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Thin and transluscent
Fabricated sheet
Clumsy piece
Tickling with every groove
Of the winter's breeze.

Its flow was a mirror of her aura
Of her external beauty
Of how fierce she was
Every time she exposes her curves.

Her fake smile was a frown
She was tore apart from her soul
For who she was
A manequin by herself.

(7/2/14 @xirlleelang)
May manequin kasi sa Rengel, napapaisip ako pag nakikita ko sila.
Jamesb Jul 2022
We are all falling,
Life is a drop towards ending,
You dear reader,
And I,
And we can no more delay or adjust the
Speed of our descent
Than flap our arms right now
And take flight towards the clouds,

And though we may aspire to the heavens
The only route out of life
Is down,
Drawn by that terrifying gravity
That draws us ever faster
As the years pass,
Accelerating steadily through childhood
Adolescence and young adulthood,

Streaking past the unknown
Mid point of our lives
But suddenly aware we have less to go
Than we can know and less to get
Than we already had,
And that as we hurtle out of middle age
Puts a scale to our brief existence,
And a reasonable sight of our end,

But these calculations are of no use,
As our muscles sag and our hair thins,
Skin wrinkled and transluscent,
Eyesight dimmed,
Because we are tripped
By illness or literally in a fall
And thus we reach beginning of the final bend,
Our flailing stops

As we reach our journey's end
Laura Blaise Feb 2011
(The river is watercolour, and I wish you could see how the colours blend in summer
Through the light rain I can’t bear to hear the whispers of the city... I just look into the water It’s transluscent like your skin, blue as your veins. It moves at lightening speed in this rain.

I want you to come and see... but they can barely leave your curtains open for fear you’ll catch something from the light, the air. Your delicate complexion would only be tarnished.
I want to see you here in this painting but you seem so far from everything now, how am I meant to find you when now everything, everything I do feels like falling. )

The river is so gentle this time of year when the rain falls like feathers and fills it right up to the banks. It’s a water colour painting, all pale green and blue and as I sit on the bank it reminds me of you;  your transparent skin, your pale green eyes and blue veins visible...
You are paint with too much water in it, now. Diluted, wasting...There’s a swan pecking at crumbs on the bench where you should be sitting, next to me. Did you  know a swan can break your arm? Not that there’s much of you left to break now. You can barely leave your bed, without summoning fatigue to gnaw on your bones.
It’s hard to sit knowing that however hard I grip the bench it won’t bring  anything back and knowing that I can never hug you as tightly as I’m clutching the wood because you are made of glass now.
The trees are throwing their leaves off in sudden gusts and they flail in the air so the world looks like fire. Their flamebraches flickering menacingly. It has an energy that you will never feel again, neither in your bones nor beating against your skin.
You are protected now. Like signets beneath their mother’s wing. You feel no wind nor rain, nor sunshine, no ecstacy in your veins. Everything is white... Artificially dyed flowers stand ridgid at the foot of your bed. I know they bring you no comfort.
A storm is coming. The swans retreat to their shelters, the people trail off into the distance, their faces hidden by dripping umbrellas. The trees tear off all of their leaves in fiery rage until they dance furiously in the naked wind. They are angry because you are not here to dance with them. ******* you, they hate you for it. For lying there, tormented and tired as the wind screams that ‘LIFE GOES ON AND ON without you.’
I stay on the bench, immobile. I am soaked right through to my lungs, feel rain drops running down the ladders of my ribs. I look like I have just crawled from the river, as leaves stick to my skin. I grip the wood tightly still.
Once it was sunny. It was bright, cloudless and you stood here next to the bench. You laughed at how the swans always looked so angry, like ballet dancers concentrating too hard. The trees had all their fresh young leaves, wrapped  in their velvet coats.
The swans don’t look angry today, just sad, brow beaten. Their beaks point down as they huddle from the cold.
I hate you for not being here.
I let go of the bench. The storm rages.
I dive head first into the dashing water. It is deeper than usual but still shallow.  I keep my head beneath the stirring water for as long as I can. I feel the cold rush against my skin, filter through my clothes and encase me in it’s breath. The air inside me screams to be released, threatening to burst through my back like wings.
I broke the already shattering surface and hauled my numb body onto the bank.
I felt then, as I lay on the soaking ground, that I knew you were never coming here or anywhere else you loved ever again. I thought I could feel your ghost in my hands,  in my throat. Slipping awa.
The next day, the day you sat up and the doctors said you were a miracle, the day the nurse took away all the ugly flowers, the trees by the river had never stood so still, so wonderfully still.
A copper, crimson canopy
Backlit by the sun
Millions of transluscent leaves
Holding on for dear life
To ancient, old tributaries
Branches to another time
Feeding the life into the cover
Each branch reaching for the fall sun
Each leaf struggling to hold on
A battle of wills
To avoid the inevitable fall
And await the winter solstice
So far, the tree is winning
It's reds and browns showing their strength
Against the might of time
Who will win?
Sun, Tree, Leaves or time?
Inspired by another of William Carr's photographs. Check them out at William Carr Gallery on  facebook or google it. His gallery in Las Vegas is home to some of the most phenomenal photographic artwork in the world. Please check it out and compare my words to his work.
Harry J Baxter Apr 2013
I think if April were a person
it would be a young mother
Loving and kind
and sometimes,
kinda ******* nuts
but that's why I love her
I woke up this morning
and overnight
the tree outside of my window
up and decided to get pretty
green foliage
becomes emeralds in the sun
and transluscent

April means birth
and it also means rebirth
April is cleansing
and nourishing
and in my opinion
the best month of them all
but then again
I'm an April baby
so I'm probably
more than a little biased
A tribute to my mother month
Rain,
You sing
In my lucid moment
Blissfully innocent
Your subtlety
I hear all night
Symphonic!
Through my glass window
Transluscent
As you enter my ear
Drum-ming, humming
Leading every drop
Winning, whining
My complete attention

I close my eyes
As it dims
My night opens
Unmasked the vividness
Of your reality
Through your fragrance
As it travels into
Deep tunnel of my nostril
grows softly
Wearing your smile
In a golden aromatic saffron
Or Asian ripe mangoes

You silently pour
My earth's tongue
sweetened with your lips
Thick, I kissed
in thirst of your wetness
I taste you
Red, lush and succulent
you were inside
my torso
I drink you
down to my hips
My thighs, my shin
turns over
Tears of joy drip
as I empty you
Spreading your moistness
Drowning my weaknesses
Arousing our existence
As you fall on my shoulder
Bare
Filling my skin
Sparse like trees
In dying forest
Sweating
Tossing, turning
I cannot sleep
Oh stop
Tickles my toes
I swear!
You were the same fellow
I've met
You just hit my ground
Not long ago
-Earth  (thankful to be moist again)
Stefania S Jan 2018
a silent cry
followed by violent shouts
sullen coves
darkened funeral spouts

the undertaker dressed in black
eyes of coal
he never looks back

widow (maker)
spun around
her dresses long
her feelings down

empty shoals
crowned in blue
legs of scars
moon, new

hear her cry
head thrown back
sobbing swallowed
coughing hack

skin transluscent
soft yet untouched
nocturnal creature
fallow of *****

withdraw the bow
pull the sword
unappreciated spied my lord

empty cages open and shut
downward spiral
a violent cuck

harrowed adventure
blighted by (sh)fame
ignorant ties
hollow frame

guilty no more
follow on back
open your mouth
scream from of the lack

trust embellished
overly surmised
internal wicking
her sad lonesome eyes
Tony Luxton Jul 2017
It glows warm on her breast, polished
symbol of her life attachments,
subtly marking loving passion,
needing no flashing sparkling zest.

Once the scent of ancient pine,
gooey, enticing insect trap,
transluscent shroud for their remains,
since washed ashore between those
sheer, crumbling, shortbread cliffs.
abby Jun 2018
you ignite the earth below you with iridescent light
your speckles of transluscent gold are strewn about me like straw

you are so bright that I cannot gaze upon you, for I am blinded by wonder
your energy inspires my existence, yet I go my way, concealed from the eye

you orbit systematically, ruling the atmosphere
I dance chaotically, a rhythmic interpretation of you

you cannot see me sway in worship, but you can feel my deep affection
this is the way I wish for love to be

you are the morning star
I am the northern wind

without you, I am nothing
It remains the heaviest, steel-toed shoe, on target, I threw and it is a
heart-breakingly horrible pity if she is pretty, especially if she's you
“How's every little thing?” I asked the grey corpse of X-princess Di
to which she gurgled, as her blue blood was caked dry, “Okay now,
but earlier a gang of Obama's ******* spit on me as they limped by”
And suddenly my testicles went numb just after I turned 30 & I had
to call a waitress over 'cause my concubine's salad fork was so *****
from wild-bird **** shat by a wild bird that the waitresses call Birdy
It's midway between pitched darkness & Pollyanna that I reside, for
I ain't been completely made loony by Katie Couric's gay menticide
It's not the only heavy shoe I threw because she's pretty if she's you
She's pretty if she's you, no matter the great heft of the thrown shoe
What's your color, pig-**** Edward Teller? I am albino transluscent
in Rickover's attic & black as an opal in my big French wine cellar.
Like a ***** on morphine I will scratch your eyes out soon forever,
until I'm done with that & then it's onto a free food-stamp endeavor
that roughens up the horns of French boars hung like honkies never
What's your color, pig **** Edward Teller? I am albino transluscent
in Rickover's attic & black as an opal in my big French wine cellar.
It remains the heaviest, steel-toed shoe, on target, I threw and it is a
heart-breakingly horrible pity if she is pretty, especially if she's you
“How's every little thing?” I asked the grey corpse of X-princess Di
to which she gurgled, as her blue blood was caked dry, “Okay now,
but earlier a gang of Obama's ******* spit on me as they limped by”
And suddenly my testicles went numb just after I turned 30 & I had
to call a waitress over 'cause my concubine's salad fork was so *****
from wild-bird **** shat by a wild bird that the waitresses call Birdy
It's midway between pitched darkness & Pollyanna that I reside, for
I ain't been completely made loony by Katie Couric's gay menticide
It's not the only heavy shoe I threw because she's pretty if she's you
She's pretty if she's you, no matter the great heft of the thrown shoe
What's your color, pig-**** Edward Teller? I am albino transluscent
in Rickover's attic & black as an opal in my big French wine cellar.
Like a ***** on morphine I will scratch your eyes out soon forever,
until I'm done with that & then it's onto a free food-stamp endeavor
that roughens up the horns of French boars hung like honkies never
It remains the heaviest, steel-toed shoe, on target, I threw and it is a
heart-breakingly horrible pity if she is pretty, especially if she's you
“How's every little thing?” I asked the grey corpse of X-princess Di
to which she gurgled, as her blue blood was caked dry, “Okay now,
but earlier a gang of Obama's ******* spit on me as they limped by”
And suddenly my testicles went numb just after I turned 30 & I had
to call a waitress over 'cause my concubine's salad fork was so *****
from wild-bird **** shat by a wild bird that the waitresses call Birdy
It's midway between pitched darkness & Pollyanna that I reside, for
I ain't been completely made loony by Katie Couric's gay menticide
It's not the only heavy shoe I threw because she's pretty if she's you
She's pretty if she's you, no matter the great heft of the thrown shoe
What's your color, pig-**** Edward Teller? I am albino transluscent
in Rickover's attic & black as an opal in my big French wine cellar.
Like a ***** on morphine I will scratch your eyes out soon forever,
until I'm done with that & then it's onto a free food-stamp endeavor
that roughens up the horns of French boars hung like honkies never

— The End —