"sunbathe" poems
The way
That the sun rays
Sunbathe
Hot day, faraway
Photons travel
Outer space
8 minutes
On your face
Covering you in
Ultraviolet
X-ray
Nuclear waste
Pretty cool,
I'd say.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
Wind bends a weak branch.
Fresh leaves sing in harmony.
A lizard of the same color
slowly stretches his way from leaf to spine.
He stops to investigate a string
of silk from a spider's web
and I wonder how that tastes.
Lit up like a jack-o-lantern,
his glowing body
reveals organs and vessels
much like my own.
He makes his 30 foot ascent
above hot cement
just to sunbathe on a leaf.
What a life that is.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
In the midst of old ravines and paintings, a succulent soldier dreams.
As dawn starts to paint, as the secondhand piano plays,
his azure iris will gaze
to the sun- the faraway maiden.
In hope that one day, he'd sunbathe and chase dreams
with spring nymphs in holy fields of bonnets and poppies.
Into the poetic imaginations he submerged,
eating dainty buns,saccharine berries and milk by a spiral pond;
and pirouette like butterflies on feathery grass with florets and mist.
Far across the sullen lakes, He'd run with the spring squirrels and foxes;
through the honeyed prairie, the crooned secrets echo faintly like a damsel's song.
In between His spellbinding tales, plants they giggle in harmonious blithe—
that even the gale who gush by in haste, would stop and peer with serene awe.
Abundance of miraculous faith He ignited to his vein,
for the black dots of his crest and spine to someday evanesce.
And in ease, realms of woodlands and lone moors abound upon his eyelids,
that mother nature awaits him.
tick tock, two steps away from the holy born of Christ,
He died of collapsed dream, like muddy landslide of wet monsoon.
His soul— a soul of a fey,beatific and mesmeric dreamer, perish away in stardust.
a shriveled lilac body, graven into a treasure box, a seraphic smile carved.
With waterfalls and chrysanthemums,
moonbeam and fog, an elegy,
and a handful of brimmed ash—the box sealed like a secret letter.
that dusted night
ashes charily scattered to the wide empyrean
along with a brush of vain agony.
Rest in peace, Floyd the cactus.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Oh what I would give for a kiss from the sunshine
When your life is filled with nothing but the moonlight
The shade and smell of the pine trees overwhelm
Suicide to practice humanism
What I would give for a day at the beach
In the daylight
Sunbathe until I'm peach
Wish I won't mind...
...The fact that I'm burning away
In the afternoon heat, under the sun I play.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
Winter and Spring have long since passed,
cold wind, rain and frost belong in the past,
darkness thankfully no longer descends as fast,
long hot summer days arrive at long last!
Colourful flowers and plants, trees and shrubs
burst forth from hanging baskets, gardens and tubs
outside homes and shops, hotels and pubs;
brightening roadsides, roundabouts, parks and golf clubs.
Exams are over and school is finally done,
children everywhere mad to get out in the sun,
playing outside all day, having such great fun,
warm summer days being enjoyed by almost everyone.
People everywhere outside busy doing something;
weeding, mowing, watering, general gardening;
cleaning cars, washing windows, mending or painting,
or simply sitting out with the neighbours, gossiping!
Time for sunglasses, sun cream, getting a tan,
Wimbeldon, music festivals, holidays to plan,
ice lollies, ninety nines from the ice cream van,
water shortages of course and the annual hose pipe ban!
Time for day trips, sports, to picnic or sunbathe,
for the park or the beach, to swim or just wade,
to get burnt to a crisp or just relax in the shade,
for beer gardens, barbeques as the sun starts to fade!
People making the most of each sunny summer day,
determined to enjoy the sun, lap up every last ray,
each enjoying the summer in their own particular way,
“Long may it last”, people around the country pray!
For not getting a summer seems to be our worst fear,
but thankfully the summer seems to be finally here.
All around the country there is a party atmosphere
such a shame it cannot be like this all through the year!
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC
*I was dreaming of you kissing me just softly between my eyes
and of children chasing a lamb around the silence of a grave.* – Alex Hoshor
I comb one hand with the other. beside me my son moves his jaw front to back, his chin massaging the ridge in the skull of our new puppy. we are snug in a velvet chair. my groomed right hand was last week reset by an accidental flash of fire and to look at it now makes one think of snakes veining then leaving the earth.
I fear I may soon have to field the proffered inquiries of angels lobbying for a pet heaven. I fear that fear is just something we say.
the dust on my daughter’s dollhouse worries me. disuse worries me. these small shoes on step at the dollhouse door.
it is the simplest thought that it could’ve been my boy, my girl, at flame. but enough that sleep of late seems cat nap to its greater insomnia.
awake, a mob of naked children some saying excuse me move gently past or leap the car or belly under. I walk from it slowly as if I am pregnant or as if in front of me one is pregnant. I lose my foot on the discarded handle of an axe and lose my way thinking it is the found arm of a puppet. I know I am bare because suddenly there is sand in my toes and the pregnant women are here to sunbathe. it’s the gas can tells me turn back.
how long have we been friends? the length of my belt, bed of copper or garden, removed with my left hand and laid.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:45 AM UTC
The yucca plant from my mother’s garden sits
unattended and on the verge of death next to her
eldest rose bush, now wildly overgrown and lightly
blushing in the cosset of the midmourning sun. Its
withered rosettes droop down to its bed of maroon-stained stones
in crisp, harum-scarum patterns as if the plant is spending its life
like currency trying to touch its toes. I oftentimes
find myself wondering if the reason behind this
slow rotting of mother dearest’s garden is hidden within her
five-year absence. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say
her nursery missed the d
i
g
g
i
n
g
of her weathered hands.
She was the biosphere of my world; I suppose that
it only makes sense for the earth to match my thirst. We
sit side by side, that yucca plant and I, as we struggle to
nod our heads towards daylight while we rise on
the side of the house that is more or less
cloaked in shadow; the side that she would sunbathe
on during scorching late afternoons. Perhaps without her
body giving shelter, all her garden is doomed to
atrophy like muscle in the sunlight.
I find irony in the way that my mother’s favored plant
was the “ghost in the graveyard;” a perverted parallel
to the game that she never wanted us to play. I think it to be
sort of sardonic that her pride swallowed the possibility of
a cure being found within that ****** plant’s roots. She,
a third generation American girl,
had blood as muddled as the mud
that buried that yucca’s heart.
The boundary line between Mother and
nature coalesces into one:
Gaea
six feet under
melting into soil
I hope she becomes seawater.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
There were gnomes within
The abyss
Crying because they had
No way home
Cowering below water
Trout wipes
Spawning the souring eggs
They laid
Sun-shower clouds spawn
On and on and on
Crying beyond the fathom
Of the Heavens
Armadillo shrimp sunbathe
The bubbling sea bath
Trout wipes' infectious wrath
Drift off current
Tremble off the beat
Induce a treasuring smile
Recover from the bipolar company
Trout wipes
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
Uncertainty provides shade
From knowledge's blinding light
When the stars align
I view an eclipse
And the signs on the road
Only inform me of the distance I've travelled
Yet I am beholden to those
Who sunbathe in what they know
Not understanding the comfort shadows can create
Afraid of change
They give all their money to the waiter
But even after we pay our bill
The fortune cookie remains closed
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
and maybe you don't want me here.
and maybe I don't want you to want me here
and maybe I want you to want me so much that your heart hiccups
and maybe I drink to summon the courage to say it
and maybe I drink to find it
and maybe I loved you
and maybe I still do
and maybe I don't want you to see me broken
and maybe I want you to feel the shattered glass of my fingertips
and maybe we're doomed
and maybe we're destined
and maybe last night was different
and maybe we'll never change
and maybe we love like cancer
and maybe we walk like Egyptians
and maybe we just need time
and maybe we've had enough for tonight
and maybe we make bonfires on bunk beds
and maybe you turned your back to me
and maybe I left
and maybe you love the hawk with brown tipped wings
and maybe common sense isn't so common
and maybe we're newcomers
and maybe we never got there
and maybe those weren't tears, but stray raindrops
and maybe all my words are lyrical
and maybe my pen is tapping out my heartbeat
and maybe I watch you watch me
and maybe we jive like honey bees
and maybe I dream of daffodils and popcorn
and maybe we've lost faith in God and gravity and poetry
and maybe I ride my bike down the narrow streets downtown
and maybe I sunbathe on park benches
and maybe I fell from my tree house
and maybe I flew
and maybe our hands don't fit quite right
and maybe I tried to recreate snowflakes
and maybe I dance to the songs you hate
and maybe you know every word from my favorite poem
and maybe I cry when I think too much
and maybe I smile at every hair on your body
and maybe I loved you
then again, maybe not.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
i pull the cord
a sputter and a spit
he
she
it
tells me,
let the grass grow under
your feet
pick no
weeds
let the leaves lie where
they fall
put a lounge chair
on the front lawn
sunbathe naked
***** the neighbors)
throw the empty
beer cans
into the street
and when the cops come.
laugh.
pick a mountain
any mountain
climb up through
the ice and snow
and when
you get to the top
of the mountain
keep climbing
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
The flowers flutter
and the butterflies bloom
grass climbs the walls
and the snails zoom
The chimes ring the wind
and the birds feed the bread
the vegetables grow
in the flowers bed
Leaves grow green
on the trunk of the tree
the birds nest in jars
for all to see
Worms sunbathe
on the deck getting tans
dandelions roar
at the lettuce lambs
Spiders caught
in a fly's tangled web
a blanket of flowers
put the weeds to bed
There's a wide open space
to float up to the moon
be careful where you land
because there's not mushroom
Come spend the day
in my hot box shed
playing in the garden
getting out of your head.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
Open the windows
and seeing the
Sunlight shine in
and hitting the floor
Sunlight
Sunlight
Open the windows
and seeing the
Sunlight shine in
and hitting the floor
is so calming seeing
the sunlight reflection
on the floor is so peaceful
I love seeing the sunlight
and my dog sunbathe
in the sunlight.
© Amanda Kay Hill
10/29/16
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
For I to cherish soaked in sunbathe dream of freckles on cream and strawberries
For you to see and sigh and fill with warm fizzy pink water too sweet to contemplate
For you to see and sigh and long for long sleeved sheathed in jealousy spilling out in bright red syrup
For I to paint faces with my utterances fanciful making ugly alluring curious mysterious attractive
I can take my nose to be strength clever seducting wicked men and women to listen to my describes or look upon papyrus sheets
I can make my jaw a naive child stricken with blue veins translucent skin clinging papery like wings to brittle bones under eaves ready to snap
I can write my eyes wide innocent in first time headlights first time frosted firsts filled with empty antecedents of unclasped things and fifty fifty longings
I can make the ugly striking like a stinging snake cruel contemplating lashing smarts or make it sad sorrowful quiet longing new to life love mature but still a child
I can add grace poise to my stretched out neck make it stand tall of pride training because it's ladylike to do so and so I must and say my prayers every night too as I powder over my faintly drawn freckles
Boyish humour uncaring to my generous brows a baseball mitt bubblegum cards and a fetish for goths forever unrecognised as spit flies and at home haircuts compose a flyaway life
Embellish the hollows collarbones and detract the too-broad shoulders make the frailty proud and small shrink it down to fit in a girl big brothers to gentle and lovers to rough pinned wrists that near snap
With my words I reap the benefits of my own mindly kindling I wander through half made times in history and finished times two seconds right now
I can create myself and so I do my thirst to be is insatiably insatisfied like my attraction to bad grammar and lilts when you talk so I do I become each and every one
I create myself and it's addicting
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
Why have I made myself hate me so much? Why are society's standards so incredibly high? Why won't people acknowledge ones true beauty? It's not about the flat stomach, ladies. Not the make-up, either. Nor the hair. Do you need extensions, fake nails or fake eyelashes to feel pretty? The whole messed-up idea is wrong. Why would you put funny-looking, plastic, artificial things on your body? Because we want to look nice. Feel nice. And for us, low-self-esteem girls, well... Lets say we want to accomplish our happiness by being eye-candy. And for that to happen, we have to change our whole selves, of course. Not any part of ourselves will do. We have to become a different person in order to be likeable. We have to be fake, giggly idiots who wear way too much make-up, fancy designers clothes, and expensive jewelry. We have to eat miniature salads to stay fit, and go to the gym everyday. On top of that, if you go to the beach you have to be lady-like and sunbathe all day long (the most boring thing ever). And there you are, amazing tanned body, incredible hair and impeccably dressed. But you know what, little Miss Perfect? You are empty inside. You are shallow. You have nothing left, apart from you looks and your expensive clothing. No real friends. No memories. No life. You were so worried working out and shopping that you didn't notice your life passing by right past you. And you are not growing younger as the minutes go by, sweetheart. One day you'll wake up and realize that you have nothing. Your life is meaningless. It lacks of passion. Love. Adventure. And you start to get wrinkles in the corners of your eyes and mouth. Your hair turns white and you skin is frail.
You can't sleep, for one thought haunts you:
You haven't really lived.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
we were two little girls
whose mothers were both
housewives stuck with multiple children,
bored,
& belonging to a circle
of similarly conditioned women
who liked to sunbathe & smoke & talk
in the summer
who liked to drink coffee & smoke & talk
while the other seasons floated past the windows
their kids off somewhere else
hopefully playing & hopefully getting along, too.
we were two little girls
having a sleepover
eating popcorn & watching movies
two hours prior
in my parent's bed
we were laughing
carrying on like children do
duh
she touched where my ******* weren't
told me to take off my clothes
& dance
explored
my little girl body
with her little girl fingers eyes tongue
playing the game
someone else taught her
except this time
she held the cards
she rolled the dice
on her new gameboard.
we showered together
on the uncomfortable
morning after
she reached for me
I stood
transfixed & unsure
watching
submissive, scared, oddly curious.
In hindsight,
I guess I must have liked it a little bit
'cuz I didn't back down. Didn't flinch away.
At least I was chosen. For once. For something.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
*we are the refined
the delicate, the rarefied
the genteel, whose words
are etheral and our thoughts
exclude all things physical*
for us the ideals, the pure
the clean and the pristine
conventions suit us best
and the unquestioned
fits us like custom-made gloves
our lives are regulated
there's something in it
for each of us
we have all the answers
and for sure, we are the ones
going to Heaven
couretsy marks our birth
and everyone walks about
with the Dictionary
of Respectable Words
when we kiss
we don't exchange fluids
and when we have ***
we are dispassionate
we bring civilisation to the world
and we sunbathe in idyllic beaches
and we plan to tour the moon soon
we are tourists really all our lives
and when we are not, we polish our cars
and bemoan the State of the Environment
*we are the refined
the delicate, the rarefied
the genteel, whose words
are etheral and our thoughts
exclude all things physical*
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Sitting in the sun,
Watching old movies,
The Australian heat
Washes up against my feet.
The dog shakes off the afternoon
And snoozes by the couch
And all our troubles melt away
Like the ice cream now resting
In our stomachs.
Sweet peace,
The ignorance of it all.
Only at the cost of our minds
Do we chase our tails and sunbathe
On the crisp autumn grass.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 7:15 AM UTC
Eyes of dull with rage to shed,
a hair displayed the crimson red.
Soul of stains like wine on bread,
remove the waste, recall the dead.
Vicious is as Vicious says,
a simple schiz without his meds.
Reptiles dwell where the climates dynamic
fakes only sunbathe and copy the tactic.
Delicious is dread which is born out of sin
such the slyest of styles and guile with grin.
Just remember the words of your elder and kin,
eggs are good for dinner but you're much to small for Dragons.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 7:46 AM UTC
the story of the year was nothing but an escapist fantasy.
she took it, she read it, and she understood it as such,
yet she did not point it out so as to make it less real.
across an expanse of water and an equally daunting stretch of time,
she assumed my unjustified and unjustifiable love would dwindle,
would crumble, would fade, and would die.
and in fact, her plan is working.
every second, like a cancer,
the love that courses through my brain is being transformed.
through sheer pain and disillusionment,
whether she likes it, whether she knows it,
whether she wants it or not,
the waves of infinite love,
the ones that used to lap at her feet when she,
alone and too beautiful,
would sunbathe on the shore of my ocean,
they are turning toxic.
something has gone wrong.
like a tormented planet, choked of all good, deprived of love,
my wrath tempts my restraint.
will the hot and angry sun scorch the lush rainforests of affection and goodwill?
will the bitter waters flood the plains of balance and reason?
will my mind,
whether in retribution or in self-defence,
turn to thoughts of cosmic revenge?
but then,
with a flash,
the drugs kick in.
or are they wearing off?
and i realize that it's all for what?
and i remember what i want.
and i smile.
it's a simple wish, really,
but it's proven elusive, at best,
at worst, beautifully, passionately,
revoltingly unattainable.
i hope it stops.
but will it ever begin?
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 4:52 PM UTC
Where do the sunbathed birds go?
I want to know because I'm bleached pale
with the winters woes
and I want out of this cage.
I want to sunbathe were the birds might be,
with their twittering tweetles
and the promise of spring that is so soon around the corner.
Here the weather is just as bi-polar as I believe myself to be.
I'm a self proclaimed doctor with a self proclaimed condition,
and I am prescribing myself a day in the sunshine.
I can't wait to be where the robins lay their eggs,
where the sparrows fly with a glint of their tail left behind them,
and where that indistinguishable "too big for its britches" bird
finds himself his next meal... slowly...
So please, can you give me any directions
to where the sunbathed birds go?
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
From the first sunbeam of the morning,
To the last moment we are awake of the night,
I wanna love you.
From my back to my sides,
I want you to scratch me red,
And scratch me hard, harder.
I want you to pull me down the hardest,
Let's both drown in love together,
Someday in future if I do it, it'll be with you.
I wanna sunbathe with you in private,
With no inhibitions at all obstructing us,
And we let each other be the massage therapists.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
The thought of light beams
painting your thighs and collar
just a bit tanner
as you offer in a smaller than normal voice,
"I could sunbathe in your backyard"
is more than enough.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
"Turn off the television set"
"Switch off the films in your head"
"Disconnect the internet"
"Put away the books you haven't read"
"Wake up and go outside and see,
And stop all this hiding from the truth -
See the world as how it's meant to be,
Sunbathe in the garden; on the roof."
I think I'd rather live in fantasy
(Even if my eyes melt down my face)
From watching films, to escape reality,
Than wake up to the horrors of this place.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC