;
the man is still playing his guitar,
but there's an emptiness.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
I never thought I could ever feel so nervous,
and so proud looking in the mirror.
Sister, in some ways our resemblance is uncanny
and that never makes me feel terrible.
Even if we both cling to our bottles of perfume,
nailpolish, and beer
to remedy our despairs,
I'm proud of you.
I love how you don't ever leave your effervescence at home.
It's contagious, and everyone eventually wants a sip.
You found your beauty quite recently-
but I want you to know its always been there,
it began when your eyes first became
those thick lashed squints
from smiling too hard.
You admire things, and they admire you back.
I hope you won't forget that
when you chase what seems to be difficult.
Sister, I know there are days where you
don't see what greatness you deserve,
when you believe you have to be sorry for
your *****
I know it because I've seen you, and I know it
because I do the same.
You always remind me to never apologize.
And now I do you.
Sister, don't let that crown fall over those
smiling eyes.
You are stronger than the chance you might be sad.
You are finer than the fool who won't call back.
You are better than the boy who should be a man.
You carry troubled teenage girls over your shoulders
every single day.
You save them, as much as you can and give them that warmth.
Don't forget to warm yourself.
Because the heat travels, sister.
I feel it too.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
My sequence
Seems to be
Weaving in and out
Of time
My past, present
And future tens
Remain undefined
I can't say what happened
Then right now later down
The line
I'm sure they remain before
In a later former rhyme
My mind's eye squints
As I wonder where
I placed
My next previous line
Somewhere
Out in space
And surely out of time
...
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
A smoke-filled room, a loud gaffaw, the barmaid pours a beer,
the pub is full of country blokes and Aussie atmosphere.
Some 'Chisel' thru the speakers, the racetrack on the telly,
pool table sending iv'ry ***** to its underbelly.
Walls adorned with history, and heads of native birds,
the Nation'l Anthem in a frame, 'cause no-one knows the words.
An ag'ed man sits in the corner, sipping at his ale,
his teeth are stained, his liver's shot, his ragged skin is pale.
Young buck swaggers in and, as the room lets up a shout,
he tips his head in mock salute and takes his earnings out.
Good mates standing at the bar as jugs are passed around,
the yarns are flowing freely to impress the growing crowd.
The old man in the corner holds his voice above the din,
"You boys want a story, eh? Well, buck up and listen in.
Jus' the other day this feller was sat here at the bar,
he held his glass with steel hook, his cheek, it had a scar.
That scar, it ran from ear to chin, ****** it was shockin',
angry, red and all inflamed, he'd taken quite a coppin'.
With legs the size of tree trunks an' a barrel for a chest,
he looked as though, with just one blow, he'd put a man to rest.
I ventured on the happenings, and nodded to his claws,
he turned to me, quite wearily, and spoke, after a pause."
As if to emulate the mood, the old man waits a bit,
he squints his eyes upon the crowd and makes a show of it.
"This bloke is felling up a tree, 'bout fifty foot or so,
a lightning bolt, he gets a jolt, the chainsaw he lets go.
It backs up from the branch and lops off both his paws,
then, before he thinks to catch 'em, they hit the forest floors.
He’s with them soon enough, as the rest of him descended.
I shakes me head, 'Christ!' I says, tryin' to comprehend it."
The crowd is leaning forward and the air is getting tense,
the old man lights a cigarette, just to build suspense.
He slowly sips at his beer, then lifts his head to speak,
"Me eyes then trail from steel claws to mark upon 'is cheek,
'That how you did your face in, the chainsaw misbehavin'?'
He took a pause, held up his claws, and shrugged, "Cut it shavin'.""
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:02 AM UTC
With your satiny hairs,
You amble without a normal foot.
But with a pristine look,
Your big eyes shines luminously.
Dear, Maybe people call you a handicap,
I call those bullocks a madcap.
Interestingly, what, I am a handicap mentally, here I reveal.
Everyday I fight inside the close door when night falls.
A few days ago your eyes have cried a lot,
Let me clear here, you are a daring person.
It gives me a reason to fight with his servants openly.
You are a bizarre, I don't know you Monica Sharma.
Though we did not shook our hands at all,
But whenever these eyes squints you,
A new story creates a History...
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
In anticipation she grips his hand tighter
In anticipation he leans in toward her
The lights spin before their eyes
the cold air rushes past their faces
'Hold on' she thinks
'Let go' he thinks
Now she realizes she was temporary
a moment in time that had to be filled with passion, a short-lived love
She fell hard
pressing herself to the ground she landed on trying to fall farther
'might as well' she thinks 'I'm never getting up'
Tears, hot and uncontrollable, burn and moisten her cheeks
The sunlight blinds her
she squints into the sky
sees his eyes, his smile
hears his laugh, his voice
"It'll always be you" she whispers to the memory of him
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 11:47 PM UTC
The Passionate Pen
Pulsates with luminescence.
Its source transcendent,
Pages radiate, injected with ink incandescent.
The sun squints when the strokes soak.
The sheets must be sheathed in a quote's cloak.
'Tis no quill
Taken from a bird's nestle.
'Twas a thrill
To concoct the ink, with a firm pestle.
Lava for determination,
Stardust for high hopes,
Starlight for inspiration,
Glacier water for rejuvenation,
A drop of the Savior's blood for salvation
And a speck of His sweat's salt for eternal preservation.
Finally, I siphon a raging scream of emotion
Into the cartridge to keep the mixture in motion.
Swirling like undercurrents of the ocean.
Merlin has never known so potent a potion.
An elixir of passion.
I mix it with passion.
The pen glows
And throbs with a tempo.
It plants seeds,
Watch the stems grow.
The false poets—watching at bay—
Flock, & they say,
"Long live the Passionate Pen!"
As, once again, the Passionate Pen
Conquers the day.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
How lonely infidel
He that passeth I;
in Phlegethon dwells.
Son of the Seas,
seasoned with algae.
Had a plea
about how he happened to be:
"When you threw me to the
depths, into the heart of the open sea,
then a very river encircled me"
Melpomene holds her Mother's dress
while sailing the temptuous tide.
Recalls the sight of hundreds and
hunches over to address.
"Lead by a primitive spirit" she wails
and solemnly stoops to ponder.
Their ship's prow now plunges deep and
through the ripples, Melpomene meets the
seedy yellow iris' of the beast
reflecting the clouds. She squints upwards
and beholds hoofs with Faithful and True.
As the river streams into Tartarus, Mnemosyne's ears
begin to ring with a thousand cries and pleads.
But the whinnies ring out louder to deafen her
while the tail of Leviathan disappears into the blue.
Through the cave and into Lethe, the earthy smell
of the tops remain as the last but dizzy to remember;
of all those who swam lightly past its mist. But to her,
tears to enter the watery abyss:
"Many must have passed through here,
lived long to see,
but not enough to learn--"
But the ship sailed on.
The stream narrows and an opening reveals. They
see melted hail with blood on the only land they recall.
A Tree glowing brightly in front of a black sky; counted many
swords gathered at the foot. Three days they traveled in
their ship, but now their oars were put on land.
Thunder whips and trumpets horn, the fallen fruit
comes ashore.
THEIR voices bellow to ask a question:
"Was it needed for a war?"
An answer, but no pardon:
"Many a pang I have felt, those aches
violently sprung up from the seven lakes,
Is nothing but a genuine mistake.
Those worthy time and day,
Will surely be given a way."
Mother and daughter wiped the tears from their eyes,
while gently lifting them to the skies.
Above them the sun shone on the wet mass,
they see high and colorfully cast:
A reassuring Promise and eternity.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 1:59 AM UTC
To accept knowing
Is not knowing
But still knowing some
Is enough
To know life and
Not know life
Seeing the creases
Of the newspaper
The *** rests his weary
Head on
Is enough
To see breath enter
Escape the broken body
Of a young boy
Ignorant to the facts of the world
That surround him
Is enough
At the time
The worried
Worry
The anxious
Toil over things
Within themselves
Outside of themselves
Out of
Their full
Control
The bigots
Picket a cause
They know nothing
About, embracing
Their unity in Hate
But the spellings wrong
The forward thinkers
Caved in with
Paperwork and
Hopes and dreams
Billowing plumes of twisted
Curled, cigarette smoke
Ashen intellectuals caught up
In the overflowing ash trays
Of the overzealous socialite
This is our chance
To Be Someone
The realist
Staring blankly at an
Empty salt shaker sitting
Next to a full
Pepper shaker
The veteran
Wishing there
Was no such thing
As bullets
The president
On a pedestal
Showing how fragile
Man can be
We people enter
Through these doors
Escaped convicts of the eternal
Holding a key of
Impossibilities
There are so many roads
That are open to us
Who sways us to take the
One we tread upon now?
Who has enticed us to the
The path we now walk upon?
I see a glimmer of the horizon
The lights show a blinding
Ancient yellow, the color of my mother's
***** blonde hair;
The clouds
Her laughter
As she squints, hiding
Her joy, keeping it for herself
"Safe keeping"," she always said
For soon
She knew
I would be
An echo
Remembrance of Sound
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
*******
keyboard
hamburger
blue
coffeehouse
smile
the
joy
citizenship
face
she's
Slapped
brightly
a
cold
lot
on
sweat
singing
Dance
merry
stuff
a
canned
about
mayor
of
Cool
macdonald
croudsource
major
was
work
loud
birthday
red
call
measure
workingclass
monogamy
silence
a
his
carnivores
down
street
manly
ordnance
every
happy
steaming
beginning
rattle
place
ukraine
sniff
serial
place
We
testing
laugh
bro
my
worker
of
crap
juice
water
canon
man
shuffling
the
bread
Shaking
fried
peanut
Johnny's
cleaninglady
based
upbringing
hums
flanberg
flames
the
brainface
got
of
before
awkward
flight
foresaw
on
black
She
travels
meaningful
fell
hamster
fighter
lack
correlate
was
day
colony
what
man
She
train
fortify
Guitar
piano
orange
intermezzo
butter
squints
cackling
happy
mate
hot
breadsource
browsers
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
North America: Hornets buzz in a stinky green
dumpster
Pidgeon's feet clasp the edge of a skyscraper
rooftop
South America: Moonlight in the jungle ---- rain
pats a thick, fleshy leaf ---- a yellow eyed
panther slowly blinks once
Asia: Edge of the desert ---- a boiling mirage
scorpion skitters across dry, cracking soil
North America: Wyoming high plains ---- cool
gusts ---- hulking, brown bison chews grass
Africa: Wrinkly old woman in a hospital gown
squeezes the cot's cold metal bars, then feels
nothing, squints at the florescent light above,
then sees nothing, listens to the drone of
medical machines ---- silence
Europe: A child is born in the sterile light
of the delivery room, naked, slimy, sobbing
--- Burlington, VT, 2013
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
How do you describe it? The feeling you get deep down inside yourself when your looking down at her? When you hold her frail hand in yours and grasp it as if you could lend some stability to her fragile mortality. When you see her and see everything that escapes those around you.
You see yourself in her, in her dimming eyes because when she is gone she takes a part of you with her. You feel responsible for the wrinkles around that shade of somber blue because you know the exact way she squints a little when she’s laughing; when she smiles. You know the way she gathers her anxious feelings in the crease between her brows. You see all your childhood, all your life and love and existence mapped out on her aged skin like a map to the parts of yourself you could never quite find, never quite understand. You see the scar on the tip of her index finger where she prodded herself on the tip of a seam ripper while mending your torn heart. You are perceptive to the way she has shrunk under the weight of all of her disappointments and hopelessness’ in equal parts with your own and you wonder how, in the perfect silence interrupted only by her shallow breaths, you will ever see anything else. You begin to wonder how you will ever find yourself. And you shudder when her stare focuses in and out like her consciousness, like her memories giving you glimpses of the things being torn from you. Like a phantom limb a place in your chest aches where things once were only to discover empty space a lack of movement when you try to use it. I see anger at her life, at her death, I see loneliness and hopelessness, I see laughter and tears, confusion and purposelessness, I see abandonment and acceptance, I see vulgarity and patience,
I blink
And see only the greatest of absence I have ever known,
And I remain where I am with my eyes clinched closed
Afraid only to see what I can’t.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
i.
no more can you see
into another
than at your age
have a stroke
to mirror
my father’s.
ii.
deep into the assignment of my youth
I was said to be bowing
when in fact
I was dipping
into the thigh
of Jesus
repeatedly
with a brush.
iii.
we haven’t always been godless.
how this persists as comfort
is a vision a fox
has
of illness.
iv.
to fox I apply a certain wakefulness.
v.
my father admits in his bed that some mice are alive when he bends to the earth a cornstalk and lets fly.
he confides of everything he is the most guilty of hate getting him places.
I have to find the mouse that means
other mice.
vi.
(above this plain a woman’s privates thunder / below it
there are those
whose tears
are a newborn’s
thumbs)
vii.
a mare kneeling in a bed of maroon straw
intuits doom as a color as optic
Apocrypha
viii.
subconsciously, I am holy and by holy
I can offer not being seen in the grocery
as my father squints into a handheld
calculator.
ix.
to fox paw
this thorn
from my mother’s
apnea
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
I detest the sugar surprises
found only when swallowed
it tricked my tongue and burned me
whipped fire upon my buds
mislead them
but when swallowed
and the canyon of giant mounds
is scorched
a sweet tsunami arises
squints my eyes
lips aimed south
give me warmth
without the artificial sense
greens and blacks
no more fruits
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
Within the window’s green and blue
The flame-tree’s scarlet flares like hate.
Its seed-embedded fruit pods grew
Black bats that were the summer’s bait.
Such neon-spiked display implies
Volcanic urge of savage lies
Just below the safe serene
Of seeming tranquil blue and green.
Upon the sign-post squints a crow
At every lurching butterfly,
His black eye shouts a mortal “no”
And never blinks or winks a why.
Search and seek to find this why
But never will you satisfy
The cat down-hunkered in the grass
For gentle blue birds, should they pass.
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 6:02 PM UTC