"sundried" poems
Up or deep down
which way is that
bedewed primrose path
the way forward?
Even the last breakthrough day
on the way heaven lingers
on sundried rosy evening clouds
let alone the roses that
never leave the ground.
Jul 7, 2022
Jul 7, 2022 at 1:50 PM UTC
*tempestuous heartache
& sundried tears
exhaled whispers
& combustible caresses
unilateral monogamy
& bipolar love
singular sensations
& conjoined sensuality
degrading hopelessness
& elevated vulnerability
decelerated time
& soaring spirituality*
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Looking out across the many shades of dark on dark
The rolling ashen gray fog opens a window to the dawn
and I feel a loneliness, arising like the winter sun
… in the morning
The trees have bared their golden surrender
Breaking silence through the windswept boughs
below, gathered dewdrops blossom on the last winter rose
… a chilling epilogue
Beyond the waning hydrangea sundried sepia tones
Latent conflicts of the head and heart stir the hush of memories
imposing heart whispers, arising like sunlight shadows cast
… in the morning
There’s no one listening to the wind roar the incoming wintertide
An ascending sadness paints many hues that contrast dark and light
as the Pink Moon, steals away over lonely mountain headed south
… in the morning
every picture tells a story ― ☾ wild is the wind ☽
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
No. I write against.
(Aihmeanlike, against it.)
No, against it.
Like this.
[The point is pressing
A dark circle down down down.]
So (Djiuknowhatuhmean?)
I clash on this. After doing that
All day, on air! With conscious
Breath, (which is just force myself
Breath!) out of the glued muck
Moss in my sere bellum. My
Me do lah. Oblong god. Duh.
How long, these fractured
seams of seemlessness around?
In the meantime, here’s
some words, an image of a
Stream, and I’ll say: “Like a dead
Man(’s passing.)” Look at it.
And you thought infinity
Could be brushed off like a fly!
Wring your wet sloppy self!
Undried, then sundried!
Well. Now, you are one-eyed.
But what about that cry
Of true voice swishing lost
And found in the growing
Concrescent infundibular
Abyss?
Oh, that might be the Sublime
Sadness! (That one mentioned
once.) Keeping the Eternal
Walker out in the dwindling
Afternoons, closer than tears
To littered ponds of cold light.
Will he pull out the solidified
Spirit, or precipitate his freedom
As indistinguishable from the
Mystery? Oh. Please. Then the
Self would be (the question).
And there. Would be. No.
Need for the asked king.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:58 PM UTC
Do you know the sound of the wind through the trees in the dead of a summer night?
The soft glow of the moon, golden on every surface,
Reflected deep brown in every shadow.
The balmy smoothness of the air along your skin, full of the sweetness of wet earth, new grass, and night blooming flowers.
The ghostly white moths that flit along the ocean of grass in the fields, capping billowing green waves.
The hush and hum of a sudden rain pattering on the sundried ground, darkening the darkness and blotting the moon with grey cotton clouds that glow from within.
Darling, I miss you like that. I miss you like a summer night. I miss you with that beauty,
Natural like a heartbeat,
Subtle like a breath,
Constant like the earth.
I miss you like a summer night.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
It’s shattering,
the splintering Crunch
of greasy potato chips
between my greedy molars:
chips that taste like stale smoke
and the salty yellow Crunch
of the Mylar bag
that holds them closer
than a health-crazed mother holds her child.
It’s drowning my senses out,
the accountant-firm Crunch
of black coffee characters
beneath my crippled fingertips:
keystrokes that sigh like short fuses
and the riffled paper Crunch
of the overpriced notebook
that was sold to protect
them against non-quantum uncertainties.
It’s pointless,
the mortar and pestle Crunch
of sundried willpower
before my monolithic day-planner:
obligations that loom like thunderclouds
and the omni-present Crunch
of the rigid ticking deadline,
that has concocted its scheme
to unravel my pleasant net of silky procrastination.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
With a shift inkling, concepts dropped
and I was all of my true name.
I etched in moving water.
I streamed me--water frozen,
water falling, water drifting
as fog, as cloud, I was.
Mini singular
H2O.
My two hydrogen rabbit ears
danced five different ways,
and oxygen laughed and sang
(what a team!)
Sundried, as the clock struck noon,
I found my feet and I stood.
I built myself of basaltic rock.
Tower of Babel--polyglot soundings
in cyclic revision spoke intelligence,
spirals I was
Inverted, I apt dived down.
In transition, I grew rounded
hollowing.
I inverted. I apt dived down
and in my transitions,
I grew rounded and hollowing.
I was Earth. I was Center.
Was Sun at Earth Center
where timeless pinpoint passages
snatched me home again.
O, boundlessness.
I have no name.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
Shopping :o)
one bag of flour
the self raising kind
a pound of bacon
without the rind
a loaf of bread
a jar of jam
remember the pickle
to go with the ham
dog food and cat food
cheese and coffee
don't forget raisins
and nuts for the toffee
tomatoes, sundried
get those if you're able,
if you're not sure
it will say on the label
toilet rolls, eggs
shampoo and stir fry
get rolls without seeds
heaven knows why
salad and butter
hot dogs and sauce
get reduced fat, low sugar
and lo salt, of course
chocolate and sweetcorn
chicken and stuffing
a chocolate chip, walnut
and blueberry muffin
pizza with pineapple
ham and some cheese
fairy and cookies
ariel fabreeze
turkey, satsumas
not oranges with pips
tin foil and razors
and food bags with zips
nutella is best
it's the one we like most
so get a big jar
to spread on our toast
boys, thank you for helping
It's a great deal to me
oh, and don't forget cake
and biscuits and tea
i'll leave it to you
if there are things that i've missed
Just get what you think
if it's not on the list.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 3:50 AM UTC
Innards twist
like salt on a slug.
Phlegm boils out
of sundried orifices.
Maggots find
a fresh fancy feast.
Once witnessing
eyeballs turn to prunes.
Flush turns pallid-- transparent.
The fine line between
has thus been crossed.
We're dead now.
Now is gone.
All gone.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
there is an ancient desert,
which grew
that can bask in oceans of bothersome airs
it pulses alive
with a blanket of simmering sand
pilots divebombing the dunes
and slowly moving creatures wave their arms in soft red light
smoke sifting through the air
and my tongue is the desert,
with worlds upon it
fractal by fractal
and you are stuck, your vision refusing to stop zooming
and zooming in and out out and
IN, their feet swaying in the swirl, rocking
back and forth
(forever)
and you see a pear in the sky but
it is in two places at once
larger and smaller
the screen turning red, green, normal
choosing nothing but
getting everything -
lovely and still, a girl,
eyes closed,
hair tied back in ribbons,
sits, a smile slowly creeping on her face,
her sundried and bleached waves
framing her silent face,
she sees all this and understands
that we are one
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
you pull the phone from its cradle
(the dial tone wails miserably)
and the glance you throw at me is a mash of expression
the corners of your mouth blending together
bemusement and sorrow
hope and desolation
as you caress the seven numbers
and tell her in broken lies
that you're coming home soon.
then
after the shy thud of plastic on plastic
and the tumble of ice in a glass poured solely to forget
you stand and turn
so like clockwork
there is a kiss that never meant a blessed thing
and three words said without impact—
sidewalk-chalk-in-a-rainstorm,
beached-and-sundried-starfish words
swept back out to sea.
i can wish for revolving doors
to keep you running in perfect circles—
a blissful three-sixty—
and lead you back to my cardboard palace
so we could air out the mold between the creases
just for a glimmer of something
fresh
and new.
but there are reasons why the serpent escapes from god.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
Oh, unknown chimera
you've ingrown
into my soul
like an inside out follicle
and you've got me burnin
like the Sahara sans aloe vera.
In vino veritas, in aquas sanitas.
And you know how much water there is to go around in the Sahara, so let's drink this fine wine
at least this time, and
let's find the rhyme that
shifts the paradigm.
Lovers do tell,
what's your bother,
whose your very own belle?
It seems you've turned over your shell and are moreover well-done than a sundried brick after church on sunny Sunday.
And you haven't even
given it a tried and true lick.
Cigarette smoke, ash, and flick.
You only dribbled a little spit, **** I see. Your dumb tongue stung was my B? Sorry. I guess you won't bother to taste the salt.
Drib drab, drib drab
rub it in my peeling scabs.
Oh my dank dab lung shank,
that's simply ab-fab. Really, at the same time it's everyone's fault and no one's at all. Brick wall fall and
I can't even remember what happened, but I can still remember how it felt...
Well, a nice solid wind and my ******* sails flew. Gotta loosen my belt if I'm gonna gobble up all of your insensitivities.
You can apologize more than a slimy politician, but even a marsh of muculent mucus could make me feel better than you did.
Throw out the key.
I'll leave my door locked, but you're a steel toe boot in the door with eyes sewn shut and I'm a stepped on tail with a high pitch yelp.
Oh my god, I'm so sorry!! Pet. Pet. Pet.
Leave me alone.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
*In a patch of sundried earth
dark cracks emerge.. forms resembling maps
remembered from schooldays and Google..
Appearance of arbitrary lines depicting
States newborn..
Our everyday maps also born of the Sun..
the Sun's artistry with rainfall..the points
of assembly of water in place and flow..forms of
unique identities each subdivided patch..
Raising the question of new possibility of finding
an Awareness.. becoming the Sun and seeing
the patches and lines and States anew
as images projected.. from that projector..
those many miles away...*
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
The sulking sun
left me some gifts;
a purple dusk and
cool mountain breeze.
golden sundried stalks waving
Grass reeds swaying
A lithe dancer's innate grace.
Such a rich stage
for a wonderful show
I almost forgot
that you were beside me.
It took a while
but it would come, eventually.
I smelt it before I saw it,
Your flannel was ablaze.
You looked on in mute pity
as I cried
and cried
leaning in to kiss
my tear doused face
scattering away
ashes in the wind.
Collapsed I cry,
under a purple sky
waiting for it to end.
and begin afresh again.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
Time stood still around her as
she wove her chain of clover flowers
tying every delicate knot with care
She ignored them at first as they became brown
so sundried and wilted
that even her delicate
knots
failed
Her fingers were sore
And she was becoming weary
Of staring at her wilted chain of clover flowers
Stretching for miles into the distance
And taunting her with its crisp and shriveled form
So as she continued to weave her clover flowers
She let her mind remain blank
She thought of nothing with every delicate knot she tied
Nothing as she plucked each flower from the ground
Nothing as she stared at the withered length of chain
And nothing as she finally laid it down
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Industrialised glam, digitalised intimacy
Rich aroma, dancing lights;
implicit wonders are unexplored
as they hide beneath the headstock
obeying society's stream of thought.
Rigour movements, sundried streets
hustling and bustling with only time to beat;
withering moments drape the paved sidewalk
just like the bland orange tainted tree in
your grave backyard (which many have described to be hollow and large)
Lingering spirits have strewn themselves over your covered sheets,
cementing their curtains as the bright white light
of haven glistens above their unblinking eyes
constricted by the deafening silence,
untoned to the faint hymns of children's laughter.
"Stop to smell the roses", the wise men speak:
confidence is their ruse; do not let it deceive you.
They hide amongst the similar thousands of men,
yet never raising a head to any of them.
These are the children of our future.
Senseless to surroundings, spray them fresh air,
Move their cognitive gears to move their oil-rigged limbs;
Let their creative minds sway to the rhythm of rustling trees,
Revive the diverse culture of our people for these brainwashed folks;
Deny the irony of being consumed, when you are the consumer.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
Hold up world
Can you see my pistol
Flashing over your eyes
This ain't no surprise
Its an surprise
Outlaws raisin' gettin' praisin'
Shrinkin' Washington up
Like sundried raisin'
Continue blazin'
Chronic on my mind
But I ain't got time
To waste **** a paper Chase
We came for the race
Trading places eradicating deaths faces
Check it out we got killaz to my left
Thieves on my right
Posin' at any position
No switchin' just politics nerves twitchin' wishin'
They could stop the revolution
But once the guns began shootin
Who can you trust is it us
Or them them fools been grim
Just check the history
Murdered the indians to mexicans
Then the so called africans
They took land without a fair wage
And they wonder why my souls enraged
Opened my mouthnow the birds out the cage
Free my mind no longer fried
I'm a stay true to the game
And hopefully all my revolts do the same cuz times changed
Its the resurgence of the dolla
Like Marvin Gaye
Its make me wanna holla
Prices soaring debt pouring
Fools still chasing materials
While the signs they ignoring
That's what they want
For you to be lost as a slave
In a mindset instead of posing a threat
To the secret society now rethink ya strategy
Now ask thee
If we got more guns that them
Can they fade me???
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 6:40 PM UTC
And in the mirror is an older girl from yesterday, for it was then that I wrote every fantasy for which i've yearned upon a golden sheaf and I tied it to a kite, black and red and orange, and I watched it sail up and up and up and forever away from here, for what will dreaming do me except milky teardrops and sagging doorframes. I'd like to live a life in peace away from falsities, and it is for that reason which I cringe at the lies and shallow untruths which are spoken around my core, too close, I push away. If I could fly I would go to the seas with whitecaps of pearl and ruby fishes jumping across my lazy, sundried belly, impregnated with ideals, puffy with a folly that gives the only true happiness. But if is but a word and I am but a girl and maybe with my grandmothers looking down upon me I will be that emerald eyed fox running for the moon.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
.
***Wileted Rose,
Dried Jasmine
Shredded marigolds,
Age defying,
The moments of life aging so soon,
From bud to bloom and sundried gloom.
A fast forward take on passing time,
A thing to learn from aging and dying..
The flowers life teaches to spread-
Brightness
Smile
Love
Laughter
Fragrance
Joy
In
Abundance.
***
Sparkle In Wisdom
6/10/2019
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 3:19 PM UTC