"teals" poems
Aphrodite, oh sweet Aphrodite.
Cast your gaze on me, cast a spell on me.
Give your warm embrace, kiss me under the soft moonlight.
Oh sweet Aphrodite, Oh sweet Aphrodite.
Oh, I wish I could see you everyday.
Even if the clouds choke out the sunlight.
Even when the rain anchors me to the earth.
Just stay with me, even just only for tonight.
I'm so infatuated, I would do anything for you.
Just to see if you're okay.
Even for a second, for a glimpse of your face.
I just wish I could see you everyday.
Things are stressful, sometimes I feel like I could drown.
And sink into the sand, to disappear.
But when I gaze into your teals, the strain collapses.
Sinks away like the ground beneath my feet.
Sweet Aphrodite, I just wish you were here.
Forever more, just to love you my dear.
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
Cool kid euphoria with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on is what we all are in the basement of the 50’s house.
Our phones blowing up while we sip whiskey and wine.
Trying to get the attention of the cars on the main road
By handstanding and flashing and cheersing our beers
And we receive our victorious honks.
Guitar clock radio with numbers around the fretboard and Sir Paul smiling and crooked, acid-trippin’ guitarist/violinist/celloist looking product of orange and gold look down upon as our patron saints.
Swingin’ low, Sweet Chariot words stares up at me from the 70’s floral carpet.
Ralph Stanley and Eric Clapton singing solos and duets in my head keep me company as the boys play and figure out key changes.
Painted screen hiding the Etta James microphone stands forgotten in the corner—
As I take in the teals and roses and golds.
Give me a heart shaped box where I can store my love
I fly so high in the world above
I’ll come back down eventually.
Lava lamped water stain engulfs the ceiling. As fingers go up frets
And they go down frets
And they go up frets
And they go down frets.
As you don’t enunciate when you sing.
We all mourn our fallen brethren, the base of the telecaster with no strings and no head and it weeps silently from its place on the water pipes, hearing his cousins WAAAIIIIILLLLLL.
As Cool kid euphoria is created with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on in the basement of the 50’s house.
We work all day so we can drink all night
Getting high off the drug that is each other
Chain-smoking Pall Malls like it’s our job
Listening to oldies as we shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket.
Garden tools and Lawn Mower parts as a sweet, creepy décor in the dank basement
As we breathe in mold and dust and cigarette smoke.
We are gloriously young.
So **** off.
We still think we can change the world.
Not through politics or through fear or by means of war
But by doing just enough to get by and loving everybody for who they are, even the parts or religions or particular ways of life we don’t like,
Because people aren’t what they do or what they believe
They’re who they are.
We still think we can change the world
And Maybe one day, we will
But for now
We’ll just be here,
In the basement of the 50’s house with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
We all perhaps know how Wendy waved at the night sky,
bid a goodbye as good as a farewell,
at the illusion of a pixie dust-flickered cloudscape
of a voyage setting sail
to dreams and fantasies stretching beyond time and infinitum.
And she was showered with so much
faith, trust and pixie dust,
quaint tiny love-stained lips
promises a kiss and sealed acorn, tight around her neck.
And the sparkle in the glances of her
lovely pair of blue crystal teals
manifest in the whereabouts of a star second to the right.
But the Big Ben struck half past childhood
and play pretend and silky nightgowns are long time over.
Innocence is robbed by a shadow
lurking in the premises of what could have been
for once the clicking of the keys
to the lock and latch of the gates of the yesteryears,
it could not be undone.
The hook of a deceiving treachery
robbed all the glow of a child’s pearl laced smile
and the mere belief of the existence of fairies and the magical mystical boy
who never grew up.
She once laced her hands with his,
past ephemeral and London night,
and straight on till morning.
The desires of her heart got lost in the sea of nowhere,
as it raced against the foolish time;
we all perhaps know how Wendy is never never return
to never Neverland.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
**Mauve is my favorite Color
A sister to Burgundy,
dusty Rose, soft Purple hues..
Love variations of Creams,
buttery Golden Yellows,
Blues, Teals, Pinks and Crimson
Not so much..the Primaries.
So very saturated and bright,
What captives my attention
is the endless, sumptuous possibilities
blending of spectrums and
hues providing me the most delight
Huge fan of Black...
A non-color
the definitive definition defining
lack of all Color.
Which is actually a dichotomy...
As to create black is to chose a base tone
Then blending a series of other Colors
So that every black
The exception being formulations
becomes a variation of a theme..
The debate continues,
If Black is truly the definition
of lack there of, therefore not deserving the title
of being a Color, where does that leave those that insist that Black is their's (favorite)?
Hmmm, maybe Black is my favorite Color too...
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
I got the blues like James cotton and the crew
The blues in my hands
Like the crew and James c.o.t.t.o.n
Not like k.r.a.f.t
More like zatarains r.i.c.e
...A lonely mans meal
The blues
For crying out loud my ol lady left me
Every 5 minutes for 9 minutes
I cry without tears coming down my eyes
So no need for a bucket
My cheeks are dry
I cry through my trumpet
My cheeks are cramping
I cry so often and so long
The way in which my feet tap you can't tell that it's a sad song
I thought I would've Lost harmony when Monica left
But my harmonica explains the exchange of breaths going through my chest
Yet, blues explains my mood
On stage with my dudes
Audience in-tune with my news
The blues
I got the blues
Can you relate?
Did she escape?
No wonder why you're rapping and sagging
Bluffing and bragging
And your not huffing; puffing , and nagging
To get a case of the blues the love between the two once upon a time had to be true
I got the blues
And it's hard and complicated
I am strung like the guitar
...Observation!
There's no contemplation
Nor hesitation
I abandon my mentals
And create instrumentals
I got the blues
And to prove I have the bruise
Heartache and headaches
Allow me to groove
The blues, skies, teals, turquoises
No lies, tears nor voices
Real blues like fats, Percy , Ruth, king, archibald "stack-a-lee", hank Williams "nobody's lonesome for me"
The blues
My aching trombones
Drug free, but my bass is laced
I let my fingers rake
The blues
She don't know what she had
Hope that I can put down my flask
when I move on to jazz
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
surrounded by
shell-glossed earthtones
teals on magenta
images of americana,
from native moccasins to
an embroidered 50 states
(of slices of mind)
engraved tobacco canister,
grandpa’s favorite pipe
crafted crochet blankets
spun out from grandma’s hands
like magic
one antique menorah
lit in holiday memories
books and photos in movie star
glamour mixed with
wild-haired natural
smooth polished woods and
painted cityscape, all
slick rugged cozy
colorful trinkets against
subtle plush
of beige, elegance of
textures in tandem
love’s timeless flame
wrapped around me,
like a flannel blanket
acceptance and welcome
ringing
in my pores like freedom
and I float upon this bed
in my mother’s home,
once mine
(still mine)
as in a river
flowing out tendrils
our bond unbroken
past and present bathing me
in deep-seated roots of caring
what more could a daughter,
now also a mother,
ask for
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
Again that roar of sea dying into murmur.
Yet another splash and retreat.
Wild wind wet with the constant spray.
Sometimes I don't and sometimes, you don't.
We walk together here, this way.
Sometimes the sea, the world at others.
Yes, sometimes there's only one person's track here.
So many years now, yet everything is in those first days.
Voices that persist in the interludes to birdsong.
At noon they peep in through revolving
shadows of the tireless fan.
Forms that flit in and out of my mind
as I motor away into the ebbing evening.
Streak of light that dissects the painting on the wall
late every night. Blinding every morning.
Broken well that chimes back
your own distorted voice and visage.
Sometimes I wish I could walk out of your life.
Sometimes, you wish you could from mine.
My altar went dark the day after I set it in order.
What if I lose you, what if I lose you?
The rose plant died when the maid watered her
this summer when I was away.
What of me finding her dead like this?
Withered leaves, speak to me.
This bare silence is thorny to my soul.
Solitary pond, speak to me past the springs of teals,
rain that obscures the closed temple to the deity of love.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 7:31 AM UTC
The leaves in winter, they all fall in place.
In endings hidden, embers of a new life.
Every once in a while an unknown girl
walks up close on a smoggy night;
And an awkward lank woos her with
half-withered roses by the south bank;
Going after severed kites,
landing now by the memory lane:
by the Thames, holding a palmful,
saying, this river's named after you:
she has a dimpled smile;
By the lakes, deep at night, when the moon
walks over the waves, dancing with the swans;
Where the Lee bends around the corner,
a red bus emerges out of the mist,
a hero on chilly nights of the early autumn,
when the dhak welcomes the Goddess home.
Teals, wobbling out of the pond, by
the temple of love, closed for ages now;
Crimson paint dripping from the evening
sky at the corners;
Every day when loving this way
seems like a picture painting away,
get lost walking by the Thames;
Whirling back like the descent from the Eye,
time and crackers light the sky,
on a Guy Fawkes night.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
In beautiful waves of
Reds
Old cartoons
Stupid jokes
Laughter ringing in my ear like sunshine
Tangurines
Purples
A mother's hypocracy
A lovely woman, sleeping softly
Rainy Days
Sadness
Bird songs
A beautiful spring dress wore to a morbid event
Greens
The sounds of a young adolecent trying to prove her point
Teals
A child's stubborn nature
Black
The nostalgia comes
To a weary heart
And suddenly I need an asprin
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
How is the night treating you? I am asleep,
but not. Half awake, but not. I am hope,
but not. I want to scream, but don't. In this
half-morning, I want yesterday, but don't.
Tomorrow has poured in, but hasn't.
Now these itchy feet. Itchy tips of hair
that rub the cheeks. Itchy heart where
love smoulders. Some sweeter itch:
but, itch, nevertheless; itch in my sleep.
I want to know if this is an itchy night?
The rain falls like an itch on the rooftop.
This is some funny farce of a farcical night.
Tonight, I love the teals more, but don't.
Coots seem darker than the sky, but aren't.
In this deep night, I am love, but not. In this
last 'but not', the 'not' part is small, I mean.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
Wrap me in teals, corals and turquoise of the oceans,
Envelop me in veils of azure,
Drape me in verdant hues of the forest,
Swathe me in the crimson of sunsets,
Embroider my robes with fuchsia, amber and plum,
Hide twinkling diamonds in the folds to play hide-and-seek like stars on a cloudy night,
Nestle amidst my tumbled chestnut, bronze hair,
Emeralds, sapphires, amethysts and pearls,
Woven together with gossamer threads of cool silver and sun-drenched gold,
Tuck away violets, jasmines and orange blossoms into my crown,
Cocooned in their sweet fragrance,
Cloaked in Nature's splendor,
Leave me in solitude,
Where the skies embrace the seas,
Away from the rusty hues of blood and steel,
From ash, charcoal and misery,
From drab taupes, dingy olives and mousy browns of normalcy,
Let me revel in jewel tones,
Colors as flamboyant as me.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
**The ever optimistic fool sits with sapphire teals rolling frantically from eyes which see too much
The heart that has been torn, tread upon and dragged in the dust can not bare the burden
So it rips apart,spilling it's ragged contents Into the gutter
There is nowhere left to run and your not really sure there's a need to leave
But a return back from this pessimism would be a delightful notion
As thoughts twist and turn
Like a never ending last spin on your noisy washer
Faster, more fragmented, frantic and free
The land has been freshly ploughed
The arguments are over
You have used your voice so as not to be seen as invisible
You may have spilled it all and god knows where we go from here
But it's certain that we will take not a step backwards in our endevour to be heard
Scratch an itch and it will get bigger
Keep picking at my scars and I will not be able to give you my free thinking happy mask that I manage to wear so well
So well indeed that I truly forgot this part of me ever existed
To stand upon the highest hill in the middle of a storm that could match my own
To meet my match in natures force
This alone will help me sleep
The dreams are so haunting
And I'm drowning in the neglectful thoughtlessness of clowns**
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
So, come with me
Where we can see the trees sway
Where the sun is a different color as it sets
And the stars dust the night
We’ll lay in that brown patch of grass
Caterpillars hanging on to leaves
The rustling branches scattering the earth
And we’ll know what it’s like to feel
Mountains with snow drenching its tops
Touch my skin, it burns for you
Fingers calloused and worn with time
The shimmer of the earth
Let the grays blanket the rivers
The rocks tumbling into sea banks
Roots of trees soaking in teals
Humming of time long gone
I wait for you
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 4:43 PM UTC
When i first met you
you told me you could do a 360
on a wave
with your boogy board.
I told you i liked to paint
because you looked like a painter.
First of all i was lying.
I can't paint pictures
but i love to paint souls.
I love to splatter them with vibrant memories
and to add on to your mind with soft strokes of pastels.
I would love it more than anything
if you were a painter of souls too.
I need someone to paint my mind
something other than dark moody red and browns.
It would be lovely if you could paint me with yellows
and teals and pinks.
Maybe ill even let you paint my heart
Maybe ill even paint yours.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
Lately it seems like everything is black and white
Like the hues of the greens and blues don't go quite right
As if the purples and reds in my head are out of sight
There are no oranges, pinks or teals in this life
The turquoise and maroons won't come out these nights
There isn't even grey, no matter how hard you fight
Because the world steals your color from time to time
Leaving you with nothing but some black and some white.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
T'is a silence that summons the Gods
past the swan lakes, skies
pondering deep in the stars
floating in the clouds, homes
of distant them dreams
past this temple that was ever closed
un-noticed as we walked past
the teals, hand in hand
when the horizon is lit in hundred
colours, come wading to me
past the milling crowds
our words echo endlessly
on the wind-swept streets
by the lamp-shades
and autumn leaves
in the old book that was never opened
the fragrance of a red rose
pressed dry to this page
that spoke the story of love
night of the evening suns
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
******* pricey thought
Pretending to be a princess
I’ll catch him and rip his fancy
Dresses off cuz there’s no ecstasy
On his naked raked body
Old and possessed reeking ***
Smells of coke or ****
My ****** up American dream
Your hells, heels and hills
Your hits, **** teals and tills
You and your exquisite cream
Of love–I’d rip you apart apart
From this adorable gait
Underneath that glorious golden Gate.
September 23, 2015
Villeurbanne
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
Your white words are giving me nothing
but the deepest teals and greens -
deeper than the oceans themselves.
The waters are awake, encompassing
the earth and drawing us in with the wayward
tides, which are unsynchronised and lost
from reality. All I see in those waves of promise,
chopping and churning with wild ferocity
in the dark winds of night-time,
comes from a simple word. All colour
is implanted in my mind, in my imagination,
from a simple image that you conveyed with a
single, colourless word.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC
I come to paint rainbows
upon your heart of
depression . . .
To turn your lips into emerald coast isles
Where light bleaches away the dark
and purifies the sand between your souls
Let me caress new feathers
of flight
that provides the freedom to soar in the winds from
distant shores
Where every breath is
a possibility of dreams come true
Bright yellows and greens
Orange and teals
As you walk the edge
between red and blue
and bleed royal purple
for those to see
who always weighed
their anchors of doubt
in your sea of despair
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 12:13 AM UTC
What a cold place the world can be
when nothing’s left to gain reprieve.
Stuck in a picture,
without blush,
knowing that the teals and hues
will never be used to set you free...
No longer being
able to believe
in the least degree.
Life’s a funny thing though,
for one day you can see
what the day before
could not be gleaned…
The white turns off of the grey stage
and prisms onto your own page.
With vision restored
you’re welcomed into
the colors warmth.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC
Some people only see basic colors like red, green, purple, yellow, and blue.
There are millions of each shades that I see within each of the hues.
Teals, cyans, golden colors and even black, greys and white.
Clouds can be lace, cotton, milk, ivory or snowflake bright.
Teals are in between blues and greens.
There are over millions of shades of of those in between.
When I was a kid and wanted to color or paint hues.
The lack of crayon choices in the boxes would seem quite few.
We live in a world some see as white and black.
Color vision is not something
I lack.
I have to wear polarized sunglasses at times to block out the sun.
Too much visual light can give me a headache. Not fun.
Aug 8, 2022
Aug 8, 2022 at 2:02 PM UTC
Mahogany hands
Reach through the flowing wind
Full of oxygen and pollen and pollution
A mahogany girl sits in the green grass
Waiting for the white bus that is slow
Expressional brown eyes
Look into the blue sky
Painted with teals and slates and colors
Other than sky blue
The weather is warm and schizophrenic
An impending uncertainty
The smell of rain faint but noticeable
In the distance
White lightning slashes through the sky
Mahogany skin cannot feel
The intensity
But mahogany skin can feel
The static in the air
The mahogany skin prickles all over
As the current dances
Suddenly there stands
A man dressed plainly
In a white t-shirt and blue jeans and a golden cross
Who vaguely resembles Daniel Radcliffe facially
But has never been told so
The greeny plant people
Dance wildly to the rhythm called wind
Then the sky pours its heart on Tuscaloosa
Filling the air with a myriad of water
Mahogany drowns on a Monday
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 9:00 AM UTC