"varnished" poems
rich soil
fleck with a bit of black
dark chocolate
parched summer soil
glossy chestnut brown
unvarnished oak
mahogany flecks
apple pips
varnished cork
dessert palm tree
flecks of acorn shell
his eyes
the most beautiful pair
of eyes
she has seen
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 3:55 PM UTC
Among the market greens,
a bullet
from the ocean
depths,
a swimming
projectile,
I saw you,
dead.
All around you
were lettuces,
sea foam
of the earth,
carrots,
grapes,
but
of the ocean
truth,
of the unknown,
of the
unfathomable
shadow, the
depths
of the sea,
the abyss,
only you had survived,
a pitch-black, varnished
witness
to deepest night.
Only you, well-aimed
dark bullet
from the abyss,
mangled at one tip,
but constantly
reborn,
at anchor in the current,
winged fins
windmilling
in the swift
flight
of
the
marine
shadow,
a mourning arrow,
dart of the sea,
olive, oily fish.
I saw you dead,
a deceased king
of my own ocean,
green
assault, silver
submarine fir,
seed
of seaquakes,
now
only dead remains,
yet
in all the market
yours
was the only
purposeful form
amid
the bewildering rout
of nature;
amid the fragile greens
you were
a solitary ship,
armed
among the vegetables,
fin and prow black and oiled,
as if you were still
the vessel of the wind,
the one and only
pure
ocean
machine:
unflawed, navigating
the waters of death.
5.4k
A patriotic fervor producing fealty
A noble cause compelling loyalty
Paired with a callous indignity
Brash enlistee plunges toward destiny
Honor's badge worn with impunity
Duty's moniker embossed with magnanimity
Insatiable bloodlust quelshing all insecurity
Unbridled ego clamoring a garrulous enmity
Toward the villains who shattered blithe serenity
First skirmish, pageantry displaced by gravity
Mettle varnished with aura of invincibility
First battle, fallen comrades question mortality
Successive battles, severed limbs, caustic wounds challenge credulity
Fragile mind being conditioned to atrocity
War's heavy mantle now shorn of indemnity
Threatening mind's sanity, hearth's perpetuity
Once faceless foes now scream their humanity
Once noble leaders brim with insincerity
Supportive countrymen now fickle, distant entity
Cheering press now rank with duplicity
Only solace, hardened comrades equanimity
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
some years back, not too difficile to recall,
revive and animate those memories of love and disasters,
but the distance is comparable to half-a-dozen
eighty day trips around the world, many frequent
flyer miles accumulated with trips to love disasters,
interspersed with the days of shock and awe believing
(sigh) that stumbled, fumbled my way in what we silly
call true love, which is really the high of believing
that you deserved the easy way, but now know, there
is no easy way, and romance is a hard earned privilege,
and sensory deprivation can fool you, absence makes
you vulnerable, don’t be vulnerable, stand up right,
**** out, and eyes smiling but phasers on full, nonetheless…
this not a downer, but a dis-claimer, even I claim the
never be sure of the 100% foolproof methodologies for
discerning the genius of genuine,
when the risk is the reward
maybe when your 22, even 23,
you’ll be better at true discernment,
but until then be wise,
there is no saving the day,
till your knees are scraped,
and crackling and cracking
heart seem like the same thing
but they’re not
do not confuse
causality with correlation
love is not your cause, be-all,
or even the end-all, do the work
on your self to betterment
24/7, knowledge to be wiser
comes with vive les expériences!
and
someday you’ll senses will be tickled,
and the aroma of possibilities will
arose that dormant hunger, and may
be a correlation to another human in the
immediate vicinity, a man, swimming
in your moat without permission, then,
check him out and maybe, jump in,
once you’ve passed the red cross lifesavers
test, cause the murk is murky, and is never
fraught with just rose water, but jump a
few toes in and if you’re still sinking,
hell he’ll
find away and give him the rope to help
you climb a board, yeah, a broad tough as
clear varnished nails with a heart radiating
the nuclear fission of Strontium 90.
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 1:31 AM UTC
We are imperfect products
placed in the midst
of an imperfect society,
a vicious cycle of perseverance
and failure:
constructed,
broken,
fixed,
and fixed again.
Airbrushed and painted
to perfection:
pale skin
flushed cheeks
slim legs
and a smooth mindset.
Opinionated only
on the matter of
superficial products –
glamorizing and embellishing.
Deteriorating enamel –
cracks in a varnished frame.
A scratched surface,
damaged to the core,
polished and glazed over.
Skin made paler,
cheeks more flushed,
skin and bones,
and a mind wiped clean.
Unachievable expectations
and inevitable failure
are enough to b r e a k
even the toughest material
d
o
w
n.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Monday's vision's fair of face
in the evenings the plasma rays shine
bright until seen through a window at a distance
******* energy from cables to my mind
blinding into happily blinkered existence
Tuesday's vision's full of grace
guilt makes me pull the covertous shutters down
being the observer is peep peeping embarrassing
being observed pays to add overtising shows on
it's so good not stirring when it's too disturbing
Wednesday's vision's full of woe
I am wilfully weak and slack on the couch
enjoying not having to speak or think
about being set up to get upset by nothing much
the sights flow seamless except when I blink
Thursday's vision has far to go
I would be there now but for one glitch
one flaw in the network's mesmeric sell
shared channels free as birds but rich
beyond the dragnet of any script's sequel
Friday's vision's loving and giving
in the smallest way it's electric beyond measure
distractions demanding attention with a hush
willing the constant whirling on with fresh images
look-look euphoric hooks to reel me in with a rush
Saturday's vision works hard for a living
and I'm wrapped in the dream of existing
by a simple drama of a varnished toenail
extending to a click the vanish going
going the way of Ting Ting Cao
your magnetic stimulation of the transcranial
kicks in and in my scrambled vision I saw
me touch your assimilation on redial
absorbing Sunday entire and raw
footage on display a draw so real
the pay channels dropped their jaw
surreal
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
There's a drawing on my wall
a pen and ink impression
of the old transporter bridge
- a Meccano masterpiece.
It's my Tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie
pulling me back through time.
The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin.
We listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe should and aught
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
there was a little tomcat he had a change of way
not like all the other cats this little cat was gay
he wore a bright pink suit and varnished up his claws
wearing colored lipstick all around his jaws
the other cats ignored him whenever he came near
he looked rather odd they thought it rather queer
he went to a gay bar looking for a date
hoping may be there. he would find a mate
he went on the dance floor and made a move or too
spotted by an another cat dressed up all in blue
now he had a partner no longer on his own
there were other gay cats he was not alone
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
the little tree
took root from
an acorn nut.
the years passed,
she watched the loggers
come and go.
taking her friends
and family off
on the big beds
of the timber trucks.
year after year,
season after season,
there she stood,
winter, fall, spring, and summer,
one slow grow.
first she was short,
barely a spurt,
then she branched out,
and up and up and up.
the trees stood
all around her,
so serious,
oh so silent company.
however,
never a mean word nor
loud shout was ever heard.
never any other music
but for that of the birds,
and the wind and the sun
and
the creatures walking the
woodland floor,
those traveling through to
far distant exotic lands.
at least she never heard
“girl, you are some fat tree.”
or was the target of any joke,
“when you sit around the house,
you sit AROUND the house.”
nor any
“you gotta do something with them leaves,
they are looking like a rat’s nest.
Oh i see, it IS a squirrel’s nest.”
or for a stray bump or large hideous growth
no one ever said,
“you better go get that removed,
that's one ugly lump!"
years and years passed,
her soul inside,
couldn’t be heard,
not a word.
then one day,
the fellows came through,
looking and measuring,
measuring and looking,
out came the chainsaw.
eyes alighting on she,
on all of her
tall, majestic beauty.
with swift, quick work
she fell,
down,
to the earth.
loaded on the flatbed,
chains wrapped securely around,
engine roared to life,
and she took off,
racing into the darkening night.
she knew tears did fall
as forests thinned
and were laid bare,
but all she could think,
all she could say,
was
“so long suckers!
i’ll see you on broadway one day!”
and so it became true,
her dream of yore,
it was finally in,
Radio City Music Hall,
she landed as the floor.
night after night
to her lasting delight
tap dancers tapped
making her sing
bringing out the music
in she
so previously
imprisoned inside,
for so long.
sanded and polished
varnished and cleaned,
her secret inner beauty
finally brought to life,
finally brought into the light.
she beamed and sighed,
every time a new star
stepped on to her,
to her extreme delight.
any day or night,
when every eye of
the house,
every one of the audience
was riveted on she.
oh what a thrill
when the Radio City Rockettes
did finally come out,
for only for she
could they dance
so straight,
so evenly.
Sometimes i look
at the woods laid bare.
my heart drops low
so sad i feel,
a tear spills out.
then i recall,
the tale of this tree,
the little acorn nut,
how a trip to
a city,
made her so
lastingly
happy &
so very
pretty!
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe, aught and should
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
I'm talking to pine trees
teetering on a brush fire--
they do not speak English,
needle whispers are of a foreign tongue.
Feet varnished by sap
clodden with traces and feel no pain,
You will not forget.
(It only rubs off with extra-virgin olive oil,
a pumice stone,
boiling water;
I had none.)
Later
toes slick and raw,
hands fleshy red in heat,
the ungraspable fresh veneer.
I let my fingernails grow out.
The forest burnt down in my eyes.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
She laid on the varnished wooden floor observing
nothing seemed different.
The children played and jumped on her back
as normal sighed getting up.
Walking away keeping a quiet presence
the love for her immense.
Part of the family they had called her Jess
not one of the illegal breeds.
A golden labrador with a gentle nature
but on that day it changed!
An urgent call to the police was received
the scene they hadn't perceived!
Jess sat calmly on the wooden front porch
covered in blood wagging her tail.
Inside the house two badly mutilated bodies
as if attacked by a savage beast!
They heard children whimpering nearby
an awful sobbing cry.
Two children were found in a walk in wardrobe
both in a state of shock.
Jess offered no resistance when she was handled
licking and barking loudly.
The Police were very wary putting her in a cage
there was no sign of rage.
The dwelling was sealed the children taken to safety
after tests it was proved.
Jess had killed her owners the only witnesses told
of their friend going crazy!
The once beloved pet was quickly put to sleep
sadness in the county was deep!
It was never disclosed that in the dogs blood sample
an unknown virus was found.
But it just disappeared before its origin was traced
so the mystery remained.
The case was closed a tragic accident and filed away
until the following Sunday!
Now the authorities began to fear the worst!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
A spindling sun stream on copses' cloak spun
Melange of orange, yellow, red on foliage does glisten
Decadent Umbrella wields fluorescent shield o'er barren fields
Glinted blades colorful shades heighten
Glossed Bright-cherry, Oak leaves the fringes floss
Purple haze of Sweet Gum lobes the flanks glaze
Yellow tips of White Oak fingers waxed with gilding syringe
Orange Marmalade, Maple stars varnished with tinseling *****
Blue Beech crusted folds dusted with a brackish rust
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:39 AM UTC
There is a drawing on my wall,
a pen and ink impression
of the old Transporter Bridge,
a Mecccano masterpiece.
It's my tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie,
pulling me back through time.
The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin,
we listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
Ingredients
My fingers skate along the sleek surface if the finished cedar box , although it has been varnished it still somehow finds a way to harness a whiff if the scent to push in my direction every time I open it . Recipes , basically a conjugation of ingredients , when melded together in perfect amounts , create a complete meal, my recipes , amassed from a lifetime of existence , instances collected individually , and blended on to the parchment that is now being filed amidst the rest of the nourishing collections within this wooden encasement , I have organized them based on feelings, " moods " the perfect ingestion , for any experience , it is well acknowledged that often we find our way to someone's heart with the perfect recipes , food for the soul , but this is my collection of food for the heart, this box contains a life's worth of poetry , little daily doses of not soul food , but food for the soul , little inspirational quotes and quills , for any emotion that may full our belly with that hallo feeling that comes with chaos , our emotional nourishment , which is why you will never find this treasure in the pantry with the rest of the " cook books" for this has a place on the corner of the nightstand , along with the rest of my hopes and dreams .........
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
**I banged the door against my ‘little’
And felt the pain through to my index…
Finger
I felt the pain surge through, felt it throb… felt it linger
Felt it ache
Felt my whole body quake, way past my pain threshold
**** this finger
I stubbed my little…
Toe
Against the leg of my coffee table, you know the one… that well varnished little devil
That stands just before the door
It felt like liquid fire
I looked down at my toe and asked it, “You mean to tell me that you didn’t bleed?... you LIAR!”
And then turned to the table and whispered, *“You little *****
I don’t know how it happened, but...
You made me sob my heart out paper-cut
It isn't nice how you just up and slice
I’m a manly man, I declare… I boast
You can tell by my manly strut
But really, that ain’t cool… play nice, for pain is my least favourite vice
It’s the little cuts that hurt the most.**
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
Your eyes are like pearls:
Clear.
Your skin reminds me of doves:
White.
Your lips are like newborn peaches:
Smooth.
Your hair is like varnished mahogany:
Soft.
You're reliable, and beautiful.
Thank you.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
NONE OF THIS EVER HAPPENED BUT IT DID
your nightmares had their petrol and fondled the dead pools of your eyes.
they troubled the next world you just got use too
but then; you had that thing with your eyes.
you bit the moon in some kind of
bite the moon why ? not frenzy.
you kept your cell clean
but bartered for mice
that harbored a cat's
hate,
you sleep with jewish nuns from the planet Stop.
you shared dreams with neanderthals of ponderous love.
you had Novocaine to talk too.
the brilliant sleep of Houdini and Passion.
you had your demons sweep the floor of your cave
and you ain't been seen
since you got
that way.
gone are the things you had before the having was all ready false.
you might slip into a giant's maw and cling to the uvula of " now what ? "
i remember your scars like broken promises in a prom dress.
you had your soul varnished by madness and black cotton...
soft tufts of rough judgement and lightning
and bad blood. a conglomerate of was.
you're impossible if you might be you.
i dream you
a wrinkle
in a Paradise
for all the right Reasons
for you.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
Scouring walls
sanding hands
grazing galls
varnished strands
upward stroll
winging tips
silent roll
grooving rips
sighing depths
whispers fall
staining breaths
unknown wall
senses bare
flooring sand
wetted air
dripping gland
morose dew
sickly lashes
mourning pew,
perching ashes
sleet-river veins
mist-tide lobes
stringing strains
vermilion globes
pale slim
stilling beat
liquid brim
sinking seat.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission;
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
I am a ball, I am a cell,
I am the will of higher selves;
I’m a layer of the kernel,
Flying on seat "57L";
I’m a letter that was sent to mail,
Set outbound when rings the bell.
I am a curve, I am twirl,
I am sustained motion still unfurled;
I’m necessity in the system;
Of absorption I am the emblem;
I’m a branch of fractal downward;
Of struggles past I ain't no award.
I am a beast, I am a fork,
I am a breach through inert soil;
I’m a head of the hydra snake;
Consolation in all of mistakes;
I’m the blood of the wounded,
The brain of memories faded.
I am a blink, I am a cause,
I am the storm after the pause;
I’m the pity for the angered;
Whose duties have been tempered.
I'm the eye that's about to drool
And the tooth that's bound to fool.
I am silver when I am gold,
Yes I am pale when I grow bold,
Like an etching on a clean surface
I'll be sanded just to be varnished;
I'm the most certain of prediction,
Foreseeable beyond provision.
I am ludicrous, I am lukewarm,
I am commitment amidst cold wars;
I’m the frontier around the form
And the earth that drowns the worm;
Of victory I am some defeat,
Accomplishment left incomplete.
I am a meter, I am a yard,
I am pain that causes no harm;
I'm the scepter of the peasant,
The suffering in the pleasant;
I'm everything that's ever been said,
All that's forgotten once it's been read.
I am a sin, yes I am sought,
I am a child yet to be mourned;
I’m resistance to the inevitable,
Recurrence of the unstable;
I’m the distance of departures,
The first minutes of final hours.
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission,
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
The mirror was tarnished,
It gave her a sepia glow
The reflection varnished,
Memories garnished by sorrow
And with a silver brush
She smoothed away the greying years
Finely powdered gold dust
To cover trace of wear and tears
The mirror was tarnished,
And now brightly shines her beauty.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
A peg of person
Hanging on my word
Show'd itself to me
Wooden, carved roughly
Surfaced on linen, varnish
Shallowed man.
He felt nothing to me, at me
He told me riddle body *****
I ignored, bored hated words of worry
But felt them myself, little
Anti-anti-anticipations
And trembling lumps of merryweather met us
But we came to a pond, and drank the green green wealth
We spun a little, splashed like ripples do
Onto a blank canvas of a conversation
Muddy murky words came out
'Sex *** sex' little bee, buzz for pollen, buzz for me
I couldn't. I'm not.
I'm not another, you're different, distinto
I'm feeling nothing, angsty man,
Through rides and fairgrounds together
I found a lost child, and he set me
I told you who I am and I found me.
Roughly cut, varnished wooden man
Burned in envy, dusted away
I felt nothing, watched his anguish
And figured, hammered, rutted out
A sense of self-belonging,
I guess we don't belong, I guess we make our own self-pity,
But at least we know.
I said goodbye, he did not, I left the day before yesterday
I wrote a confusing poem to figure it out
And people read it
Quietly I confined myself to words and Bibles written for me
For a bitter version of myself
I burned away, burned away,
Burned my, burned my burned away.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Kissing girls is for white girls
with slim hips and delicate features
whose reputation cannot be varnished
by a few quick pecks in the dark.
She said: loving women is for white girls
because they all grow out of it
except the foolish ones with troubled families
and fathers that never stuck around.
But my skin was too dark
and my family image too well crafted
to justify wanting to mess around
with girls that would leave me for future husbands.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
Art was religion’s enemy, but nobody knew it.
Ignorance’s persecution and deception’s excommunication
are invisible marks stamped onto every wooden pallete.
What with the saints’ every feature executed with the finest human touches,
it’s divinity could not be more countoured and highlighted.
The bold kisses of sunlight onto the walls of the cathedrals
remind tense shoulders and pointed slippers how much they are adored by the universe..
while they, not as much so.
God’s fingerprints are engraved onto every human brain
for the mind is powerful enough to imagine
vast forests and fine cloth,
sweet wine and golden crusts of bread,
cherry lips and tamed silver hairs,
the softest pillows for varnished beds,
herds of sheep and gallops of mares.
The artist is glorified, admired and lusted for the deceptions it’s brushes could print onto textured paper.
Perhaps heaven’s mess sent graciously upon wiked ground,
unfertile for carrying the growth of who is gripping too lightly on the artist’s border for beauty,
were the wrong tones of purple, blue, red, yellow, or brown.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC