"tousling" poems
(I love) Dignity
*tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot
explain or share exactly*
knew a man once,
forty two years gone,
died too soon enough,
soon enough,
he and I will be
the same age
this man
a duck out of water,
a stranger in an adopted land,
trouble-stooped, a hard life, well lived,
never bent,
dignified in every step
I cannot remember him
ever kissing me, tousling my hair,
holding my hand, loving me in
a manner I wanted beyond desperately
yet here I am, 5:22 am
weeping tears recalling him
in glimpses long ago seen,
adding them all up to get a
single sum
Dignity.
*tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot/explain,
share precisely*
dig
in
to
my
chambered memory storage units,
unlocking those rusted locks with freshly oiled
tears
and loving the dignity he exampled
to the son he could not kiss, hand hold,
but taught him the one lesson, digging deep
to respect life and stand apart,
stand with dignity.
all else will follow
the son kissed his children plenty,
in a vain attempt to make up his missed
homework
now the grandfather,
now the grandfather
is still kissing
his last hope, his newest babes,
rolling on the floor,
so silly kissing belly buttons,
smelling their skin repeatedly,
in a manner most
undignified
still weeping
the son,
he tries to sort it out
and forgives and does not forget
the man that taught dignity
in everything,
even, especially,
in slow dying,
forty two years is a long time to wait
to weep.
it takes two hands in the dark
repeatedly
to collect all the waiting patiently
wetness and the
accompanied sniffles,
so undignified,
the son smiles at himself
declaring unabashedly,
digging out from himself
a poem, a self-reflection
on time tarnished reflections
clear enough to make him
sob,
believing*
I love dignity.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
you came to me in the first dewdrops of spring
with the scent of newleaf lingering on your lips
and the taste of fresh rosebuds and honeysuckle
a mere whisper on my tongue
your kiss the heat of summer sunlight blistering against my skin
and ripping my throat open in a blaze of inferno
heaven knows how you quell the flames
with the same brush of lips against mine
you dance forever in my mind’s eye on dappled autumn leaves
with the swirl of the breeze tousling in your hair
a symphony of red yellow brown and glittering eyes
footsteps going crunch crunch crunch over the carpet of my heart
your goodbye is the wind that whips through my eternal winter
as the snow settles in the silent solstice
i crave crave crave crave the fervent heat once more just once more
REPEAT.
cyclic cyclic cyclic
as i fall in love with you all over again.
(like the mist that rolls in with the first snow that tumbles like waves from the sky/like the budding of the flowers in the garden and the fallen petals beneath your soles/like the gradual melt of ice cream onto sticky fingers and stained flip-flops/like the green fading into a myriad of blossoming colour the facade of beauty disguising slow death)
baby, you break my heart slow
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
The sound was switched off
to my imagination
but you sauntered in that cascade silk of light
with sure steps,touching this,
tousling your hair, touching that
resplendent. Seductive in the setting.
You knew I was watching the sun dance
through the shadows
causing your smile
and mischief to glow brighter.
It was when you leaned over the balcony
my pulse raced with fear
and my heart stopped racing anymore.
Its only when you switched the sound back on
did I realise
your heart was also beating
between 'the agony and the ecstasy'
of the distance between us.
I take a step forward.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 days ago
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
The empty air has a bitter tone
When it bites at my fingers
And yells profanities in an unrecognizable tongue.
It stings when it sings.
It has an aberrant gait
And a detached mien,
This lack-of being.
The tempest’s strides jounce its overly-wide shoulders;
Its prominent brow sends an antagonistic shadow
Cascading down its lip and jaw.
This active silence whispers age-old secrets
Its fingers tousling the amber leaves
Of my autumn’s long-dead trees.
The sound resonates,
And this taunting, all-knowing,
Omnipresent, nonexistent-but-still-there wind
Smiles at my naïveté.
Weary under the weight of the world
And the smog of self-importance.
Its eyes are clouded with grey rain,
Its teeth sharp with a bitter resentment;
“I’ve disliked you since the 1700s,” it breathes,
Throwing an airy, acrid gaze at humanity.
(“I’m sorry, but it is you who made me this way,
With your scornful industrialization.”)
Its eyes are frigid, piercing,
Wicked, yet reserved.
Cruel in their taunting assumptions,
Yet,
In those forget-me-not eyes
I found the sky.
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
It's like being stuck on the same simple simile
something or other about the sunshine and your smile
waking up to a single sheet
bare feet, frozen
black coffee, scalding
Sweeping winds tousling hair just like
someone.
What to do, what to do,
when even dreams are not a refuge?
What are you, what are you,
another smoking pile of refuse?
What's new with you?
Don't look so confused.
I'm sticking around like dead leaves in gutters
A sudden remembrance about something or other
Waking up to a single light
bare hands, sweaty
open mouth, dry
Pouring rain drenching clothes just like
somewhere.
What to do, what to do,
when even dreams are not a refuge?
What are you, what are you,
another smoking pile of refuse?
And you haven't got a clue.
Don't be so amused.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
In times I feel lost
I turn to the sky
In the darkness of night
And the silence of the early morning hour
I surrender to the cold breeze
Relentlessly tousling my hair
Covered by blankets
I wish upon the stars
May 3, 2023
May 3, 2023 at 3:29 PM UTC
I saw the rest of my kind scour against the streets, hands calloused-laden,
wizened by erratic explosions – nondescript music analogous to silence;
terse sleep stiff in wind, homes filled with tension, arrow-headed men
quiver through the busy streets as tatterdemalion as stray dogs.
inverted triangle, sidereal vertigo, mutilated rose and the beheaded tulip.
the ambiguous spiral of the downcast climb. I see all men maddened
by wine over the rooftops.
choking in dank light – the night exudes its flayed machinery.
an empty bottle of whiskey and a body stripped of skin melded with fright
raised higher than the maladroit sky.
I, whose name is but an algorithm of formlessness. I, whose silence is but the contemplation of stone. I,
whose voice toboggans like a tender ramshackle of incantations
filling tubercular pockets with spare hope yet none are we but only poorer.
whose fingers are but tired girls tousling in bed lacquered by sunsets – whose nails are paler
than a ****** of moonlight, whose homes are inflamed hemmed in by petticoats,
whose eyes set affixed to no avatars in juxtaposition of parks
falling madly in love with everything that glints.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
A few drivers,
mid-summer afternoon
lean against the divider,
paint peeling
some perch on it lightly---
indulge in hot group-talk;
the waltzing-shadow
of a banyan tree
opposite side of the
auto-rickshaw stand---
a street-art, delicate, dark-hued;
the phantom arms
hug
the disparate crew
in a tight family-embrace,
its breath tousling their hair
and it---
protects them from
the Mumbai heat!
@Sunil Sharma
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:00 AM UTC
Set apart from the world
On this little gravel road
I’m hidden away
By dancing leaves
On swaying trees.
The sun shifts
Shade lifts and falls,
And I am alone but free.
The wind blows
Tousling my hair.
And days are spent
Without care.
Country roads
Carry me along,
The beaten path
I travel alone.
When I go back
To where I’ve been
I will think of the road
And soon visit again.
Gravel roads, they call out to me—
I will always long to be
Beneath the trees
Feeling that shady breeze.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:09 PM UTC
i cannot wait to see you again
to feel the peaceful marks of your existence
the wind, tousling your mane, mixing it with mine
your face, your presence, your heart
beating strongly beside mine
as we run through bright fields of embers
our past glowing in the distant background
when all that is left here is us
we will go to that spot
where we were separated
and dig up my heart together
you will return it to me
so that i may fill it with my essence, my love
and i will gladly return it to you once more
for it is yours
forever branded by you
it is the only thing i can give to you while you're gone
please, be comforted
i gave you my whole to protect you until i can find you again
and when i find you
i will sacrifice myself to keep you safe
this time
i can stay with you
forever
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
The stars are beautiful from the beach-
Especially on this moonless night
Bright and sparkling, every pinpoint
Reflected on the black water,
Dancing with the soft motion
Of windswept waves
The same sea breeze tousling my hair
They look almost close enough to touch
To reach out and pluck
Right from the inky black bay
To hold like some errant firefly
Far from home
Standing upon the silken sand
Feeling it work its way between my toes
I begin to walk toward the lights
A siren call beating within my brain
Just a little closer…
Quickly
The waves lap at my feet
The soft caress of the water
Gentle and welcoming
Another step, another step
My intrusion rippling against the break
Stars dancing farther from my fingers
Still so tantalizingly close
Just a little closer…
Farther, deeper
The warm silk of the bay
Enveloping me like
A lover’s arms
A mother’s hug
Comforting and calming
Almost there, just a little more…
My feet no longer touch
The shifting sands below
Yet still
I move forward
Borne away by the tide
Floating, fighting to grasp
Just one burning pinprick
Of starlight
To feel its warmth within my palm
Just a little closer…
Floundering, fishing for
One final, futile touch
(I’m sinking)
Arms outstretched
Reaching toward those
Teasing
Tantalizing
Stars
No longer sure where they lie
(And oh, they lie)
Surf or sky
And still they sing
Just a little closer…
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
She was a shy, sensitive young woman with smaller hands and lean, long fingers that beautifully graced the pencil as she wrote poetry, or rather, the whispers of her heart within a small leather notebook, whenever she became curious, the dark, lustrous brown eyes would glimmer in fascination as the entire world would become you, she was not particularly beautiful though her heart was pure, remaining hidden through her poetic worlds as though listening to classical music, the streams of violins are the winds tousling her midnight hair as a dreamer of the night, her quiet demeanor and depth in thought hide her way in understanding and shaping a person or only musing about the simple beauty of the moment, she would see the stars while everyone walked past them and appreciate what others could not see at first glance, as the light once hidden among the leaves she was noticed by the one who had came closer, while placing her palm on her fair face when thick in listening, the painted portrait of the female poet always held her cup of warm tea, content in her recluse until there was a gaze upon her, opening a glimpse into her soul.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 7:30 AM UTC
Beginning in a night,
and lasting through.
Shock.
Bitterness.
Few bursts of anger.
Talking,
sharing,
secrets told.
Sadness,
tears,
and longing.
"Why?" Rained down with other questions.
To the point,
of dismissive.
"I don't want to be a girl,
I want to be a turtle."
There were happy notes,
permitted as they were.
Amongst,
Friends.
Family.
Myself.
Back.
Up.
Beautiful was/is:
butterflies,
overturned and stuck,
ocean water confining them,
to a shorter life,
when the waves wash,
higher, higher,
plucked away.
From the wet sand,
lifted into the sky,
brought to a plant,
two,
maybe three, made it.
Of cats,
strays though they were,
with food and beds under the pier.
Of the lady,
who shared her lunch,
crawling under the deteriorating boards,
to fill their bowls.
Fast-forward.
To friends,
rejoined with smile.
Though sad with an emotional pain,
of laying there,
in self.
Best friend-talks.
Friend-talks.
Family-talks.
Person-to-dog talks.
All these.
Seventy,
in the dark,
with no music.
Then July.
Fireworks,
on the seventh,
shared on the third.
A slight battle for a chair,
settled with laughter as half went to one,
and other to other.
Of walking,
in the rain,
after and before,
not during.
The ground is damp,
music pulsates.
Removed,
then off.
Birds,
the name of the wind,
two ways,
beautiful.
The sounds,
remembrance,
of home,
of before,
of the present,
of the during that became the past.
A deep pit,
opened,
also happiness.
Beautiful things are,
the wind tousling short hair: present,
thunder and lightning rolling in: present,
wrestling on the floor: past,
filled with a sudden joy as soon as a presence (his) was spotted: past,
shooting games: past
first kiss: past,
first love: past.
Of remembering,
the good and the bad,
the tough ways of learning,
of forgiveness,
of a new experience,
of tears for new reasons,
of the word "olive,"
of messing up,
of being,
of beautiful things.
"In the sky,
above the clouds,
are more clouds."
(and release)
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
INTO THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE INELUCTABLE VISUALITY
Leopold Bloom
tousles my hair.
Tells me I'm a
"...grand little fella altogether!"
His large black eyebrows
look as if they will leap
off his face and land on mine
chew my mind.
Of course he is
only Milo O'Shea.
Actor extraordinaire
from Strick's ULYSSES.
Some concert in the girl's gym
has mad him appear here
before me
quaking in fear.
He is the first man I see
in a tux.
Our class is to recite
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
Was I not nervous?
Jaysus I was so I was!
The spotlight a Medusa
turning us to stone.
An audience a many
headed monster.
I...I...I
petrified.
I throw my voice
out into the dark
like throwing a mad dog
a bone.
"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky."
Guy beside me starts to cry
wee running down his left knee.
Now it's over and I
am returned to myself again.
Meeting Mr. Milo
is just a happenstance.
Later he will will become
Durand Durand
trying to **** Barbarella
with sheer pleasure.
Now, Zeffirelli's kind friar
in ROMEO AND JULIET.
But for me
he always blossoms
into Bloom
tousling my many many curls.
"A wink of his eye and
a toss his head.
soon gave me to know
I had nothing to dread."
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
I got my hair cut
Again
Yesterday
In a small salon the filthy streets of Philadelphia's Chinatown;
The golden eagle
Appropriately named as I always feel wings lift me when I leave
Though the streets are grey and black with dirt and grime,
The salon is clean, chic, and welcoming
First one young lady with limited English swept me up to be dropped into the care of a second who washed my hair and luxuriously massaged my scalp with exquisitely long nails
Then I was led over to a swivel chair to ponder my reflection and bat my legs as a little child, waiting on Kelly for my grown up haircut
At last Kelly was free, and she too whisked me over to her mirror
In her most exceptional care she cut and thinned and cut and razored and thinned and cut some more
Her fingers flew, running through my hair and seeming to drop pieces of hair by magic
At last she styled and stepped back nervously asking if I liked it
Quickly scrutinising it, running my fingertips over the much-shortened hair, I looked up
And grinned
I love it
The bangs barely long enough to brush my eyebrows
The back as short as a boys, bristling when I rub it the wrong way
The front long and soft enough for tousling but short enough to stay out of my way
If I envelope my head in my hands I can easily trace the contours of my scalp
As though a couple silk scarves were draped over a barren skull
I was told I look like Emma Watson or Audrey Hepburn or a boy
But I love this
They're both stunning women
And I don't mind shocking a few old ladies with the surprise that this "strong young man" is I'm fact a girl
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
*I close my eyes;
Satin tree breath gently
Tousling my hair in the middle
Of a green ocean; A bright
Globe of smiles placing
One on my face.
I see voices all around me,
Music stretching its legs
While colors dance tauntingly
Around it.
I open my eyes and laugh
At the way I've chosen to see
The world today.*
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
The sun sets the world aglow,
fire on the sand
and glitter on the sea.
It sends kisses down my spine.
The wind is its messenger,
tousling my hair--
it was neat once upon a time
this morning.
Now that is just a distant memory,
my hair is a mess
of fine yarn upon
my forehead,
mussed by sea water and running through rainbows,
where colors meld to my skin
and glow bright
in the dying sunlight.
My back and legs are burning
like onions frying
in a pan,
but I don't care
because my cheek
is pressed into the warm sand,
and my hair
is a fan round my head,
and the wind
whistles merry songs from over the sea,
and they reach me,
a shouted echo in an empty cave,
and I will stay here forever,
with my feet in the sand
and the waves in my blood.
I shall sleep beneath the moon,
and hold hands with
the constellations.
I shall float in the midst of the vast green ocean
whose waves are forest creatures,
rising up high
to kiss my neck
before crashing upon the shore
and stroking my feet.
I shall build here a home,
of sand
and sand alone.
I shall spend every waking hour
building my small beautiful home,
only to watch it dry out
and collapse
at the end of each day.
I shall start anew with the rising sun.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 4:41 AM UTC
grandmother’s pond never moves
it’s alive, preserved inside her like a bubble.
an unknown aquifer, dreaming of us
no birds, no insects, no worms there
with a consistent season-less breeze
perpetually tousling the tangled grass,
her silver quivering hairs,
slow love rises from her porch perch
that chair rocks her into another time.
The Feather-fines hold the fences in place
a crown of thorns protects her herb garden,
she watches over those young, certain mountains
unaware of their Appalachian ancestors,
The Maple trees huddle, coveting their oldest memories
grandmother’s a stone, listening, under it all.
Nervous chewing college kids circle above her,
they think about this ancient perfect stillness,
this is her own the morning of the grandmother
her pond remains frozen glacier still,
her chair cradles the illness
we remember her well, the owl of the anonymous valley
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
I met a man with treetops for eyes
The sun shone out of his mouth when he smiled
Angels swooned when he laughed
Babbling brooks rushed when he spoke
His words crashing in my ears like waves
Like waterfalls.
I liked his vastness
The respect the winds had for him
Never blowing too strongly when he was near
Whispering cautiously by his ears
Tousling his feathered hair softly, gently.
He sat still as the mountains
But thundered and roared when I trod on his toes.
He shook the foundations of home, heart, life.
He wanted me to sit still at his feet
Drown in his voice, his words
Be carried along by the current of his commands.
I forgot how to swim.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Air swirled by the force of the opening door,
Tousling my chestnut curls,
As I breathe in the stale air,
I am faced with dust coated boxes,
Filled to their brims,
With old memories hidden long ago,
Chills run down my spine,
Coursing through my blood,
I do not want to go back,
I do not want to remember,
But I know it's the only way,
To get over the distant, fading past
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 9:18 PM UTC
Joey sees her strolling
up the beach, young girl,
smoking a cigarette, been
in for a dip, her legs all wet,
aged 9 or 10, scanning the
sands and crowds, hair
blowing across her face,
her eyes dark, scowling,
he follows her barefoot
track wondering where
her parents are, where
she’d got the smoke,
the stance, the stare of
her giving the beach a glare.
Joey ponders as she turns
and looks back towards the
sea, the cigarette held between
fingers, the smoke rising,
then she waves a hand,
puts her head to one side,
and then Joey spots them,
the parents, he presumes,
the woman a long haired,
sun kissed ***** swaying
her hips and broad *** along
the sands, and the man,
holding hands, a beefcake,
suntanned, puffing a cigar,
gazing at the young girl,
presumably his daughter,
like one sizing up a gift horse,
letting out language and
words loud and course.
Joey watches them meet
up and walk up the beach,
each one kissing each,
then the older woman
goes off alone, as girl
and beefcake stroll to
the sidewalk and go off
and out of sight, leaving
Joey to sit and muse
and watch the sands
and sea, a slight breeze
tousling his hair, thinking
of the girl’s fate, her life,
although she isn’t there.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
Staring at the sky
One of my favorite pastimes
Watching the world go by
The crisp air
Biting my cheek
Wind tousling my hair
The grass is damp
Running my fingers through the soil
Forever leaving my stamp
Searching for my identity
Amongst the stars
This is where I find serenity
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:36 AM UTC