"unlocated" poems - Hello Poetry

How do they call you, those who’ve passed through unmarked twin doors for the shy side of one century? Is it as Nicholas of Myra, or of Bari, or as an unlocated saint, working wonders in this home of trim white-stone block, with three tiers of black- arches, frowning up at the merciless grids behind? Rows, rows, rows, they float on glassy, steel-blue oceans, and these oceans will fall in violent, cascading, millennial waves unlike any with foam caps that once lapped the rocky coast of lost Lycia-- your see our maps don’t contain, and our licit hosannas won’t reach. Who are they who pray here? Bakers, sailors, bankers, all whose sighs rise with a torrent of immigrant chants liaison rafters fracture in echo-song, the old coinage that plies your favor. To which patron can they turn when your cross crowns not the work of masons but one day’s rubble, a tongue without a bell, the charred relics of unnameable acts?

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Aug 15, 2010

Aug 15, 2010 at 1:16 PM UTC

francis-scudellari

Saint Nicholas

How do they call you, those who’ve passed through unmarked twin doors for the shy side of one century? Is it as Nicholas of Myra, or of Bari, or as an unlocated saint, working wonders in this home of trim white-stone block, with three tiers of black- arches, frowning up at the merciless grids behind? Rows, rows, rows, they float on glassy, steel-blue oceans, and these oceans will fall in violent, cascading, millennial waves unlike any with foam caps that once lapped the rocky coast of lost Lycia-- your see our maps don’t contain, and our licit hosannas won’t reach. Who are they who pray here? Bakers, sailors, bankers, all whose sighs rise with a torrent of immigrant chants liaison rafters fracture in echo-song, the old coinage that plies your favor. To which patron can they turn when your cross crowns not the work of masons but one day’s rubble, a tongue without a bell, the charred relics of unnameable acts?

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There were ashes on the floor when he first moved in. Soon unnoticed as I watched him begin to leave his biggest bags at the door and handle small candles in the darkest corners. There were cracks on the walls, against the white he used the flickering light to make tall shadow puppets, and made a smile flash like a switchblade. Dusting ashes, coals appeared, the ones he revered to keep near but kept his scalded hands in his holeless pockets, palms wiped with the balm of the hidden places he settled. Many opened their gates, but few have the space to sustain the boy who refrained from making a home inside those who were never truly alone. I knew where he was, all along I could hear him playing that song, a heavy sound resonating and sinking tones into, into, into the weakest bones, easily snapped, but he reigned the cracks back in from breaking beyond thinner skin. It was an inferno in the making, this new found hero unaware he'd be pouring gasoline over tiny heartstrings. Wary sparks kept their mark in unlocated edges, afraid any product of the name would make everything in it's entirety go up in flame. But a mouth started to taste smoke, clouded eyes began to see a familiar face in blacker windows. The feeling was branded, less than fragile, more than candid. And it hurt to write with burnt fingertips. Choking, a suffocation could be an equal devastation so the broken hands wrote for the chance to breathe. They found relieve in the boy who refused to drop his lit fuse, eyes unignoring to the fire left roaring, a warmth on his cheeks from the heat of one light he allowed to be nothing less than impossibly bright.

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Jan 7, 2014

Jan 7, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC

runbunny

kindle

There were ashes on the floor when he first moved in. Soon unnoticed as I watched him begin to leave his biggest bags at the door and handle small candles in the darkest corners. There were cracks on the walls, against the white he used the flickering light to make tall shadow puppets, and made a smile flash like a switchblade. Dusting ashes, coals appeared, the ones he revered to keep near but kept his scalded hands in his holeless pockets, palms wiped with the balm of the hidden places he settled. Many opened their gates, but few have the space to sustain the boy who refrained from making a home inside those who were never truly alone. I knew where he was, all along I could hear him playing that song, a heavy sound resonating and sinking tones into, into, into the weakest bones, easily snapped, but he reigned the cracks back in from breaking beyond thinner skin. It was an inferno in the making, this new found hero unaware he'd be pouring gasoline over tiny heartstrings. Wary sparks kept their mark in unlocated edges, afraid any product of the name would make everything in it's entirety go up in flame. But a mouth started to taste smoke, clouded eyes began to see a familiar face in blacker windows. The feeling was branded, less than fragile, more than candid. And it hurt to write with burnt fingertips. Choking, a suffocation could be an equal devastation so the broken hands wrote for the chance to breathe. They found relieve in the boy who refused to drop his lit fuse, eyes unignoring to the fire left roaring, a warmth on his cheeks from the heat of one light he allowed to be nothing less than impossibly bright.

53

You were an unlocated island Inhabited within palm trees aligned To cast the hazy dreams I see today When I think about when I didn't know you. The travellers who sailed across the roseate desert Never thought to discover what was glowing Like tangerine torches to lead me back into the light. When I was given the map, The luminosity was so defying to how I wanted to love you, That I wrapped myself in lurid shadows As if they were velvety serapes Because I was so fond of the midnight dusk. You longed for a taste of another species While I clung to the jungle vines that replicate my own. Euphoric lava bottled up inside of me, I couldn't tell you how your twisted words Made my brain fizz like it was filled with lemonade. As if the romantic poetry was seaweed That you tied around every corner of the boat I needed to pull me towards the shore Like peonies groping their arms across my land To steal whatever skin I had left to give. I longed for you to unwrap the reef And touch each and every fruit I grew for you. But you'd already destroyed our rainforest When your lips got tangled in someone else's mouth. Though, I still want to go to the island.

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Aug 16, 2018

Aug 16, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC

christinael

The Luminosity

You were an unlocated island Inhabited within palm trees aligned To cast the hazy dreams I see today When I think about when I didn't know you. The travellers who sailed across the roseate desert Never thought to discover what was glowing Like tangerine torches to lead me back into the light. When I was given the map, The luminosity was so defying to how I wanted to love you, That I wrapped myself in lurid shadows As if they were velvety serapes Because I was so fond of the midnight dusk. You longed for a taste of another species While I clung to the jungle vines that replicate my own. Euphoric lava bottled up inside of me, I couldn't tell you how your twisted words Made my brain fizz like it was filled with lemonade. As if the romantic poetry was seaweed That you tied around every corner of the boat I needed to pull me towards the shore Like peonies groping their arms across my land To steal whatever skin I had left to give. I longed for you to unwrap the reef And touch each and every fruit I grew for you. But you'd already destroyed our rainforest When your lips got tangled in someone else's mouth. Though, I still want to go to the island.

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