"varnish" poems
:-)
***a smile upon
a practiced face
is no longer
a smile
doll heads
are just painted
they use
cunning, guile
but you can see
duplicity
through the
thick
shellac
ask for honor
real truth
and watch
the
varnish
crack
they'll find
another
hunting ground
but their eyes
will be
their
fall
the baby blues
that look at you
DO NOT
SMILE
AT
ALL!***
soulsurvivor
(c) 3-18-2015
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
The month of crescent moons and indigo flamed candles.
Of burning sage and twinkling hooded lights flickering in frosted windows.
Of chipped nail varnish and lips chapped with bitter cold.
Of darkened mornings with knitted scarves wrapped beneath pink noses and wet lashes.
Of lonely evergreens and sleigh bells a distant howl in the wind.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
" the pros and cons "
from a to z , we talked and heard our voices
we give and take behind schedule
at long last ,our little conversation
had found a tower of strength within You
for me to face the music of a naked truth.
the long and short of it
i was just roving around like
an angel in disguise
as if i am a "quite observer"
quietly looking forward for
the man of the hour.
in tight squeeze before i fall asleep
i put something into bed
remembering those days
between you and me
sharing thoughts in just a rhyme away
from our distances.
NOW THAT THE TIP OF ICE BERG
UNDER THE SUN HAD BEEN
TURNED OVER INTO A NEW LEAF
AND VARNISH UNTO THE AIR !!!
all i can say is that.....
"Hello Poetry",,i knew you load-off your mind!
and i want to remind You that for me
" You are still one of a kind!""
i might not be -a man of his word- for all the time
but one thing is for sure!
from then on after,now i will live my life in a low profile
with or without a babe in arms!,#HPpeople ,you're enough for me.
in Jesus name, HELP ME GOD in the nick of time--often or seldom
because i wrote these lightheartedly so that i can give a buds of wisdom
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
So there I was, and there you were, all of us,
everyone, dangling their feet off the rooftop.
Four distinctly different artists caught in the same painting
yet, none of us holding the paintbrush to our passions, yet.
Ambitious, yes, focused, not so much, motivated? Most definitely.
Dedicated to manipulation,
to making a masterpiece for the masses,
a decision to "form a more perfect union".
To map a new demographic before our deaths.
If our desire was to make a mark, well,
we'd be done already.
The mark's been made, but not engraved,
and for it to stay we need to stomp on it until our own foot decays.
And these days, most pictures will fade,
So as us four sat there, dancing with the devil,
we dared to begin drafting on our canvas.
With no brush, but our own fingers,
our own blood, sweat, tears, and elbow grease,
finally finding the paintbrush to be figurative,
that we were manipulated ourselves.
We learned to picture the paintbrush as our pointer,
our palms the palettes, our pinkies the varnish,
a promise our piece would never be vandalized.
The world is your oyster, they say,
and the city was our canvas,
where we painted nothing but pearls,
rare commodities for the communities to cherish
until our masterpiece, the indefinite work in progress, is completed.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
You are possibly the only adult
who understands me. We walk to
the Co-Op and you buy me nail-varnish
and a magazine.
We spend hours in your jewellery box,
each gem has a story.
You drape a coral chain around
my neck and tell me I have fabulous
collar-bones.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
Tell me why it has to be this way. I don’t want to hold on to one side of this conversation and have the other person falling off a ladder. Yeah, down there on the ground. Get up and look at me!
I wasn’t sleeping, I swear—he said hastily.
Yeah, whatever, buddy. Tell me what you’re doing in my head?
Repainting. Repainting over the old spots, the worn out spots.
But those are the best spots, the only ones with character. Can you tell me who sent you?
No sir, I cannot.
Then it is ok. I suppose I’ll have to watch as you put varnish on top of every dream and aspiration I have ever had. Do you know who the girl was that I first loved in the springtime of youth’s blossom?
It was Ashley, sir.
I believe I did not love her, guest worker. What are you wearing there?
A pair of overalls, a cape. What’s the difference?
I’m the one who speaks to you first, and don’t be short with me. I don’t like you standing there in an open room with no windows. How is that possible?
I’m sorry, boss. It’s just, I finished painting over that memory but the paint’s still wet. You loved her very much, I’m afraid.
Ashley? I never gave her a second thought. Perhaps you are right. I only remember kissing her shyly and asking permission to see her ******* They were the biggest of all.
Yes sir, I thought so too. She was a sweet girl though.
Sweet? I’ll tell you Mr. Painter; Ashley was the first girl I kissed. I kissed her in my first love’s house, a different girl. I loved Ashley more than that first love and I’m serious. No one can ever make me forget the day we lay on her mother’s sofa in the basement.
--I’m sorry, sir.
No, say it is impossible. Say you have some form of soap that can make up for your treachery!
No, I’m only wearing orange overalls and marching on the word from above.
But who sent you!!!? I have to know. I’m crying.
Justin, it’s ok. It’s Ashley. She said you need to stop crying. She has a family now.
Well, alright. That house. That basement. That unconscious.
We are worms, sir. Worms, slithering and boundless. Please accept my apologies.
No, it’s quite alright. If you must take every memory of my second love, take my third. And take my fourth and every other woman who crosses my path. It’s not my choice to keep them captive in the imagination of what could have been. You know, it’s been years since I truly cared about someone—
Since Ashley?
Who’s that?
Ashley.
Goodbye forever, harlot.
Sir, you’re being brash.
No, I don’t remember that name and I hold you at an arm’s length in my mind. Please, finish what you’re doing and allow me to rest. What color are you painting the room?
Green, I’m afraid.
Then so it is. Goodbye, good friend. Goodbye sweet love. Forever, in the spring. Temporal boundaries and endless playlists. Be the verve, be the melody. I love you!
So it is. Sleep well, sir.
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 10:24 PM UTC
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch
Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin
I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse
Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin
If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin
Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain
Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin
Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...
Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Angie works the alleys that reek of greasy sausages and ****
where beer-bellied men appear
and vanish into doorway varnish of invisible rooms,
spitting on their own doorsteps, stubby fingers
running over stained vests and wire wool guts.
Harry lives out yonder where plastic bags’ ballet shoes are made of glue;
he is sharing a hit
with a dreadlocked kid, just another invisible face,
a phantom-surfer nurse, to assist him in
chasing the ultimate high on highway number twenty-two.
Invisible, hairy hands hold her down; Angie has to swallow,
she can feel the pulsating vein
of a softening **** over her tongue and swollen lips –
she gives it a good old slap against her cheek,
grabs the package, and makes sure no one follows.
Harry’s clawing at a face in that place where reality floats
between the tip of the needle
and the desperate edge of chemical dependency -
his little angel taps him on the shoulder;
he turns around, and stabs her in the throat.
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 11:32 PM UTC
My nails are a mess,
but not a mess like a 2 week perfect manicure 'mess',
a mess like chipped old blue nail varnish
where I have picked away at it.
A mess like peeling skin
when anxiety from deep within
has resulted in me absentmindedly scratching
until I am awoken by crimson blood,
pooling on pale flesh.
I grab a cloth and sigh,
as I realise I will now have to hide
my hands from onlookers,
who will probably tut disprovingly
because I'm a girl you see,
and it's my duty to present myself beautifully.
To be perfect on the outside, but how can that be?
You see my hands bear the scars that are inside of me.
You can't just paint over scars and expect to be free.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
I am flawed,
An inner fault, though I appear whole.
I can feel it grind with each breath,
Glass on glass.
One look and I am young again.
A thousand doubts to build a girl
Who refused to cry
And ran through fields
One word and I am crushed
Beneath half a life of memories.
Layers of varnish, too many to dry
Too many to breathe.
One touch and I spiral,
The fragments descend.
A rain shower reflected in your eyes,
Hot with desire.
A hitched breath that rounds the edges,
A balm of boiling water
On ice.
The shard between us shatters
With your fingers on my skin,
Tracing constellations in my freckles.
It's as if the years never existed,
But the splinters harden,
Crystallised with lies
And growing milky with
things unsaid.
Despite the night,
I grow colder with secrets
That choke me.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
A pebble drops in the inky surface,
The weather driven water as if a
Brown varnish.
I am the ripples in the water,
You are the pebble that made me change.
Hold my hand,
Make me spin around once more.
Give me what I lack,
Things like
Trust,
Love,
Friendship.
Just like the ripples I am,
I am gone too soon.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
I am 1,000 pounds,
weighed down by memories,
by crushing defeat,
by failure,
by loss,
by regret...
yet I am weightless,
empty,
a trophy in a dusty case,
my varnish dim,
no longer new,
no longer shiny,
I struggle to stay afloat,
but I am still swimming,
because I see the lighthouse,
tall and shining.
a gleam of light beckoning from it's highest point,
come to me
swim to me
I am the way out
and so I tread.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
There’s a door that leads into the hallway
Of the house that lives under the trees
Whose trunks are beleaguered with knobbles
Like a twisted collection of knees
The handle looks faintly organic
Any moment it might come alive
The paint is like vertical shadows
And the number is seventy-five
The foot of the stairs is before you
And the door sidles shut to your rear
The carpet is damp and disfigured
And the walls are uncomfortably near
The windows are coated with algae
So the light is all mottled and rank
The varnish and the paper are peeling
And curtains hang mouldy and lank
There’s a hole in the wall with an angle
And a view of the kitchen within
There’s a nest in the bowl on the table
There are rats living out of the bin
Disjointed lugubrious echoes
Of a whisper without any voice
The spoons haven't stirred in a decade
So the cups haven't had any choice
It’s then you should really be leaving
But you've taken your time and the bait
For a sound of a footstep behind you
And a voice saying simply "too late"
There’s a breath on the bone of your collar
It’s as cold as a final decree
There’s death to be found in that kitchen
And a death that came looking for me
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When Infancy’s years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal’d,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal’d,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my ***** for fame
Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity’s praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath,
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion’s full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools?
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love,
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
To me what is wealth?—it may pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?—the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion?—I seek but renown.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?
2.3k
Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch
Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace
you climb, skittish kite ...
What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast solitariness there
so that all that remains is to
fall?
Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you stall
spread-eagled as the canvas snaps
and ***** its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.
Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled
Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ...
Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch
I.
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand
and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands
where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting
and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting
and all I remember
—upon awaking—
is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking
one’s Being—to glide
heroically beyond thought,
forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.
II.
O, finally to Burn,
gravity beyond escaping!
To plummet is Bliss
when the blisters breaking
rain down red scabs
on the earth’s mudpuddle...
Feathers and wax
and the watchers huddle...
Flocculent sheep,
O, and innocent lambs!
I will rock me to sleep
on the waves’ iambs.
III.
To Sleep, that is Bliss
in Love’s recursive Dream,
for the Night has Wings
pallid as moonbeams—
they will flit me to Life,
like a huge-eyed Phoenix
fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.
IV.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Quixotic, I seek Love
amid the tarnished
rusted-out steel
when to live is varnish.
To Dream—that’s the thing!
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,
soak by the candle,
aflame in the tub.
V.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,
we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.
VI.
I am reconciled to Life
somewhere beyond thought—
I’ll Live in the There,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.
Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,
so fatten the oxen;
make a nice baste.
I’m coming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,
though we injure noone,
ourselves wildaglow.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
a chemical cocktail spills from your lips
your tongue drips pure moonshine
table varnish leaks on the floor
i've been polishing for hours
can't get it clean, can't get clean
i scrub harder until my skin is red
and blood blemishes the rug nearby
my friends are the beams of sun
that show ashes in the air
i don't want to breathe it any more
i feel it scrape inside my lungs
wanting to get out and escape
white powder, lines of dust
and little pills that keep me sedated
my nose scrunches at the smell
of strong ozone and the taste
of metal forming in my mouth
while ironing out radiation particles
wondering where it all went so wrong
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
Are these poems
Or love letters?
I suppose there is seldom a difference
When it comes to people like us
Convectional affection
Love conceived but left unborn
Never to come to fruition
A mutual decision
At least that what I tell myself
But I dreamt of you again
Laying in the soft grass by the still waters
Like you've always been
Though I have avoided that place for some time
Call this my homecoming
My shining armor now tarnished
My sword and shield worn free of their varnish
Skin garnished with scars
I hold neither regret nor shame
That everything has changed so much
But will you love me the same
Even though I am not such?
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
We hadn't spoken
Too much had been left unsaid
Now silence sits there
Collecting the dust
Like one of your projects
Waiting to be fixed
Never forgotten
But not cared for as it was
Left 'till much too late
You left suddenly
A quick fix out the back door
Me left unfinished
Still,
I'll remember you
As I choose to- the Tinker
Everything just so
You'd sit at your bench
Stripping the wood of varnish
Bringing out beauty
Polish here, dust there
Every detail adjusted
Perfection strived for
Now that you are gone
Your antiques your legacy
I'll remember you
For the good in you
And I will try to forgive
you the dark hours
I will have to start
Mending memories that you built
A Tinker's daughter
Rewiring my grief
Sitting at your workbench and
Stripping it of guilt
Sit and watch, Tinker
Watch me try to mend a heart
Left in disrepair
Polish here, dust there
Every detail adjusted
Acceptance strived for
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
I will dye my beloved brown hair blonde for you
Stand at the mirror -
I pour down the peroxide.
Knives grate my eyes and yet
they've never felt this alive
With my wild smile and
yellow hair. No longer a cub,
but a Lioness.
I will slit my wrists in the bath for you
In any case
these full veins will only take up space.
Fumes of pink against the ceramic varnish
I smile at the sight of your blood leaving me
and this bath has never felt so like home.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Who was that arrangement of bones and ligaments you once held
What was that clump of hair you used to touch in your precious mapped hands
Those elegant or false words that were told, were they deserved
The chipped nail varnish upon each digit is more sincere, each truthful shattered fragment portrays brittle yearning like the fluttery fragments of pollen grasped within a drying flower
In each trigonometric microscopic distance there is light, darkness and colour
There is so much more than the laughter and saliva spilt upon the foggy expanse of past that once was.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
looked at you for too long
and then i realized
you are human, too
fallible
uncertain
flawed
piously pined for
palatial splendor i
placed in my dreams of you,
imperfect you
and it's no ones fault
a figure headed facade
fabricated by figments
of my frivolous imagination
put you on a pedestal
made you divine
made you holy
you, the ceiling
high above my head
and i, looking up
in the sistine chapel
untouchable
untarnished
couldn't see the cracks
beneath the varnish
then, close enough to study
a faint fresco with critical eyes
fantasy faded in the fault lines
of your frowning face
looked for too long
until i realized
you were just as broken as me
a collection of shattered pieces
shrouded and shy
once a shrine
now a shriek
wide eyes on you
a sinner, still
i called you sacred
ignoring the nature of
the irreverent, the profane
liked the luster
of longing lingering
on my lips
when i breathed your name
the veil torn
the truth beheld
and you are not god
gambling grief and
gleaming gloom
thought i could be
the sun to your moon
majesty to malignancy
momentarily merciful
moreover cruel
monstrous mr monsoon
after all, human, too
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 8:43 PM UTC
A cabin den
paneled in knotty pine
slick with thick varnish
jellied in mid-ooze
& running down the grooves.
A festive group gathers
around an electric fireplace
talking up old work stories
in mid-December.
My dad sits dead center
for the camera
wearing the face he wore
when in the company of adults
his long sleeves rumpled
and his collar askew
one arm straight up,
a bottle of Blatz in hand
commending
the buzz.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
THE SHALE and water thrown together so-so first of all,
Then a potter's hand on the wheel and his fingers shaping the jug; out of the mud a mouth and a handle;
Slimpsy, loose and ready to fall at a touch, fire plays on it, slow fire coaxing all the water out of the shale mix.
Dipped in glaze more fire plays on it till a molasses lava runs in waves, rises and retreats, a varnish of volcanoes.
Take it now; out of mud now here is a mouth and handle; out of this now mothers will pour milk and maple syrup and cider, vinegar, apple juice, and sorghum.
There is nothing proud about this; only one out of many; the potter's wheel slings them out and the fires harden them hours and hours thousands and thousands.
"Be good to me, put me down easy on the floors of the new concrete houses; I was poured out like a concrete house and baked in fire too."
1.5k
Flap, flap two black wings staggered
On two yellow clawed feet after stormy
Weather and the tufts of cats fur left
Like a white collar on emerald green.
Inside the cardboard box with soft lining
And scraps of bread, cheese and water
On a little polythene transparent oblong
There was chirping to be heard from within.
On varnish floor he skids and skates about
Putting newspaper down his legs got strong
After a few days of feeding he began to fly
Just a little spinning around the front room.
Bright eyed with yellow beak eating worms
He was nearly ready to be allowed outside
To find his strength and freedom with others
Tearily he was carried to park and released.
A few days later , looking in our garden tree
We saw him sitting on a leafy branch chirping
And singing a thank you song of gratitude for
A life he may never have lived without our help.
Love Mary ***
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC