"steeped" poems
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
314.6k
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And so the Pu'erh and Jasmine Lily
pearls are covered, my attention on
the Phoenix Eye pearls, and I peel back
the foil of a small handful. Ainhana had
carefully remove the infuser and I pour
in the pearls, listening as they gently
hit the glass.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
As soon as Ainhana places the infuser
back in the tea *** I turn the sand-dial
and watch the cream sands run, and the
pearls steep. I dare not let it run for the
full five minutes - I find the perfect brew is
made in three. The pearls now unfurl, the
green leaves now floating. The clear water
turns into the colour of the finest champagne.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
After three minutes, Ainhara pours me a cup,
the aroma itself puts me more at ease.
'Do not waste it,' I tell her, holding the
handle and saucer. 'Such fine pearls can
be steeped twice, and I will make sure that
I treasure every single cup.'
'Yes, My Lady,' She says with a curtsy.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
With my eyes closed, I blow away some
steam and proceed to sip short and brief.
It is a pleasure that is most welcome, indeed!
Teeming with the fires of the Phoenix itself
and caressing my tongue with floral sweetness.
A delicious moan escapes me as I relax in
my Summer Throne.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
My breathing is calmed as I look at
the horizon with redolent eyes.
The choirs sing as I drink such fine
ambrosia! By a cup of Pearls, mine
own eyes feel inspired, as I think of
the lovely vision that is the Phoenix
that is born of the lotus.
Adieu, stresses of Court!
Adieu, plagues of doubt and anger!
Thy Queen is now jocund dove.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Truly the finest Jasmine Pearls I've
had in years!' I beam. 'Be sure to share
this with my fellow Kings and Queens.
Especially Queen Kim. In such a golden
hour, we shall become Dream Children,
to be lost in gardens of distant China.'
'Yes, My Queen.' Ainhara waves her hand,
Semui and Ilazi now resume play.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
As I sip once again, the summer
showers come. Lo! My gazebo
glistens! Cleansed by the light,
and life for my fields of my
fair gardens.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
This blend cleanses the fire of my heart.
This blend casts out sorrows for me to
drink beauty.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
A liquor the shade of champagne with
the flames of life budding from a
delicate flavour.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
The Phoenix merges with me, for I
am the star of the morn that graces
my Aurelinaea!
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Such a blend of elegance in my tongue,
a heavenly euphony. How I'm forever in
awe of the power of
my Jasmine Pearls.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,
But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.
And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.
16.4k
Enchanted by spring’s
rustling whispers
... whistles swirl
in the pungent springtime breeze;
steeped with a bedazzling
cadence
heart dancing
to a hummingbird’s
whirs
waves of breath,
of little wings waft,
whooshing throughout
twining honeysuckle lattice
a
tiny manger
beset of hidden gold
precious speckled eggs,
silver lining of smallest hopes
fruits of fruition
continuum beheld prize,
concealed in interwoven rootlets;
potently perfumed flowers
while away
the waning dark hours;
swollen full flower moon
waxing yellow,..
heavenly fragrance
sweetly-scented suckled nectar
the one with eyes of a child,
wonder ― hidden inside,
marvel in the light of grateful eyes
imbibing an unholdable moment's
spellbinding elixir
... poetry alive
air so poignantly perfumed
with blossom
moonstruck
by spring’s frolicking cadency
a reverent moment's
edifying intoxication
a sobering beauty that just is...
someone ... May 2017
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
Raw energy.
Despite the stiffness in his fingers,
despite the way his fingertips harden with calluses,
the industrious pianist hammers out the same tune
that he played last night,
and the night before,
and the night before that,
and unnumbered evenings before that.
Each notes falls magically into place,
none out of tune or without purpose,
perfectly in time.
Raw diligence and focus flooding his brown eyes,
gazing deeply into the sheet music.
His yellow forehead wanted dabbing,
Steeped in his sweat.
A manifestation of his time spent in his trade.
The conscientiousness in his eyes.
The raw vitality of his weathered hands.
The way he fills each note with sentiment.
Perhaps those are what keep calling me near?
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC
From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its planetarium
lemons descended to the earth.
Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.
Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.
So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant ******
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.
6.8k
sprinkle your love over
me like cherry blossoms in
spring where everywhere
everywhere everywhere
are littered with pinks
but then summer came and
you forget about valencia like the sun forgets the
sky and I drop petal by petal flowers
by flowers and the streets are steeped in
longing
autumn came and left, breathing life into a
crocus and drawing it away just as quickly like how you
take each of my breath away from
me and each of my heart beat walks away
with your steps
the blurriness of winter borne the snowdrops
snowdrops, snow drops, the death of that love that
once bloomed in my heart.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
There's a person I don't speak about
I try to push them from my mind
But there's a self-control drought
I can't leave the past behind
They introduced me to something dark
Something steeped in despair
And when the knife hit its mark
When I needed help, they weren't there
It began as curiosity
But grew into monstrosity
Now our friendship is spent
All I can do is resent
The person who ruined my life
Who showed me what you can do with a knife
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
**** on my hands
Feet steeped in dirt
My back pains to stand
My raw **** begins to hurt
Excuse my vulgarity as it is not my intent
Excuse my anger as it tends to become violent
Excuse yourself for your ignorance and malice
Excuse my voice, if you want quiet crazy go ask Alice
Watch my face as I start to grin
It kinda ***** to watch you win
My aggression teaches lesson
My death is all that is left
Watch the water as it turns black
Black as my soul
Black as coal
My sin is your deliverance
My goal is your difference
Can't you see how blind I am?
Cant you feel how hurt I am?
Wash the blood of of my hand
Wish you luck I don't give a ****
Can you people guess my direction?
It has become hard to maintain ********
The voices blend into a shout
Hard for me to figure it out.
If you want sleep
Don't be a creep
For your soul will weep
For your eyes will start to bleed.
I can hope you decipher my message
If not well **** my guesses
Of your thoughts and intentions
All apologies of which I speak
Can't help when my eyes don't blink
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
I
Stacked green crates by the futon,
records sealed as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.
I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.
She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.
I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.
She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause,
pressing record,
stitching songs
into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when
he had somewhere to send it.
She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.
I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still in the air.
II
I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
Like a thorn in the side twists, turns, shifts, thugs at my pride, who am I and why?
Forget to be, forget to try. Sigh, deny and try, oh try, to find out who am I?
Struggle to reach. Struggle to come to grip with reality. You see all these expectations get laid on me, I cant seem to find my feet.
Even in finding my feet, defeat. Defeating my mind and steeped and bleeding, I'm blind and beat.
I'm beating the blinds, the street, it limits the finds and eats, it eats at my mind.
But rise to my feet, I will. Beat my way through, I do. The passing days, they may get all hazy. But I got a vision, I do.
Clear as unmuddied water, that vision peaks and from the merky pool hope leaks. Not made that of odour which reeks, rather perfume which speaks to those bold, brave, not weak.
Who on top of a mountain sits and seeks and stands on the ocean before they may sink and know their song well before they dare speak.
Hope keeps us hooked. Pain gives us drive. For that, I will swallow my pride. My dignity beat, battered and bruised. But my reputation in tact.
My strenght unmatched. Unmask myself I will. Through this treacherous journey, I shall grace salvation, to find my inner will.
And with journey abound to destination unknown leaving that hope, strenght and will for events which have thrown light into the tunnel. Illuminating the stone which sits on the temple of freedom and soul, spirit, freewill, autonomy, suddenly realisation that still ...
Still I am me.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
I absorbed,
Blotted misery,
Lapped with eyes,
Soaked-up transgressions,
Mopped-up history,
Was steeped in trials,
Ingested triumphs,
And truly assimilated.
But the ground is saturated,
My prints fill
With the brine
Squeezed out.
I am the salt on the earth,
Parched and cracked.
You preferred candyfloss;
I dripped the last drop.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
Prosecco cocktails, être pour la danse,
cassis pour moi avec limoncello,
madame, passion fruit, and blood oranges
très grownup, breakfast at Tiffany's,
she is all sunglasses and Audreyfied,
me and George P., struggling writers,
checking if i got enough cash
or have to exit smooth, just in case,
maybe we leave our
coats behind, as ransom?
lincoln center plaza cross-dressers,
past the opera,
the sun, a balmy thirty five degrees,
laughing at us teasingly,
cause tonight and tomorrow,
*********** all the day,
winter kisses
in case we forgot,
early March
first belongs to the Ides of Winter
Afternoon of a Faun,
another ballet, origin,
a Mallarmé poem.
(you begin to comprehend)
yes quite so,
a perfect synopsis of the day,
Acheron imported from Scarlett Liam
who lives in the U.K.,
but comes to choreograph here,
for gloria Americana
sundown, soul cold back,
"lest we forget,"
but the dancers bid us adieu
with a rousing waltz, frenchified,
La Valse, une poème chorégraphique,
by Ravel, bien sûr!
aroused and heart gladdened,
return home for
for veal chop love
two hours of *** banging,
kitchen banishment, (Yay!)
chanterelles steeped in red wine,
coverlet for a non-vegan tasting,
English peas, red and purple potatoes,
and for desert,
a diet dream of verbal exchanged of detailed
I love you's
He: I love you,
She (happy), replies: I love you more.
(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal danced before)
He: Why?
She: Because you are kind and generous, to street beggars, my single friends, good and smart, love art,
and never let me down, and love my cooking, leave space for others when you park, go thru life making waiters and ticket takers smile and laugh, sleep for hours your head on my hip, write me crazy love poems about veal chops
He: What's for desert tonight?
She: A ****
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Innocence
Is arrogance
In worlds and cities
Of decadence
One thing
Rules above us all
The power can make even the noble fall
But what would you do
With all the power
And all the money in the world
The truth is merely
Corruption unfurled
Can you hear that chime
Steeped in rhythm
And in rhyme
I Cry as I find
A true assumption
We are all trapped
In a dimension
Of absolute corruption
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
Tonight good Duncan, friend and guest
This dagger shall pass through thy breast
I shall be king as was the prophecy and belief
Told by the hags upon the heath
Unsexed like them, my Lady chides me still
For my kindness and uncertain will
Even as my dagger drips once more
And blood from noble Banquo stains the floor
Now in blood so far I'm steeped
Only can I wade more deep
But this horizon leads no longer to infinity
Steadily it closes in on me
Slow but marching all the same
Toward the hill at Dunsinane
And though those warning words I scorned
Not all men are of woman born
Thus proves the prophesy no lie
Live by the sword and therefore by it die
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Sage & sweet grass
Hand made quilt
Steeped Chai
Dozing sighs
Cool breeze
Life at ease
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
_[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]_
_(Winter-export)_, the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. _(Thick lips; quick still-hunt.)_ I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. _(Glimmering isle)_; my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. _(Parsecs quaking.)_ You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me… Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks _(freighting gemstones)_; King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.
_[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]_
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
the collar on my jacket is frayed
but I have clothes on my back
(just)
the packaging is white with green print
but I have food in my belly
(of sorts)
the soles talk and leak when I walk
but I have boots on my feet
(for now)
so I’m OK
(I suppose)
***** deep into the Smart Price ™ life
this man, his daughters, his son and his wife
where all their food comes at discounted price
expired meat and rationed heat
sweepings and fat wrapped in plastic
the walk was wholly unexpected, but it was easy
leaving the town where the forward leaning walkers
were the slowest thinking talkers steeped in sugary urgency,
and all the way we **** giltterballs and Skittles
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
I looked out the kitchen window to see the new springtime grass
But fog from your tea on the sill blocked the view.
Rain came pouring down
To expose a sunny day.
You complained your green tea
Was over steeped. It was brown.
Did you open the (cabinet
To get the sugar) from the top shelf?
I used your mug today
As a bowl to hold my soup.
You were raking outside
But there were no leaves to form a substantial collection.
The grass was frogs’ legs
And told you to jump, jump, jump.
Did you open the (shed
To get the fertilizer) from the top shelf?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
Champagne and cup cakes.
A Cornish beach with rippling swell.
Love be cultured as a precious pearl.
Where love be found with special girl.
Projects full of rich intention.
Health.
Wealth.
Happiness.
The air is filled with childhood squeals.
Summer flicks on the crown of her hair.
Children ride horses with the sea on their heels.
History steeped at the top of the hill.
Empty mines.
Cleared of tin.
In the county, where Poldark first made his mark.
Country delight?
Nah.
A county in England.
Better not tell the Cornish man.
Kernow man's birthright.
The sovereign state of Cornwall.
Not all of the Cornish men have seven wives.
Nor do they live in the land of St Ives.
One wife is enough for most.
Your spirit in Southampton, now merely a ghost.
(c) Livvi
Good luck.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
She rises and falls like a reposed breath
before an entire world's visage
in her encircled arms.
The incandescent glow of the stage
has an intoxicating quality to it,
the music being
something liquid, viscous.
As notes thrum in tender and soothing caresses,
her legs supple, twirl like petals
cascading under the weight of raindrops,
giving way to a lush surrender
steeped in a language of love and need.
Her very fire
and impassioned soulfulness
lifts her up above the crowd itself,
burning for all to see.
In this moment now
her timelessness enraptures me.
Another part of myself awakens to her grace
and renders me
gratefully whole.
A sense of euphoria slow dances its way
from her being to mine,
consuming every piece of my body
in a fiery bloom—
charging me with
a crackling, electrifying force
unlike my mere own.
I can see now
that this is what she was born to do—
to be on pointe, seeing everything.
Any instances of worldly fear
is left to the dying.
The rhythms of her old pains,
tribulations of past destructions,
are now buried beneath her feet.
And her radiant smile while she dances
still speaks to me gently—
that to be free
is to be wonderfully lost
in her waltz with destiny.
© BT
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
Paint for me a dream
Colored in hues of emotion
Steeped in love
And dusted in music
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC