"unwrinkled" poems
On the night of initiation,
curves of pale luster began to gleam unwrinkled from the darkened divots along the lunar surface
A perspective unseen for so long, it was viewed as a defaulted “wink” on the face of the moon
And therefore, forgotten, unmentioned, until it’s means were sought
From days ‘fore, and long since now dust
Scribing authors, secrete beads of frenzy into ink filled phial
Sending tremors down, into the quill tip
Filling scrolls for permanence in a preemptive defense against continuous unraveling thoughts would befall
this fluency into incoherent clutter
Pioneers of preprint in a provoking tome,
would speak educated reasons why these areas of Moon had been locked under sealed dark punishment
since Empedocles mixed cosmic elements to breed an undeniable proving truth
Exhibiting the myth of danger
alongside
The established absolute and supervening fizzling sunset
proving the existence of love...
—————————————————-
“Since I have given you words from my within
like the ecliptic rising and burning massive,
Our mutual visibility of late is either one-sided
or
short lived
I’ll take a detour around the comforts of romance
And try to talk my way into your pants
By tossing at you, letters squeezed together,
for your minds transcription into the heart of my subliminal write
In hopes you’ll feel a trickling gush
If I get really lucky these words will find you like a volcano erupts a ****
The same way water, beating against years of stone can fall
And crash through a dam with pouring force so insatiable it’s territory is marked in history
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
Nightfall,
Morning breaks
Our hands fit
In the same place
On that one side of the bed
Where cool sheets unwrinkled
Leave a lingering presence
That smells of vanilla
And torment
Your twilight, my dawn
So alike, so far
We cling to our sheets
Awash in old memories
My cheeks toward the sun
Your moon shining on what used to be
What could never be
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
There is no God
If there were, every smell would be sweetgrass
and lemon.
and
If there were not,
we wouldn't have noses.
So there it is.
It must be that
I failed to notice the shrinking days,
the ever smaller liaisons,
the patches of silence.
Then there came the equinox.
Everything was eight hours long,
and you were nowhere in sight.
Who is responsible for that?
If my skin is soft to the touch
and unwrinkled
if my hands work faithfully
and my heart also,
then I must be blessed.
If I have my heirloom ring,
if I have a blightless history,
if our galaxy is still cold in the
right places, and hot in the
right places, then I must be blessed.
And if I remain troubled
with all those gifts -
then I am doubtful, sour, ragged.
Not worth the love I crave.
I am a child at a magic show,
second-guessing the theatrics -
There he is, behind that screen,
with a dove and dowsing rod.
With a tiger, and a cage, and a key.
So I am troubled-
it seems that everything came
in the lapse after a kiss,
where everything which could be touched
could be ignored.
Then the kiss was gone -
and there was the world again
stark and unholy,
bright and blue as a bruise.
How brutal it is to live
on that third planet under the
sun, behaving poorly. How failure
meant nothing, in that orbit.
How brutal it is!
never to face the thing that sustained us
(not even to thank it)
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 8:36 AM UTC
half used
left side remains
empty
although dreams
are filled with company
reality sets in upon wakening
when you realize
the pillow next you
rests unwrinkled
nights are cold
no body to warm up to
nobody to warm up with
so an extra blanket
is the compromise
needing music to sleep
when normally silence
suffices
a bed
can be
one of
the worst reminders
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 9:48 PM UTC
play me the heartbeats
backward in grams,
kardio-electric.
spool your tingled nerves
around again, tighten
until you are young.
then we will breathe
when the sky is blue
reversing the green of
preemptive bomb blast.
watch the clouds dissolve.
the bullets fly back
with an inhale of smoke and
spark, the children never left,
our flags become furled,
unwrinkled, look at your skin.
we are home.
with the willow and
the garden, both
flowing away
so slowly, until the
blood in your lungs
runs hot over baby teeth
stains us here holy
and safe without
breach.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
Last night,
my thoughts were of the coming days
i got up even before dawn
preparing to face tomorrow.
everything about tomorrow
is on the table...like a briefing on what to
expect...souls awaiting...sunny, stormy days
newly sprouted worries, and old ones that
refuse to go...food talks...pride...errands,
the good and the bad...everything,
all arranged on a platter.
it's like reading a big book...filled with
nows...yesterdays...and tomorrows..
thick with pages that turn fast, or slow,
pages that are bright, unwrinkled,
others are flapping...twisted, crumpled,
even torn......depending on the wind,
which could be breezy...or gusty.
some pages bring long-lasting smiles
some are too wet with tears
some cause a blink...once, twice, or thrice;
a brief way of escaping...yet,
truths are there when eyes open again.
we ponder over the pages skipped,
for clarity...for closure...not for turning back
there's no other way.......but ahead...
....like the wide and endless freeway,
painted lines divide lanes...define direction
...explaining continuity...moving forward,
no matter what.......because,
tomorrow
always comes
>>>>> ::: >>>>> ::: >>>>> ::: >>>>>
Sally
Copyright January 8, 2018
rrab
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
She cannot open the morning
paper without the blackened number
distracting her resistant vision;
higher every day, how
many will it be this time? How many
fathers, mothers, sons, daughters tremble
beneath their futile camouflage, nightmares
unfolding across vacant eyes
and salt-frosted eyelashes? She cradles
a cup of steaming coffee between
her unstained fingers, new wedding
band tapping the hard ceramic. Imagines
his, pressed into calloused skin that hasn't
touched hers in months, too preoccupied
with learning the art form of enforced regret.
At night she stares at the ceiling, welcoming
insomnia, too afraid of what sleep
might bring. Her photograph lies folded against
his chest, thousands of miles away from
the empty side of the bed; sometimes
she forgets in the heat of a dream and turns,
greeted silently by the unwrinkled pillow and
faint smell of his favorite shampoo.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
Where were they
when we needed them the most.
The fat smiling holy man
laughing at the long haired freak
spouting proverbs
and prophesies.
And you,
with your words about infidels,
killing in the name
of the Almighty,
glorious leader of the tribes.
You say walk on unwrinkled rice paper
and you will be enlightened.
Hog wash.
None of you stepped in
to stop a single firefight,
the spilling of human blood.
Do you really exist,
you irreverent blasphemers
with your own ****** hands,
liars of the true faith.
Repent.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
Skin
Silky smooth
Like satin bed sheets
Creamy and peach
Like FAGE yogurt
Undisturbed and unwrinkled
Like a pool of endless youth
Hair
Perfectly sculpted to curl and swerve
Like writing on the surface of an ice rink
Colored an array of various toffee browns
Like the fanciful coffees of foreign cities
Softened and voluminous
To fill every corner of a room like sea foam
Eyes
So young and bright
Like that of a newborn child
Blue and unbelievably light
Like staring into the tinted mirrors of a palace
Rounded and flocked by milky lashes
Like fluttering wings on a swan
How am I to fall
In love
With someone so utterly perfect
And so utterly different
Compared to me?
Jun 6, 2011
Jun 6, 2011 at 3:05 PM UTC
Someday you’ll fall in love with a broken boy
who you’ll find as golden as they come,
and in a couple years it won’t be the same, as it goes,
when you'll be jolted from sleep to bug-eyed loneliness
in the witching hour of the toughest nights,
tear-stained and screaming his name,
but you'll feel alive,
you will feel live now more than ever,
because the capacity to love stems only from loss
and the coolness of the unwrinkled sheets beside you.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
I will bury my
Picture in
The dark earth for
The worms to
Rip and
The dirt to
consume
My past being
Just a
Young girl with
Unwrinkled skin and
An uncomplicated smile
She is now
Dead and burried and
I am no
Longer in that
Girl's shadow
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 5:27 PM UTC
Young hands fumbling
through inherent motions
with graceless inexperience.
He's never done it before.
Put on a
brave face
to mask
the panicked breathing.
Sweat rolling in waves
down an unwrinkled brow.
Heart thumping loud
to escape a hairless chest.
An adolescent
still wet
behind
the ears.
His body has outgrown
the blissful freedom
of childish naivety.
Ungainly limbs,
programmed to a new purpose,
usurp that serenity.
Silent expectation.
The time
has come.
He fires
his gun.
"You're a man now, son."
But he's learnt to **** a man,
before he's even so much as
kissed a girl.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
Hard rain's a fallin', chillin' me to my bones.
Heart dark and black as Kentucky coal.
And there's just one sip left, of life's bitter wine
Come up a steep grade, something's on the other side.
All I know is to keep on, all I know to do is ride.
And there's just one sip left, of life's bitter wine
And I've been tryin' to lose me on someone elses highway.
Sneak out the back door, hope to get away
from the chains and the fetters of their misguided world.
Ones that they left me......when Daddy was a boy,
and Momma was a girl.
Woke up a sad day, I was all the way down.
Raked the leaves from my eyes, took a good look around....
at that one sip left,
of life's better wine.
Green lights are burnin', burnin' for me now.
Gonna chew my own troubles with an unwrinkled brow.
and wash it down, down, down,
with life's bitter wine.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
The first time she sees him, she's twelve.
Her hands were twiddling with dials,
Her hair was tied in a messy bun,
Her clothing rumpled and stained with grease.
He walks over, his hands in his pockets,
and asks,
"What are you making?"
She doesn't answer,
Absorbed in the machinery,
But when her shoulder is tapped, she jumps,
and wonders who he is.
"It seems like such a hard thing to do,"
He remarks, standing over her,
Staring into the depths of the old radio.
The second time she sees him, she's fifteen.
She had changed over the three years,
Her hands no longer mess with dials,
and her clothes are clean and unwrinkled.
He's standing in the middle of the hallway,
Staring numbly at the floor as
Bullies push and taunt him.
Not once does she see him flinch at a hit or an insult.
The boys around him eventually move away,
Shouting one last mockery over their shoulders
Before they vanish.
She approaches
but is pushed away.
She doesn't try to talk to him again.
The third time she sees him, she's twenty.
The years have worn upon her,
And she's taller now,
More mature.
Her hands provide comfort to the injured and dying.
Her professors praise her calm hands and demeanor,
And they give her a project,
A partner project,
With him.
They work throughout the days and nights,
Becoming friends.
But when college ends, they split.
She gets into a fight with him,
And screams insults at him.
He walks away,
And doesn't come back.
The fourth and final time she sees him, she's twenty-seven.
She works as a paramedic, saving people,
And she's given an assignment to a burning house.
When she arrives,
She finds the house aflame and a man who needs help.
She tends to his various wounds,
And when they arrive at the hospital,
He's whisked away.
She grows closer to him, the man she saved,
And they date.
Then she realizes she fell in love with him.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
cold mornings brought on by
the absence of you in my
bed.
sheets lay unwrinkled because
there is no one to help me
tangle them.
the only thing that remains unchanged
is the noise; except that the sound of
my moans have been replaced by the
sounds of my struggle
l.r.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
She found me crumpled up on her way out
from a Sunday night shift.
She picked me up.
She opened me up,
and she read me.
She squinted enough to make out
the hard to read parts. Why?
She inspected me inwardly and out
towards my outer edges.
Torn up, filled with makeup fingerprints,
and a few red lipstick stains of
broken promises.
I was cautious to let her read between
the lines, but her stare was enough to see
right through my smudges.
She cracked a smile.
She had her laugh.
She felt the butterflies inside of her.
She contemplated folding me and keeping me.
And I could feel the warmth of her
fingertips, so I unwrinkled, perked up, and
lost some creases.
It was all there. All that I was.
At least what was left of me.
And I was all hers, without the fear and
all of the hope.
She pulled out a pen and wrote,
"You might be the one."
I took in the ink and I believed it.
A light bulb then went off in her head, and
she remembered the letter
she had been hopelessly waiting for
in her mailbox.
The letter she wasn't sure
would ever come.
With a few more make up stains than before,
and a new cigarette burn, she crumpled me
back up and forgot about me in her purse.
- Hey, you missed the trash can.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
Soundless Rest.
After hearing Ravel's "Pavan to a Dead Princess."
How pale, whiter than white are your lips, shaping
Now not a word, immovable, soundlessly making
Their roundness even more ground into my heart.
Your lovely long tresses coiled, unsoiled and parted
With fine ever-straight line above primrose-soft face
Unwrinkled, once pink now ever remaining a babe's.
Those feel-of-rosebud hands laid so sweetly beneath
The shroud, why did you leave dear child, impeach
All my hopes and dreams, the most gentle of access
To paradise lay in your smile, now sleeping princess
The pavan will be dancing you soon into a soundless
Rest but I restive remain, and will always be bounded
To pain in not saying final goodbyes but crying adieu
I have to await the yet uncreated, my life without you
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
My favorite colors are pink & black.
You can see it in my makeup & wardrobe.
I post the images online around the globe.
I have no secrets.
My truth has no lies.
The past no longer makes me cry.
My tears dried up through the years.
I deserve to be someones wife.
I am proud of my life.
But disgusted by where I live.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
ready for a new chapter , already,
a change of season, almost,
a different horizon, perhaps,
ready for a new hope, I hope.
This green leaf is ready to fall
off the limb, become compost
or be blown far off
into the distance.
Just give me destiny
or what resides past the filtered
reality, today and tomorrow.
let me be the soil again,
dust or, maybe another leaf
more vibrant just opened,
with stomata uncluttered by polluted
nicotine a fresh unwrinkled skin,
a stem hard pointing my being up
into the sun of days
with strength again.
Yet, I remain attached , fearful
of turning loose
the very thing I get tired of.
May will bring the answer.
Or June.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
Why do dead people get more flowers
than alive ones?
Is regret greater than gratitude?
Why do graves bloom
with petals of sorrow,
while the warm hands,
still reaching,
are left cold and empty?
Why do people love children
but neglect old parents?
why do we cherish youth,
soft , unwrinkled
but aver our gaze
from the hands
that built our world?
May 22, 2025
May 22, 2025 at 12:39 PM UTC
And your tenderness is unwrinkled ,
The boiling surface ,
A sip of sweetness , another slightly sour ,
The nuance of variance ,
Hits every particles ,
And you float ,
Like a boat ,
Not on the water but on the pond ,
Pond of perpendicular humane desire ,
It goes on ,
Endless in vow .
Then you drool ,
Like the winter dew on the peak of a bent over green lash ,
The drop falls but never on the ground ,
Demolishes in air ,
It’s gone , disappeared .
Now you swim each corners of the torrent ,
Like the tornado , contagious ,
And you destroy anything comes in your way ,
In different manners ,
The bitter the better ,
The sweeter the greater ,
The **** is the eater .
©
18.1.18
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
I saw them, those delicate cracks that cover your once red lips; I felt them as they pressed against my tiny cheeks, my eyes shut tight as I felt every rupture and the pain your lips carry, my unwrinkled skin received your kiss like a long awaited gift and then …. It was gone
I saw them, those eyes once full, they reflected everything around them, like a sponge absorbing the very essence of life, and how your eyes used to shine at me, but now as you stare at me they carry an uninhabited look about them, where have you gone?
I saw them, the convulsing of your once great hands, the same hands that cradled my infant form are now too weak to bear the weight of one’s own bones, let me hold you for a while
I hear you when you whisper to me that I am never alone, and I hold that thought forever, that is my comfort
And so here we are, your final twitch, our goodbye for now, for 48 summers you carried yourself along on this journey, should I see 49 I wish only to be half as beautiful as you
I close my eyes and you were gone, and the room was desolate with all but my love for you
The thirteenth day of June becomes a mere marker of the distance between us
And now all of these years later I sit in my own dwelling, still daydreaming of you, and within the 18 summers that have raced passed me I have borne my own offspring
And when they play as I used to, when they nestle amongst themselves and laugh, the laughter of innocence I smile and I hope wherever you are you can smile too and say “I saw them”
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC