"vases" poems
my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers
thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring
thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song
my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets
thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness
thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver
in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes
thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense
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the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.
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As I stand here, outside my work building
stealing a smoke break
I wonder about God and the universe
and how much happier it makes me feel
to believe in other things
That the sun was a running man
chasing the stars in that endless black
run man
run fast
run free
but freedom only gets you
slipping and sliding in circular leaps
around our earth, almost like
a clumsy mouse in a stationary wheel
and these sneaky stars
always one step ahead at sunrise
or at his heels in sunset
My mom’s a Catholic woman
she won’t believe in the running man
her stars are not stars, no
her stars are rosaries in purses and
priest’s words
taught words
holy words
but holy words are also
human words, are they not?
It never made sense to me
that a person could live their whole life
repenting it
But then again,
my dad used to have me work in our yard,
picking the weeds outside
and he let me treasure them in a vase
he never called them weeds,
they were always
dandy-flowers
wishing flowers
wildflowers
but wild only gets you
believing in the sun and
keeping shrubs in vases
All of which suit me, because
In the lonely nights of endless black,
I have the company of my own stars
and when holy words of weeds fall back
I remember that—
wild humans are only wildflowers
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
It was early morning when she descended the steps
to the porch side, teacup in hand, dressed in her nightgown.
Steam billowed from her cup, and with a swallow
she examined her garden of weeds and unexpected peonies.
It was early for blooming peonies; frost, like glass,
still settled on the lawn, reflecting sunrise light of tangerine.
The radiant glow of tangerine
cast amber trails across steps
covered in an icy coating of glass.
Between her fingers she tucked her nightgown
and gingerly treaded the garden of peonies
that melted the frost in one great flower swallow.
The barn swallow,
perched not far from the path of tangerine,
must have also taken notice of the peonies
as he took the first steps
to nest-building. She imagined that his lady bird, also in her nightgown,
would enjoy the flowerbed of glass
that he chose for their home. Sipping her glass
of tea, she admired the familiar swallow
lover as she folded into her nightgown
bouquets of peonies that glistened in the tangerine
sunlight. She took the steps
back to the house, recalling her own swallow’s peonies:
Peonies
placed in vases of glass,
peonies lining the porch steps,
peonies presented over morning tea. With a swallow,
she carefully, methodically lined the tangerine
trail with the peonies from her nightgown.
Her nightgown,
stained with the rouge petals of peonies,
dragged along the tangerine
terrace of glass,
blood red with the memory of her swallow
lover’s peony-petaled steps.
The steps to the house creaked beneath her nightgown.
The barn swallow, quieted by the rouge of the peonies,
shut his glass eyes to the skies of tangerine.
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
there's something vulnerable
about your *****
babe - whenever
I watch that pepper bush
I become vulnerable
and all I want to do
is to finger the moist bases;
there's something vulnerable
about your buttocks:
babe - whenever
your warm arse's in my palm
I become vulnerable
and all I want to do
is to dig into the honey vases;
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
That night, I stared at the night sky,
Soaked up the stars
Enough to form constellations of my own
And named them after you.
That is the thing about stars,
The more you look
The more you find.
Scars, alike.
Though, I am a novice
In the realm of
Pain and suffering,
I have already understood
The difference between
Papercuts and broken hearts
Chaining souls and holding hands
Flying paper airplanes and shooting darts
Abandonment and negligence.
And for once,
I want to believe in afterlives,
Wishing on shooting stars that are
Confused with fireflies,
If only it was as simple as
The art behind tracing your lips,
Falling asleep to the rhythm of your breath,
Your glinting eyes floating in pools of bliss.
But, we are more than music.
A noise
That beats in our ears;
A scream
That burns our throats.
Of Shattered vintage vases,
Wrecked ships
And sinking boats.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
and something reminding us
this is like all other moving days;
finding the ***** ends of someone else's life,
hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,
and burned-out matches in the corner;
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day. . .
in ordering our lives, we will discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.
And we have plans that will not tolerate
our fears-- a year laid out like rooms
in a new house--the dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves
sagging with heavy winter books.
Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of books and food,
anxious as we always are in winter,
and looking for the Good Life we have made.
I see myself then: tense, solemn,
in high-heeled shoes that pinch,
not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,
but looking back to now and seeing
a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl
in a bare room, full of promise
and feeling envious.
Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward
into the future--as if, when the room
contains us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.
The room will not change:
a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint
won't make much difference;
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath our suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.
I look forward and see myself looking back.
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*A Door's Rusty Hinges Screeched As It Is Opened,
Though The Outside Of This Hall Is Ugly,
Paint Chipping,
The Scars Of Screams Entwined In Eggshell Trim,
The Room Which Lays On The Other Side,
Is Full Of Beauty,
Is Full Of Tubes Of Paint,
Some Which Lay On The Floor,
Which Kisses Oak Furnishings,
Some Lay On An Abandon Easel,
Next To A Canvas,
Half Completed,
Created By Shaky Hands*
*Empty Vases Sit On A Window Pane,
Which Await,
For The Return Of Freshly Picked Wild Flowers,
Awaiting The Return,
Of The Soft Glow Of A Candle,
A Lanturn Perches On A Bookshelf,
Full Of Stained Pages And Ripped Covers,
The Stale Scent Of Memories Cling To Each Chapter,
A Small Handcrafted Stool,
Sits In This Ancient Home,
In The Artist's Heart*
*The Ancient Smell Of Paint,
Is No More,
Though The Stains Of Blues And Greens,
Are Now Grey As Clay Upon The Floor,
Yet Paintings Dwell On The Off-White Walls,
Some Brilliant,
Others A Hot Mess,
Self Portraits,
Redish Hair Cascading Like A Waterfall,
Down A Slim Collarbone,
Some Of Them The Women Smiles,
Others She Frowns,
Landscapes Of Rolling Hills,
And The Moonlight Leaking Through Coniffer Forests,
Are Stacked Ontop Of Eachother,
And A Mirror Which Stared At The Artist's Face,
And Who Saw Her Take Her Last Breath,
Climbs Motionlessly On The Wall*
*If You Looked Close Enough,
You Could See Perfectly Preserved Fingerprints,
On The Cracked Glass Of The Window,
As If She Were Longing To Be Free,
As If She Were A Prisoner,
In A Colorful Cell,
A Prisoner In Lockless Cage,
A Prisoner With Flushed Cheeks,
Yet A Face Still Pale,
One Who Longed To Express Herself,
To The Monarchy,
Imprisoned For Creativity,
She Lay In This Room,
Breathed This Air,
Painted These Pictures,
Yet Where Is She Now?*
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
You’re basic,
a lengthy silhouette
miming the human experience.
Staying up late
to blind yourself,
blinking to the sounds of sleepiness
heart beating to Skinny Love.
What ifs,
pre-recorded scenarios
imagining that first hug.
Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink
that new film that you want to see,
condensation in the lid of the teapot.
You’re candid,
unsure if all scabs heal
trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus,
when you slept through the night,
when purple was the only colour you didn't use.
Purify infectious matter,
***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing.
Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers,
melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons.
You’re laconic,
often dying to create,
like the verbose and the wordy
sighing simply to translate.
Missouri gift exchanges,
loose blue jeans ******
stacks of classics.
Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling
to a slow 50s song.
You’re a try hard
dying to knit,
only true fear is disappointment
burning in the lime light.
6000 voluntary hours
linking syllables to daisy chains,
dropping pesos to foreigners,
hands sandwiched inside
the front cover and the first page
of The Count of Monte Cristo.
You’re basic,
down for maintenance,
compressing the weight of the atmosphere.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
there is this drug in me, swimming inside my bloodstream, kissing insanity away and forming sunflowers on potted vases, in to vast gardens. I can't stop it. sometimes, when I don't consume it, it rips through flesh and wriggles itself in, tickling me until I dissolve in to fits of laughter; and then it would usually pick one of the sunflowers and ask me to take it for a dance and I would, oh I would. I think about it every time I wake up or read a book or breathe; some days when it's quiet I would still sense it's touch but very faintly, very softly; I can't live without it though, not ever; even if it couldn't come in some days and plant it's sunflowers I'd still need it; I wouldn't want those sunflowers withering away without it, and that drug I need swimming in my bloodstream and kissing insanity away and gifting me with sunflowers is, yes, you.
You.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
When the sky greys, memories: the first blush
of a joy unknown sprouting in the vases
sparklers, Catherine wheels on the front yards
of the homes of others; We possessed nothing
but our hearts of gold that leapt in waves;
Diwali like no other, on the streets, under the sky;
Away far over the seas among our kind who
in such distance are kin in a moment: home is
just the company of friends, memories lighted
in silver streaks of crackers past the shadows
of gardens retired for the night, and we, carefree,
in Southall where it was allowed to be merry;
It was the November of dreams, a night
like no other, now comes rushing in flashes
dawning nimble across time in the hues of blue.
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 4:57 PM UTC
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
we can no longer walk in from the cold
feeling the warmth of syrup and coffee cups
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
and that server we liked so much
we haven't seen him since
and no where else has real carnations
in milk glass vases on every enamel table
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
it smelled like a Church basement,
felt like my uncle's house
and it was our place, it was what we did
Our favourite diner
closed its doors two years ago
and so we stopped going out for brunch
on Saturdays
we made new traditions
but they were never as good
And we both knew it
Our favourite diner
closed its door two years ago
and so did we.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
There's a room full of vases
And each one is different.
Some have cracks,
Others, fractures;
Some have crumbled,
Others, shattered;
Some have different colours
In a patchwork pattern.
Some look whole and well
But only from a distance;
Others' cracks are so fine
Only the vase can tell it's broken.
But each vase is beautiful.
Each vase can be useful,
Be patched up and hold something.
This room full of vases
Appears sad to some,
But it is also
Brimming with life.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
Yes, I see the blossom illuminated
Between sunlight and shade;
I can even see the crenulated
Line they have made
Between late and high summer
And the evening’s waiting shade.
It is a Rose of Sharon, lavender and fair,
Hibiscus syriaca, a northern guest,
As if gracing some maiden’s hair.
Nearby Lilies dying of strange pests
Divert my vague attention to their neighbor
In the post-monsoonal air.
Down your blossoms weary with days of rain,
Drag low on the heavy boughs.
I have let them grow too high; they are vain!
Sending out showy blooms,
Into the sodden air, yet flimsy and thin,
Fit only for vases in rooms.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
*A room full of dancing balloons
Colorful streamers floating at the walls
Flowers waltzing in their vases
A Birthday cake stands
Stately in the middle of the table
With the candied words
Written in the middle:
Happy Birthday, Sweet Cinderella!
Confetti flies through the air
And harps play for you
Loudly with their
Angelic beauty
And cellos never before
Sounded so happy
As they ring out
Across the room
And the piano
Laughs and
Is
Merry
**********
Presents are being opened
Tissue papers rustle
And wrapping paper torn
Gift bags full of merry surprises
And fun
The Birthday Girl smiles
And is surprised at each
Gift
********
*Next come the games
There are so many kinds
Brand new toys
And bubbles
That look like
Sparkling pastel
Rainbows with
Glittering rain
Then comes the sad part
Of her friends leaving
How she hates to say "goodbye"
And watch her friends wave
And drive away
Back to home*
~Marian~
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Sometimes, right before drifting off,
when your leg's planted against my cast-iron limb,
your arm's length cradling the fear of deprivation
I can't shake without at least a teacup's worth of
bourbon or whiskey or patient caresses,
I forget the ground and find myself
circling the rings of Saturn, using the friction from
your fingertips making patterns to flip to a moon,
Titan, where the dirt feels like cotton on my skin
when I try to make angels out of the dust.
You once told me that you weren't quite
sure this isn't all pretend, an alternate reality
conquest that everyone's in on but you,
and trust me I've thought that, too, but,
baby, I'm sure now this is blissful actuality.
I don't know if you're up for perpetual
ventures in dry humor and messy tabletops,
but I'm willing to build some shelves for
my multitude of flowered vases, and, like you
said about this game, at least we're winning.
I'll crochet us some covers with crazy colors,
to blanket the trouble we'll sustain in
burnt suppers and getting the hammer to
do its job when it doesn't want to mar the
beauty of a freshly painted wall.
You can entertain any aches; I'm well-versed
in phoenix tears and have a safe ear for wilting
daisy petals that you should throw in the soup.
It's tomatoes and old *** and some carrots
(for the eyes), a meal to eighty-six tremors.
Our exploits are easy because your toes
are catapults to another galaxy at least,
and your shoulders cradle my war stories
so well, like a warm rug after cold tile,
like a spot on Earth that's never been stood on.
You've fanned my simmering flame with your
kisses like raindrops, light and heavy, and I
can't be sure if I'm still masquerading or holding
a candle with a spotlight's incandescence,
but I've stopped spending pennies on worries
and instead free my palms to keep my hands
in your hair. I see your smile at the train
station and I'm willing to bet my stash on
our chances at breathing freely (why?) mostly
because of your leg, still firm against mine.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 9:10 AM UTC
It's been so long.
My vase has been empty
for fear of selfish gardening.
I had almost given up completely.
My favourite flower was always an orchid.
I thought I had found it long ago,
but it seems my orchid is a rarer breed;
it takes much more care to sow.
I happened across it on a lively night
in a garden full of flowers.
My lily had just turned to poison;
it's amazing what lust devours.
My orchid had seen many vases,
some much nicer than mine
and yet it chose to flower then
and look entrancingly divine.
For a couple years I watered it
from far away, safe from my touch of war
I was afraid that I would squander it,
like I had so many times before.
But the orchid was just like me,
adventurous and curious.
Though we couldn't be together
we let each other be flirtatious.
And silently we grew together,
and my orchid came to me,
and my whole world came together
even if only very briefly.
Now I sit here writing this,
looking at my orchid, in my vase, on my window sill,
and I look back at myself and realize;
I'm HIS flower, in HIS vase, on HIS window sill.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
If you don't have it, you regret.
If you have, then I bet
that give it a break and
you'll get it very correct.
Imagine a forest without a grass
A band without an instrument of brass
Imagine a butterfly without colors
that you thought, will bring for you wonders
Imagine a desert without sand
a sea without a drop of water
Were standing but there's no trace of land
Pots given shape without the hands of a potter
Imagine schools going on without a teacher
This world without the trace of a creature
A class in which nobody passes
Flowers decorated on tables without vases
Water in pots with holes at the bottom
Trees full of green leaves int he sesason of autumn
Imagine the tongue tasting nothing kept on it
or if the slowest moving animal becomes rabbit.
this all wasn't for getting irritated
'cause "Haste is waste."
Like all this sounds funny to be
The same is the condition of life without patience
and around honey, no honey-bee.
There are curves in the Nile
They're also in our lives
Like the crescent sand dunes and the shiny crescent moon
So a man should have patience, whether morn or noon
We need to have a cup of patience
Atleast to understand the answer of its equation
Patience has to be applied
In every desirable part of life.
This all is known by that man
who doesn't have patience in his pan
Patience in life is like
Soul in body
Rhythm in music
sunlight on leaves shone
me i my mommy's womb
Mother is the biggest and
the greatest idol of patience fpr
it is totally undoubtful that's bound to hats off
be a man full of patience
its one of life's greatest lessons!
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
The **** shovelman sits by the railroad track
Eating a noon meal of bread and bologna.
A train whirls by, and men and women at tables
Alive with red roses and yellow jonquils,
Eat steaks running with brown gravy,
Strawberries and cream, eclaires and coffee.
The **** shovelman finishes the dry bread and bologna,
Washes it down with a dipper from the water-boy,
And goes back to the second half of a ten-hour day's work
Keeping the road-bed so the roses and jonquils
Shake hardly at all in the cut glass vases
Standing slender on the tables in the dining cars.
2k
On Friday, it was a rose
Intoxicating her with its smell
Playing with her weak heart
She was building her private hell
It's thorns pricked her fingers
Drawing blood as red as
The lipstick stain on his shirt
She was fooled again, alas
Yesterday he gave her a daisy
So simple and so dainty
She had never hated a flower more
A symbol of her naivety
He gave her a forget-me-not
Vibrant blue like his eyes
He planted it in her soul
Like another one of his lies
She would never forget him but
She was already fading from his mind
Like the forget-me-not dying
In a vase, after biding it's time
Sunday brought a tulip to her door
A symbol of their undying love, he said
Then why was he making out with
A redhead on their bed?
He got her a flower everyday
Perhaps apologies for his infidelity
But flowers can't fix everything
Flowers can't cure her jealousy
He got her a lily and an orchid
A sunflower and a bloom
But all she saw was the redhead
With the lavender perfume
How was he stupid enough to think
That flowers could fix everything?
Did he not know that her heart
Broke everytime he got her flowers?
Many more flowers came her way
She wanted it all to go away
Images of him and that redhead and these
Dead flowers would forever stay
Each dead flower was kept by her
In vases filled with cold water
A futile attempt to save their sinking ship
But they were deep underwater
Now he's gone, leaving these flowers
Vases containing dead bodies
He's gone, but what about her
Held on by memories?
Each flower was a pretty little lie
A blue eyed boy gifted to a girl
So many flowers died for them
But in the end he left her
-n.g.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 6:46 AM UTC
Breezes stir the linen curtains
Vases of lilacs, azaleas, daffodils, buttercups,
Daisies, and many other flowers
Sit upon your nightstand
The butterflies dance in your room
And brighten your days
With warm honeyed rays
Of sunlight falling down
Liking the curtain of dusk
Falling down after its rehearsal
Of day is over
Tiny Fairies sprinkle pixie dust
All around your room
In hopes of you feeling well again
Pedal harps never sounded prettier
Than when they cheered you up
And filled your days
With a moment--a spark of joy
Horses gallop as if to encourage you
To feel better again
They're glad to have heard
That you feel better again
All you need is to take a little time
Glitter never sparkled
So bright and bold
As it did for you
Unicorns never flew so high
In the mystical world
Than it did that day
And I never felt so good
As I did when I heard
That all you need is
A
Little
Time
And you'll
Feel
Better
Again
!
!
.
.
.
~Marian~
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
Two clay vases sit by my fireplace
recently discovered in their post move-in places
and relocated there.
One is small,
easily fitting into the palm,
and is covered with smokey brown lines
left by hair, lost during chemo,
placed on the vase while still hot from the kiln.
The other, large
filled with artificial roses
where once real ones burst from it's rim
and watched as people sat in wooden rows
remembering.
Both remind me of a lost one
someone who is no longer around
and yet, through fired pottery
is.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
I miss the feeling of clay under my hands
A spinning wheel, my foot on the pedal.
The rough silver plate always sands
Down the skin on my hand but I don't mind
I can build vessels out of the earth
Pulling cups and bowls up from the ground
In this instant, my hands are worth
A thousand vases glazed in gold
I dip them in thick buckets of color
And place the ceramic uncertainties in the furnace
We both come alive in fire
And emerge even stronger than before
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
“20 ways to repurpose a light bulb”
It tells me I need to start with a good grip around the bulb,
give the solder point a twist and free the brass contact
from the wires leading to the filament. If I make it that far,
I have to break the insulator and pull the filament out
from there. Grabbing the fill tube, I need to empty out the bulb
and wipe it out to get it ready.
I guess I could channel my childhood and turn the bulb
into an aquarium—dropping a little bloodfin tetra in with
a sprig of sea-grass or even make one of three small hanging vases
to put on my wall in the kitchen. If I want to get crafty,
I have directions for a glass sculpture, a holiday ornament,
and seven different size centerpieces.
The real surprises on the list are the light bulb necklace
and the concrete molds for light bulb handles.
Here I am, 4 A.M. on a Saturday morning planted on the couch
peering at the screen through my Jim Bean bottle eyes
and all I see are ways to repurpose this broken bulb
for something new—something it should have never been—
and I wonder why I can’t just grab the oil and a wick and
turn it into what it always wanted to be.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC