"streaking" poems
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky
And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...
Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,
Finding depth and height
out in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching
High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground
Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
*He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.
He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.
He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.
He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.
He's no poet.
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.*
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
When I am older I will be just like my Nan,
Streaking my naked body every Wednesday to the delivery man.
I will have a chihuahua,
Drink my milk when its sour,
Use by dates will mean nothing,
For 10 year old bread makes a good stuffing,
I will live off many cups of tea
Every ten minutes have a ***
Hoard a thousand tin of beans in the draw,
We all know we need them when we're at war,
I will be superstitious,
And make food taste delicious,
I would be head of my family, head of my herd,
My word will be final, anyone else's word is absurd,
Anyone who calls me 'dear',
will get a slap around the ear.
YES,
I want to be just like my Nan,
Every Wednesday streaking to the delivery man.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
You'll notice him in the busy streets of Peru, dodging vendors and laughing like the sun.
You'll notice her at a small diner past 2 a.m, lost in thought, melancholy notes on their smile.
You'll notice him on a cobble corner wearing bold colours and singing about the lives he's lived and the fools he's loved.
You'll notice her on mountain peaks, soaking in the wind with twigs in her hair.
You'll notice him weaving flower crowns and writing in his journals, squinting into the hot sky with dew on his lips.
You'll notice her kneeled on the side of the road, comforting a small animal with the voice of sweet honey.
You'll notice them, dancing at sunset, colours streaking across their face.
You'll notice them running through meadow fields in the early hours of the morning.
You'll notice them laughing like the wind, smiling like velvet, with whispfill sparks in their eyes as they sit by the waves at dawn.
They are the sun and the moon
The sky and the sea
Fire and the ice
They're not likely to tell you who's who,
In fact they're not likely to tell you who they are at all.
But even without the spoken reveal
Even without the clarity of meaning,
When you see them.
You'll notice
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
All I do is win, for I'm an Ace
Painting a bulls-eye on everyone in the place
In my plane I leave everyone else
bailing out of the fight in disgrace
If I was a horseman, I'd be War
'Cuz like the card game
I win against Kings and Queens
and take them out of the deck
like the Joker on the sidelines, alone and bored.
I don't need a Diamond to win you Heart,
and I don't wanna join your Club,
this was skill and not luck from the very start
I am the Ace of Spades,
and I'll use my ***** to dig out your graves
I've been painted on the sides of planes
cars and trains
helicopters, submarines,
and the munitions that deal out the pain
I'm a trick shot Ace with the pool stick
As a quarterback, I've yet to throw a pick
As a pitcher, I make the other team sick
The starter and the backup plan
the Ultimate Ace in the Hole
The best card in a poker hand
lay me down and the money's in the bag
I run solo, streaking across the land
You only need to hold me in your hand
and your enemies will become ****
and I'll give 'em a taste
of this whirling dervish's mace
Leave them breathless upon the ground
as I rob the air from out of this place
you'll stand in awe of my greatness
take a picture, make a statue
Fill up every empty space with my name
For I am an Ace!
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 2:39 AM UTC
It’s the kind of subtle trickle
That turns the asphalt into a glassy mirror
Ripples, ripples, ripples
Over it like a black pond
The silver lining of each little droplet
Streaking the sky with shades of gray
The streetlights cast an amber glow
Upon the shimmering mist
Hiss, hiss, hiss
Against your stinging flesh
Turn your face up towards the darkened sky
Let the rainfall and streetlights wash away the dust
The dust of the souls you carry on your lips and cheeks
Etched into your back and palms
Their burdens may cause you aches and pains
Let the rainfall and streetlights wash them away
Rainfall and streetlights
Rainfall and streetlights
An urban confessional
Where the sky leans in to listen
As every perfect drop of water hits your skin
It’s the sound of a cleansing
Only you can comprehend
And although the hope of purity may have been swept away
by the wind of unfixable mistakes
It’s still the belief alone in possible redemption
That keeps you from relenting to temptation
Drink up the tears of the sky, child
You are forgiven
You were always forgiven
After all
Paths were made to be strayed from
Straight lines are mundane, they all look the same
And never give a little boy glass when you haven’t taught him
how to grasp what’s right in front of him
When he drops it
It’s a dangerous job
Picking up the sharp shattered pieces
Do not make him do it all alone
Yes, inevitably you will cut yourself
On the broken shards
Crimson teardrops
If they tumble from you
Do not distrust your calluses
You made them through your own hard work and suffering
But they can only do so much for you
Remember your skin is a shell not impenetrable armor
So it’s best to avoid the things you know will cut unnecessarily deep
Bleeding is just another way your body assures you that your heart is still beating
Looking up from the gutter the universe awaits you child
Do you not realize what’s at your fingertips?
Infinity
So don’t give in just yet
Let the rainfall and streetlights heal you
Drip drop, drip drop
Let them bathe you in warmth
Radiating
Let the rainfall and streetlights take you away
To a better place
Wherever that may be
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
---
Once upon a time
In a land so far away
There was a wretched kingdom
Were a vampire held sway
He was very ancient
Handsome as a knave
Dressed in black and silken garb
Was said to be quite brave
But such a cruel creature
He devoured the towns
The soldiers were all petrified
Would not defend the crown
So the King of the castle
Searched both far and wide
For mighty men of valor
To defend the countryside
Finally up north
He found a daring band
Of golden headed Vikings
To defend his failing land
The company of Norsemen
Could not be laidback
They rallied their army
And decided to attack!
They put no garlic round their necks
No ash stakes did they carry
They knew not the vampire ways
And so they were not wary
But oh! What valiant men!
They made quite a sight!
Scaling the vampiric castle walls -
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT!
The vampire, Vlad the terrible,
Made a crimson flood
Destroyed every one of them
And feasted on their blood!
It was before morning
The darkest witching hour
Vlad finished dispatching them
His countenance was dour
Then a light came streaking
From the pitch black sky -
It was a Valkyrie!
She made a fearsome cry!
"You! Vlad the terrible!"
The ghoul looked up, aghast!
"You feasted on my Norsemen -
But I am here at LAST!!!"
The mighty female warrior
Shook back her golden mane
"You've killed many villagers
But won't do it AGAIN!!!"
The brilliant armored woman
Faced off the evil lord
He laughed, "You cannot slay me!
No! Not with that sword!"
"And for all your armor
What do you suppose?
Your sweet delicious throat
Is slender... and EXPOSED!!!
The Valkyrie laughed
She threw back her hair
She let fly her sword
It scissored through the air!!!
The dreaded Vlad was impaled
But NOT through his chest
Through his very garments
The great sword came to rest
To a TREE the monster stuck
Like a fly caught with a pin
He could not free himself!
And he saw the rising SUN!!!
He struggled against his cape
He'd have none of THAT!
But Vlad could not break the sword
So he became a bat!
Up he flew to escape his fate
But a ray of sun broke through
With an arc he burnt to spark
IT DESTROYED VLAD AS HE FLEW!!!
The Valkyrie, triumphant,
Cried out, "it is I!!!
For when there is a battle,
I decide who lives and dies!!!
I decide the outcome!
Tis not by happenstance...
Won't see you in Valhalla
*You never had a chance!!!*
So ended the battle
The Valkyrie WON.
The outcome was decided...
...Before it was begun!!!
SoulSurvivor
5/6/2015
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
Her eyes shine like undisturbed dew drops
hovering at the gentle fingertips of young moss
on the northern bark of a white cedar tree
under a lazy morning sun.
Spear points of obsidian pierce the disc:
banished from the core of a volcano
scorched by a molten heart
and choking on onyx soot.
The dawn warmth filters through,
carried by a serene and wafting breeze.
It illuminates the pleasant, tickling greenery,
bringing to light the depth of her irises.
Fire belches from the mountain's stomach,
and the flame ignites a gleam.
Her gemstone eyes shine
as though the embers have been captured within.
At the base, there is the earth:
firm and dark and cool.
Interlocking underbrush layers fawn with chestnut
overtaken but not undermined by powerful streaking tree trunks.
The rim is built of force and rumbles with strength.
A cast of bronze is seething and glowing.
Her intensity blazes as sun spots
deep within ancient amber.
She is as her eyes are
an indigo inferno:
seldom
and
elegantly alive.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
On that first Christmas, long ago
They say a brilliant star shone forth.
It guided Magi on their way
to where the infant Jesus lay.
What was that star that shone that night?
was it a comet streaking by?
Perhaps two wanderers in the sky,
or else a star about to die.
Oh kindly light
that offered hope
You burned bright briefly
then were gone.
But a people in darkness
saw a bright new dawn
when a baby cried
that Christmas morn
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:43 PM UTC
Dawn gently kissed the nape of dusk
Whilst patient time awaited peaking
Majestic streams of solar lust
Born via pre-orgasmic streaking
Saturn's rings exclusive ******
Equipped for sensual fancy
Mesmerized by daring billows
Elevated by buoyancy
Excitement steadily evolving
Cosmic spheres swiftly building
****** timelessly revolving
Licentious shock she is wielding
Dawn coloured blackened skies
Pleasure falling with each tear
****** baring lovely sighs
Passion with a wince of fear
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
This is not really a poem; just an insightful realization of mine
We have this mainstream perception of human life—that we grow to freely love the things we desire to love. We are biologically-inclined to conform to the intuitive notion of 'freewill'. But what is supposed to be imprinted in our minds turns out to be no more false than the number zero being larger than one; in actuality, we are nothing but biological clockwork confined to obey the laws of nature.
Every atom in our body, every neuron streaking in our nerves, and every step we take, our body does so, for the laws of nature require it to. Our actions are as predetermined as the orbits of the planets, and paradoxically, it is as probabilistic as the location of an electron in its quantum orbit. We don't act out of our own will; we act out of necessity, for the laws of nature require us to behave the way we should be behaving.
They call it Scientific Determinism.
Disturbing, isn't it? And what does that make out of freewill and love? Simply put: freewill is an illusion, and love is the sweetest lie ever conjured up in this Universe. Even so, we still choose to believe in both. Why? Because we're humans; we long to live our life with a purpose, even if it takes for us to make up our own.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
Grubby little hands
and sugar encrusted mouths
leaving chocolate hugs and kisses
on a white Hanes t-shirt
in a late summer sun
the man in the stained shirt laughs
telling stories until you laugh too, so hard
you roll in the grass with your brother
streaking your denim knees green
and you beg him to play with you
just one more game, please!
because he is the best at everything
as close as you can get to invincible
and when he picks you up at the end of the day
tickles you, herds you inside
you can smell the lawn mower grease
and the shellac from his shop
and the peppermint, always the peppermint,
from the gum that snaps! in his mouth
then before you know it
you’re sitting shotgun in his rusted pickup
the radio singing classic rock
like always
windows rolled down
hat perched back on his head
whistling through his teeth
like always
but you’re on a new road
and your boxes are packed in the back
and when he hugs you
you feel like the little girl
that you’re not anymore
and you’re not quite ready to say goodbye
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
i like to look at things that shine
fireworks projected into the sky
and like a shooting star they fall
some wish
i watch
as it splits into an array of colours
a few seconds of beauty
quickly enveloped by the night sky
floating lanterns, so ominous
so pretty and mysterious
dots across the dark horizon
the endless darkness tainted
by blurs of light from a distace
but up close they truly are
an enchanting spectacle
camp fires are surreal
what stories do they hold
it rages and fights
it consumes, magnificent
so powerful and yet
so wise
candles bring out memories
if i stare too long
its rhythmic flame will devour me
the tiny light brings out the biggest shadows
like a trance it pulls me in
blow it out, then i'll be free
neon trapped within traffic lights
the red has immeasurable power
amber hues bring on despair
green commands attention
but in the dead of the night
when not a single soul roams by
driving past the glowing lines
of light upon light
i enter a realm of nostalgia
i see the flash of lightning
it is ferocious
commands respect
but when i watch it
from behind a window pane
with raindrops streaking down
the thunder muted, the dark clouds
they emit the most beautiful violet light
it comes and goes in simply seconds
and how could i forget the stars
always there
but only alive
in the depths of the night
scattered across the sky
they glow like an accessory
desired but unreachable
i stretch my hand out high
a little more and i can touch them.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 6:56 AM UTC
youth’s days were borrowed, its number, your name
carefully journaled by razor into soft skin on the back of my hand,
the monument now gently faded into its wrinkles
but dust doesn’t stick to the digits, as scars can’t sweat
I hide them still, wiping away gritty life surrounding
and today, even my wife remains clueless
because you do disappear -
time continues with two people aging together
our gray hairs streaking the basin in morning,
phone calls to the children later
by day I may dream another filthy furrow to fit into,
needing to glimpse again that flimsy past, and then
ponder glued joints of mortise and tenon
or half-lapped, passionless, the strongest, I’m convinced
we never found time to worry over furniture,
or learn that living is contained in mundane details
like dovetails and drawer pulls
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
His silence screams like a searching wind
a death-hungry spirit painted in
pallette-knived smears of
grey and fear and crimson
streaking across the night sky of his heart,
lightning-bolt ricochets striking, incinerating
the solitary oak tree of his soul,
scattering his acorns down the hill where they
are lost among the weeds,
shocked into infertility,
But he is a seascape pine,
weather-worn but razor-straight,
Gargantua in wood and steel
establishes his personal space
like a rabid porcupine,
And he is a tower,
hiding his soap bubble dream
while she brushes her hair
one hundred times
one thousand times
one million times
until the dream is
lifeless, breathless, armless
and tucked neatly in a refrigerated drawer,
As his silence screams like a searching wind.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 2:17 PM UTC
Still dark.
The unknown bird sits on his usual branch.
The little dog next door barks in his sleep
inquiringly, just once.
Perhaps in his sleep, too, the bird inquires
once or twice, quavering.
Questions--if that is what they are--
answered directly, simply,
by day itself.
Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous;
gray light streaking each bare branch,
each single twig, along one side,
making another tree, of glassy veins...
The bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn.
The little black dog runs in his yard.
His owner's voice arises, stern,
"You ought to be ashamed!"
What has he done?
He bounces cheerfully up and down;
he rushes in circles in the fallen leaves.
Obviously, he has no sense of shame.
He and the bird know everything is answered,
all taken care of,
no need to ask again.
--Yesterday brought to today so lightly!
(A yesterday I find almost impossible to lift.)
2.4k
I've always loved the thunderstorms,
the wind whistling and moving through the city streets,
as if it's in a hurry to be somewhere in particular.
The thunder clapping and roaring and rumbling through,
just like how my heart beats loudly when I realize something and
I don't want it to be true.
The lightning streaking brightly through the sky,
like a beautiful little streak of truth that's bright
and exposes every little lie.
The rain falling from the sky as if they were tears,
crying and mourning for the things that have been
gained yet lost too quickly,
also washing away lies that exist all around in layers.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
The ruler comes down from on high
Dragging himself along the earth
Insulation going up like confetti
Take cover, take shelter
Ice the size of softballs
Comes streaking from the sky
There’s nowhere left to run
Huddled under the bridge
And then a sound like rushing water
Feels like a freight train overhead
We weep and cry and gnash our teeth
As the trumpet blares
Drove down Telephone Road
Where it crosses the highway
Sandcastles washed out to sea
Old bills put through the shredder
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! -yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutablilty.
2.3k
These pair of jeans don't fit round me,
clenching calves deceitfully,
determined to compress on me,
exhaustively I slice the seams.
Privacy, there is no need,
take my clothes let my skin breathe.
Filled with self integrity,
my freedom is my ******
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 8:58 AM UTC
Christmas holidays
Joy, Laughter, Cheer
"Merry, Merry, Marigold," sang Mum
"Merry, Merry Mum," sang Marigold
Cheeks and nose tips
glowing bright pink
against frigid air.
Bodies at sharp upward angle
ski lift carrying them
Up Up Up
Tips slightly skyward
they slide smoothly from the lift
Marigold then Mum
Side by side
Each spies their downward course
With mighty heaves they push off
"Happy Christmas, Mum!"
"Happy Christmas Marigold"
Marigold's helmet
A disco ball
Glitter, sparkles, color
reflecting brilliant sunshine
A comet streaking downward
Screaming toward terminal velocity
Mum carves a serpentine path
A python's body in the new snow
Fresh
Natural
Tranquil
Somewhere near the top
Children hear a hideous snicker-snack
A pine bough vorpal sword
Finds its mark in someone's back
Somewhere on the mountain
Sun melted snow
And the carefree happy skier
had nowhere else to go
Her skiing day ended
Amid the trees and dirt
Her glistening glitter helmet
Crumpled
Filled with earth
Paralysis would be the happy ending,
but this is not that day
The little girl named Marigold
will never get back up to play
That's the tragic outcome
when trees meet vertebrae
Her friends gather together
Engineering an awesome little shrine
filled wth flowers, cats, and baseballs
and even a basketball-sized porcupine
Beneath a mighty pine tree
Friends embrace and say goodbye
Christmas holiday is a rotten time
For little kids to die.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
Your world is dark and your path is rocky
No radiant sun to light your way
So you stand perfectly still until you can see
Everything, impeccably displayed
White lightening flashes across stormy skies
Lighting up all your shadows
Convincing you, he is the sun with lies
Quickly leaves you winging solo
Your eyes then open wide with knowing
Those flashes are not your sun
Merely beautiful fire streaking and flowing
Upheaval having some fun
You begin capturing each flash in your memory
Storing them one by one
Creating a beautiful array of lighted artillery
You will turn into your sun
Still, your world was dark and your path was rocky
Those flashing memories faded fast
You could never store enough of them to see
Or light up your worldly path
Now off in the distance so far away you see
A tiny beam glowing bright
Will you stand here still collecting memories
Or go in search of your sunlight?
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 9:57 AM UTC