"teakwood" poems - Hello Poetry

The black night’s ebbing tide erased the only remaining hints, the cresting long ocean swells did not cleanse without a trace. Adrift and lethargically bobbing seaweed entangled teakwood box of water-logged photographs, drowning, surrendered from the heart of the sea Like molted wild feathers cast ashore with the tide to the coarse specks of rasping sands, Darwin's dream in an emptied sea-bubble popped, dissipated into its own haplessness, bestrewn about an untrodden seashore Washed out snapshots of life’s disregarded minutia enchained to an ordinary forgotten Kodachrome moment left out to the consequences of the ever fickle tides, abandoned happenstance spilled by chance upon another undiscovered world The warped and bloated wooden box encasement, hoary with swollen furrowed woodgrain s, wearied by an enduring measureless moment adrift; as if an ill-fated message in a misbegotten leaky bottle, corked with marooned good intentions, and images of disappearing dreams flung out shipwrecked in barnacled azure glass beneath a sky so far away someone you used to know

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Mar 4, 2017

Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC

black-swanv7

Water soaked photographs

The black night’s ebbing tide erased the only remaining hints, the cresting long ocean swells did not cleanse without a trace. Adrift and lethargically bobbing seaweed entangled teakwood box of water-logged photographs, drowning, surrendered from the heart of the sea Like molted wild feathers cast ashore with the tide to the coarse specks of rasping sands, Darwin's dream in an emptied sea-bubble popped, dissipated into its own haplessness, bestrewn about an untrodden seashore Washed out snapshots of life’s disregarded minutia enchained to an ordinary forgotten Kodachrome moment left out to the consequences of the ever fickle tides, abandoned happenstance spilled by chance upon another undiscovered world The warped and bloated wooden box encasement, hoary with swollen furrowed woodgrain s, wearied by an enduring measureless moment adrift; as if an ill-fated message in a misbegotten leaky bottle, corked with marooned good intentions, and images of disappearing dreams flung out shipwrecked in barnacled azure glass beneath a sky so far away someone you used to know

27

"Don't think of me; this moment, blot out this voice of mine. These looks irresistible to me though you are avert your gaze from mine. Consider, instead, A Memory in Teakwood Magnolia Wash; voices ring down a corridor, rising, and fading, fading and rising; or the spiralling diaphanous mystery of childhood", I said. She said, "Ooh, You don't half talk some ****

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Aug 18, 2013

Aug 18, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC

dennis-lancet

All set for a pounding (chanson)

"Don't think of me; this moment, blot out this voice of mine. These looks irresistible to me though you are avert your gaze from mine. Consider, instead, A Memory in Teakwood Magnolia Wash; voices ring down a corridor, rising, and fading, fading and rising; or the spiralling diaphanous mystery of childhood", I said. She said, "Ooh, You don't half talk some ****

17

Hello, thank you for using Bangladesh Free. please input the number you are trying to dial. yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to talk to myself there, not here, my body straddles two nations yesterday i rubbed my fading purple stretch marks i don’t know which language I dream in any more yesterday i sat in cold bathwater scrubbing until the purpura bleed my mothers’ mothers’ mother died in a red river my mothers mother’s mother birthed a nation between her bleeding legs most days I am still, her water’s edge, algae between teakwood toes yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to tell myself We’re sorry your minutes have run out. Please deposit ten dollars to continue.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC

nuha-fariha

Creaking branches leaves trails of algae in my grandmother’s pond

Hello, thank you for using Bangladesh Free. please input the number you are trying to dial. yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to talk to myself there, not here, my body straddles two nations yesterday i rubbed my fading purple stretch marks i don’t know which language I dream in any more yesterday i sat in cold bathwater scrubbing until the purpura bleed my mothers’ mothers’ mother died in a red river my mothers mother’s mother birthed a nation between her bleeding legs most days I am still, her water’s edge, algae between teakwood toes yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to tell myself We’re sorry your minutes have run out. Please deposit ten dollars to continue.

12

and i will wait for you here on the other side, where the earth and her fields await the footsteps of that girl who dared to swallow pomegranate seeds — each one holding a tenfold of unsaid apologies. i will wait for you here, where the storms i brewed found themselves pressing against the softness of lilacs, where the nightfall forgives the sunset for leaving, where morning smells of teakwood and rain. and you will realize that each sigh does not have to weigh like a thousand bent bromeliads — that each breath does not have to ache in the presence of morning light. you will deserve every bit of softness you tried so hard to **** you will deserve every bit of moment that doesn't hurt — someday, you'll get here and you'll know. you'll know. — to my younger self

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Jun 11, 2020

Jun 11, 2020 at 10:57 PM UTC

femininedeath

a thousand lost letters and one

and i will wait for you here on the other side, where the earth and her fields await the footsteps of that girl who dared to swallow pomegranate seeds — each one holding a tenfold of unsaid apologies. i will wait for you here, where the storms i brewed found themselves pressing against the softness of lilacs, where the nightfall forgives the sunset for leaving, where morning smells of teakwood and rain. and you will realize that each sigh does not have to weigh like a thousand bent bromeliads — that each breath does not have to ache in the presence of morning light. you will deserve every bit of softness you tried so hard to **** you will deserve every bit of moment that doesn't hurt — someday, you'll get here and you'll know. you'll know. — to my younger self

2

#The museum was deserted at mid-noon The summer sun more than his taste for history Drove him in for a stroll among the dead faces and objects. His eyes caught the two warnings Photography prohibited and Don’t touch objects He furtively cell-clicked Dupleix’s Bed Solid 18th century teakwood Carrying stains of his passions on white linen Imprinted with the motions of his emotions *There he saw the ruler on the bedstead With tender touch of fingers on his head One svelte hand on the dark wooden stand* His hand involuntarily touched the wood A small chunk fell into his hand And without a second thought In a forbidden impulse He shoved it inside his pocket He came out from the musty smell into the sun A chip of Dupleix in his pocket His passion’s outlet Escapes from the ravages of war To find solace From the tender hands around him Bought by force of wealth Far far away from home. Away from colonial past he breathed deep The little wooden chip would be a memorable keep!#

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Dec 4, 2013

Dec 4, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

A Piece of Dupleix

#The museum was deserted at mid-noon The summer sun more than his taste for history Drove him in for a stroll among the dead faces and objects. His eyes caught the two warnings Photography prohibited and Don’t touch objects He furtively cell-clicked Dupleix’s Bed Solid 18th century teakwood Carrying stains of his passions on white linen Imprinted with the motions of his emotions *There he saw the ruler on the bedstead With tender touch of fingers on his head One svelte hand on the dark wooden stand* His hand involuntarily touched the wood A small chunk fell into his hand And without a second thought In a forbidden impulse He shoved it inside his pocket He came out from the musty smell into the sun A chip of Dupleix in his pocket His passion’s outlet Escapes from the ravages of war To find solace From the tender hands around him Bought by force of wealth Far far away from home. Away from colonial past he breathed deep The little wooden chip would be a memorable keep!#

28

Dust Devils in between the sheets Moth smell, dreamlike A small and friendly memory Let the morning sun pour in Musted air and brown teakwood Dusty sun in dusty eyes Smooth the cotton, pale and sweet Lace touch, fresh smell Crinkled to infinity Dust devils in their linen paradise

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Apr 14, 2017

Apr 14, 2017 at 3:39 AM UTC

authorofautumn

Dust Devils

Dust Devils in between the sheets Moth smell, dreamlike A small and friendly memory Let the morning sun pour in Musted air and brown teakwood Dusty sun in dusty eyes Smooth the cotton, pale and sweet Lace touch, fresh smell Crinkled to infinity Dust devils in their linen paradise

10

Self embracing, literally The shattered skeleton of my intended joys Wounded, no, un-alive Clutching onto wastrels of hope Drowning Falling Sinking Down to the depths of my reality Praying to wake up to blind filtered polluted sunshine And impatient ***** of vehicle drivers. Crows cawing The sounds of construction. Firmness beneath my body My sight blocked by the smoky illusion of bed curtains. What truly is home? The physical manifestations of boredom and repetition Familiar scents of musk, old paper and furniture Alive furniture, living furniture With a story; multiple histories to tell Stuck here instead Pale skin, dead eyes, cold souls 40 different kinds of bread, wasted Harsh fluorescent lighting People pretending to be happy with new haircuts and won ipads A polaroid of a daisy Whimsical, right? Hardly. Overused, misinterpreted, cliched Cliched realities mixed together in a Chinese take away box Gold earrings and strappy heels Mask true insecurity I lay awake briefly Dreaming of car-empty roads and solid buildings Full families and the idea The idea of being able to share SHARE Food, space, air Thoughts.

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Sep 10, 2017

Sep 10, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC

sanacaspercat

teakwood nightmare

Self embracing, literally The shattered skeleton of my intended joys Wounded, no, un-alive Clutching onto wastrels of hope Drowning Falling Sinking Down to the depths of my reality Praying to wake up to blind filtered polluted sunshine And impatient ***** of vehicle drivers. Crows cawing The sounds of construction. Firmness beneath my body My sight blocked by the smoky illusion of bed curtains. What truly is home? The physical manifestations of boredom and repetition Familiar scents of musk, old paper and furniture Alive furniture, living furniture With a story; multiple histories to tell Stuck here instead Pale skin, dead eyes, cold souls 40 different kinds of bread, wasted Harsh fluorescent lighting People pretending to be happy with new haircuts and won ipads A polaroid of a daisy Whimsical, right? Hardly. Overused, misinterpreted, cliched Cliched realities mixed together in a Chinese take away box Gold earrings and strappy heels Mask true insecurity I lay awake briefly Dreaming of car-empty roads and solid buildings Full families and the idea The idea of being able to share SHARE Food, space, air Thoughts.

37

We all squeezed into the trunk My hipbone pressed against yours You looked down at the photo on your phone And a soft lock of hair fell over your forehead I wanted to push my hands into your hood and through your curls The air was full of our laughter and bass-heavy music And camera flashes and the smell of teakwood Our feet dragged easily over the wet pavement Pushing away orange leaves and awkwardness

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Nov 13, 2018

Nov 13, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC

jbird

Boy (in Autumn)

We all squeezed into the trunk My hipbone pressed against yours You looked down at the photo on your phone And a soft lock of hair fell over your forehead I wanted to push my hands into your hood and through your curls The air was full of our laughter and bass-heavy music And camera flashes and the smell of teakwood Our feet dragged easily over the wet pavement Pushing away orange leaves and awkwardness

9