"unpainted" poems
"when my body was mine"
a line read recently
did i let my body slip out of my own skin
before i noticed
was i so oblivious as it dripped between their fingers
so far from my skin
when i was told i was old enough to need to shave,
my hair wasn't mine anymore.
when my rough and wild behavior
was no longer considered ladylike enough,
and i had to tame my wild skin
to sit and dance in proper ways,
my posture wasn't mine anymore.
when my toes were deemed to callous for society
my innocent beautiful little toes
were strapped into shoes
and forgot their freedom for a time,
my feet were no longer mine.
when they called out at my body
when it possessively dripped between their fingers
i realized that i had let my body belong to other people
and so i let my hair grow thick
everywhere
and i carry myself with the joy i feel
and i sit and dance from the inside out
trying to forget how much i may stand out
vulnerability is strength
vulnerability is strength
i tell myself
as i dance barefoot with hairy underarms
in out-of-style clothes and an unpainted face
come dance, please come dance,
so we may taste the flavor of life together
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
It seems simple, like all used to be
It might be normal, like everyone's daydream
We would run in endless circles—
In fields of autumn cling, wading ogles—
When this used to be about you and me
The sky was glowing like your cotton cheeks
Marks passionately from kisses of your lips
We would scratch out scars Avast
From every unpainted fence that pass
In moments it was me hoping— will it ever last
As we drift up to that very hill— I envisioned
The grass was as different— different,
Different and effervescent than I ever known
And we'd lay blind feelings, forever in making
But it was you who decided to let it go
We only saw one tree, maybe one dotted line
Not knowing all is going to be— a doleful red
One horizon, everything used to be fine
When time stops you to be—
And someone took you from this arms of mine
Never it was the same or even has it been?
It would even stench fake perfumes
I was pushing to believe on what to be unseen
And where I stood, Died— of barren thirst
My sense, which was all left but never heard
And as I broke from your crimson goodbyes
I thought of every promise— A perfection,
And every commitment— An exaltation
But a solitary torment, only to know I'm trap
Oblivion, still my feeling keeps pulling you back
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
Leather brown, bomber down, hit the bottom, rise again. The resounding sounds bounce around. It helps to misunderstand the plan, so follow these directives if you can.
Green amygdala your orange eyes create suspense.
Hipster blue, the denim, black boots, and those paperback books.
He walks with attitude,
reads for romance.
Magnetic the charm bringing them in. Stood in the centre as the hurricane spins. Tethered to nothing, not even a creed. A miracle in the making, an empty street, a canvas unpainted, a jewellery box recieved.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
I leave my nails unpainted
and cover them with pulled-down sleeves
and put on my glasses
so I can count all the leaves
because all the nights I couldn’t sleep
your best advice
was either to count
or to pretend
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
Music of the street
Reverberates loudly
Out the dumpster,
From the tiny mouth
Of a screaming
Baby
Wrought in the wombs
Of filth, injustice,
Foggy rage.
Tongues ripped out,
On the floor, tastebuds that
Know the pang
of blue blood.
Rusty nails and overused syringes
***** the fingers,
Softly.
The people yell, maniacally,
Yet remain unheard.
Pain becomes evident,
Written on the faces
Of the unwholesome.
A wafting scent of
Their rotten morals,
Forgotten dreams,
Floats, as hot steam,
from the pavement.
Unable now
To decompose.
Across the road,
A pregnant woman holds
Her cigarette, which
Smells of cookies
And cream soda.
Jesus was enlightened,
Not too pious
For the poor.
Yet more than pain
Was written
On their faces,
Missing tongues, missing eyes.
Laid together
On the piss-stained mattress,
Feet to head and head
To feet.
Nonsense was confused
As words, that danced into
Non-platonic humps.
She kissed him, because
She wanted to feel
The texture of his brain.
Pick her up with
Golden hand, though
She may see you.
And the sad image of
Dollar bills
Inspires the mind,
Making it immobile.
Here, where the **********
Stands, more holy
Than the monastery.
Crawling, as they do,
Through unpainted,
Rented walls, like
Hungry little cockroaches,
Creeping for a bite.
The small infant still
Lays on metal, each
Moment crying softer
For warmth.
Though you will not
Hear her tomorrow,
As she’s carted off by
Garbage men
Who, each week, remove
The undesired
Remnants of yesterday.
Hope for sweet
Needles to sooner bring her
A different relief.
Life is so simple
When struggles
Are never-ending.
Mi amor pequeña,
no llores más. El fin está cerca,
aunque no entiende
mis palabras.
Though the buildings
Surrender with
Decay and the sun decides
He doesn’t want
To keep on caring
The music still plays mournfully,
And only the baby can hear.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
a pale malvolent hand
shines as brightly in the dark
a body moves quietly
slightly **** to stark
mechanically watching
waiting in the dark
and the games
still have yet to start
eyes of blue crystal
and far from expression
jewels shored in the owners head
without them they'd surely
be dead
should it be
non living human
not quite
but slightly an android
moves with a grace
that is someone paranoid
a voice cuts into the ears
like razor blades
not quite hot
but yet it blazes
nails long
but unpainted
fingers long
like broken sticks
one cuts off
still leaving six..
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 8:57 AM UTC
at two years old,
your curious hands
happened upon a bottle of
flea medicine
that lay waiting on the counter.
your mother was absent as usual,
off on an errand,
or walking the dog.
unwatched,
your enterprising fingers
eased the lid from the container,
and you poured the sweet-smelling
liquid down your throat.
the world was still so new to you,
and it seemed to be made for tasting.
who could blame a child
with a thirst for more than
mushy peas and applesauce?
two days later
they released you from the hospital,
your stomach pumped dry.
when you were six,
idly exploring the woods of your mother’s
sprawling estate,
you paused a moment from imagining
faerie queens flitting about in the greenery
to take rest on a log,
your undiscerning eye not betraying
its secret: within it was a nest
of wasps,
and thinking they were faeries
you dared not move as they
rose in a cloud above your head
and overtook you,
leaving your body peppered with
painful angry sores.
you fell to the ground.
a hired man,
strong and tall as the oak trees,
saw your quick descent and
ventured after you,
made a hammock of his arms
to bear you like a fallen soldier
back to your mother’s house,
his tough sun-leathered skin
immune to the assaults of the
faerie battalion.
at eight,
playing in the small child-sized house
in your aunt’s garden,
you sought to make stained glass
from the broken shards of the playhouse window.
having no tool at hand,
what better way to
shatter the clear, flat plane
than with your fist?
before reason could take hold of you,
you drove your hand
through the glass,
and the raw edges cut deep into your veins.
blood flowed in rivers
from your wrist.
your aunt, ever watchful,
rushed from the house to
stop your body’s catharsis
with a dishcloth.
the jagged unpainted shards
lay forgotten on the ground.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
Some one has destroyed
the robin’s nest
and stolen the eggs
Jane said
she leaned
into the hedgerow
beneath the streamlet
and parted the branches
her voice choked
as her fingers poked
about the damaged nest
you stood watching
behind her
over her shoulder
watching her fingers move
who’d do such a thing?
you asked
all gone
not an egg left
she said
in saddened tone
you leaned near her
smelt lavender water
she wore
her dark hair
pinned back
with metal grips
why destroy?
she said
why steal?
you sensed her sadness
felt her ache
and how
it would feel
she withdrew her hands
and wiped them
on her dull grey dress
and looked along the lane
and back at you again
who would do such things?
you asked
she looked at the hedgerow
that now concealed
the damaged nest
and said
father says
such are humankind
that seek and take
and leave all fouled
and lost and leave
to nature or to God
to mend and count
the cost
I saw the nest and eggs
last time we came
you said
the beauty of the eggs
and nest made neat
Jane walked on
along the lane
and you walked
beside her
her dull grey dress
swaying as he walked
her hand reached out
for yours
her fingers slim
unpainted nails
her thumb rubbed
against your hand’s skin
the sky
watercolour blue
with puffs of white
just the countryside
sans eggs and nest
and Jane and you.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
They've stopped burning churches and
Ramming knives into one another.
Now they visit the woods without corpse
Paint and disposable cameras,
Eating Norwegian mushrooms around
Fires, boomblasters blasting
'De Mysteriis dom Sathanas' out into
Pinetree forests.
Media turned Black Metal into "satanism".
Inspired the weak.
One scratched the back of the other as newspapers
Sold more than ever, and
Small egos acted beyond their sizes, trying and
Dying for coverage.
Sometimes I feel the remains of vikings,
Battle worn and anti-christian still, after death,
Moaning: *No. It was never just for
Show.*
They've stopped burning churches now.
Perform with unpainted faces.
One final
Protest.
The devil is ink on cheap paper.
Money and newspapers are barely wood.
Some say they burn like old Norwegian churches.
Others just like their music raw and real.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Halloween is a night when all the Ghost come out,
Some come from right here that live among us
Some only make the trip on Halloween night
They even come from the grave yards,
The Ghost from here never made it to the other side
All the Ghost are spirits some were feathered and tared.
Only on Halloween night do they all coincide
Some walk among us all the time leaving no foot prints
The feeling some one is there but when you turn to look there's no one,
Halloween can mix among the living and the dead,
they come out freely walking along side us unnoticed when we are having fun.
Dressed up in disguised as ghost and goblins and pumpkin heads
Its all in fun for earthly people but one never know the trickery of a real Ghost.
They move in space among us and play trickery games because their among the dead.
We wait for the door bell to ring for all the children yelling trick or treat for their candy
But one never knows on calm Halloween night why the door keeps slamming on the\old wood shed.
Locked it was but not tonight, as the Ghost are so busy, but I keep on the table the bottle of Brandy,
I pour a shot to calm down my fear realizing it's a very busy night among the dead..
Even tho it's a calm night you can hear the ghostly haunted wind and dyed leafs blowing over your head,
Yes I am scared on this Halloween night and every year at this time it excites my fright,
Who would really know their among us but what they can not say their not living but dead.
Walking on the rickrack porch every step that creeks,
lit Pumpkins carved on the old unpainted chair on the right,
on the left are tall corn stalks and a bail of hay as the tall scare crow sits so still with no life.
I will always remember this Halloween night for the dead rises as the living play.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
If I were firece and bald and short of breath
I'd be the headmaster of a secondary school.
A spotted face boy cries "fight, fight, fight!"
A scrap has begun outside the school.
Greasy adolescents hurry to the scene
To find a boy - bloodied - face down in the gravel.
Instead of showing sympathy,
they portray their callous nature.
The mob-mentality reigns supreme
As he is mocked and jeered by ***** fingers
Of adolescent monkeys.
Meanwhile, in the corridors of the school
A sea of gray sways, as agitated 6th years
Barge their way through piles and piles
Of nervous first years.
Sweaty fingers clutch chewed-on pens,
Taking down their futures from the board.
The vacant stare of the class fool is aimed toward
The blank, unpainted walls.
Were they ever painted?
Or did god create them bland?
The footworn halls of our totalitarian dictatorship
Are kept active only by the zealous actions of our 'noble' teachers.
Every morning they arrive at a job they resent,
And see teachers whose eyes mirror their despair,
Then they feign a smile and proceed
With the monotonous task of teaching
Brain-dead, narcissistic, trogleydtes.
Exciting.
"All in all we're all just bricks in the wall."
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
she is no longer human
writhing, shouting, feeling
human
past
i look at her and i see paint
windswept hair sticking to muddied lips
flushed cheeks over pale skin
gilded lids
blink
she is canvas
heavy and sagging
brushstrokes
this way and that
covered
i listen to her and i hear nothing
swirling silence
surrounding stereo sound
breathing into doubting ears
hidden
she is no longer awake
swimming, sighing
through cold water
rough, splintered waves of memory
slap her briefly
before the current pulls her under again
and the rocks onshore call out
faintly
to her floating body
as she lies beneath a blue sky
and lets the water move her downstream
life waves weakly from the bridge
ignored
the mirror tells me i am human
unpainted
loud and awake
but she recognizes the lies
she has learned
to ignore them
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
Rinsing over porcelain skin
Skin still too pale for the end of summer
Washing, cleansing, every curve, every bend
Water droplets gather in pools around my unpainted toes
Parachuting raindrops released from freshly-trimmed ends
Of hair that will soon disappear
Naked green eyes clear of disoperation
Gaze at the foreignness of this summer waterfall.
I part my lips to taste the mountain air
Condensed into a life source
Icy in July, fresher than filtered
A German Shepard gazes at my silhouette
Caramel and black, fur bristling with excitement
With kind brown eyes
Sparked with curiosity,
Lapping the water with his pink tongue.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
This was once a construction site.
Unpainted concrete walls, skeleton of
A building exposed.
Now most floors are inhabited;
Offices in use as if they'd always
Been this clean and complete.
Some sections are still unfinished, and
The few of us still working here are
Alien shadows in filthy workwear,
Ghosts from the slow birth of a
Fraction of the Oslo cityscape.
Rugged midwives
Not fitting in with the suits and
Dresses we sometimes pass in the
Corridors.
So strange, the scent of perfume and
Female products. No more diesel and
Dust here these days.
My colleague flips his cigarette **** on
The pavement outside the entrance,
Stealing a gaze at a passing skirt.
*I love the sound of
High heels in the
Morning.*
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
Through a vision in my dream, I see her there standing
a smile, unpainted, authentic and real, hopeful
opening the door, I feel a smile emerge, and the butterflies
oh they kick within me, like a life is growing there
a baby in sight, with no bump or pulse, just a gathering
of fluttering wings, that should I rip my chest open
out they would fly, a mélange of colours and shapes
purple swallowtails, adonis blues, lacewings, painted ladies
and finally, my favourite, the Menelaus Blue Morpho
escorted by the Duke of Burgundy, my springtime hero
each flutter, each movement, a collection from the continents
my self, my soul, my body has travelled, wanderlust
keepsakes of beauty and bliss, bordering on extinction safe within me
in a heartbeat they cover my whole self, they move around my body
my legs tremble, barely able to hold, this grown woman upright
a gulp, a gasp, a stare in wonder,
speechless, tongue tied, dazed, dumb, silent
my head empties, no thought passes, the parietal lobe vanishes
adrenaline is racing through my body faster than the light hitting my eyes
moments later I find vocal sound waves breezing past my ears
they are in slow motion, her voice mumbled, incoherent
she touches me and I jump in fright,
my eyes adjust, my heartbeat slows down, my legs steady
"Rachel!"
"Rachel!"
I wake up alone.
© Sia Jane
---
*"In through the window a moonbeam comes,—
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks,
"Is he sleeping— Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"*
Eugene Field
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
i love your imperfection
dry, split ends, rosacea cheeks, dry skin
the real things, the unique things, that make you
i love you most, in the morning
when you are just waking up
the natural, the real, unvarnished look
unpainted, i can see, you, in all your beauty
the acne on your chin, the scab on your lip
like a diamond with its countless flaws
you look, are vulnerable, approachable
i want to touch, caress your face
kiss your dry, chapped lips
rough hands, warm heart, i kiss your fingertips
nails natural, unpainted, coated in potter’s clay
i press my face into your hand, feel their strength
weekends, wearing comfortable torn jeans
baggy shirt, draping, but non concealing
i hug you like a dear, loved teddy bear
dollar store flip flops with a dandelion tops
the bottom of your feet dried, a bit cracked
from walking, bonding barefoot with gaia
you are the feminine, i am the masculine
you are the woman, i am the man
you are the girl, i am the boy
my love for you is endless, boundless, eternal..., Minou
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
The prisoner, he is losing his precious eyesight, and he is quite glad
For years now, never had the chance to intrude,
The world he never knew.
To him, nothing left to see other than his crummy cell.
In rhyme, he prays every night
He asks for guidance and asked for peace
On unpainted walls he sees his reflection, dull and disturbing feats
In his flesh, there's a certain feeling he won't figure.
He is empty, lacks the soul, the will to go out side. The prisoner is actually a freeman. The prisoner is me.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
_You ask of which I am most afeart, the rumbling tumblings of the troll beneath the bridge or the tinkering favours of an eccentric fairy godmother. Alas, it is the marzipan crumbs of inspiration leading me down the brambled garden path which most unsettle me; the ink that does not write; the unpainted page with not a gingerbread house...in sight._
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 3:33 AM UTC
Dear potential lover
When you fall in love with me
Make sure to love the way,
my face dulls on gloomy days;
like a rose in autumn.
And fall for my muddy brown eyes,
that take you to worlds with distant skies;
eyes like fields of adventure.
My stretch marks, scattered simultaneously,
like strokes of a brush set wild and free;
their colour of clouds with silver lining.
Fall for my unpainted nails, the plain sort
stubby, and cut almost too short;
nails made for playing in the soil.
Love my tummy, un-flat and not so lean,
the kind you don’t see in magazines;
a tummy with gentle hills.
Admire the way I look,
lost, snuggled up in a book;
the way I stare at the trees,
my fine hair playing with the breeze;
love my excessive day-dreaming
and my serenity on afternoon walks.
Dear potential lover:
Love all of me;
My perfections
and my imperfections
and my perfect imperfections.
Shayma. .
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
inspired by a short story from the man from Snake River
<>
no alarm clocks heard expiring,
unrequired and unrequited,
we,
those, self-employed by the
nocturnal repetitive recounting
of sins of omission and worse,
those commissioned in
anger and haste, that breed only
more anger and lay further waste
from humans to
humans,
awaken with an
irregular precision
and bad disorder,
demanding chances,
expiation, restitution, amendment,
but time erodes
possibilities for the
impossible,
foreign forgiveness
knock-you-down rushing currents
of water erodes Snake River boulders,
them oldsters just like the litany of our
malfeasances, indestructible in nature
geologic,
and in
human nature
illogic,
terms, such as time measurements,
irreverent and irredeemable,
for our sins
live far longer than
our owned memories,
in those harmed, who
cannot in the unlimited timeless quantity of
ever ever,
understand
your wry smile,
your why cries,
audibles you’ve
play called, go
unheard, unseen,
even and odd
Bach Orchestral Suites,
Beethoven Sonatas
more mock than soothe
trapped between industrial carpet
and flat unpainted Armstrong ceiling tiles,
you
in a hell of your own creation, forgot to include,
a Sabbath day extant, of rest for weary creators,
ever ever,
or planned in a world you’ve designed,
so the best you
can do
is write
another and another
confession ever ever
watching and listening to
the alarm clock that neither
requires setting, for
it’s audible ticking is
alarm-ing curse
enough ever ever
that always never
rings
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 8:50 AM UTC
Stavanger Communist Party
The local communist party of my youth was a fun place
they had frequent parties with music and dance and
illegal ***** in the bushes, in the dark unpainted years
after the war when entertainment was tambourine and
bible thumping. My uncle spoke at meetings he painted
a picture of utopia for the workers a short working week
and jobs for the wheelchair bound, like other members he
lived in a naïve cocoon that had little to do with real life.
As the country shook off the grimness of the gloomy years
there was work for all, and the party shrank in a short
time disappeared; there were so many places to dance.
I can still hear my uncle's voice talks of “the dictatorship
of the masses” equal pay for all; we are getting nearer
but there are those who try to take it away from us.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
i never meant to weave you together
i feel nothing as my cloud sags wet
below my tree of sweets and good things i am infatuated
violets with snapping jaws
fluttering tree houses and good-looking deaths
i awaken only as my cloud brushes past my head
mesmerizing me with blazed droplets
speak to me, my violet
do not abandon me in this worldly solitude
my tree house crashes with satisfaction
my deaths leave me with unpainted termination
i pretend to drown
when will the sun of my mind arise from the west
returning me my popped corn shine
leaking out from my half transparent cheeks?
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
Your lovely face
yielding my mirror;
two bluish eyes,
Waiting for my kiss
Your elegant neck,
framed within soft hair.
Your unpainted lips,
responsive to my breathe
You’re bursting *******
sinfully for an embrace
each ****** thirsting
to my loving touch.
By Williamsji Maveli
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
www.microthemes.com
www.mavelinadu.com
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
She asked me to paint her
an angel before she died
But she died a week later
She was surprised in your liking
for Reggae and Garfunkel
and the tiniest sparrow
that had not a friend
in the world except
for the Earth
that birthed him.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC