"titling" poems
she sat on the beige satin couch
looking down at her feet
which were designed with intricate patterns made of mehndi
her nails painted a light pink
a color much like the subtle blush on her cheeks
she was fair, but not pale,
she had a shine to her, a glow
her face was hidden for the most
with a white lace dupatta
like the midnight moon hidden behind translucent clouds
most of her hair was tucked neatly away
except the loose strand which rested on her forehead
a curl, the color of sweetened caramel
soft, delicate; and ever so sweet
she brushed it back with her small hands
but it bounced right back, falling on her face
she looked up, slightly titling her head towards the light
the way sunlight hit her eyes made you want to never look away
oh, her eyes
lined with kajal, they stood out
the kind of eyes you could find yourself getting lost in
hazel and green- with specks of yellow and blue
there was a universe within those eyes
like the rainforest after a summer sprinkle
lush, pure, mesmerizing
but they were quickly hidden once more
as she delicately pulled the dupatta closer to her face
and smoothed down the crease in her silk kameez
her movements were entrancing
you could not look away
the more you looked, the more you craved to catch one more glance
gentle, soft, kind
never in a rush
you couldn't help but imagine what it felt like to feel her touch
the only words we heard her speak
was right when the sun began to set
and the orange-red rays reflected in the pearls around her neck, the only jewelry she wore, yet enough to adorn her
her puckered mouth opened softly
and she was bearly audible as she spoke
her voice like honey: sweet & melodious
if she never stopped speaking, you'd never stop listening
she spoke with a tender sort of confidence & surety
"qabool hai, qabool hai, qabool hai"
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
Speculation proved
contagious,
misinterpretation
crept silently on patchwork soles
(odds n' sods messily stitched,
tittle tattle did no favours)
like a flu it spread,
hushed curiosities rested
outside ol' Hutch baker's door,
where even a freshly oven'd
batch might strain an ear
or five to net nearby tongue trading,
seeds straining on their brows.
Even those Mother hens
had a cluck or two left in them,
rumours about the
'Dust mite Martyr'
as she was dubbed,
“Does she have no shame,
sitting pretty in Matrimony's dress?”
one heaving checkered breast commented
titling her beak
to gain a better look -
At that shriveller slumped,
an examiner of the cobbles
with such a religious stare
her lids traced stones
within the darkness,
a traveller -
wanderer not to be trusted,
especially not
with bloodied lilies tangled
within her gleaming mop.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
Leaving those trusting eyes—
was indeed the cruelest act I have
ever partaken in.
Tagging along after numerous hugs,
These kids claimed that white bus—titling it as
mortal enemy. Now this nonliving
object was my ultimately my enemy.
Silently they wept, I wrap
my arms around her, I gave
everything I had to offer.
Hope
Washing over the diluted curvatures of
my face, my mind began to spin out of control.
Then his youthful face hit the floor like a bag
of unwanted rocks—Pain severed my core.
Every motherly instinct I possessed now
Stood,
perched in
tip-toed fashion.
Stunning those hopeful faces,
I turned my back—
like everyone else who had come
before me.
Sliding into the bus seat one final time,
my numbness took over—aching
taking refuge on a limb.
Had I held them back from their victory?
Or had I helped them pursue it?
Transforming, I will never be
the same. Will I go back for those
kids?
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
Microsoft "WURD"
slang font.
i know your type.
you like Arial.
you dig Arial Black cause there's no Arial White.
she wears a size 0.
invisible to the eye.
she's from Georgia.
print her out on white paper.
she'll be prettier than Courier New Times New Roman.
her Impact on Felix Titling will be extravagant.
she'll put him under a spell with her Book Antiqua.
you'll give up on her and take a train through the Terminal towards Tahoma in the "Golden State"
you'll come across Verdana who is a size 12.
bold as you are, you'll ask why she tries to underline her beauty by showing off her colon(:) .
and you ask her why women are always cranky before they get their period (.) ?
[arial, arial black, georgia, courier new, times new roman, impact, felix tilting, book antiqua, terminal, tahoma, verdana=different fonts]
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
love.
The knife rests on the counter.
Her freshly chopped hair
Feels so estranged.
A healing process
That seems to cut more than give.
Black eyeliner fresh to her skin;
Only worn after –
Never before.
Light flicks to her ear.
Her father’s gift of an earring
Ripped away.
A long ribbed scar
Of the letter “A” behind her ear
From a singed lighter burn.
The color was grey,
But it burned scarlet in her heart.
Impressionist choke lines ran across her throat
From her unwanted suitor.
Biting her lips with pain,
She felt a ruby red rawness.
Salvador Dali’s black lipstick
Twisted open to bleed
memories into mirrors.
Impulsive strokes of darkness filled the glass
With a diminished, backwards word
About a diminished and backwards girl,
She finished titling someone else’s art.
The gritty glass gleamed—
evol.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
How I hate to be a dick havering ire and vitriol
But with great bombast I must barbily insist
That you stop that ****
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:50 AM UTC
Zen minimalist, tool
slipping words two fingers in
and seizing hold, mixing in subtle verbs
spinning worlds, filling up voids
with a tantalizing wetness
Yes, minimalist
and less is more
so clean that up you ***** *****
and speak only silence
leave them lost in awkwardness
born from want and wanting more, like
‘I know you want this
and yes I got this
minus man or wing by my side
rising instead from happy feelings, inside
sounding wise enough to me
and maybe soon I'll see exactly
what they meant’
as we drop and rise
in two time beat
knees, bent, in, weak
quivering at the seams
diving into dreams and coming
out breath stopped, heart attacked,
jagged and off
then two scenes later, maybe three tops
jumping ahead, fast forwarding to
the quick bits
the grimy bits
the slimy bits
the ins and outs
proving what drive thru is all about-
- since there's no need to waste time
on the things we can do
again, and again, and again.
Then, reverse spin
back to the beginning, cowboy
back to the drawing board
back to the sheets
put your back in it and ride, harder
calves carved in, jump the fleet
lift arms up in victory
the downward dog days are over
and we saw them coming
inhibitions released
letting go of the sweet
and drizzling, no just
jizzing all over the God **** place
hot and flustered, in our face
rushing to encase thoughts that
had always filled the space
but still, found no place in design
rather finding the time
to bleed them out, in epiphanies,
calling them nirvanas
calling them divinities
but titling them Truth.
And swearing, on your life
that that's what it was to you
and I lay there, only trying
not to believe it too.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
Polish
by Michael R. Burch
Your fingers end in talons—
the ones you trim to hide
the predator inside.
Ten thousand creatures sacrificed;
but really, what’s the loss?
Apply a splash of gloss.
You picked the perfect color
to mirror nature’s law:
red, like tooth and claw.
I thought about titling or subtitling this one “A mini-ode to manicure” but thought better of it. Please note that this poem is not about female predators but the way the human race “glosses over” its predatory nature. We may appear to be “civilized” but what are we doing to the planet and its other inhabitants? Keywords/Tags: polish, nails, talons, claws, predator, gloss, loss, red, tooth, claw, pollution, climate change, global warming, mass extinction, genocide
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 3:58 AM UTC
1. I have to stop when I catch myself mentally titling poems about how you and I do not belong together.
2. Doomed like your mother, doomed like your father—don’t think it, don’t think it—loneliness is my birthright, loneliness is my bride.
3. This is a mania, this is a phobia. Tag your neuroses and track them, keep track of them.
4. Remember _______, think what happened to _______.
5. You speak of your friend like she’s dead.
6. She is dead, though, only wakes up now and then to bury herself.
7. What do you mean?
8. I mean she reaches out with one arm from her shallow grave, and she buries herself. Great fistfuls of dirt.
9. But?
10. But she was not a huntress.
11. And so?
12. And so it got the best of her.
13. Well, you tell me what I ought to see
when I self-perceive
Would you lie to me?
14. No, you’re a truth-teller, heart-sweller.
15. The Age of Huts, man, I never had it in me. I’m all ravens and bell-jars.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
i want to scream you through my mouth.
i don't have to exist any longer, as sun
shine or stretched clothing that doesn't
fit any longer, the shirts in your drawer,
the scarves fumbled with and discarded
underneath the stairs of a community c
ollege. if you want this, would you tell m
e. i don't have to step outside this door,
not once or twice without you. because,
of course, there are better things. i don
't think i make any more sense than pre
tty birds that cheep unicorn songs, and
grow shelters for their green-houses. i
could write you a song, if you'd like.
when the sun shines for the second tim
e, i'll let you know. right now the clouds
are labelled grey, and drawing islands i
n the discovering sand does not remedy
seasonal blues unaffected by the medic
ation of your smile and racing for play-g
round swings that cut up my thighs any
way. if i could put you on repeat, i woul
d, but life ain't youtube, and people ain
't paintings you can put in a frame and
hang on the wall, they ain't songs you
can listen to until you go cross-eyed wi
th giddiness. i'm not new anymore, i'm
words i've already written, places i've
already been, i am people unfamiliar b
ecause i've talked to them for so long.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 11:39 AM UTC
Mentally, I started titling my poems
“If you only knew…”
the minute that you left
See, we were more like
Mother Nature’s children
Than we thought
Both of us polluted
Like the Ocean, I’m so full of this
Trash that everyone seems to leave me with
You were like poisoned vines,
Twisted and full of thorns
And roses you hide from the light
We built a garden though,
psychedelic and shining through the nights
we always stayed up
late for
Three psychics told me I’d love you
And one of them
In a dying breath told me you’d be
A rose
Boy was he right
I pricked myself just to
Hold you and adore you
Every single time
And I’d do it again
See, gardening takes work
So I cultivate this imaginary love
I hold something fragile every day and
Practice moving slowly enough
Not to break it
I listen to strangers talk
Until I’m bored and I keep….on….
Listening
So that I never miss another word
Love speaks
I look at myself in the mirror
And I find something beautiful
So that I can try to grasp
At how it felt the few times you
Actually looked at me like
I was (AM) a flower too.
*I AM A ROSE TOO, GOD **** IT*
I breathe you in like the fragrance
Of these roses that bleed my heart dry
And I wish you cut yourself on my poetry
Half as hard as we both have cut ourselves
Wishing we could bleed out whatever
Makes us undesirable
If only you knew
That I hungered for the few times
You came and watered me with your tears
Nourished my roots with your lips
Rolled around in the dirt
And loved our garden
….More than you loved her.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
She felt the electricity sweltering as
She felt herself grow immensely fervent.
An accidental brush.
A lingering touch.
A stolen glance.
And when their eyes met again-they simply knew
That
She wanted him
As much as he wanted her
He lifted his hand up
Brushing the strand of her hair
She turned away
Casting her eyes down to her shoes
Like they were the most interesting thing in the world
His fingers softly moved to her jaw.
Titling her head back so
He could really see her lovely features
She shivered under his mere touch
He sensed her quite tense under the burden of his presence.
His eyes fell to her delectable lips
As he made his intentions clear
He wanted so badly to kiss her
He didn't want to hold it back anymore
Because she was so tempting.
Because she was there and he didn't want to lose the chance.
Because she smelled of honeysuckle and night.
Her eyes closed as if accepting his request and
When their lips finally connected in a chaste first kiss
A kiss of longing lips and yearning hearts
For once things went so right for the both of them.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
I hope you dont think
My lack of consistence makes me weak
Cause if I stink
Persistence has a smell and I fuckin' wreak
Stuck in my speach,
Cause "I dont give a **** is hard to teach
So each week,
that goes by the life inside,gets weak
So life I find,
sometimes is outta reach
But... Time passes,
the days get longer and longer
Lookin' for answers in a pile of ashes,
as the resistance gets stronger
It's time to unwind, but I end up crashin',
cause I wandered
Keep it sublime, let the clock move slow like molasses,
while I ponder
-J.A.M
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
Bow to the strings
Three clicks of the drumsticks
Then the bass chord rings
The singer sings
The notes carry on with wings
Give flight to this music
Lock it in your sights then use it
Wrong the right, but dont abuse it
Day or night, just stay true kid
Whether your roped or cuffed
These stores are gonna open up
Break free from your half filled cup
Over flow your own, yeah fill it up
No matter how full you feel it'll never be enough
Even if your rich, even if your clock clicks and your bell rings
You'll never get sick of the rot this rich brings
Keepin your chick just to help sell things,
stable you are not,
your hopeless,
Your beat, your melting
Now you feel the heat that this hell brings
-J.A.M
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
If you got murdered today
Your family would probably hurt and pray
Shovel dirt on your grave
...possibly pay the debts you have'nt paid
Hopefully you've made a name
Hopefully you've played the game
Hopefully you've weighed the guilt and the shame
Now I don't hope, now I know you'll stake your claim
In between then and now
I'll sew tight the seem on your vow
Realize and redeem question marks you left after the word "how" ??
Click clack kerrrr Pow!
Every once in a while
Shivelry can punish a child
But give em' hope, give em' a rope
So verbal delivery can tame the wild
Call it "misery" call it "style"
This ain't "hot" so evidentley its mild.....?
Your not on fire, but 911 is what you dialed
Beginning to end, aint no trend like this worth your wild
Sit back...
Relax...
Your alive... Smile
- J.A.M
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 4:44 AM UTC
I will never be at
The peace that I seek
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
he asks me
How are you?
I reply
*You know...
same old same,
desolate...
antsy, empty...
and you?*
His reply?
*Same difference
but I won't complain
I'm breathing and talking
to you*
He sits me down
in front of a virtual fireplace
and instructs me through life
leaving just a minuscule trace
of his own footsteps
even though his tread
should be heavier
for the burdens he carries
are colossal against mine
but he takes the time...
To listen to my words
and answer my pleas
He understands
and sees what I don't see
I erred in titling this
my friend
I meant
my Mentor
my Heart~ache, my Hero
my understanding unconsciousness
give, Give, give, never take
I have this friend
who never unanswered
any prayer
if you have an Angel
that you can spare...
Free her wings and let her fly
she knows where she is going
and she knows why
where she needs to be...
tell my friend I sent her
Angel dust and fairy wishes
are what he needs to see :)
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
What you give me is what I receive,
The feelings overloading and essentially controlling me are forcing the inner version of myself to ignore thee,
Block off anyone who interferes with my life in the smallest of ways.
Stress is enough,
I can no longer think straight.
Consistently titling to both ends of our path,
I thought the starting would lead us somewhere beyond the fan stays of great,
But I was kicked and left in the dust with the others,
The prophecy unveiled itself,
I was right since the beginning, but my witless gut remained oblivious to my emotionally unstable self and instead stayed behind with the real you.
I grew attached to you, thinking everything for once would finally accumulate into one enjoyable entirety,
But you shattered me both internally and externally,
Now all I can focus on is how to fix these pieces back together.
Before I loose touch upon myself once more,
I ask anyone for forgiveness, begging on my knees for all to please.
I wish to give the little portion of my purity and happiness to you, now, am I considered the wrong and careless one?
Or are you, the heartless form of me?
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC
Poem to no one
I remember
I remember when I saw her for the very first time
The way she walked was so exquisite
Her lips were so plump and juicy
She was just a fine specimen
I remember wanting to run after her so bad
But in my mind I thought she was just too good for me
I mean look at me
I'm just a mere mortal born in the wrong place at the wrong time
While she, she was clearly an angel that fell from heaven
Everything about her was just perfect
Her eyes were like precious jewels that shimmered under any and every light
Her voice was so sweet yet had a certain essence of power behind it that could not be described
I remember my heart racing at the speed of light
Pounding so hard that I began to think that it would fall out
My eyes were beginning to dry because I couldn't find the strength to close them as she walked by
My speech became jumbled as if I was never taught how to speak in the first place
I'd curse myself because I feared that if I didn't say something soon another man would swoop her away
I mean she was just that beautiful
Too beautiful for me to muscle of the strength I clearly did not have
So I just wrote this poem titling it to "no one"
Because to her the girl I let get away I am no one
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
There is something
other than a man
about him
eyes bright,
lips
locked
tight
his fingers
are not that
much longer
than mine
they too
know
chemicals
the touch of glass
between your bare
skin and acid
I tap words
through the sheets
with my finger-
tips
dot dot dot
dot dot
dot
and through the
haze of sleep
he smiles
his mouth titling
towards mine
we don’t call it
kissing
it is the pleasent purple
colour of neutral
litmus paper
it is our data
spreading
from the corners
of our mouths
into my
cheeks
my body betrays me
and colours them
red
but it is more
than a flush
of a fantasy
made present
to be able
to touch
this man who hides
(and lies)
to know
this light touch
of a man in
a mask
which he allows
only me to
see
through
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
too much poetry decides on what's essential,
nothing, is, quite, necessary. although: existential:
too much borne from inexperience
and too much from anticipating it,
yet the fewest to mind the passing as it was,
anticipation reduced to vaccines on the ready,
so much ******* idealism that it makes me sick...
quiet likely... variation of the onomatopoeia yuck,
and there are plenty... da pacem domine...
or questioning Babylonian tactics:
hanging garden' madness remembering the pyramids
prior the Eiffel overcoming...
the tongue! the tongue! the tongue prior cranium!
knock knock... who's there? who's who? who knows?
no, who doesn't care.
i don't know why tilting on the Byzantine titling,
seemed appropriate, what are you?
the leftists who took apart communism
and want censorship to curb right-wing opinions?
Mary ******* Poppins from afar! Birmingham thus far
and so should Venice mind - no river... no flow.
the left are truly readying a box, two gloves,
tango of feet, a header in a football match is like an
uppercut, grey matter extending... well d'uh d'uh d'uh.
glossognomia - the alter to Heraclitus' tears or Logos
v. Gnome, the laughing one's, atomic Democritus -
both a cretin's fancy without a wife -
wisest speech of the *** without womb -
men and tombs, women and wombs... shame we were
born yesterday and certain scripts were deemed holy
and subsequently undecipherable, unquestioned,
requiring prayer, necessary Koran, poetic justices of
expression, Milton und Blake... well hello the idea
of photosynthesis! maybe an Aladdin pyramid or two
on the flying carpet! who the gold digger now?
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
Titling a poem
or naming a child
Which process harder
the future beguiled
“A Rose Is A Rose ...”
till maybe it’s not
Called do they answer
— once dubbed and begot
(Dreamsleep: August, 2024)
Aug 25, 2024
Aug 25, 2024 at 2:57 PM UTC
it sickens me;
the lack of correction
in grammar,
in punctuation,
in style,
and in titling.
it disgusts me;
the apathy
and support
that go along with
spilling any idea
out; vulnerability
shouldn't be praised,
as it should be sculpted
and shaped, communally.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Endless nights
Days confused
In sunlight
Close my eyes
Squeezed tight
I’ll never be able to block out all the noise
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC