"tress" poems
the silent tress hold memories
of winters sweet melodies
search high and low
and in every fox hole
where oh where.. can she be?..
oh feet that quickly flee
who then holds your stories
or keeps you... in times keep
but the trees and stones
that stay beside roads
you gave a glance to safely keep
but in every time
of past and new
they pass by you
without speaking speak
beginning , end ...old and new
oh what stories you doth keep
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Pain is inevitable,
Suffering is optional.
The crossroads of success,
Is always constructional.
If we could become tress,
Solid and stoic, deep rooted
In Mother Earth's flesh;
We could stand firm
Through the tempest, unswayed.
But we are only humans.
Covered in darkness.
Hiding behind our fears,
Timidly withdrawing from
The ominous tempest.
So, embrace the fury,
The daunting gales that
Once were scary.
After all, you can't
Stop the waves,
But you can learn to surf.
And even if you sank,
Deeper into the void,
At least you'll drown
Knowing there was
Beauty In The Struggle.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
Ah, a gorgeous lake!
Smell the tress, taste the water,
***** television!
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
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O all the spirits of love that wander by
Along the love-sown fallowfield of sleep
My lady lies apparent; and the deep
Calls to the deep; and no man sees but I.
The bliss so long afar, at length so nigh,
Rests there attained. Methinks proud Love must weep
When Fate’s control doth from his harvest reap
The sacred hour for which the years did sigh.
First touched, the hand now warm around my neck
Taught memory long to mock desire: and lo!
Across my breast the abandoned hair doth flow,
Where one shorn tress long stirred the longing ache:
And next the heart that trembled for its sake
Lies the queen-heart in sovereign overthrow.
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A shaft from the golden sun,
reclined peacefully in my lap.
The amber gleam reflected back,
and gently baked the solemn land.
An ardent whisper furnished the woods
with a viridescent scent that woke up the woods.
Silver songs of sleek streams,
chased the lullabies away;
gently.
Ancient tress cuddled the wind,
their leaves clapped in sheer bliss
The broken winged white eyed bulbul,
warbled hymns to lift the curse.
Scarlet tainted vintage letters resting in the rustic mailbox,
await your tender touch; while they chant for a past long gone.
But lily livered clouds,
they have turned your courage into a yellow illusion.
So now defy the toxic words and the errors you made,
A different person inside your skin, long ago, burned our hearts on the hateful flames.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC
you
deserve
better
than what you've been accepting.
than all that you have chased.
than every.single.tear
that has fallen out of
place
when you realize that every lie,
was never worth your time
you can sell your watches
you have too many, anyways
one day, you will look into the sky
it won't be dark,
you will walk outside
the light you see-- will not be from the moon,
the shadows that surround you-- will not be those of demons
pulling you to down to Hades:
your blanket will not be misery
but
you won't simply wake up, alleviated by fate
you will have to fight
wars against yourself-- the worst kind imaginable
you
are up against the odds of giants
not even a troll-- would attempt to cross the bridges that you must build
but you can do it
you must learn to live with a shield in your hand
and a bow on your back
and eventually
one day,
you will look into the sky
it will be white and pure
you will walk outside
the light you see-- will be that of the sun's glow
the shadows of the tress will dance in your presence
persuading you to climb their swaying branches
lifting you towards the high heavens
flowers will float into your hair
yet slowly someone will approach
carrying a diamond-laced, gold ring, inside a crafted, red-silk box
in awe, you will notice his glowing amber eyes
then his face
you will see, is painted with delicate metallics alluring metallics
but you won't be swayed, for there is fire in his eyes
slowly you will reach towards the box
you've spotted the disguise
with the shield you have gathered; bow is in hand
untamed-- you are savage
unfazed by the lures of man
ferocious-- savage
he is not what you desire, rather lust
but you will walk across the bridge you've built--
based upon trust
away you will go, from all that harms
as you come to see the light
not a soul will tempt you away
for
you
are
savage
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
you were there on his last night
and was there on the night
we stumbled upon
an unfamiliar house
the creatures were making
a peculiar sound
it was the strange place we inhabited
for as long as we could be brave
you were with me when i lost a limb
you saw grief and tropical storms
right through my eyes
you heard words come out
of my mouth, they were all
in past tense and shaky
the best four years a teenager could have
i have spent them with you
i gave you my trust, my blood
and our promises
you met the 3am version of myself
which i believed that is ours
only to keep
i could not fathom the grief
of losing a limb
nor the grief
of seeing our strange house
collapse right in front of me
but the concrete was made of trust
you contended that you were here
to extend succor, immediate aid
to a grieving soul, to your friend
you came in crowds extending
sympathy as how i've seen it
little did i know that succor
meant pulling the trigger
when the tectonic plates
and the seismic waves
bends the buildings
and crumbles to the ground
when the tropical storm
named after me
pull the tress from its roots
floods the households
and all the different routes
or when your 3am uncertainties
scare you, and you would howl
and howl and howl
but who will you run to?
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
handpicked blueberries in yogurt,
tea on the porch, Ellen,
in desperation to plant a raspberry bush.
jogging through a grasshopper field
holding in screams at the small green chirps
shooting up around my ankles.
grimy trails of sweat, the daddy longlegs
crawling out from under my thigh
the dirt at home under my nails.
nickel-bright stars above
the trees, a cool tress rising,
buzzing in the porch light of
bugs going for our jugulars,
still tight and smooth.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
fire-breathing scalderer,
honey-gathered heavy,
your bow lip is
wild thy raven tress,
make turbulent seas,
ravenous claws
gently in the heat,
go floating, our
flesh embers!
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
Tied down to my mistakes
A worn path never re-grows it seeds
My emotions like wild flowers
Skirt along the edge in light
Gently swaying in summer breeze
I watch the clouds pass by
A moment captured, then released
I run, across green green grass
Down different roads past carvings on tress
Mend broken bridges
That led us to golden beaches and start again.
But your eyes hold me to this path
Your heart guides me through this pain
And I can only follow the trail
Of your memories for so long
And time will let me stumble on my own
To find a clearer path to travel,
To find a life without you.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
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I am a little prince
Living on a planet
Far too small for you to see
Here is a million stars
But a single flower
To spend all the sunsets with.
Bussinessmen and Tippler's words
They sound as I'm left by birds
With a friend to
Forever last.
And if I could make you mine
You say there's one last goodbye
For you and me
To get past.
What if I didn't care
Would the tress out-grow me?
And sheeps eat my little rose?
Being old is to count
Everything that matters
Grown-ups they're all too weird.
A lamplighter lights the fire
A man lives by his desire
A prince has tamed a fox
'cause his heart is enough.
But now I have to leave
To my little planet
I think someone there needs me.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
She sits by darkened hearth
No warmth now issues forth
Her tattered clothes look more like rags than a dress
But still she carries on
Even when hope is gone
For a princess is a princess nonetheless
If dancing at the ball
Or scrubbing floor and wall
In scullery or in carriage for a ride
Hanging linen out to dry
Or set on throne most high
None of that can ever change what is inside
For it’s not silken gown
Not scepter, sword, or crown
Nor poise to rule court with great ability
Look closer and you’ll find
A heart that’s good and kind
Are the signs of grace and true nobility
Of palaces she dreams
White horses matched in teams
With jewels agleam and in its place each tress
Though life may be unjust
She is regal in the dust
For a princess is a princess nonetheless
Jul 19, 2022
Jul 19, 2022 at 10:26 PM UTC
The other day my sister lamented that she did not look like one of those white, blonde, blue-eyed beauties on television.
This struck me for a number of reasons mainly for the fact that we are Indian girls who are neither white, blonde nor blue-eyed and it is physically impossible for us to be like that because it's coded into our genes.
Why then did my sister want to be so much like these beauties that she could never look like.
Why then did my sister want to change herself so much, change they very coding in her genes, change the very fabric of her body?
I was not able to respond to her at the time but this is my response to her.
Society's standards of beauty were created by entrepreneurs looking to make a quick buck.
They market such celebrities as beautiful and, through subliminal messages tell you that if you do not look like them, you are ugly and not worthy.
And it is so easy for them to do this because of the Westernisation of cultures all over the world.
Go to any supermarket and the first things yo will see under the beauty section are bleaching and whitening creams.
It is true that these white, blonde, blue-eyed beauties are stunning, gorgeous.
But why should their beauty mean that you aren't beautiful?
You are the culmination of years of evolution,
the stars have been planning your arrival.
Look at yourself in the mirror,
Stare into the dark brown irises of your eyes and understand that they are like pools of chocolate, understand that they are the colour of the bark of the tress understand that they are beautiful.
Caress your brown hair, run your fingers through it, you are beautiful.
Look at your caramel-coloured skin, don't you just love the colour? It's deep and sweet and beautiful.
Your body, the vessel of your soul in beautiful and every step you take is magical and your voice sounds like a bow playing perfectly on a violin and your laugh ringing out sounds like wind chimes in a light breeze.
Don't you understand?
You are a ******* masterpiece.
Don't treat yourself any less.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
it is difficult to write in a hammock
not to find the words
the words are children hiding
desperate to be sought
fickle wind jostles
ecstatic chimes
traffic sounds like the ocean
if you listen
and that smell
fresh rain,
grass
a barbecue ignited
this hammock holds my heart
it is my lotus
supporting me so that I may be
in the world, yet not of it
floating higher and higher—
glimpse her now before she is
but a speck in the sky
swaying, yet somehow perfectly still
tress rustle
leaves spackling the air, don't miss a spot
fill in the cracks
a raindrop kisses my lip
Welcome Home I've Missed You
if it weren't for the chill in my back
I'd stay here forever
no one wants the hammock
on this dreary afternoon—
lavender ice clouds
carved out with silver streaks, axel lift
you see, hammocks are not just
for sunny days
in fact, you won't learn a **** thing
from a hammock
on a sunny day
their secrets aren't safe
in the sun
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
he walks in awe, and would curse my interest in night
of clear silence and sighs
at promiscuous men's obsession with purity
within his aspect and his eyes
he looks down to my ******* and I ask him why
to which he replies and typically denies
he caresses those who adore lust and then calls them 'whores' when they are no less
had they been tighter.. but he likes lace?
his hands stroke my raven tress
as he says I am not like the rest
he whispers that he will handle me best
but if I was not pure I know I would be in another place
I stroke his cheek and admire his brow
yet why does this man objectify me as eloquent
so soft? don't reply to my letter. so calm? you haven't met me properly, have you?
deceived by my smile but I am not deceived by yours, o' 'gent'
if only more had visited below
but then again, my heart would still be innocent!
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
FASTEN your hair with a golden pin,
And bind up every wandering tress;
I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:
It worked at them, day out, day in,
Building a sorrowful loveliness
Out of the battles of old times.
You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,
And bind up your long hair and sigh;
And all men's hearts must burn and beat;
And candle-like foam on the dim sand,
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,
Live but to light your passing feet.
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If it's to be
It's up to me
Everything in me wants to flee
To the top of the tress
Where I can live and be free
Connect with nature
Be a baker, teacher or a Sergeant major
Rule the kingdom
With baby Lincoln and a trio of fearsome pilgrims
Swing from branch to beach
The sand, the water and the sea
Is this where I'm meant to be
Siting under a coconut tree drinking Chablis
Sunning with sea creatures
Feeling like a cheater
The heat and the sun
Making this a home run
Knowing it's where I'm meant to be
Me and all my heart is set free
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
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Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!
2.1k
A fire lion lays on the rich hue grass,
Sitting there by the bough of tree:
And sun shine falls for her flaméd tress
And wears each flame on her skin-seam:
While tempted I am to approach this beast,
Who sits there smelting shades o' skin,
The eyes of hers are like the very leaf -
So swift and keen and fell within:
And so I watch from a great distant height,
And so she be a star in grass not red,
With mane that on her lion could light
A spark or flame of emberness.
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 1:22 AM UTC
Your fingertips planted trees on me.
You left a forrest
full of life.
But with no rain
there was no healthy leafs.
So the forrest crumbled.
And I cut the tress down
for I did not wish
to have a memory of you
on my body.
Yet, roots of the forrest
remained deep beneath my skin.
And I will now forever,
if I wish or not,
have memories of your fingerprints.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:13 AM UTC
Time will tick by on a watch,
attached to a skinny wrist,
the hands rotate casting small shadows over roman numerals,
silhouetted behind bonsai tress with eyes that squint tight in this end of summer light.
Phones serve no purpose until they ring,
and in hospitals life support machines beep beep electronically
as people are feed through tubes that gurgle
and words get stuck in their throats as life constricts and
in these ***** municipal corridors death stalks dressed in a stained uniform.
Men in ties crunch numbers and say, ”There is no way to say this Mrs Smith, it would just be cheaper if your husband died.”
We can turn off the switch and you can take him home in the back of your car.
You don’t have a car?
That’s ok, a bus stops just outside.”
Leaves are falling early this season turning the floor brown.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 8:14 AM UTC