"upturned" poems
Her skin is pale
A wash of gentle light
Her hair silver
Glittering with starlight
The girl born of moon and star
Her eyes piercing blue
As the blanket of sky
Her face upturned
All the relaxed beauty of night
The girl shimmering with light and dust
The moonlight drapes over her
Clothing her in shimmering silver light
She dances with glittering grace
As the the dust of stars trails behind
The moonlight girl born for night
When god created this creature
He used his most precious gifts
Glittering stars, shimmering moonlight
And all the dreams of a sleeping world
Bring forth the daughter of night
Nyx herself would envy this girl
God saw the hearts of men break
Just her sight shattered them
Sympathy moved the mighty God
The silvery girl of the stars
God talked to his daughter of night
She agreed to leave this world
Some nights tinkling laughter echoes
From the distant world in the sky
The world of Moonlight Girl.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
the electricity runs through our veins
and past the street signs we rumble by
in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit,
the roof of the car is the noir sky above
and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces
the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips
the sound of the sky collapsing
echoes the flashes that streak the sky,
the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness
(as if god were wearing light up sketchers)
the lacy brallette that wears me
gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car
the velvet pants that ripple with the wind
drink up the nighttime rain
and the rare headlights race past us,
heading into homes and hearts
the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts
so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity
the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes
now streams down my face.
on a two way street,
we drive down the middle
unafraid in the face of direct dangers
so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers
and instead highly exhilarated
from the street signs we drive by
too fast to read the blocky lettering
the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them
the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window,
still smothering slightly.
i can still taste the smoke on your lips
and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear
and as the wind objects and inhales
unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip
the tunnel rushes towards us,
and we both hold our breaths,
as if breathing would contaminate us.
the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow
and for once, i see you for who you are
a boy too buzzed to feel
a kid who only felt "sort of"
a person who couldn't heal
and a lover who could never give love
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
We all have habits
Hang ups we turn to when words fade from use
When the touch of another feels false
And the skin that you're in feels ill-fitting and loose
Of addictions we choose, are you the user or the used?
Light-headed from smoking far too many cigarettes
But it's better than the spins I get when your name is said
Her toxicity is met with one of my own
Eroding with every upturned stone
To find a reason to use the air in my lungs to talk to her
Instead of fill them up with smoke
But I don't.
Returning burning bile from drinking far too many drinks
But it's better than the taste of blood from getting hit in the face
A father who longs for the respect of fear
Maybe he hits you because he hates himself
And he sees in you the colour of his eyes or the curl of his hair
Or maybe he just does it because it's easier to hurt than to love
The same way you drink because it's easier to be drunk than to forgive.
So **** anyone who does anything to keep you from being able to live
But try to forgive
Not for them, but for you, to begin to heal these wounds
Because your peace of mind was not built for two
Live while they rue.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
Music provides a blanket of background noise,
As you sit, in a velveteen chair, legs parted, hands on your knees,
I stand between them, silhouetted against flashing gold lights,
I stare down into your upturned face & slowly begin to undress.
Piece by piece my clothing drops to the floor at your feet,
Pooling around my clear, stiletto heels.
Your eyes too drop down, lingering on my *******
My skin, soft & sun kissed, shimmers golden in the soft light.
I turn slowly, allowing every curve of my body to be illuminated,
The arch of my back, the contour of my hip & the arc of my buttocks
Your eyes trace down my thighs, now spread & back up,
As I bend, & reveal my inner most secrets to you.
My sweet opening that promises so much pleasure,
Just inches from your lips & your tongue & your pleasure.
Slowly I slide to my knees, down on all fours, face to the floor,
Inviting you to enter me, visually, take me with your eyes,
I turn to meet your groin & I watch with interest,
As I play with my ****** at the stirring that may come.
I rise up instead, to my knees, cupping my ******* blowing,
On my now ***** ******* & my eyes reach yours,
And time & space hold for us, as we join together, for a second,
Before I lean in, my breath on your cheek & I whisper,
That's £20 please.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Time is of the sentence, while
verbs reveal their intents
for adjective nouns (pro or no
comment) quickly in vents
meant for air, but coarseness
courses through upturned grates
shredding of courses into no ways
to go from here to home,
awaiting infinitely fine moments
caressed along necks of silken
skin within the wear of stretched out
glances left lingering still
in compassionate ponds rippling
soft warm smiles lazily by
the melting cares of the world
golden in luxuriously wrapped light
playing across the surface & through-
out into emerald encrusted irises
to cast love's shadow over
swamps of fear gurgling neuro-
toxic diatribes against plu-
perfect pasts & future
imprefects presented in a case to
Your Honor's (the jury) out of bounds
dissolved with ear ration-
al solutions mixed & stirred
thoroughly throughout,
without spilling too
much.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
I get genuinely psychotic in the morning
when the sun creeps out to see
If I slept last night I would want to put a gun in my mouth
(breakfast with coffee, black)
just you and me.
I get depressed long and hard, and often feel like
the cream cheese that you scrape off your bagel.
As the hour goes on everyone's two dimensional
(photo-copy of photo-copied, of photo-copy)
and you are scraping your bagel
of the unwanted (but served anyway) cream cheese,
"You," (probably the plastic knife in this analogy) "drive me..."
Spat! in the trash
as your upturned nose tells me how much our days together
are measured in inches, not yards.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
Walgreens pharmacy girl
your upturned nose and your hair pulled back
here to pick up my prescription and a snack
Walgreens pharmacy girl
Ive been coming here for years
and every time I leave the drive-thru I'm in tears
Walgreens pharmacy girl
For so long, I've loved you from afar
yet still I have no idea who you are
That's Berger, B-E-R-G-E-R
Walgreens pharmacy girl
My date of birth again? I would have already memorized yours
I'd remember our anniversary, put the toilet seat down and do chores
Walgreens pharmacy girl
Am I anything to you besides another bottle of pills?
I have to know now because not knowing just kills
Walgreens pharmacy girl
Will you refill my prescription for love?
Basking in a pharmaceutical moonlight, under the stars above
Walgreens pharmacy girl
I need a cure for what ails me
You've given me a fever and I'm feeling a bit dizzy
Walgreens pharmacy girl
No, I don't have any questions for the doctor, but I have two for you
What time do you get off? And what time would you like to?
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 9:00 PM UTC
I’ll paint the colour of your eyes
toffee brown
contrasting the crinkles beside
that always appear when you lie
I’ll paint the blue of your smile
the corners of your mouth
slightly upturned
with a quirk of your brow
I’ll paint the yellow in your laugh
your cheeks slightly tinged pink
the way your eyes twinkle
without uncertainty
Every tone and every hue
captured in brushstrokes that end too soon
But darling
I’ll always draw you gently, like a soft croon
Here is the finished
portrait of you.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
Orange capsules of condensed vitamin C
Tumble out onto my cracked,
Outstretched palm,
As I arch my spine towards the bathroom sink,
Scooping lukewarm water from the faucet
Into my half closed mouth-
The tiny pills clog my upturned throat:
Just two of the numerous solutions
To a world too numb
To contest.
I've never felt more alive,
Than when I'm drowning my body
With handfuls of tap water
And magic remedies bottled up and
Marketed to a world
Afraid of growing old.
Lining the wall of local drug stores,
One isle over from office supplies
And scented laundry detergent.
Multicolored, multipurpose-
Labels proclaim the fountain of youth
To anyone alive enough to fear it.
There's never enough of reality
To reach our depleted veins
Through the ever present forms
Of the world. Enough isn't
Enough, until we've convoluted it into a tiny
Plastic oval, and forced it down the throats
Of those well enough to swallow it.
Pharmaceutical companies proclaim their
Daily gospel in the linoleum streets
Of hospital waiting rooms
And local grocery stores,
As I cross my heart and count the
Hours until my next prescribed dose
Of complacency. Who knew happiness
Could have the bitter after taste of
Vitamin B or
The credibility of Zoloft.
The sandman has been replaced by Benadryl,
While creativity lies stagnant
Beneath adderall's indifferent thumb.
Obsession is a 26 letter alphabet,
Strung together by a bunch of deficiencies,
Incoherently droning on
To the burden of Man,
And flickering neon light
Of a drive-thru pharmacy.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
When first I saw you,
you were lying on a green bank laughing at the sky
as you watched the clouds scud by
and you saw all kinds of shapes in those clouds
and gasped in awe as the myriad of birds
soared and wheeled through the clouds.
Your laugh skipped across the distance between us
like magical notes from a faery harp.
The sunlight lit up your golden hair
making diamonds out of the shafts of sunlight
as you turned your head to and fro
making the sunbeams dance to your tune.
And about your head was a halo of white lilies …
When next I saw you
you were hand in hand with your love
walking into the sunlight from the grey stone church.
Your brocade of white entwined with golden thread
sparkled like a million gems.
Your face was bright and alive with smiling eyes
and your golden hair fell down around your face
catching the sunbeams.
And ringing out their joy, the church bells pealed for you.
And in your hand was a bouquet of white lilies …
I saw you again
on that same green bank laughing with joy
as your golden child frolicked in the warm summer sun,
her childish laugh mingling with your own in angelic harmony.
You grasped her up and, wheeling her skyward,
faces upturned, letting the sunbeams play around you
and then, holding her close, you sank to your knees
cradling the babe, letting the love flow out and around you both.
And in the child’s small hand was grasped a single white lily …
The next time I saw you
you were quietly sitting in the late summer sun
comfortable in your chair watching the golden sun flame red
as it sank below the distant horizon.
Your golden hair now not so vibrant
and your face etched with the many years of your long life
yet when you smiled at the glory of the setting sun, the sparkle of your eyes
was not dimmed at all.
And around your feet grew a field of white lilies …
The last time I saw you
I gave you my hand and, with fingers entwined,
we walked away from the sombre crowd whose tears flowed like pearls
as the stark white coffin was lowered into the ground.
And looking into your face I saw you again
as you were that first time,
your golden hair that fell as rivulets
around your now pale, sad face.
I took that face in my hands and gently kissed your lips,
no more than a whisper, like a gentle spring breeze teasing the blossoms.
Still hand in hand, we looked back at the sad scene and then turned and walked into the light.
And all about your grave lay white lilies.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
My eyelids are so sleepy,
my soul is dreamy; bubbling effervescently.
Little pops of airiness,
those little gasps and slow breaths
fill the empty gaps
between
upturned lips.
And his fingertips kisses yours,
your wrists
&
then the tip of your nose,
as if he is saying
"Yes, mine too."
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
The squirrels played havoc around the house,
picking stuffing from the porch swing,
packing it into their cheeks, until they were swollen,
pregnant, to fluff their nests with synthetic cotton.
They bounded about the yard stopping to squeeze
fallen walnuts, like supermarket melons, to see
if they were ripe or rotten. Their neighbors,
the gopher and raccoon and rabbit
were overrun by the squirrels myriad brood.
Some (squirrels) sought refuge in refuse, chewing large
holes in the trash bins. This would feed many a raccoon’s
hungry mouth, but none of them would show thanks.
When the numbers began to spill over from the trees,
the squirrels began occupying the gutters, causing sheets
of ice to cataract, frozen down the sides of the house,
and then when the old man found stuffing from his swing
in the attic, enough had become enough. Something
had to be done. This blatant malfeasance must
be dealt with, and so he would devise a plan, a trap.
The old man stood watching the plump little devils
bounce and leap around his yard, when he saw the bin.
And wriggling the fingers on his upturned paw, a sinister
plan curled onto his face in a dark smile. He went out
to the trash bin and filled it with water, only halfway,
no more. He dropped a lightly pumped, bald
basketball into the bin, and smiled when the first
squirrel drowned in it. Everyday, the old man wriggled
his fingers and smiled his dark smile,
until he found synthetic swing stuffing
in his bed, and realized he had lost.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:07 PM UTC
Over a park not to far away
There is a tree
Know by all the kids
As the octopus tree
We called it this as it had eight low laying branches
That grow up into the sky
Looked like an upturned octopus
There you gave your heart to me
As others had done
What changed?
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
On his Screen the Three Milk Brothers display
Decision his only motive for Heart
But which the Upturned Hero gives away
That Love which Matters; And never Apart
Now see, where all this Comedy began
And Brothers the Trine Unity bepraise
This a Great Deed; No High-Chins in demand
That shows you are now but Human in base
Friend. If Fashion un-nominates you as one
Since Form the only thing they advertise
True Offer is Substance. Then I am done
And Motive the only Imposter precise.
Those Memories return. And now they Heal
That is Joy for you. That is Joy you Feel.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:50 AM UTC
Can you imagine
How life would really be
If birds were obese
And fell from their tree?
Sparrows staggering somehow
Around with bent beaks
Upturned to the sky
Awaiting helpful tweaks!
Alas, when the rain showers
Fall like you wouldn’t believe
You’d see Sparrows wearing snorkels
To help them better breathe!
And then an Albatross
Won’t be able to leave the ground
Due to overeating fish
And turning overly round.
Ducks, when thrown some bread
By children in the park
Would slowly, steadily sink
As surely as a dog does bark!
Swallows they would swallow
Many, too many flies
And end up heavily crashing
From our summer skies.
Then, all the newspapers
On the front page would read:
“We’re Fed up with Obese Birds
Please, Do NOT feed!”
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 12:22 PM UTC
Close your eyes
relax
breath deep and slow
as I with words
****** your aching form...
Feel my breath against your neck
no don't move
not yet
as my lips graze your skin
lightly dancing
in quick succession of kisses
between your
shoulder blades as you shiver.
My finger tips trace your spine
feeling every
delicious movement
as you arch backward tilting your head
I bite slow
your upturned chin
feeling your sigh upon me soft.
My hands with reversed finger tips
stroke your arms
tentatively touching your upper thighs...
Shush he's home
we will continue this soon...
To be continued.
Biting you
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
A scrawny ant
Passing through
Passing by
To find life true
By all accounts
In attempt
Quite feeble
Held in contempt
Resist nature
To fight back
To love hope
Cope with his lack
His home crumbled
Upturned life
Hold to dreams
Battling strife
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear
I lay, and spread your hair on either side,
And see the newborn wood flowers bashful-eyed
Look through the golden tresses here and there.
On these debatable borders of the year
Spring’s foot half falters; scarce she yet may know
The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow;
And through her bowers the wind’s way still is clear.
But April’s sun strikes down the glades to-day;
So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss
Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray,
Up your warm throat to your warm lips: for this
Is even the hour of Love’s sworn suitservice,
With whom cold hearts are counted castaway.
3.5k
The Pansies curtsied deeply, in their flouncy purple dress,
To the yellow Jonquils; and then only to impress.
And Amaryllis hides her newly naked-lady stem,
But her bouffant clothing opens, at each thrill of puffing wind.
The Bluebell always bows her head, when saying any grace,
Though Iris has Apollo's tears, fresh on her upturned face;
While Daffodil has sunshine, in her ringing petticoats-
Poor Honeysuckle is quite gone; all eaten up by goats.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
Nostalgia is a man I have memories with,
but no knowledge of.
He is a tree rooted in mystery
with leaves that shade
the hungry mouth of a river
malnourished--
pale skin stretched over tendon.
Release
palm upturned in offering
always offering
even with nothing to give.
Nostalgia
never learned hatred,
but bitterness
cold winter biting at smoking hands
bony fingers raw and red and reaching
out out out
for empty air
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
red tile roof ...
whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle ,
fridge full 'f
1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza --
clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture)
$1000/week:
(i could live on that)
lucky strike spirals in spanish summer,
bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada.
afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines)
spend
75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin )
&
typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire)
flamenco on a record player back in the house
one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there
still as death)
as she gets into the jacuzzi.
&
spend
75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand
up skirt of my carmen-du-jour.
climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa
drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves.
(feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
To M.
See, I should have kissed you.
I should have kissed you when I had the chance to. Should have pulled you closer, stood on my tiptoes, my hand tightly clutching your neck, and kissed you full on the mouth. Should have run my fingers through your spiky hair, smiling as your arms closed around me.
I should have found you, the taste of tiramisu still on my lips, and I should have kissed you, giving you a taste of the happiness in a box that you'd handed me so timidly.
Your voice still rings loud and clear in my head, I hear it when I read your messages, that distinctive accent, eyebrows raised, cheekbones moving. And that smile, so sly and cunning, your lips slightly upturned. I should have kissed those lips when I had the chance to do so. Then and there, among tears and sporadic, almost desperate hugs, I should have kissed you. When you held on to me for just a little longer, your hug tight, your hands running along my back, I should have traced your lips with mine. I should have sealed that promise with a kiss.
"You never see a person only once in a lifetime," you whispered in my ear, your breath tickling me. "That's a promise," I choked on tears, "You hear me, it's a promise."
I should have kissed you; instead, I hugged you once again as you held me tightly and rubbed my back. I should have just reached out. Fate or whatever mystical force there is ******* us up pretty badly. If only I'd met you earlier. If only I'd known you before I got mixed up with the wrong person. I wish we'd had more time. I wish I'd done a lot of things differently. My heart drops in my stomach every time you say you miss me. Your voice will fade away. I won't be able to conjure up your face without looking at pictures, and all your familiar features will be blurred by time and memory. The ephemeral imprint of your skin against mine will soon be gone forever. My heart will grow cold.
The taste of tiramisu will linger, though. Always in the back of my mind, the unanswered question of what it would be like to taste it from your lips. Have tiramisu some time. I hope it tastes like me. You never see a person only once in a lifetime, but perhaps you only have one chance to kiss.
I should have kissed you.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
Welcome to Misadventure, you're drawn to it in some berserk way, maybe due to it's atomic habits or technological urges,
sometimes there are cool, but irrational gun-totting robots who speak in foam, their presence detected by iron filings or teeth fillings or both or neither,
I just know there are tire tracks on your wife's new dress, the smell of gasoline coming from the guest bedroom, and a half-eaten Stouffers lasagna rotating on the record turntable,
and here a replicated version of your wife dances to the Italian Song, her ******* like lodestones, upturned and pressed together,
drawing you to them in some berserk way,
and they give such life and merriment to your brain's parcel of needles, that they prance and sway as if the devil were in them.
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 10:33 AM UTC