"stippled" poems - Hello Poetry

"stippled" poems

Each day with so much ceremony begins, with birds, with bells, with whistles from a factory; such white-gold skies our eyes first open on, such brilliant walls that for a moment we wonder "Where is the music coming from, the energy? The day was meant for what ineffable creature we must have missed?" Oh promptly he appears and takes his earthly nature instantly, instantly falls victim of long intrigue, assuming memory and mortal mortal fatigue. More slowly falling into sight and showering into stippled faces, darkening, condensing all his light; in spite of all the dreaming squandered upon him with that look, suffers our uses and abuses, sinks through the drift of bodies, sinks through the drift of vlasses to evening to the beggar in the park who, weary, without lamp or book prepares stupendous studies: the fiery event of every day in endless endless assent.

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11.1k

Elizabeth Bishop

Each day with so much ceremony begins, with birds, with bells, with whistles from a factory; such white-gold skies our eyes first open on, such brilliant walls that for a moment we wonder "Where is the music coming from, the energy? The day was meant for what ineffable creature we must have missed?" Oh promptly he appears and takes his earthly nature instantly, instantly falls victim of long intrigue, assuming memory and mortal mortal fatigue. More slowly falling into sight and showering into stippled faces, darkening, condensing all his light; in spite of all the dreaming squandered upon him with that look, suffers our uses and abuses, sinks through the drift of bodies, sinks through the drift of vlasses to evening to the beggar in the park who, weary, without lamp or book prepares stupendous studies: the fiery event of every day in endless endless assent.

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In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles

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Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC

Diaspora Vocation

In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles

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The chill of an autumn morning A rising steam as the fallen leaves exhale The lonesome trees have given up their glory A carpet of red, yellow, orange, and brown An overcast sky with no definition Is but a blur Movement indiscernible There is wisdom in the sky, revealed to a few The smoke of the day’s first fire ascends Wafting its familiar fall fragrances Brings warmth and comfort to the soul And campsite memories of long ago We pass the bleak and barren cornfield Stippled with autumn’s harbingers The Raven They stare with the blackest of black eyes

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Sep 20, 2014

Sep 20, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC

The chill of an autumn morning A rising steam as the fallen leaves exhale The lonesome trees have given up their glory A carpet of red, yellow, orange, and brown An overcast sky with no definition Is but a blur Movement indiscernible There is wisdom in the sky, revealed to a few The smoke of the day’s first fire ascends Wafting its familiar fall fragrances Brings warmth and comfort to the soul And campsite memories of long ago We pass the bleak and barren cornfield Stippled with autumn’s harbingers The Raven They stare with the blackest of black eyes

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You are as tall and beautiful as the Singer Building in New York City, But your father calls you mustard seed. The slits on your wrist spell out save me. She protested black is no longer a color, but her insides, And if her mom''s job is saving lives, why isn't she saving her daughter's? When her mom hugged her it stung- The needle and ink stippled in her back the expectations placed on her. Her kitchen is a court where her parents find her guilty of being a teenager. Her parents don't introduce her by name, But by her future vocation. The pretentious white picket fence and a dog that barks when you call it Max are distilled with dreams of catching the next Amtrak to California. She spends twenty minutes a day cutting the rope her mother has involuntarily wrapped around her neck- Choking out the little identity left She screams, "Stop tearing down my infrastructure!"

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Apr 17, 2015

Apr 17, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC

You are as tall and beautiful as the Singer Building in New York City, But your father calls you mustard seed. The slits on your wrist spell out save me. She protested black is no longer a color, but her insides, And if her mom''s job is saving lives, why isn't she saving her daughter's? When her mom hugged her it stung- The needle and ink stippled in her back the expectations placed on her. Her kitchen is a court where her parents find her guilty of being a teenager. Her parents don't introduce her by name, But by her future vocation. The pretentious white picket fence and a dog that barks when you call it Max are distilled with dreams of catching the next Amtrak to California. She spends twenty minutes a day cutting the rope her mother has involuntarily wrapped around her neck- Choking out the little identity left She screams, "Stop tearing down my infrastructure!"

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I am addicted to skin, not a particular woman's skin, all and every woman's skin *(stop here, If you are uncomfortable, with this writ, for me then, it be a consoling poem, an adoration of skin, a comfort food, that I cannot live without)* see what you cannot see, inside this one's brain-eyes-tongue-soul-whatever whatever you name his five sense-sifting-all combination, I don't care I drink skin all textures all colors every woman every woman ageless every woman street passing touched and taken no fabric but the fabric of her skin tween my thumb and forefinger on my stippled senses enlivened I taste skin, like a good poem, the cheek, the shoulder bare, the in between spaces, the minty hint of décolleté, the ankle chain, turning my breath heated, tips of red noses, I take and I keep and no, no refunds, no returns I see your skin, as a gift to myself created, donated, by you, and by me, aggregated tho you think I am selfish I thank you always I hear you cells splitting, rejuvenating, you nourish, I flourish I smell your skin-scented au naturel aroma, and inward smile, a parfume named after me, who knew? you knew stop enough! softly, no, softly never enough... every wrinkle, every blemish every tablecloth of skin so lovely set, so smooth glowing, I weep, I seep inside and touch me touching you and for every cell of mine dying, two of you, two for you, so you may live longer, one of mine, lingers within you evermore you nourish, I flourish

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Mar 23, 2014

Mar 23, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC

I am addicted to skin, not a particular woman's skin, all and every woman's skin *(stop here, If you are uncomfortable, with this writ, for me then, it be a consoling poem, an adoration of skin, a comfort food, that I cannot live without)* see what you cannot see, inside this one's brain-eyes-tongue-soul-whatever whatever you name his five sense-sifting-all combination, I don't care I drink skin all textures all colors every woman every woman ageless every woman street passing touched and taken no fabric but the fabric of her skin tween my thumb and forefinger on my stippled senses enlivened I taste skin, like a good poem, the cheek, the shoulder bare, the in between spaces, the minty hint of décolleté, the ankle chain, turning my breath heated, tips of red noses, I take and I keep and no, no refunds, no returns I see your skin, as a gift to myself created, donated, by you, and by me, aggregated tho you think I am selfish I thank you always I hear you cells splitting, rejuvenating, you nourish, I flourish I smell your skin-scented au naturel aroma, and inward smile, a parfume named after me, who knew? you knew stop enough! softly, no, softly never enough... every wrinkle, every blemish every tablecloth of skin so lovely set, so smooth glowing, I weep, I seep inside and touch me touching you and for every cell of mine dying, two of you, two for you, so you may live longer, one of mine, lingers within you evermore you nourish, I flourish

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palette russet, olive hues yellow ochre bird's egg blue vastness held within a bowl turned over earth to heal and hold moisture from the morning rain thus the painter's eye is trained cadmium white a fan-like brush sketch mare's-tail clouds an artist's touch far horizon grayish blue a woman reclines in the **** her form reveals the breasting hills her hips the mountains hushed and still mid-ground blurs of olive cacti the saguaro rise like hackles Palo Verde lie in lumps yellow flowers bloom in clumps point of brush tweaks out the trees turn of branches stippled leaves small are they to catch the light but the moisture loss is slight ochre foreground brownish stones blue-gray shadows light source shown grayish purple prickly pears ocotillo here and there spindly with splash of red barrel cacti nod their heads buff highlights saguaro flowers I could sit and paint for hours there's time to write but now I pray look upon these words today they paint the desert you will find If only in the poet's mind! SoulSurvivor aka Write of Passage 2017

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Mar 28, 2022

Mar 28, 2022 at 5:42 AM UTC

palette russet, olive hues yellow ochre bird's egg blue vastness held within a bowl turned over earth to heal and hold moisture from the morning rain thus the painter's eye is trained cadmium white a fan-like brush sketch mare's-tail clouds an artist's touch far horizon grayish blue a woman reclines in the **** her form reveals the breasting hills her hips the mountains hushed and still mid-ground blurs of olive cacti the saguaro rise like hackles Palo Verde lie in lumps yellow flowers bloom in clumps point of brush tweaks out the trees turn of branches stippled leaves small are they to catch the light but the moisture loss is slight ochre foreground brownish stones blue-gray shadows light source shown grayish purple prickly pears ocotillo here and there spindly with splash of red barrel cacti nod their heads buff highlights saguaro flowers I could sit and paint for hours there's time to write but now I pray look upon these words today they paint the desert you will find If only in the poet's mind! SoulSurvivor aka Write of Passage 2017

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most of my poems come spontaneous, dare I say even easy, the composition, tumbling rumbling usually no fumbling, this one, the prep commences. a month priority plus, with wellsprings of considerations, in advance… *’tis Miz Patty’s day of birth, ah, the feminine mystique prevents me from revealing her precessional numerical decades of decadence, but adoration of this Magi, is not so constrained, so bend my knee to the woman who writes a poem’s complexity as if it were a fine medieval tapestry, colors aflaming, workmanship intricate intriguing, well deserving of a place, in the Metropolitan Museum Cloisters fortress, that guards the Hudson River’s Upper Valley’s verdant stippled wider majesty, near to where Washington’s troops fled Manhattan heights to safety in New Jersey, most ignominiously *I’m told that tears arose, then fell, when first she read this inattributed essay on this jubilee day, a clarion reminder note of her coronation, to this great green planet, Missoura Mama as she is with great affection so known throughout this glorious land* *Ah, wax too eloquent, never my style, only my favorite sin, when one begins to pray tribute, to a finer poet…and mine own heroine* *this aperture of insight, this scrap of script, why the papyrus turns pinkish red, as she demurs this ode of praise, while the edges crisp burnt, brown ~black by the heat of her outraged enraged protestation of “way too much,” a pretense commenced by my opportuned impermissioned reveling revelation of this datapoints accidental dislocating disclosure as is my sin actuelle, go on too long says my devil muse, so a final thought* *if this should somehow be, the first poem you’ve recovered in this land of words gone mad, make to hers, and there spend a day, a lifetime, in a lovely land, where her words will slip through your eyes and hands, like fine grains of sand, each letter, a pearl in black and white*…

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Dec 9, 2024

Dec 9, 2024 at 11:00 PM UTC

On the Morrow: A birthday for patty m.

most of my poems come spontaneous, dare I say even easy, the composition, tumbling rumbling usually no fumbling, this one, the prep commences. a month priority plus, with wellsprings of considerations, in advance… *’tis Miz Patty’s day of birth, ah, the feminine mystique prevents me from revealing her precessional numerical decades of decadence, but adoration of this Magi, is not so constrained, so bend my knee to the woman who writes a poem’s complexity as if it were a fine medieval tapestry, colors aflaming, workmanship intricate intriguing, well deserving of a place, in the Metropolitan Museum Cloisters fortress, that guards the Hudson River’s Upper Valley’s verdant stippled wider majesty, near to where Washington’s troops fled Manhattan heights to safety in New Jersey, most ignominiously *I’m told that tears arose, then fell, when first she read this inattributed essay on this jubilee day, a clarion reminder note of her coronation, to this great green planet, Missoura Mama as she is with great affection so known throughout this glorious land* *Ah, wax too eloquent, never my style, only my favorite sin, when one begins to pray tribute, to a finer poet…and mine own heroine* *this aperture of insight, this scrap of script, why the papyrus turns pinkish red, as she demurs this ode of praise, while the edges crisp burnt, brown ~black by the heat of her outraged enraged protestation of “way too much,” a pretense commenced by my opportuned impermissioned reveling revelation of this datapoints accidental dislocating disclosure as is my sin actuelle, go on too long says my devil muse, so a final thought* *if this should somehow be, the first poem you’ve recovered in this land of words gone mad, make to hers, and there spend a day, a lifetime, in a lovely land, where her words will slip through your eyes and hands, like fine grains of sand, each letter, a pearl in black and white*…

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Thin she looks, like stippled wheat With anxious eyes and crippled feet Flaxen hair and halting way But Jesus baby.. Can she play? A siren song on notes of gold Floats out and lets the dark enfold The lovers as they dance & sway And kiss & smooch the night away. She bends way back and holds the note That muted trumpet starts to float You’l never hear a better sound From any jazz man in this town. Exquisite is the word I’d use Enticing is her favourite ruse Alluring now in shades of gray Her silky sequence soars away. The song entwines your heart & soul The moment stops, your pulse on hold Fantastic senses start to reel Hot n sexy’s how you feel. You glide your way around the floor Feel the rhythm, seek for more That lady makes the music move She’s making magic, in the groove Swinging at the local hop You’ll never want this night to stop Thin girly with her magic horn Convinces us we’re all reborn You wake up in the light of day Haggard, spent, bereft of hay But Jesus boy.. You had a ball You grooved that ladies trumpet call. So count your blessings, share a smile You’re winning by a country mile When you did hear that lassie play You stretched your life another day. Thin she looks, like stippled wheat Anxious eyes and crippled feet Flaxen hair and halting way, But Jesus brother….can she play! Marshalg Mangere Bridge 29th. September 2007

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Dec 3, 2009

Dec 3, 2009 at 10:48 PM UTC

Thin she looks, like stippled wheat With anxious eyes and crippled feet Flaxen hair and halting way But Jesus baby.. Can she play? A siren song on notes of gold Floats out and lets the dark enfold The lovers as they dance & sway And kiss & smooch the night away. She bends way back and holds the note That muted trumpet starts to float You’l never hear a better sound From any jazz man in this town. Exquisite is the word I’d use Enticing is her favourite ruse Alluring now in shades of gray Her silky sequence soars away. The song entwines your heart & soul The moment stops, your pulse on hold Fantastic senses start to reel Hot n sexy’s how you feel. You glide your way around the floor Feel the rhythm, seek for more That lady makes the music move She’s making magic, in the groove Swinging at the local hop You’ll never want this night to stop Thin girly with her magic horn Convinces us we’re all reborn You wake up in the light of day Haggard, spent, bereft of hay But Jesus boy.. You had a ball You grooved that ladies trumpet call. So count your blessings, share a smile You’re winning by a country mile When you did hear that lassie play You stretched your life another day. Thin she looks, like stippled wheat Anxious eyes and crippled feet Flaxen hair and halting way, But Jesus brother….can she play! Marshalg Mangere Bridge 29th. September 2007

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I could toss my cares over a rainbow Let it hang there a while and dry out its sorry behind As I squeeze some slices of brackish time to research the deliberate contours of your patience Swerving its way past concealed match sticks Bend at the so definite behest of none. Slurring backwards Tentative graphica Huge baskets of winding fun Sketchy image pencilled in, for now Details come later in -------- a terminal (hopefully) Charcoal drawings offer the sweet sound of breaking cumulus and sudden wax of orange come to life on a sullen bed of love apples shapes are p-p-p-pulled to painstaking proportion deep lines stippled drastic dragged along on unwieldy wagon strokes Art never really tastes ink but celebrates ephemerae yet trapping half understood and beautiful pictures beneath mocking glass panels smudged with such deep knowinggggg You can do something to stop this **** blood impasse beset more so with counterfeit decline blind bull rage too ready and bloodthirsty acts bay half crippled and on its knees, how your land cries see the (over)spill of rightly invective remain unresolved See the deprivation at the lake all gall thirsty, yet none to drink just a hapless event smarting On a downward cyclic turn no more will sing voices when old gripes unheard scream in the long, red lines bulleted across that holy floor albeit the wicked general holds the trussed up cards he won’t bother scraping the dried salt of kin later it grows ever more in sad mounds on the little green book awaiting missing miracle inflections of a restless mind within the ***** creep retorts from peerless craft forge entangled moans in briars and sundry resort to savour within disyllabic silence Can you but count the ways in which these coins of seeking do ****** across an afflicted floor of red lines to an exculpated heart, un(cor)rected ? Unprocessed miracles are items of constant bewonderment in duress living

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Dec 19, 2013

Dec 19, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC

I could toss my cares over a rainbow Let it hang there a while and dry out its sorry behind As I squeeze some slices of brackish time to research the deliberate contours of your patience Swerving its way past concealed match sticks Bend at the so definite behest of none. Slurring backwards Tentative graphica Huge baskets of winding fun Sketchy image pencilled in, for now Details come later in -------- a terminal (hopefully) Charcoal drawings offer the sweet sound of breaking cumulus and sudden wax of orange come to life on a sullen bed of love apples shapes are p-p-p-pulled to painstaking proportion deep lines stippled drastic dragged along on unwieldy wagon strokes Art never really tastes ink but celebrates ephemerae yet trapping half understood and beautiful pictures beneath mocking glass panels smudged with such deep knowinggggg You can do something to stop this **** blood impasse beset more so with counterfeit decline blind bull rage too ready and bloodthirsty acts bay half crippled and on its knees, how your land cries see the (over)spill of rightly invective remain unresolved See the deprivation at the lake all gall thirsty, yet none to drink just a hapless event smarting On a downward cyclic turn no more will sing voices when old gripes unheard scream in the long, red lines bulleted across that holy floor albeit the wicked general holds the trussed up cards he won’t bother scraping the dried salt of kin later it grows ever more in sad mounds on the little green book awaiting missing miracle inflections of a restless mind within the ***** creep retorts from peerless craft forge entangled moans in briars and sundry resort to savour within disyllabic silence Can you but count the ways in which these coins of seeking do ****** across an afflicted floor of red lines to an exculpated heart, un(cor)rected ? Unprocessed miracles are items of constant bewonderment in duress living

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Sugar sand beaches reach the horizon Water so far it is naught but a glimmer in the distance Sitting in the warmth of that powder-like earth The sun seems to set over a desert Purple and pink in smoking swirls of Heaven Sopping up the beauty in open pores Ready to receive all that is offered Watching the sun begin to slumber As Luna's light begins to shine in bulbous splendor The glimmer seems to twinkle as brightly as the stars as they awaken Multiplying by the moment Mesmerizing, as the lights seem to grow The air changes, a little cooler now The sand turns to black glass glistening in the moonlight Slowly taking over the horizon Watching the twinkling onyx reflect the night sky Almost hypnotized by the melodic whisper The only evidence of life within the breezeless air As black meets gray, the warmth of the water glides further Swallowing the shore inch by inch Blanketing all as it comes upon its farthest outstretched reach Bathing in the warmth of black water, Stippled with the most brilliant twinkling reflections Wrapped in the heat of the night Consumed by the darkness, by the stars, by the very heat of the earth Slowly, deliberately, the water rises Basking in the beauty of a sea that came to greet all who care to notice As the ripples and waves wash over the footprints Erasing the day and birthing it anew The moon smiles its bright smile The sand swims by unseen And the stars shine like the brightest diamonds in the light of the moon

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Apr 25, 2015

Apr 25, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC

Sugar sand beaches reach the horizon Water so far it is naught but a glimmer in the distance Sitting in the warmth of that powder-like earth The sun seems to set over a desert Purple and pink in smoking swirls of Heaven Sopping up the beauty in open pores Ready to receive all that is offered Watching the sun begin to slumber As Luna's light begins to shine in bulbous splendor The glimmer seems to twinkle as brightly as the stars as they awaken Multiplying by the moment Mesmerizing, as the lights seem to grow The air changes, a little cooler now The sand turns to black glass glistening in the moonlight Slowly taking over the horizon Watching the twinkling onyx reflect the night sky Almost hypnotized by the melodic whisper The only evidence of life within the breezeless air As black meets gray, the warmth of the water glides further Swallowing the shore inch by inch Blanketing all as it comes upon its farthest outstretched reach Bathing in the warmth of black water, Stippled with the most brilliant twinkling reflections Wrapped in the heat of the night Consumed by the darkness, by the stars, by the very heat of the earth Slowly, deliberately, the water rises Basking in the beauty of a sea that came to greet all who care to notice As the ripples and waves wash over the footprints Erasing the day and birthing it anew The moon smiles its bright smile The sand swims by unseen And the stars shine like the brightest diamonds in the light of the moon

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TLC! Black night sky stippled with lights. Falling in showers of passions delight. Forest deep where lost dreams do live. In the forest there can be found a treasure chest. A golden chest. Wherein dwell a collection of hearts. Ripped out, but tied in sinewy ***** Encased by perfect vessels. Sent there for a spot of palliative care. Abandoned by souls of lost lovers. Romeo and Juliet's both stuck in there. Still captured in love's young dream. Maybe the souls of poets trapped. We are a weird bunch. Stranded inside the land of words. In the land between light and dark. Somewhere lost along the way. Within our play on words. Summed up in a pun. Such fun. By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

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Nov 24, 2013

Nov 24, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC

TLC! Black night sky stippled with lights. Falling in showers of passions delight. Forest deep where lost dreams do live. In the forest there can be found a treasure chest. A golden chest. Wherein dwell a collection of hearts. Ripped out, but tied in sinewy ***** Encased by perfect vessels. Sent there for a spot of palliative care. Abandoned by souls of lost lovers. Romeo and Juliet's both stuck in there. Still captured in love's young dream. Maybe the souls of poets trapped. We are a weird bunch. Stranded inside the land of words. In the land between light and dark. Somewhere lost along the way. Within our play on words. Summed up in a pun. Such fun. By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

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a pale pink vin rosé, just a hint of a blushing pastel, Domaine Ott, a French emigre, an early afternoon chilled thriller, the summer drink of the choix, for us, symbol of summer so cold stippled beads of moisture form on the outside, your thumbprint indents this exterior landscape, marking territory as if you were a first time explorer, leaving behind your personal flag to make sure everybody knows, you were here first... this of course, but the icing on the cake in the domain of the moment, when perfect is the rule, and the existence of life's objections, all overruled just us, the guests gone, watching a living seascape channel providing a endless parade of entertaining sails, kayaker, kite paddlers on the wings of colored silk and then peace, peace of nothing, a summer silent drink that warms the essence the sun still high just enough, cumulus interference refracts its rays, but to insure the perfection of this domain of the moment, the breeze pretends it's human, caressing you everywhere, even there... you do not deny these blessings, gratitude is great and never forgotten, for you believe this can happen again, a view, a voyage, a resting place in the domain of the moment...

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Jul 19, 2015

Jul 19, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC

In the Domain of the Moment (Summer Afternoon)

a pale pink vin rosé, just a hint of a blushing pastel, Domaine Ott, a French emigre, an early afternoon chilled thriller, the summer drink of the choix, for us, symbol of summer so cold stippled beads of moisture form on the outside, your thumbprint indents this exterior landscape, marking territory as if you were a first time explorer, leaving behind your personal flag to make sure everybody knows, you were here first... this of course, but the icing on the cake in the domain of the moment, when perfect is the rule, and the existence of life's objections, all overruled just us, the guests gone, watching a living seascape channel providing a endless parade of entertaining sails, kayaker, kite paddlers on the wings of colored silk and then peace, peace of nothing, a summer silent drink that warms the essence the sun still high just enough, cumulus interference refracts its rays, but to insure the perfection of this domain of the moment, the breeze pretends it's human, caressing you everywhere, even there... you do not deny these blessings, gratitude is great and never forgotten, for you believe this can happen again, a view, a voyage, a resting place in the domain of the moment...

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Half-shut eyes shying away, Lids fluttering from flat lines to fear. Heaviness with Every inhalation of this acid, Poisoned air stippled with pollution, Hatred and despair. Envision trembling voids that yearn For the pull of a black hole's infinite birth.

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Feb 13, 2010

Feb 13, 2010 at 9:24 PM UTC

A Frightened Moment, Extremity

Half-shut eyes shying away, Lids fluttering from flat lines to fear. Heaviness with Every inhalation of this acid, Poisoned air stippled with pollution, Hatred and despair. Envision trembling voids that yearn For the pull of a black hole's infinite birth.

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palette russet, olive hues yellow ochre bird's egg blue vastness held within a bowl turned over earth to heal and hold moisture from the morning rain thus the painter's eye is trained cadmium white a fan-like brush sketch mare's-tail clouds an artist's touch far horizon grayish blue a woman reclines in the **** her form reveals the breasting hills her hips the mountains hushed and still mid-ground blurs of olive cacti the saguaro rise like hackles Palo Verde lie in lumps yellow flowers bloom in clumps point of brush tweaks out the trees turn of branches stippled leaves small are they to catch the light but the moisture loss is slight ochre foreground brownish stones blue-gray shadows light source shown grayish purple prickly pears ocotillo here and there spindly with splash of red barrel cacti nod their heads buff highlights bring out the sand thus paint creates this desert land SoulSurvivor (C) 2/13/2017

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Feb 13, 2017

Feb 13, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC

palette russet, olive hues yellow ochre bird's egg blue vastness held within a bowl turned over earth to heal and hold moisture from the morning rain thus the painter's eye is trained cadmium white a fan-like brush sketch mare's-tail clouds an artist's touch far horizon grayish blue a woman reclines in the **** her form reveals the breasting hills her hips the mountains hushed and still mid-ground blurs of olive cacti the saguaro rise like hackles Palo Verde lie in lumps yellow flowers bloom in clumps point of brush tweaks out the trees turn of branches stippled leaves small are they to catch the light but the moisture loss is slight ochre foreground brownish stones blue-gray shadows light source shown grayish purple prickly pears ocotillo here and there spindly with splash of red barrel cacti nod their heads buff highlights bring out the sand thus paint creates this desert land SoulSurvivor (C) 2/13/2017

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The axiomatic: I Am That I Am...is poised upon a stippled connectivity that shall allow Seurat's park goers to trade places. A subsumed coming and going a la gratuitous Oneness.

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Oct 26, 2013

Oct 26, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC

Stippled Connectivity

The axiomatic: I Am That I Am...is poised upon a stippled connectivity that shall allow Seurat's park goers to trade places. A subsumed coming and going a la gratuitous Oneness.

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When I'm falling asleep in the teal hue of our tiny, tiny room. I'll look out the window, drowning out the sound of your snoring with the city sirens and taxi beeps, and see how lovely the lights glow on the glass. How beautiful a picture they paint, a stippled masterpiece of glitter specs, glowing circles that blur at the edges in every golden color, in every shimmering red. When every odd is against us, every gray cubicle and tan cracked sidewalk that gets in our determined way, I'll just remember how beautiful the world looked, with your arm wrapped around me looking at the color in the life constantly living outside our window. And how lucky we are to be a part of it.

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Aug 14, 2011

Aug 14, 2011 at 1:56 AM UTC

When I'm falling asleep in the teal hue of our tiny, tiny room. I'll look out the window, drowning out the sound of your snoring with the city sirens and taxi beeps, and see how lovely the lights glow on the glass. How beautiful a picture they paint, a stippled masterpiece of glitter specs, glowing circles that blur at the edges in every golden color, in every shimmering red. When every odd is against us, every gray cubicle and tan cracked sidewalk that gets in our determined way, I'll just remember how beautiful the world looked, with your arm wrapped around me looking at the color in the life constantly living outside our window. And how lucky we are to be a part of it.

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Cuticles burn and nails curve Scratching silent yearnings into wood I yearn, ceaselessly Splinters bite and rage But do not fill me with doubt Stippled marks made by callous fingertips I yearn for something less than subtle Less than ideal and far more shapely Hands cramp as branches crack Unwavering, I'm asking Will you yield and come to grips With becoming my creation?

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Oct 30, 2013

Oct 30, 2013 at 3:41 AM UTC

Cuticles burn and nails curve Scratching silent yearnings into wood I yearn, ceaselessly Splinters bite and rage But do not fill me with doubt Stippled marks made by callous fingertips I yearn for something less than subtle Less than ideal and far more shapely Hands cramp as branches crack Unwavering, I'm asking Will you yield and come to grips With becoming my creation?

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Do not leave me child Do not fledge and grow It’s just my broken soul in your way Crumbling soft and slow The first moment I held you Is the moment I let you go. A daydream then my sonshine My sonshine then her man New love swept you away On a sweet summer day Suddenly I’m alone again You’ve found paradise In a pair of brown eyes Place a banded promise in her hand Such a primitive shelter You carved in this heart of stone Life etched sweat and dust Blade stippled with rust Furrowed deeper than I’ve ever known Now my fractured heart Is falling apart As you step out on your own This gift I never wanted Now I cling to you so tight With a ferocity Upwellling in me I’d rather die than lose the fight But I have to concede When you were born you were freed I’ve just prepared you for flight TL Boehm 06/20/2013

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Feb 11, 2016

Feb 11, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC

The Moment I Let You Go

Do not leave me child Do not fledge and grow It’s just my broken soul in your way Crumbling soft and slow The first moment I held you Is the moment I let you go. A daydream then my sonshine My sonshine then her man New love swept you away On a sweet summer day Suddenly I’m alone again You’ve found paradise In a pair of brown eyes Place a banded promise in her hand Such a primitive shelter You carved in this heart of stone Life etched sweat and dust Blade stippled with rust Furrowed deeper than I’ve ever known Now my fractured heart Is falling apart As you step out on your own This gift I never wanted Now I cling to you so tight With a ferocity Upwellling in me I’d rather die than lose the fight But I have to concede When you were born you were freed I’ve just prepared you for flight TL Boehm 06/20/2013

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night wears a skin of cold velvet stippled with pores through which illumination prickles as the intergalactic whiskers of Schrodinger's cat catching the scent of gravity

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Sep 15, 2020

Sep 15, 2020 at 10:33 AM UTC

night wears a skin of cold velvet stippled with pores through which illumination prickles as the intergalactic whiskers of Schrodinger's cat catching the scent of gravity

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In a pure world music and birdsong spinning the lingering melancholy no more sadness only memories and longings prostrating on the trails of yellow leaves counting the rhythms of loneliness the handsomeness of the island the dreaminess of the susurration of the beach the elegance of the sails the water as always beating the stippled quietness awaiting the next dawn a ketch drifting on the ocean shining a turquoise light portraying the poetry of the predawn or the predawn hilarity of the fish and shrimps in the ocean this is a pure world and there is music and running water in it and the samisen of moods and the psaltery of the nature whats more the happy pixies shuttling in the forest of purity.

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May 18, 2015

May 18, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC

In a pure world music and birdsong spinning the lingering melancholy no more sadness only memories and longings prostrating on the trails of yellow leaves counting the rhythms of loneliness the handsomeness of the island the dreaminess of the susurration of the beach the elegance of the sails the water as always beating the stippled quietness awaiting the next dawn a ketch drifting on the ocean shining a turquoise light portraying the poetry of the predawn or the predawn hilarity of the fish and shrimps in the ocean this is a pure world and there is music and running water in it and the samisen of moods and the psaltery of the nature whats more the happy pixies shuttling in the forest of purity.

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In the morning, we were woken by thunder, a vicious gurgle vaulting across the sky. We watched the rain fall outside from our bed, the windows stippled with droplets, the clattering of water on the roof like women dancing in high heels. I breathed in your smell, wanting to inhale everything about you that morning, wanting not to forget our trickle of minutes. I brushed my feet against yours, under the sheets. At one point, our hands touched, I knew your fingers. That’s what I thought then. That I knew them. Your khaki green shirt sleeping over a chair. Design of our fingerprints on the half-full glass. I caught a glimpse of your Atlantic eyes as you turned. I kept my words private, wanting, not wanting to stitch them together. Last night, lightning. Now this.

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Jun 29, 2016

Jun 29, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

Something out of Nothing

In the morning, we were woken by thunder, a vicious gurgle vaulting across the sky. We watched the rain fall outside from our bed, the windows stippled with droplets, the clattering of water on the roof like women dancing in high heels. I breathed in your smell, wanting to inhale everything about you that morning, wanting not to forget our trickle of minutes. I brushed my feet against yours, under the sheets. At one point, our hands touched, I knew your fingers. That’s what I thought then. That I knew them. Your khaki green shirt sleeping over a chair. Design of our fingerprints on the half-full glass. I caught a glimpse of your Atlantic eyes as you turned. I kept my words private, wanting, not wanting to stitch them together. Last night, lightning. Now this.

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*Gray hardwood Creek saga , hillside natural harmonies Woodland musicians and warriors blended into Coweta flora with piedmont songsters Sip sip cha shree mockingbird melody Whoo -reet bobwhite chantey from floor to - windamere operas brushing live oak canopies Land blushing with evening blue , stippled in magenta and lavender cirrus sunset* ...

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Feb 25, 2017

Feb 25, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Return To Home ....

*Gray hardwood Creek saga , hillside natural harmonies Woodland musicians and warriors blended into Coweta flora with piedmont songsters Sip sip cha shree mockingbird melody Whoo -reet bobwhite chantey from floor to - windamere operas brushing live oak canopies Land blushing with evening blue , stippled in magenta and lavender cirrus sunset* ...

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The rosy sun peeks over the tree tops. We hear the sounds of a baseball game, with the howling coyotes as fans. My eyes droop as the onset of sleep nears. The bitter coffee runs down my throat. Francis is seated across from me, peeking over her glasses at her cards. Her brows wrinkle while determining the best way to win. It only takes moments until the entire Texas sky is stippled with stars.

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Dec 7, 2013

Dec 7, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC

The rosy sun peeks over the tree tops. We hear the sounds of a baseball game, with the howling coyotes as fans. My eyes droop as the onset of sleep nears. The bitter coffee runs down my throat. Francis is seated across from me, peeking over her glasses at her cards. Her brows wrinkle while determining the best way to win. It only takes moments until the entire Texas sky is stippled with stars.

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You say we should build one, I say we're not six-year-olds anymore but you coax me into it and I find myself digging with a blue plastic ***** but you use your hands, scooping up lumps of the stuff. I notice how some gets stuck in your fingernails, how the tip of your thumb has been stippled orange but I laugh when you tell me it's nice to feel young again and I feel it too although you, not the building has more to do with that. We don't stop, we make a whole row of them, name them after ourselves, feel so proud of our work like builders after a long day, but it's still morning for us and every-time you stand, tiptoe up to the sea, I get so stupidly worried the tide might take you away.

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Apr 8, 2014

Apr 8, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

Castles of Sand

You say we should build one, I say we're not six-year-olds anymore but you coax me into it and I find myself digging with a blue plastic ***** but you use your hands, scooping up lumps of the stuff. I notice how some gets stuck in your fingernails, how the tip of your thumb has been stippled orange but I laugh when you tell me it's nice to feel young again and I feel it too although you, not the building has more to do with that. We don't stop, we make a whole row of them, name them after ourselves, feel so proud of our work like builders after a long day, but it's still morning for us and every-time you stand, tiptoe up to the sea, I get so stupidly worried the tide might take you away.

Continue reading...