"umber" poems
you hold me with a grasp that aches to let go
that hates that I let it know that i’m leaving
Your arms begin grieving
Refusing to let go of this fleeting
Moment
The energy you surround me with
so potent
So intense
The kind that gives one notions
The kind that causes me to question every motion
I make
Every romantic idea I create
a facade
So intense
With little motion
And the sense
Of calm
You yawn
I gaze at your slumber
and my fawn hands caress your umber burnt skin
and i begin to listen,
to your heartbeat at its proper pace
as my aching heart mimics it, they begin to race
my eyes dance around your face
As you pull me deeper into your embrace
You hold me
as your snores begin to scold me
you unfold me
i become open to you
as i review ever subtle movement
my body soothes when
you hold me,
how I refuse to hold myself.
i whisper very boldly
to myself, i love you
but only discreetly
while you’re sleeping
because only while we’re dreaming
does this all feel so possible
does this type of love
and sensuality
and affection
feel probable
so i lay
and i wait
for you to awake
i wait in this space
for you to gently place
your lips on my forehead
for your warm embrace.
for clothes to replace
your warm embrace in its stead
for our little visit
to come to an end.
you release me with that grasp that aches to let go
that hates that, I let it know that i have to leave it
Your arms begin grieving me
the romanticism begins fleeting me
i reach over to kiss you
one more time
and in turn you reply
“i love you”
my heart did not know what to say
or what to do
it could not take any less of you
only anymore
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 6:49 PM UTC
a rich panoply
of umber and gold
contrasting against
the conifers green
a glorious sight
to behold
one of the loveliest
ever seen
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
The impetus
Of being
Always on the run
Through pinwheel eyes
Those standing by
The mystic roadway : River
Blues yet to be brushed
or in blush
Of evening chill's breathing
a canvas like windows dreaming felt
All mindful
And chockfull O'
Wonder
Then ponder
Yonder "window breaks"
Past the wilderness' sleep
Bone heavy wood
Umber earth
Past whoosh and rush of liquid
Folding on itself / a soundtrack
Listen now
Pedestrian be
Mindful of the cautionary whales
Old Ahab’s yell
Obsessions
Fears
Or loathing.
If one is drowning in one's sleep
Look wildly
widely
Blithely
Down river
Or up there beyond finger's point
Sidewinder snake journeys
Until sky and below it
All meet
The distance
Now only a line
Coalescing what is beyond
Our ability to see
Far and away
Evanescent
Effervescent
Ever after
River. Life.
Here we are
And proud
The free spirit is fluent
With the rapid rivers loud
Always on the run
Currents like a child's curiosity ...
How then,
When or why
does it end ?
Where do we go?
Like most things existing,
Will lead to the high art /
love's deep oceans...
We often forget to seek
And mind
the sublimations/
d¬¬rift wood.
So then,
Begin with a dot .
A speck of dusk
A burst of light
A starry sky,
pieces to mastering
Raging fragility of water
Liquid undulations
Folding itself in / volumes
Or falling from on high
A droplet cry
Then the lightning
(crash or bloom)
From the heavens
like electric rivers
So brilliantly
Festoons
Where do we go (so low)
There and here / underfoot /
Over north / southern sleep
To oceans twilight deep?
Go wrapped or map-less
Or no.
Up
Way
Up yonder
There up there
Everywhere
All without fear...
My heart like the river yearns
To go toward the sun
A flow /
the beating drum
Always on the run
And
Yet
Still
Here.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Though glass, it is rimmed with gold
around the cup, handle and even the
saucer. Skilfully painted chrysanthemums
of various shades; the vermilion horizon,
Spring's honey, songbird's magenta,
sangria's fine wine, a parakeet's breast
and the Aegean sea.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And then, there are three sightly tea
caddies with lacquered wooden bodies;
one rosewood with red dancing fans,
one burr-oak with golden mountainous
landscape and one maple wood with
green bamboo. Ainhana gently removes
each of their lids by using the cloth, and
presents the pearls that were wrapped
in sun-kissed foil.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
She first lifts the rosewood caddy towards
me. I close my eyes and focus on the scent.
Without peeling back the foil, I know. It takes
me to the far distant Province of Yunnan,
past the snow-kissed mountains and rice
terraces to a very still lake. I noticed that
it began to bubble before a large splash
rose.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
At that moment, I meet the lake's Guardian,
the Imperial Wingless Dragon of legend.
With its wet emerald-kissed scales drinking
the sunlight. It's great body now entwined
in a wispy clouds as it stares at me with
eyes of liquid moons. Its tail crowned
with a peacock feathered eye-spot whips
around in the air, leaving an iridescent
trail of colours.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
With a great leap, he soars through
the air, trumpeting his great roar
that rattles the skies. Just as quickly
as he rose, he descends down with
a Pearl Moon in his brown claw. By
the stroke of its sienna-brown whisker,
the small Moon cracks, presenting me
it's contents, a long kept secret.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
The pearls are the colour of seaweed
with streaks of yellow and burnt umber.
With earthy notes whirls around my
nose, along with some floral sweetness,
burnt caramel licks, dragon spice and
a wisp of apricot. Ah, so I see! One great
guarded secret that he reveals to me!
His best pearls ferment in the womb
of the Moons! Purified by the Star
Virtues of Elysia's Harmony!
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Wonderfully rich Pu-erh Pearls,'
I say, my eyes now open.
'My Lady's nose is as sharp as ever!'
'I just know my tea,' I chuckle, 'it's
very unique in smell and taste. I will
save such fine broth for another day.'
Ainhana nods, places on the tray and
lift the burr-oak caddy. I close my
eyes once again and my mind
wanders yet again.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
Walk your land...
Eyes to sky
Azure beauty
Clouds etheric bright
Rock ashen black
Trees of umber
n' greens of grass
Fresh and alive
Lay on earth
Smell deep
the essence
moist or parched
Walk your land...
Walk your land...
Find your
Home once again
☆
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
1371
How fits his Umber Coat
The Tailor of the Nut?
Combined without a seam
Like Raiment of a Dream—
Who spun the Auburn Cloth?
Computed how the girth?
The Chestnut aged grows
In those primeval Clothes—
We know that we are wise—
Accomplished in Surprise—
Yet by this Countryman—
This nature—how undone!
3.5k
The golden girl
bathed in the water,
and the water turned to gold.
The weeds and branches
in shadow surprised her,
and the nightingale sang
for the white girl.
And the bright night came,
clouded dark silver,
with barren mountains
in the umber breeze.
The wet girl
was white in the water
and the water, blushed.
The dawn came without stain,
with its thousand bovine faces,
stiff and shrouded there
with frosty garlands.
The girl of tears
bathed among tears,
and the nightingale wept
with burning wings.
The golden girl
was a white heron
and the water turned her gold.
3.4k
Close your eyes
staring at the sun
it’s dropping fast
burnt umber runs
Mountain auras
dividing shadows
lights the purple line
between day and night
Dark silhouettes
sinking deep
illuminates behind
the promise of sleep
Night stars cascading
emu peeps
between milky light
eternally creeps
Shooting stars bright
inner eye sees
cacophonies of colour
shapes our very lives
It’s dreams, it’s time
it’s endless and divine
this half way place
all here, sublime
It’s spirals, it’s dots
it’s country, it’s us
explaining the universe
simple yet complex
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC
970
Color—Caste—Denomination—
These—are Time’s Affair—
Death’s diviner Classifying
Does not know they are—
As in sleep—All Hue forgotten—
Tenets—put behind—
Death’s large—Democratic fingers
Rub away the Brand—
If Circassian—He is careless—
If He put away
Chrysalis of Blonde—or Umber—
Equal Butterfly—
They emerge from His Obscuring—
What Death—knows so well—
Our minuter intuitions—
Deem unplausible—
3k
Naples yellow
Prussian blue
Burnt umber
Cadmium Red Deep
Napthol Red
Quinacridone
Phtalocionine Blue and Green
Portrait Pink Light
Yellow Oxide
Raw Sienna
Can you make a painting without these?
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
— after Melancholia
She’d have walked through fire for him —
A stranger with a fractured chameleon soul,
Tumultuous depths and misguided hymns,
But promises of patience and a steady stroll.
Stranger still, a fractured chameleon soul,
Restless beneath wind-tremors and silt-clay loam.
But with promises of patience and a steady stroll,
She follows the moon that leads her home
Restlessly. Wind tremors and silt-clay loam,
Burnt umber flicker-beats and faded birches.
She follows the moon, led home
To an abandoned, white-chip-painted church.
Beyond umber flicker-beats and faded birches,
He preached of salvation, but fell privy
Inside the abandoned, white-chip-painted church
Where green was gold and gold was envy.
He preached of salvation, but fell privy
To tumultuous depths and a misguided hymn.
Green was gold and gold was envy —
She’d have walked through fire for him.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl.
Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishes, spreads a chorus
of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into
one stream, forgets the past and rolls on.
The sea-mist green of the bowl's bottom is a dark throat of sky crossed by
quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing faces.
2.5k
I feel like a
toffee rose petal
with touches of the snapdragon blush
brushing into burnt umber
somehow and barely
holding the weight of water droplets
that have built up, piled on, drowned me
from years and years of thunderstorms
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 10:01 PM UTC
More a French shave than five o'clock shadow,
the young artist's way of backing off,
announcing danger, an air of the unexpected,
as the King snake has evolved to feign the Coral.
Yet, where camel hair touched canvas calm,
where quintessential light met quotidian ennui,
not the advertised blackened rose or orchid,
rather the sizzle, the honeyed-heat of azalea.
Each stroke portended floral intifada,
pastel yellows and oily greens igniting
upon a fired-umber background,
threatened to melt the easel into tar.
I stood gape-jawed, nodded approval,
eyeing the second creation within a single flower.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
I move through the woods in ritual
The trees have shed their leaves like
Third sons and eldest daughters,
They cling bravely until the wind uncurls their hands
and bears them away from home.
A scavenger, I search them out, hold them between finger and thumb,
Their last embrace.
Sometimes I will pluck a fading life from a branch,
melded amber and crimson,
the dregs of sun in their veins,
offered in the last vibrance of summer’s heat.
At home, I press them between pages,
tiny spells of weight and gravity
cast to keep their color.
I know this magic,
Autumn and I are kindred in this,
Our eyes are the same soft green and sepia of hiraeth
cradles of remembrance,
nets always cast back into memory.
Like all memories
There are a thousand useless,
The umber of old blood, trodden underfoot,
the seconds that dripped by unmarked.
But we hold the fragile, happy few,
High upon a shelf
the glowing phosphorus of laughter
The currant red of a last kiss
Returned to and returned to
Like an unanswered prayer.
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 7:09 PM UTC
a nacreous tossing around at
the sides, a dappled silver
sunlight if looked one way, an
apocalyptic gloam if another,
exhaled from a seeming
mouth, feeding on what has
already eviscerated an unfelt
***** a predator certainly its
own prey, a heat certainly
poison-breath on a cheek
falling when a meretricious
lover spouts that spurious
hypocorism, and also just a
wavering, iridescent puddle—
cornered, soft as a liquid steel
echo of a futile struggle
rolling around, bouncing off
a wine glass, and a porcelain
table edge, while a listening
head shakes, looks down
despondently, gloom glowing
out the hair, a voice jaded
since birth saying some
thing about differences, or a
helpless slender strap of hope
hanging itself on the way two
other eyes look at it across
checkered watered wings, two
swirling god whorls, two
effulgent galaxies the color of
melting pine bole circling
around in living umber striae,
pulling its gaze, raising it, as if
they, they were blazing truth
cased behind lithophane, and it,
only an aporetic puddle now
of tepid ocher, a mild earth
stone placed in a hand, asked
what is thought of it and the
response: yes, yes of course,
before foreign distance splutters
its face, and it retreats from
its meaning imparted to every
thing (with the vulnerable
precision of a swaying finger
tip) to the baby lanugo of a
delicate floating, through
human rills, of what is horizon
docked, dead, not merely
deciduous—forever jilted with
breath bulging as when beating
a flopping eyeless fish to
half-dead, head tilted up a
throat trying to pry itself
free, trying to live by
streaming snagless, airful,
without spirant sound of going
lost straight from the hands—
then a short chop of fullness
finally expunged and sputtering
like an escaped tuft of
shackled wonder soaring up
the sky in a puff and soul ring.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
His smile, how I love it
That very smile that always brings me up
The one that always lights the place
The on that clears the darkness when on his face
His hands, those soft hands
Those strong and hard working hands
The warm fingers on those hands
Oh, how they make my heart dance
His arms, his legs
How strong yet so graceful
They move with such beauty
They make my body want to dance
But those eyes, how I love them
Through them I can see him
His soul, it burns of umber
That beautiful, beautiful burnt umber
And through those beautiful eyes
I see his bright, happy soul
The one that lights up my soul
And causes it to burn purple
Those dark brown eyes, how I love them
The ones that always seem to smile
Even when his lips do not, they smile
They always smile
And his soul, that strong soul
That merry soul, that calm soul
The one that is seldom flustered, or frustrated
Of at least has a hard time showing so
Those dark brown eyes, the windows to his soul
Those dark but shining eyes
Those joyful smiling eyes
Those dark brown eyes, how I love them
#9_11/15/2011
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
Burnt umber in the morning
As the planets do align,
Ominously holding
To the Zodiac design,
Reminding us that somewhere
In the Bible, it was said,
That by the twelfth year of this century
Whole populations would be dead.
They say it is upon us
Those children of the moon,
They say the fingers of our destiny
Shall fall upon us soon.
Calamitous catastrophe
To befall the western world
That fiscal debt implosion
Will result with fraud unfurled,
When abnormal plate subduction
Along the continent's divide
Will magnify the earthquake swarm
Across the planet's hide.
When enormous ring tsunamis
Emanate from deep at sea
To cascade onto shorelines
To wreak extreme calamity.
Across the globe, Astrologist's,
Say something huge is due.
Their whispers quietly amplified
To percolate to you.
What little can be done or said
It's very hard to say
Because authorities worldwide
Refuse to recognize this day,
They won't readily acknowledge
Those symptoms verily to hand,
The frequent natural disasters
Occurring in each land.
Contagion is contagious
The whispers may be wrong,
Perhaps the future holds for us
A vastly different song,
But when the moon is full and white
And I look into her face,
I discern a bleak anxiety
Destined for the human race
I see mother nature poised
To take the heavy, upper hand
With an implacable demeanor
And un empathetic stand.
Burnt umber in the morning
As the planets do align,
Ominously holding
To the Zodiac design,
Reminding us that somewhere
In the Bible, it was said,
That by the twelfth year of this century
Whole populations would be dead.
Marshalg
@theBach
In the cold moonlight
20 May 2010
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 3:04 AM UTC
A cardinal traversed within himself
Retrograding, an opposition to time's progressions
Letting its wings cut through memory streams
It notices–
A cold sea breeze
Journeying from dock into the Walled City
Mixing with arid wind and fumes from Manila streets
Twisting and turning sky-high greens
Causing umber to fall, separating themselves from virescent leaves
Familiarity drove it to circle this scene
As the curtains of relativity are pulled back to show it–
A street lamp dims,
Refusing to team with others' gleam
That give the black iron above Charles' skin an auburn sheen
As it keeps on flickering like hints
From an undecided heart, calling out to the man with every whim
Familiarity drove it to land on a tree
Perched on its viridescent sepia shoulders, playing guardian to–
A couple sits
On the rim of the fountain at the king's feet
A hand touches a cheek, a warm caress as their eyes meet
Fitting into each other's gaze
On the dried cascade, dessicated, as the street lamps stay lit
It notices–
As it traversed within himself
Retrograding all of its current progress
Letting his memories cut himself six-deep
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC
*You remind me of the earth,
like deep burnt umber woodlands
mid downpours' fresh aroma
& spring's foliage lushly reborn,
twinkling explosive pinpoints
grazing beyond dark ether,
sparkles dappling 'pon depths
of eternal seascapes's nature,
amidst breath of relentless airy winds
gusting above her majesty's hazes
beyond purple mountain's apex
and streams of meadows' wildflowers in
deftly painted horizons after moonbows,
vivid consciousness' uttermost reminisce
of all things recollected in the long ago
essence of your memories' presence*
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
The Earth cried that day
the day her mother fell to slumber
ne'er again to wake
one resounding crash, boughs intertwined in perfect array
her colors fading, losing their deep hues of umber
the world over shuddered with such a quake
for the fairies had forgotten their way
*Dance for the trees and not the tithes
thus fell our Mother
The Tree of Life*
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
There were some roses, once, a long time ago.
They grew out of nothing, out of a tiny seed that burst and ****** its contents out into the new and terrifying air, and even then they didn't exist but for the idea that one day they might.
There were some roses, once:
the product of a process that included water and light and the removal of weeds and the implementation sharp protection from predators: deer and birds and squirrels and the like.
There were some roses once:
great surges of crimson fruit that bloomed so fiercely in their rebellion against the surrounding thorns
dedicated to the protection of the home of the finely spun veined silk that blossomed almost overnight.
There were some roses once:
Never has such beauty been guarded so staunchly;
and with good reason, for the rose in its radiance has but one short season to stretch its arms and breathe its perfume to which all lovers beg and swoon.
There were some roses once:
They faded,
green
then red
then crimson
then purple and umber.
But in their slumber we see the bloom we once beheld on that summer day.
We fondled their petals, hastened their decay.
There were some roses once, a long time ago.
They had to die, as if on cue, as living things tend to do,
and oh, they dried so elegantly!
Plainly meant for royalty.
And even in their most brittle form, they're somehow warm
Somehow still new.
So you plant some more, you cut the weeds, you draw blood on their thorny guards,
knowing that it's not for you, but for the birds in their back porch churchyard.
And the moment the first rose peers around from inside the womb, well
there's your reward,
to forward the growth of something so fragile and sweet.
So ruthless if you aren't aware of its teeth.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
.
I think I may have just died
looking in to your almond eyes.
Cedar hues of beige and brown,
for me such beauty in which to drown.
Chestnut and umber, darker shades,
silently dissolve my barricades.
Soft bark pastels of hazel and fawn
delicately hold my heart reborn.
© Pagan Paul (09/02/17)
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 7:17 AM UTC
Is mauve, turquoise, burgundy, teal, lavender,
puce, umber, magenta and chartreuse.
It’s a rainbow of color that climbs after the thunderstorms
that is like a badge on a sky that is so blue
It is deserts and rains and mountains and plains
that stretch as far as the eye can comprehend
It is surrounded by ocean and blessed be
the beauty of it just never ends
It’s half a day trip and a drive up the mountain
to walk the forest trail to see the platypus in their habitat
It’s just a short trip on a hot summer day
to lay on a beach and man… In summer, you can’t beat that
At the same time it’s a winter wonderland of snow falls
upon mountains that are majestically steep
It’s a day trip away from the most magnificent site
Ayers Rock lives in mystery of ancestry so deep
Its glow worms at night alighting so bright
inside their domed cave at Natural Arch
It’s the Great Barrier Reef where the natural order of things
continue to grow, a rainbow of coral on the march
It’s sharing the ancestry of all that live on our land
St Patrick’s Day, Chinese New Year, we accept any invitation
We especially are thrilled when the rest of world joins in
with our love of a good horse race, Melbourne Cup…..
The Race That Stops a Nation
What other land has an entire country stand still
for three and a half minutes, which has never seemed so long
Fortunes are won and lost on this great day
Horses come from afar, we say ‘Bring It On’
There are no concrete jungles, just a huge urban sprawl
where everyone can claim paradise as their own
Its kids in the street playing cricket and football
amongst a community with which they have grown
Born from conviction, but raised by honor
it’s the land that just goes to show
that no matter where you may come from
if you put down roots, from our soil, you will grow
Friendships come easy, mateship is a lifetime gift
If you’re in trouble and the odds against you are stacked
Just give a holler, she’ll be right mate
We like a good fight. We’ve got ya back!
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
His hair is poofed, 8 out of ten
Teeth polished soft white
Back is naired, nails all clipped
Underwear still clean
He is bouncy and blathy
A brassy baritone rips across the set
Co-anchor all Xanaxed and blonded
Can’t feel her glowing red mouth
About to show their favourite clips
Starving umber skinned babies
Distended bellies, chopstick arms
Fly clouded eyes, light fading
Mothers with vacant grey faces
Collapsed buildings, bodies sprawled
Terrified animals dying
Video Head man turns to the camera
Mouths the teleprompter tales
Without meaning
Can’t feel his heartbeat
He’s thinking about his *********
Of 17 year old Crack babes locked in his suite
‘N Just as he starts to get jazzed up
The lights go down and he knows
He knows
He’s just a digital clown
FFFTTT…
The electrons are gone.
Songs of the Illustrated Zombies 2010
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 5:04 PM UTC