"taper" poems
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
11.3k
We have one day in which to live
So we can love to others give
If we desire to have success
We use our thoughts to others bless.
No matter what our work this day
It will be good to know the way
Now in your mind you make a plan
And then believe and know you can.
Know what you want, the plan will work
If thought is strong and you don't shirk
It will take effort on your part
To live your day with happy heart.
So come on now I do declare
Enthusiasm you can share
Just light the taper of your thought
And see how you can have what's sought.
Enthusiasm is the key
It brings a power to you and me
Power will touch the words you speak
And you will gain just what you seek.
These are not idle words I say
Enthusiasm lights the way
Lift up your thoughts and use the power
And watch your life change by the hour.
Success in life resides within
The mind and thoughts that you let in
To see success in your days plan
Just say the words I can, I can.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.
"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.
"Is she eating?" my mother asks.
"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.
My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.
Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.
"I forgot my trunks."
"That's no excuse."
I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.
In the living room.
While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.
Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:
"All roads lead to me."
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
There's a sister who floats with hungry collarbones and a razor-edged smile. She smokes sadness when she isn't ready to exhale.
She is beauty in fine art and wrath the colour of thunderstorms; the rain comes when she smiles.
Holier than thou and quick to judge, with antiseptic perception known to bring out the things you were not aware existed.
Addictive, those imprints from her feet will stamp all over you; nimble fingers puppeteering those who fall out of her thoughts.
She is selfish and always leaves, leaves, leaves. She ran away at the first tremor; she did not stay to watch the concrete crumble.
But she picked me up when the concrete friction broke my knees, lashed tyrants with her tongue and prowled behind the boyfriends that came and always went.
This sister whom I project; the image of her I mirror. She is love and laughter and moods that taper and flare.
She is a cluster of persons, a bomb liable to a detonate on a short fuse. She is trouble ailing in the best possible way; her flames light up the shade.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
When I am all alone
Envy me most,
Then my thoughts flutter round me
In a glimmering host;
Some dressed in silver,
Some dressed in white,
Each like a taper
Blossoming light;
Most of them merry,
Some of them grave,
Each of them lithe
As willows that wave;
Some bearing violets,
Some bearing bay,
One with a burning rose
Hidden away —
When I am all alone
Envy me then,
For I have better friends
Than women and men.
4.3k
Deep on the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:
My breath to heaven like vapour goes;
May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord:
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my ***** lies.
As these white robes are soil'd and dark,
To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,
To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
Thro' all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;
The flashes come and go;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,
And strows her lights below,
And deepens on and up! the gates
Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,
One sabbath deep and wide--
A light upon the shining sea--
The Bridegroom with his bride!
4k
Tonight i sat in the dark for a bit.
(A moment of silence if you will.)
Holding a taper candle, staring into its flame.
At first, for a bit, i was worried about candle wax dripping down and spilling over my hands and onto either my bedsheets or the carpet.
(Can hot candlewax start a fire?
Surely not.
Right?)
And then i thought to myself,
**** it."
If something happens ill catch it before it gets too bad. Ill feel the pain and it will remind me that i am alive.
That i am lucky.
That i can still feel things.
The candlewax did not spill or drip at all.
(Did you know they make candles like that??
Magic.)
Now, a bit disappointed, i thought,
"What a sediment"
I took the candle into my right hand.
Oh, so carefully,
I tilted the candle holding the flame over my right wrist.
One drop.
I flinched.
The pain stopped as soon as it came.
One for me.
I thought,
As i shifted the candle to my left hand,
"This is for you.
And all the pain you felt.
And that i didnt know about."
"This is my proof that i would have tried if i had known."
One for you.
I didnt even ******* know you very well.
We werent really even friends.
I dont know how to spell your name.
And still
Its too bad.
Its so sad.
Way too ******* sad.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 3:42 AM UTC
December 1899
I
She sits in the tawny vapour
That the Thames-side lanes have uprolled,
Behind whose webby fold-on-fold
Like a waning taper
The street-lamp glimmers cold.
A messenger’s knock cracks smartly,
Flashed news in her hand
Of meaning it dazes to understand
Though shaped so shortly:
He—he has fallen—in the far South Land…
II
’Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,
The postman nears and goes:
A letter is brought whose lines disclose
By the firelight flicker
His hand, whom the worm now knows:
Fresh—firm—penned in highest feather—
Page-full of his hoped return,
And of home-planned jaunts of brake and burn
In the summer weather,
And of new love that they would learn.
3.2k
I stood flat-footed upon an eroding hill
Here the sweet peas, on tip-toe for a fight
With wing of coarsest black o'er delicate night
And spiteful fingers grasping at all beauty
To bind us all in deeds unworthy
Oh, toxic wind and fertile rain
Disperse the fragrance of this pain
In healing gardens root a seed
Sprout the bliss we sorely need
This tiny pulse of life we hold
Thrives in soil tilled with love
And tender vines create a bower
Of sweet pea tended, brought to flower
I stand bare foot on an erupting volcanic mount
Here the sweet peas, on tip toe for a flight
With wing of justice verity o’er delicate sight
And nails that compassionately snowball serenity
To bind us all with concord and altruism
Oh, acidic rain share the tears
Wash thy tainted eye-sight
Then crux us in the high-yield land
As we germinate to heaven’s height
The seed so robust and fertile
A shell encased with human forms
The greenness of reflected sextile
Oh Sweet pea, our mirrored storm
*Inspired by a stanza from Keats' poem:
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill
Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
With wing of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings."*
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
I thought I love and then I saw you.
I love only You before creation of moon,
before light giving birth to mortal stars.
My past 'lovers' lost meaning
like a candle without taper waiting for a spark.
I never loved anyone.
It was just mind construct, dream of dead heart..
I always loved you and only you I will love.
I am God, fragments of morning kisses, every atom of your soul.
Creator is silent when He sees Himself in me.
As a result of my unconditional love
the moon will dance in the opposite direction
to the logic of all ascentors of centuries
in half-tons of my wistful soul full of unfathomable fondness.
And if the sun shines on man tomorrow with an unrelieved face
it's only when you and I unite in the love flames of our bodies
bringing God into the world, one soul of all Gods.
Trinity in two bodies will bless every human being
in every sacred touch of your kiss.
The etheric stars I will feed with heavenly light
of movement of your lips when you say 'i love you, art of my life'.
The breath of fantasts comes to the world
once in a million years, You.
God Himself gave me power
to bring the stars aglow under your feet
and burn with passion your heart and spirit,
the only one I adored, adore and will adore
in non-local reality of space and time, forever.
Ingenious Metaphysician of sublunary world I am
spreading astronomical theories of unconditional love.
No sun comparable to true love of your heart.
You are the axis of my universal soul.
You are the light inside black holes.
I am limitless love without concept of being loved in return.
God you are.
I am God.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
Night,
and there is nothing more fragile
than this fever, an opus
of guitars swelling with song
and water, fluent
as the nocturnes are tuned
to the lower scale and strings vibrate deep within
the marrow as they ascend,
the soul blowing glass,
and filling the lungs
with a long slow taper of light, streaming
as fingers are brought to bear on frets
covered in hoarfrost,
and stray hair is pushed back from countenance,
to reveal the fractions of fire caught upon iris
there come slow indulgences,
and forgotten things,
to twine the body
in banners of winter silk,
scarves about the wrists, roped
in tethers and these feathers
of night-blooming jasmine
hang in long strands of pearl,
from my temple, teal threads of opal
and heather braids twine
the tone, the time
is not all poems
upon a blank page or songs
to coo the concert of souls
muted in chambers acoustically
formed of minutes, stolen in a glance,
at glimpse of skin or the tender touch
of cheek as eyes brim
soul-filled to overflow,
nocturnal blends the silent pause
between movements upon a page
where there is room for words,
though never found ,but in gesture
and margin's note that lays soft upon the tongue,
behind lips suited for sighs
these lost manuscripts begin
a long hand of notes held whole
Let the music play again,
its plea, eternal,
my love, please
do not forget how to preserve me,
for this is night,
and it is fragile....
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC
we was in the bando,
trappin, we were trapped..
cook named Orlando,
moved across the track..
used to be my neighbor, now hes got the paper,
owns a couple barbershops, got myself a taper,
owns a deli too, couple cleaners down the main street,
not long ago we were sitting in the same seat..
back when,
we was in the bando,
trappin, we were trapped..
kitchen hot too handle,
Found ourselves a rat..
polices, driving by increases...
Orlando had a thesis,
Moved in with his nieces..
He says...
"Theyll never catch me in here,
I live without fear,
only time i cry is with this tattoo tear"
A couple days later, cops broke the door in,
couple windows too, just to let more in,
they found a couple rifles, most of them foreign...
Cuffed Orlando, his niece, and his babymomma Lauryn...
multiple charges of distribution.
couple cases of ******
money laundering, and weapons, his attorney would murmur...
They say my writing ***** this is no place for this crap..
i dont do poetry, i just write reality rap..
and truthfully, nowadays reality lacks.
So i dedicated this to his daughter Natalie Max.
25 to life..
no chance of parole, bottle....
of hennessy,
just *** he was my role model..
They say how can you defend him, when i yell free Orlando..
*** i still remember when..
we was in the bando...
-afj
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe should and aught
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead,
And that thou think’st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feigned vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call’st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink,
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bathed in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I’d rather thou shouldst painfully repent
Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent.
2.1k
I Am Not Yours
Sara Teasdale, 1884 - 1933
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
I admit that I am a man
and with that comes man things
I'm obsessed with the shape
and can't help but stare
when you pass by
Albeit a subtle glance
sometimes it's a full out
ogle
Tight jeans or yes...
the classic yoga pants
can drive a sane man wild
What is it that makes me crazed
why can't I stop?
If there was a 12 step program
to taper me off
I would be in rehab
Even the summer tiny shorts
and beach thongs... why do you
tease me to break my neck
I want and need help, but
a well designed bubble,
apple, onion, aka *****
is a terrible thing to waste
I love and respect all your
feminine parts, ****
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe, aught and should
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
How long the minutes seem
Sitting in the stream
Of thoughts going rotten
Of ideas long forgotten
My stomach is rumbling
But my hand just keeps bumbling
Along the lines of the paper
Until the rhymes start to taper
But the genius I must ration
Because my mind is lost in some other nation
Somewhere deep inside my head
For all I know it is dead
I can’t seem to do the assignment
Something is wrong with the alignment
Of me in this school of strife
And the position I’m in for the rest of my life
For some unfathomable reason
I feel as though I’m just breezin’
Through these hours upon hours of classes
Time going slower than molasses
But I have to drudge through it
Even though I want to say ***** IT
Because I’m bored out of my skull
But with out it my life would even more dull
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
the driftwood fits perfectly in my palm
I unspool the seaweed from its taper
furling it about my finger
my marriage to the sea was disputed
with a tiny crab that day
gentle tug-o-war with my heart
and my eruptive roar
echoing his staunch request
to keep his algae blanket - and home
the equivalent of a cardboard box in childhood
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Words of mystery,
have became known.
Words of disguise,
were rightly shown.
Hidden no more,
under the brush they lay.
For everyone knew,
what they planned to say.
Words scribbled down,
on piles of paper.
Every single one,
would diminish and taper.
You call that poetry?
they say with a frown.
*Classified as a poet,
you're only a let down.*
Words of mystery,
kept concealed.
Words of disguise,
not tightly sealed.
Scribbling away,
at the endless works.
Never moving past,
the broken waterworks.
Here I write away,
those silly old scraps.
And pray dear god,
that I'll never relapse.
Done with the pointlessness
Done with the wrath,
I'm ready to move on,
to journey on the path.
Words of mystery,
closed once more,
Words of disguise,
never like before.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
Reckless thoughts pour over paper
Memories thicken, swell and taper
Each stroke left unreconciled
Pure white sheets with ink defiled
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.
All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.
Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.
I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
As I left the house the other day I felt some eyes on me
But, I looked around both front and back and no one did I see
I had this funny feeling as I walked on down the street
They were hidden in the background and were being quite discreet
It really did unnerve me to be watched out in the dark
But then I found my stalker when I walked down by the park
I turned around so quickly and looked up in the trees
And there it was , I saw it, sitting staring back at me
A pair of eyes were smiling, on a cat , the Cheshire kind
When I looked again, I knew again, that this was just my mind
I'd had this feeling once before a year or so ago
But I'd looked around for someone and that someone didn't show
But here I was years later standing, looking in that tree
At a cat with eyes wide open, sitting, smiling back at me
I said "where did you come from?" and "what is it you want?"
"Why choose me to follow, why am I the one you haunt?"
He blinked and said "I'm sorry, it's is you that chose to choose"
"I'm just here to help your writing, you can say that I'm your Muse"
"You see I surface when you need me, to give your ideas a little push"
"I help filter out the voices, I'm the one that tells them shhhhhh"
"An artist has a model, Lautrec...he had his ******
"Doyle had his ***** and you can say I'm yours"
"But why a cat?...of all the things there is for to be chosen"
"I don't know he said, maybe your mind was just frozen!"
"You must like Lewis Carroll for I'm his , not yours, you know"
"And just like back in Wonderland, I know just when to go".
"I know when you are stuck on a word or on some prose"
"That's when I come and help you, come to help show how it goes"
"But, why do you stay hidden, come on now and tell me true"
"Who'd believe a tale of talking cats...not me...and I'm sure not you!"
"I'm near and then I'm not so close, I come just when I must"
"Usually, you're on your own, your thoughts you're best to trust"
"To write and share your stories, it takes a leap of faith"
"But who'd believe it if you said you got your stories from a wraith?"
I thought a bit, and that made sense, there's no way to tell
Even though it's madness, they'd condemn me right to hell
A Cheshire cat who writes your poems and sits up in a tree
Now who would believe that fancy tale ?, certainly not me
He said my mind has many thoughts that should be put to paper
And his job was to come around when ideas began to taper
Poems, and essays, stories, who knows even a book
I'd only have to dig deep down, and give my mind a look
Before he left I asked him why I'd not seen him before
He said to me "truth be told, you've never opened up that door"
"You've never crossed the threshold to where your mind gives birth"
"To the ideas for all your writing, your imagination hearth"
"But now you know I'm here for you and here to help you write"
"I'll disappear just like before and I shall say goodnight"
"Before you leave I have to say, I'm glad that this was no ruse"
"And of the things there is around I'm glad it's you I chose to choose!"
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
Toad sand and frog pebbles,
warted rocks kicked and toed.
Tease the ocean with chocolate dipped feet,
spiced and salted teas.
Taper off mid-sentence, paragraphs tepid
long arms and zebra stripes, a crosswalk tepir.
Tocsin alarm clocks poison innocent bystander’s sleep,
slipping things in their drinks, filling their ears with toxin.
Tie a scarf around the forehead
of the middle child. Teach them beginning syllables of Thai.
Throes and spasms of overachievers
motivate for longer strides, faster throws.
Tense shoulder muscles
hide in sleeping bags, badly pitched tents.
Told injuries snuck in when the door opened,
we heard the miniature silver bells as they tolled.
Ticks count every second second, punctuated by tocks.
With each, a twitch, conscious nervous tics.
Titan tool boxes hold spare screws,
on Coeus’ threaded axis, we spin and tighten.
Terne sardine cans filled with mercury,
pollute our science tests, killing tern.
Tied red string around our pinkies so we don’t forget
when to go to the beach looking for clams at low tide.
Tacks pin talented teens to cork boards,
alongside instructions on regretting the harmonised sales tax.
Tire prints border the country,
left by jeeps that never tire.
Tails directing orchestras,
swarms of swan swim, tattling and telling tales.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC