"untrimmed" poems
shall i compare you to a pizza pie?
you are more cheesy and more temper-hot,
as overcooking turns the dough too dry,
so summer days cause dough to bubble-spot,
sometime too hot the flame of oven burns,
and often oven doors keep men away,
and pizza guys do wish the pizza'd turn,
to cook all 'round with much more even sway,
by chance or nature's changing course untrimmed,
men eat too much pizza and then gain weight,
and no diet can help to make them trim,
for they cannot return the slice they ate,
so long as men eat pizza, drink coffee,
so longer will they sit to crap and ***
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
9.8k
Shall I compare thee to a cup of tea?
Thou art less lovely and less temperate.
Your voice winds do shake my tranquillity,
And fair attentions are too hard to get.
Sometimes too hot your critical glare shines,
And often is your vicious tongue untrimmed;
And every sip of love in time declines,
With swift return to lover's lounge much dimmed.
Your sharp heat shall never cool to comfort,
And all sugar in the world won't sweeten,
The bitter beating of your blackened heart;
Nor shall the greed of your soul be beaten.
As long as men can drink a cup of tea,
So long lives my hate and disgust for thee.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
you're such an odd character
* a sixth toe
the one piece of untrimmed hair
the fan of a fad that has long ended
the one question you got wrong on a test
the single cloud in an almost sunny sky *
why won't you go away?
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
It sits expectantly on the peg in the dim hallway
just above the miniature blackberry stained walking cane,
waiting to be pulled over that wonderful head
reigning-in errant silver, bushy brows framed.
In the pub in a cloud of smoke,
a pint of beer next to half a Guinness,
just up the road from a market stall
where it waited
A million Christmases ago.
Hide and seek,
bobbing along the top of the untrimmed hedge.
Coming or going – no difference
happiness wherever it goes.
Straining against the South Westerly
soaked in ocean rain
longs for the shoulder-carry from the beach and silly songs
sweat pouring, Friday fish and chips, tea in the ***
Radio 4, crosswords and roasts.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
His hands were callused and cracked
They were rough on my cheek
I had never been pulled in the way Clark Gable pulls them in
Like in all of those movies I had seen when I was a kid
The way I had always practiced
Back then my ringtone was the sound of bells chiming
More specifically the bells of Notre Dame
As his stubble grazed mine they rang out
He let go of my face, his untrimmed nails scratched my chin
I would weep for hours that night
Stare into the dark corners of my room
Trying to identify all of the shadows I used to think were scary
I knew now what scary really was
Scary was his hand on my rib cage
Scary was liking it
He never did call
I changed my ringtone to the whistle from Robin Hood
I was set up on a date by my best friend
She was kind
Her hands were soft and smelled like Love Spell by Victoria’s Secret
She had no stubble to graze mine
She pressed her lips on the scratch he left on my chin with his untrimmed fingernails
And I flinched
This too was scary
This too I liked
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 1:21 AM UTC
I can’t discern between the thoughts conjured in
the empty space between our words
and those I let float out
untrimmed
unrefined.
Unapologetically, woman
unabashedly
passive I,
let your fingers trail
the cracks in my mind.
I bet
this isn’t a game of
who is listening,
but who will say the least.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of summer shines;
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade'
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
A simple peace exists
In all the lines between
And balanced upon the throne
You are, precariously strung up
Let go of the crumbling precipice
Breathe in the lucid flame
Strip the grey of your soul
Proceed to devour the filth
Enjoy the stonehenge of your years
Make another mark in the Earth
And bind the roots of life
To the dreary mists of days long past
Take first the heart of jaded lies
Then shatter the cracked backbone
Let loose the tides of weary men
And bring forth the unspoken champion
Refuse the offer of eternity
Trust the deception in reflection
For who am I when I am with you
And who am I when solitary
You wish to journey in fluorescent tunnels
To find many paths left untrimmed
Brush past the weeds and kudzu
That degrade the refusal of submission
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
I have hair that grow like wild weeds.
Fresh and untrimmed,
Right from the scalp of my soft head.
My eyebrows are thick, but not enough
To be as dark as
the pools of black my eyes are.
Huge lips,
give sweet kisses,
and blows them to you if you're my fancy.
Tall enough to hug you and smooch your little cheek.
Short enough not to see that I'm blinded by this blackening
of reality.
I always like quirky things
and be that rock that juts out of all unusual places,
looking like it doesn't belong but indeed, it does.
A special rock, a treasured rock,
one that all shall behold and hold their breath before.
I like to eat many things sweet, a kick of spicy
and some pieces of meat.
A person quite interested in the arts,
from painting to poetry to acting,
deemed herself worthy of being called
A writer.
Sometimes, this person can only see
What her feelings show.
Not the most important thing is at the top of her list,
A poor judgement girl, lost in love and full of sheer hope.
Too cheesy, eh?
Welcome to the cheesy part of my life
Which I hope to quickly pass
And shut the door behind me
So it won't catch up and haunt
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
Coastline yellow dawn,
Overflowing fountain
Untrimmed garden,
Left to Decay
Rot in the sun
Bluebonnet field,
Honey suckle sweet breeze
Left to flourish,
Their petals reach to the sky
Light step, on the untreded
Birdbath with feathers flashing about it
Dawning spring, swallowing following
Enchanted breeze, dew on the leaves
Break the cycle of the illusion
Never ending we march along
One step higher another step closer
At the end, Door Closer locksmith
I have to see beyond this
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 3:31 AM UTC
on moonlit nights
concrete beds and
pillows of flora sing
songs
empty cold winds beg
company
starlight's wingspan
warm, maternal
and cooing that shares that
macabre bedtime fairytale love
a silence that has become
a wool-knit cap of late
hours,
smoke,
bitter drink
an excuse really,
for desperate wandering
and the freedom to stand still
pacing stagnant
shallow grey rainwater neighbor waves
nods
the choice, holistic,
to breathe and live
or sigh and think,
be a man--
adult--
problem-solve;
industrial
untrimmed grass,
the words of a friend
the gate's rusted
repeat a tired fantasy tune
with all the time in the world,
just enough to waste
to search for answers or for self
bundle up
the alarm is set.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 7:35 PM UTC
You were delivered in flowers,
bright bouquets of indifference,
and you floated like lillies,
through vines of resistance.
Your green stems left untrimmed,
and your heart in a bow,
you slowly unraveled,
with your petals on show.
But the daisies all wilted,
the ones I loved the best,
and I realized you’re empty,
dead butterflies in your chest.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 2:25 PM UTC
And the dark of dismay knock no more.
For the wider world's haunting,
Higher than the sky
My love in kingdoms hang.
For the sounds of thought call
out screaming
Not to be heard by wiser ears.
The fortune of our wrists will write our freedoms on the dividing wall.
And the dark of dismay knock no more.
For stronger tides have pulled back evil
That in our own dreams was imagined
And ought not be given shape.
For the worker, deadly at his plow
Bows to no one
And the money-god will not laugh.
And the dark of dismay knock no more.
When all is at the driver's wheel,
All in peace be sought out wanting
Nothing but his love's true deed.
His love's funeral,
His book of sins
And all is sought in the lover's knot;
A field of bones played by the flute.
For the signal of our strength is an untrimmed smile
Higher than the stars,
My love in legacy hang.
For the great war
From within and without
Our holy seed shone through
To bide time until chaos swam,
Free as the shade and the lights of our eyes;
Together look on into the end of all,
And the dark of dismay knock no more.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
Now Gail O’Riley was a peaceful folk,
Whose heart belonged in southern Missouri.
He lived with papa on the road “Grand Oak”,
Which he had to leave in a hurry.
Gail fled up North to New York City,
He left papa in the dust.
The reason for his leaving sure was a pity,
But good God, it was a must.
He was in deep trouble way down there,
And for that he had to bail.
What forced him away seems unfair,
Now here is the tale of Gail.
One gloomy autumn on Grand Oak street,
Gail decided to stroll around.
Papa stayed back, slaughtered the meat,
It was at home where he heard the sound.
A sound so loud and filled with fear,
It could knock a deaf man out.
Papa stepped outside, but stayed near,
To find what the ruckus was about.
When his shoe touched the dew of the untrimmed grass,
He realized what the sound had been.
With a shot and a scream, as it would seem,
Gail had commit the infamous sin.
There she lay, dead on the hay,
Her name was Carol Mcarry.
She ripped out Gail’s heart nine years ago,
And came back to say she was sorry.
Before she got out what she needed to say,
He shot her dead in her track
To make sure this time his heart was safe,
And that Carol would never come back.
Now Gail O’Riley was a peaceful man,
Never hurt a worm or bee.
Couldn’t slaughter a cow or harm a ham,
That’s how God made him, you see.
That’s why his call was surprising to all,
And why he needed to run.
He got in his car, and drove so far,
Away from the setting sun.
Never did he see he papa, or Grand Oak street again,
Of which he thought so highly.
Carol was gone, and with a car and a gun,
Began a new tale of Gail O’Riley.
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 12:03 PM UTC
Why do you wear that thing?
Not nice to embrace
the coarse khaki coat
wrapped round
your whole body.
I don't want to touch
your untrimmed chin,
what's underneath?
When I remove
the fuzzy item I gasp -
black pin-pricks all over your chest
and grass stains
like rays of light too.
You never blink,
just stare at me with wet
creamy-coloured eyes.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
A small yellow puff sits silently
In a never ending landscape of dandelions
Silence can speak wonders
But only to the ones who want to listen
As the dirt shifts beneath our bare feet
We step through the part of untrimmed lawn
Each step we take makes an imprint on the world
The grass flattened beneath us
In this open field of possibilities
I can only keep my eyes on this single yellow puff
At night it closes its eyes to the world
At dawn it opens to the rays of the sun
Brilliant, yellow, vibrant
Yet only a simple ****
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 9:08 AM UTC
Her skin clings but won't bark-chip
and I am stuck pondering the contradictions of lust--
confusions and revisions of the same desperate line
But-- I loved you,
I loved you,
I love you never sounded right.
I have a fervent untrimmed wick.
When I flicker: I slip--
unless I forget and dial tonight.
I will not call.
But her eyes closed tightly when she kissed me--
I watched as her eyelashes
fluttered and fell on my
cheeks--
I will cry your wishes away.
I will try to forget we existed.
I will twist and thrash unleashed and unabashed
I will make a loud noise.
I will scream in my sleep
when the moment to choose confronts me.
Then,
Why when our fingertips itched
were our tangles strewn out in obsessive neat
lines--
my lust and the pain in her taking.
my desperate ache for her lip.
for the smell she occupied and wore
like the smell of mold on trees
I cannot change the way she bleeds.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 5:59 PM UTC
Found alone, unappreciated.
Each finger trailing my bones, gazing intensely at me.
These judgemental stares surpass those glares encountered in life.
Found buries beside an untrimmed hedge, a locked door.
Never welcome, never cared for.
The foreign feel of these gloved hands.
This alien touch ********** me from all that I had left.
Nothing is left inmy possession.
Just looked at, not understood.
Each lain brick accounted for, not a thing out of place.
All these indentations eft by footprints mark what should have been my final resting place.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
I remember the significance of scraped knees and ripped jeans
the feeling of running, running, running, falling and bleeding
Scrapes on my knees were a tomboy signature of mine
The pavement, the gravel, the untrimmed grass, my home
Each time a scabby joint was replaced with a healthy little girl's knee,
I would take off running, running, falling and bleeding
At the time, I didn't know the significance of all this running, falling and bleeding
Then, the other day, on a trip to the garage for some bottles of beer,
I slipped on a patch of ice that sent me reeling and left me face first on the pavement
Knee bleeding through my trousers, I collected my beers and left
I spent the rest of the night drinking beers and taking tequila shots through thick layers of smoke
All while my knee bled through my trousers, stinging, scratching
I woke up to a sensation of pain
My leg refused to straighten itself out without stretching a scab, scratching and stinging, struggling to keep itself together
As the week passes, I cannot stand or sit for too long without my knee struggling to repair lost skin, tightening scars around a bony joint
There is a sensation of pain
And suddenly, I remember the significance of all that running, running, falling and bleeding
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
Green vines sprout from my finger tips,
they etch themselves into the gritty cement.
Like a **** to never surrender.
The vines persist to lay their tracks.
Seeing other flowers begin to bloom,
makes me dig deeper never to be pried.
As they intertwine, a fury of untrimmed roses suffocates me.
Instead I choose to fuse with the comfort of this wall
I have no need for flowers, I am here to be alone.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 11:51 AM UTC
Do you see that homeless guy, right there?
Yeah, the one with untrimmed beard, empty stomach, and desperate eyes?
and do you see Ralph's, Pavillion's, or Trader Joes's
Stacked with Miles and Miles and Miles of food
Meat, Veggies, Canned, and Cooked
Shelves behind shelves, overload of trash of a day old food.
Can you tell me what's wrong with this picture?
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
True Home
I was just passing on my way to heaven earthen paths stretch over the years and the lives of others
When they know not they are speaking the loudest when they enter dark paths the pain they feel floods
My soul they are then dearer than many sun sets of beauty because all of their heart is revealed
Nothing hidden all is purest truth all that they ever yearn to be is made clear through blessed tears
The weary sigh reaches over great distances it appeals because they are the product of heavenly dreams
That stream through earths wayward isles and contradict vanity and shallowness there is no place for
Ingenious ideas when all that is being sought is designs that is unfamiliar to the unkind and ******
That only walks for themselves but a rich life is not made by what you earn alone in the workplace
But it’s after effects what do you do to bless others make their lives a story that resounds in triumph
It takes getting yourself out of the way and considering the dreams and hopes of others more important
Than your own by self the accomplishments will be few but when you harness the great potential in
Others fan the flame by love and support that is so needed in a world that is negative charged tears will
Stop there flow smiles will glow untrimmed lights will rise from earths plane reaching heaven’s heights
Sparking delights not only will the evergreen in the window shine but trees of all kinds will be fired by
Light they will light many a pathway and in their burning life’s hidden yearning will be released you will
Be the generator and the benefactor too slow down and read the signs of the souls that are passing you
Every day from just a whisper thunder can be born the kind that gives comfort and deep joy to the
Hearers no bogus thoughts will live when you stir your heart with kindness give the best that dwells in
You I hear the sounds of much laughter born on the wind because you took to care and gave yourself
Away just like the father from a manger to a destiny never dreamed of before there are still big jobs and
dreams that are waiting just for your particular flame you alone can set the tender ablaze never say
you don’t amount to anything you have God’s breath in your body exhale and see and feel the wonder
it releases into a hurting world were only here for a little while then its time to fly away home bless you
at this holy time of year
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 6:01 PM UTC
Upon my untrimmed brow the light doth lie. I wear her luminescent perfume and return to when I lived within a weary rose and leaned, unnoticed, against a weather-worn white picket fence. The fence was built by the hands of my father. I think too of the way I have "grown", innocent and hopeless, ever seeking to cling to the breast of my absent mother. Tonight I am neither the rose nor the daughter scorned; I am the Luna moth beating angel feather wings and flying, unceasing, toward the impossible light of my ever too distant mother Moon.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC