"tinctures" poems
Father checks if I'm sleeping; I wake up, and see
little tinctures of nothing night-sky poetic, I see
blandness slathered in a huge speck. Where was
that spirit and excitement and everything that life offered
not too long ago? Who wakes up to do their homework
at midnight?
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
& i can fix
a million things
[and your heart is one of them]
i can make you tea
make you breakfast
brush your hair
kiss your forehead
& tell you it’s all going to be
o
k
i can wrap my arms and legs around you
and crush you with empathy
let my tears drip down your forehead like anointing oil
or holy water
i can baptize you in a hundred things, i can burn you and
create anew from the ashes in my arms
i can let you fill my bones with your tears
my heart with your heartbreaks
my lungs with your sobs
my insides with your hurt
i can make you a thousand salves
and a hundred tinctures to keep you from hurting
but i can’t fix myself.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
By those soft tods of wool
With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain
That swell the golden grain;
By all those sweets that be
I’ the flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,
While juice she strains, and pith
To make her philters with;
By time that hastens on
Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest:
O my Electra! be
In love with none but me.
2.8k
He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).
His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.
Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ****** then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.
Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 8:15 PM UTC
You tucked your sugar candy wrapping
with surreptitious dainty dips
and lots of little body wriggles
in between my couch cushions
I found them when I did a clean
amongst a weight of quiet
tight squeezed tears
pushed by love out of sight
shaped in dainty pears
appealing with question shaped
twists and marks from subtle turns
I wish your apple secrets
kept so **** sweet
unwrapped and served
peeled with berries on a plate
in neat dressed shiny mint
response coated lozenges
so I could press that sadness out
and dissolve that reposed tinge
of unsolved hidden hurt
between your sensitive tongue
and my own open heart
I'd throw your cares
that empty wrapper stash
into red liquorice skies
to chew through a dash
of lamp lit tinctures
and catch its splash
in tutti frutti sprays
wet with an array
of well licked flavours
but please keep away
those sticky fingers
look at your paper trail of pink and white
let's follow and pick up each far flung bow
there's a picture on one we can see smoothed out
a part of a boulevard not torn but bright
and it's a bonbon for eyes that dry I'd treat
tucked in a chat upon a couchette
to Paris with you tomorrow night
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Among addictions and vice
there are none I want more
than an addiction to the sunrise,
a vice most forgiving.
The taste of alcohol,
inciting the bellicose beast
cannot satisfy me,
and I have tried.
As for pleasure,
the kind that makes skin crawl
and the breath heavy,
needs more than itself to satisfy,
so I searched on.
Chalices of wine and paper smoke,
skin and bedrooms bathed in moonlight,
the allure of quick satisfaction
could not satiate my thirst.
Only one scene has been constant,
delivering me from my vices,
partner of the morning skies,
far from tinctures and tonics,
the sunrise.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:43 AM UTC
Verily the exordium told anent a beauty engirdled in her fedora
soliciting those whoever descried her into her mere servile admirer
eight trenchant tinctures upon her body invigorate like a cadenza
I dare not to contradict the verity that I am beguiled afore her
whilst the snain distilled faintly enwreathed her in unctuous silk
concordantly she devote herself earnestly to the impeccable rain
that emanate her fragile poetry with prestidigitation in a whisk
forsooth she is but the vernacular sobriquet to the soul of the rain
recall me otherwhile during the rainstorm champagne did coerce
and the sunset's glass of wine exude her ingratiating persona
like a myriad of aphrodisiac summarized in a single verse
when harmony and lyrics danced in the crepuscular crescendo
all of that needed to be enunciated is it is you
do not harshly let me be thy unrequited dilettante
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
Because beauty lies in minerals and chalk,
and outlandish tinctures remedy physical faults
with pastes and goo,
the daily ritual of painting flesh,
disguising ourselves from a social stigma,
compels and consumes us
Obsession over minute details,
driven by the incessant narcissism
of a portentous society,
coerces us into proclivity,
so that each day we worship a virtual image,
mere reflected light
Because of all the reticulated bones and fat and blood,
sustaining life-functions and supporting the capability intelligence
which we rarely take steps to refine,
and of the independent, incognizant cells,
working ensemble circuitously,
the web which imprisons it all is most beautiful.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Tinctures of orange beam around
the stuffy air
Every thing is still,
thick,
and dark emerald
The suns yoke at high noon
casts a fiery shade
over vast valleys
rolling into eternity
The roses wilt as they bake,
crisping under the ever glorious
rays, creeping from vermilion
to chocolate.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
the flower
has more moisture
than the Soil
and the earthTones
have less vivid tinctures
with solid Toil
a power. the truth. the sky.
a flower. new bloom
with its rancid clutter
around the vase, the pulled
and fallen, petals -
the drab droplettes of glad tidings
or sad-like bells
clanged with clamour
all gowned in glamour
touched by a hover or glide
in the stature of things
and the square rings
that yield a snoot, the way
a drop is sad with smell
the power. a flash. and smiles.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
Say what you see,
See what you say.
Starting with a single word,
Draws a line of thought,
Your mind sketches out your world.
Some people speak in black and white,
So they only see shades of gray.
Failing to realize that as life gets cold,
Life brings warm colors to fall for.
An allure to spring onto to hope,
with rejuvenating colors to cool our disparity.
Like chasing the rainbow,
But the tinctures remain elusive to the touch.
With each of our individual journeys coming in different flavors and textures,
Painting words of our legacy.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
There is
a ripeness
pending.
It stares at
me in the face,
unblinking,
like an animal
ready to pounce.
It drinks in
my psyche,
my blood
pumping
in its wild, tender veins.
It soaks up
the vitality
clamoring
within me, like
a tornado
about to break force,
winds gathering
tightly under moonlight
a cosmic dam about
to burst.
It is a spell
cast into wilderness,
pristine and untouched,
yet longing for fulfillment
an undoing
of the senses
a subconscious unraveling
that journeys into
unknown vistas
with no map
Perhaps the
only real guidance
is each fine-tuned
sensibility in turn:
Eyes taking in the colors
within pulsing electricity
as they merge
and re-separate
into distinct tinctures
of luminosity
Ears welcoming
the instruments
of our bodies
as they writhe in tune
with acoustic passion,
hearing the cries of
wolf and owl whispers
of trees deeply
reverberating into nightfall
Smell, to inhale
the muskiness of earth
the salt of sea
the crisp dusk of fire
and your pinelit, animal scent
familiar yet far
tracing me to you
like predator to prey
in magnetic vortex
Touch,
to hold the
strands of my being
in place, steadied
by mahogany and silk
soft and solid at once
as the rhythms of storm
rock the house
And then:
Taste
to lusciously peel back
the layers of
our essence
letting them brew
in their own juices
as they gather
upon the tongue
in an effulgent stream:
sweet merging with salt
pleasantly sour and piquant
with understanding
whetting appetites
in a sumptuous feast
of enlightenment
that only shows us how,
in both primitive and
ethereal awareness,
we had known this
was going
to happen
all our
lives
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
thoughts dripping -plink, plink-
coagulating into a suffiently-sized puddle
some
transparent and luminescent as diamonds
refracting light into white-hot shards
piercing and radiant
others
black ink dank and dark
as unappealing as a rusty pillow
caustic like hydrochloric acid
the tinctures wrestle and combine
motor oil in water, rainbow patterns at night
suddenly a painful thump,
as I've hit my forehead on my dusty keyboard again.
with this, a parting word -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTJ7AzBIJoI
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
He lives in a world of rockets and dead clams
He flies but goes fishing often
He lives in a world of digital demands
He tries but can’t find a daughter
Once upon a time he used his heart
It got him wrapped around a tree
Such cold, cold walls for such a warm, warm mistake
He said goodbye and blessed be
Now it’s whips and chains and haircuts
Tinctures of manmade joy
And then it’s gone like a picture never thrown out
The lens only destroys
He lives in a world of rockets and dead clams
He flies but goes fishing often
He lives in a world of digital demands
He tries but can’t find a coffin
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
Haze scatters blue light on a planet.
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates,
belayed, branded and belled,
a plangent sound.
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers,
she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor,
punctures and ruin burnished with paper,
boiling burnt lime from lime mortar.
Glass ***** on the ceiling,
she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.
She bends light to make shadows against thin wooden slats curved along the wall
and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she invents tinctures,
juniper berries and cotton *****
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
a hawthorn tree stands alone,
a gateway for fairies,
large stones at the base protecting,
its branches a barrier.
Its leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
Its berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals
and lime in the soil,
she adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth;
the tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk,
she adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.
The lime converts to paper,
trauma victims speak,
light through butterfly wings.
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water.
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 2:48 PM UTC
Echoes Life, that once felt from light,
Unduly ample for my individual sight,
A genuine Self-a particle ungrounded-
Each we see, all tinctures of all shade
By interposition of calignosity made,
Remain it veritably Life unbounded?
Ev'ry thought, woe, joy of live breath,
Is it stronger than inevitable Death?
-Life is Death, as yet unfounded.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 9:53 PM UTC
Whose *** do you
tat for up the sleeves
Of a fine charlatan
selling tinctures and
such
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
love, how is work
i made some **** pancakes
to my spotify workout playlist
now im tired and hungry
sick of this routine
Love, switch it up!
Do some yoga in the garden
sipping lime balm tea.
You can make tinctures out of ginger to soothe away your misery.
i will wait for this to pass
because i don’t want to wake
so why can’t i dream?
Dream of reading poetry in secret gardens
Make that garden
Keep that secret
in a shell from the ocean
Place that shell
by your bedside
Wake up by your dream...
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
The severity of the seriously
scientific professoring of poetic licenses
severing limbs
and one's sanity to turn
into a lackluster one dimensional
word
for word
matter of fact, i.e. Flat.
Now there is research and refined references
like mad-haired alchemists
having mixed two tinctures
wrongly
such liquids
exploding
whilst hypothesized
unremarkable through their myopia
faces intimate with the thickest book
make out session
with the obtuse...
A bureau, hmph
an organization dismissing the muses
and the breath
that we devour
a study on the facets
and romance
with life
written art works
spoken odysseys
magnanimous numbness of verb
magic of lustrous ***********
of star crossed
tempests
evermore a ravenous
soul
Poetry needs no bureau
The heart is only
a lonely hunter
if love were not its prey
to feel free
and truly alive
is the honest purpose
of the written and spoken
word
of poetry
of art of happiness
dancing the night away
in sonnet streets
who do we endeavor to example
when it is our own pen that must bleed
the awful truths
that needs combustion
the foreplay of time / life whispering in italics
beautifully
breaking down
laughter's tintinnabulations
all the world
all the life
our Oyster...
But seriously tho'
what the dealio...?
when I want to hear
a fearless something
soaked
and sensual
and real
so good
the words bleed rain
beaus
utter not
the words not words but
electricity
inner watercolors murals
from the emotions
this art dreams
intermingling
touching prose of roses
its scent a ghost
thick in the recollection
of farewells
the experiences we parallel
all in literary gusto
somehow
communication
erected from **** tube boxes
and artifice waves of wide webs
the slang jive
secret languages whined
signs and pics
depicts inflicts these times
slays the joy
and lovely words
of tiding of wise sayings
you say
with Monet expressions
your a lovely day
ignite me
the Beloved / the songs
the sun
a face of love
a glow
Do you feel me?
lub dub lub dub
the haiku sonnet odyssey
poetry
that is Life...
Today's lesson -
(seriously)
go learn to fly
a kite.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Amidst creepers is brick abode
Red complimenting well the green
Dyed shady tinctures of blueish mode
And the lady hardly ever seen
Paleness in black windows glance
In silence does ivy swallow
Someone said her name, Alamance
Which I was told meant "Bless,"
or "Hallow"
How she lingered in her own exile
Frightened perhaps by unjaded air
Visited only once in a while
By younger man with greyish hair
He'd trouble through ivy growth
Past gate to staircase overridden
You felt dismay of them both
Ivy's soiled twine had so written
He'd leave packages at her door
Sometimes you'd see them speaking
Indeed very hard for one to ignore
The ivy encroaching and shrieking
Whoever knows what blessings be
Of existance and seclusion
How to bear astranged family
Commitment, fear, and delusion
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
When I was little
my father took me to an art exhibit
and stood in front a colossal blend
of hues and tinctures and smeared philosophy
that my unadulterated mind could not calculate.
I pondered the painting
and told my father I could not understand
and he said he did not, either
with a musing look on his face
that registered his scrutiny and brainwave.
But I still could not understand how
one can be captivated by something
one does not understand.
Years later, I met you, and
I think about that painting.
And now I understand.
When I was little
and my mother was away,
my immune system battled a cough.
But I was too fragile, my body too brittle,
so I climbed the forbidden cupboard
in our kitchen
and flooded my lungs with cough syrup
and the drug took over my body
as my delicate knees quivered
and I collapsed on the cold linoleum floor.
When my father found out, he told me
not to ever take too much medicine
or anything
because too much of something is never good.
And now I understand why
they told me to stay away from you.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Abstract tears bring melancholy rain
Concrete fears and whitewashed pain.
I sit perched upon my precipice
Teetering and testing tinctures of tumultuous joy and overwhelming sorrow,
Looking back at yesterday and forward to tomorrow,
Tentatively trying to find my balance.
The idea of tomorrow surrendered forever ago as the options narrowed;
Continue forward, carefully planning each step, measuring it down to the quark, exhausting myself with the weight of a thousand heartaches and broken dreams, tearing myself apart at the seams
Tearing myself apart as it seems that no matter how many steps I take, and no matter how many times I break,
I'll never get where I'm meant to be.
There are no longer options two, or three. All I know is to go forward.
And yesterday seems so far away, as the images unfold in my mind;
Tick tock things unwind
Click the lock, "you'll be fine"
Smash the clock as time rewinds
I resign and rescind my thoughts;
I don't like looking back.
And memories last longer than bruises,
But just because someone else wins,
Doesn't mean everyone else loses.
A battle fought is a lesson learned
A lesson taught by those who've earned
The knowledge that won them that battle.
But not the war
Lost in the worlds of after and before
I slip and as the world rushes towards
My hands catch the edge
And I look not up, not down, but I look around.
I am greeted by a multitude of sheer drops and cliff faces
Tightrope walks and narrow spaces
By people around confronting their fears
Abstract pains and concrete tears;
The burden I bear and the weight of my steps
Is a reflection I share with every breath
Mirrored in the world around me...
And so my message to all of you battle-scarred
Benevolent beautiful badass bards:
Pull yourself back up
And try again.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC
you. sweet moonbeam,
tender in my roses.
shaping yourself like a cat to my supple.
your soft coloring yourself with my petals.
we are—
i’ve been meaning to tell you but the map sent me in the wrong direction i was left wandering i have never been good at finding my own fate.
how’ve you—
useless i already know.
lover,
lay me out on your apothecary table.
take each of my organs you know which ones are important.
bottle them up and gently nudge at me daily
soak in the essence of who i have been.
oral treatments.
15 droplets per day. take as needed.
i need you.
lover, i need you. long lost i was created from you and i will lay rested in your arms. take me as needed. i have taken you as needed. in i go traveling from your esophagus straight to your heart. dancing around the beating ***** i have found places over years to grow. i sewed so many seeds some have flourished some have not. in i go.
if love is a ship i have been shipwrecked i have long drowned. if you are the captain i will be your moon far off and guiding. pulling you towards me teasing you away. lover, i need you. take me as needed. i love you groggy lost dark swollen soft and hard. tinctures of my eyeballs in your heart.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 1:29 AM UTC
I dithered to my feet
My mind partly ridden by aberration
My eyes in pursuit of any remaining tinctures of light
My frustration disseminating its benumbing beams
Pulverizing every hope of my survival
But darkness prevailed my surroundings
Darkness-that was enthralling every limb of my body
Leaving me trammeled within this pandemonium
Perhaps my annihilation lied within this vacuity
This dark abyss from where return was merely improbable
I spent time contemplating,
Wondering, what brought me to this tenebrous threshold?
Ferreting for that egregious crime I had committed
Which made me susceptible to such castigation?
Was it my flagrancy or imperative innocence?
I thought incessantly,
But nothing could I come up with
Other than my fault of being ignorant
Ignorant on part of our flaws,
The flaws of the inhabitants of this opaque world
Then in the midst of my depression
Emerged a distant spark of blue light
A light- as distant as the sun,
A light- capable of illuminating the world
This spark flickered, blossomed and radiated
Gradually eating up the darkness
Slowly letting itself ablaze
Its heat so intense and almost emanating
I lunged towards it
But came back stumbling down
No- I thought this was not the end-
My unwavering fortitude compelled me to rise
I ran and ran, till it was in my hands
Till I rose triumphant in my pursuit of light.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC