"waifs" poems
At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:
And as the last slow sudden drops are shed
From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,
So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.
Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start
Of married flowers to either side outspread
From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red,
Fawned on each other where they lay apart.
Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till from some wonder of new woods and streams
He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.
30k
i.
mist in solemnity
mutes the sounding
leather bells in silence
ii.
salt surges waste wantonly
gulls guttural in guises
of waifs
iii.
driftwood delivered dull of
deluged dilution
ochre offering to dune's
divestment
iii.
sea glass shivers into
shallow sandy pockets
scintillating color schemes
iiii.
conches lie abandoned
in stands of sea grasses
cacophonous quiet
v.
i am wide awake yet dreaming
sleepwalking
into the
waves
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/1/2016
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC
In the floodgates
of forever
I see you standing,
arms out, so ready
the multiple layers
of silky delicious
that we have created
until now
swirling about us,
a storm of veils
beckoning like sea waifs
and I am opening up
like never before
my heart practically
out of my chest
until it is
flying forth,
a mythical
winged creature,
prehistoric birdling
and you,
with your strong arms
your third eyelight
turned on
catch it
hold it
nuzzle it
until the rest of me
can reach you
bursting forward
through swathes
of time
turbulence a mere
snippet
and we meld
and merge like oceans
hearts lit up
in electrical surge
time and place not existing
We are the sea.
We are the Earth.
We are the desert velvet
We are the wonder
in the hallways
of our arteries
We are the bloodflow
heartflow
of the universe within us
We reign the
ever changing existence
that keeps us whole
allowing room to breathe
to bloom in mystical
wild gardens
yet binding
through realms
of our light's
endless expansion
our souls embracing
as we dream future visions
upon our tongues
and as I gaze upon you
our eyes a magnet
you ignite my glow,
the king of my citadel
festooned with
flowerbuds
for your
queen
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
Even as the moon grows queenlier in mid-space
When the sky darkens, and her cloud-rapt car
Thrills with intenser radiance from afar,—
So lambent, lady, beams thy sovereign grace
When the drear soul desires thee. Of that face
What shall be said,—which, like a governing star,
Gathers and garners from all things that are
Their silent penetrative loveliness?
O’er water-daisies and wild waifs of Spring,
There where the iris rears its gold-crowned sheaf
With flowering rush and sceptred arrow-leaf,
So have I marked Queen Dian, in bright ring
Of cloud above and wave below, take wing
And chase night’s gloom, as thou the spirit’s grief.
2.5k
’Tween hither and thither we wended our way
skipping, dancing through sand dunes, in seascape croquet.
While woven in waves watching dolphins at play
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.
Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.
Being spectres of splendour in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
the breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embraced in youth’s blooming bouquet.
With the wind as our wings, till the Never we flew,
two gypsies, on junkets through dusk’s residue
gently floating like pollen to everywhere new,
so eluding pearled teardrops that paint the past blue.
Yes, we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire and anchors aweigh –
rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night’n day after day.
Having stars in our eyes and all time as our view,
we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
I see the recollection
of a thousand and one memories
in the faces of strangers.
It is written
in the burnt out shellac
that write's the gospel
called ideal.
Upon all the waifs
that wail
on wainscotted walls
is visible a weary shade -
A woe begotten word.
That same ink
that wrote the scar
on a thousand and one faces.
It shone to eyes
of the right size
calibrated to the light
by a snowflake.
And once seen
O misbegotten dream!
Hours of amphetamine rooftops
under golden stars.
Mornings alight
with the free realm of jazz
which floats on hazy gaze
that constitute fields
of a thousand and one degrees.
Now not seen.
And is it carved
in the sweaty freedom
of a drunk?
Constellating crystal beads
pour to eyes
gray and sunk
with the wisdom of a prince.
With the stench of a skunk.
Brace yourself
for the wind does come
that marries wind
of heart and mind.
And behind it all
you see it now;
in the thousand and one faces
of the free
the bold
the meek
the drunk
the lost.
The recollection
of a thousand and one memories.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
The children are running and stumbling
A humbling experience, but deliverance
Is only gained here by running in fear
Away from those who hate and ****
And warp the will of those too young
To see people hung and murdered.
So they are herded with the living
Into an unforgiving world of pain
None should see, even less see again
But they remain in these clusters
Mustering and lining up for food
A homeless brood of adopted waifs
That should be naifs instead of this,
Nomads, glad of a blanket for bed
On the hard ground, all they found
To call home during flight, for tonight,
Not all are children, but the hurt
From blurted out hateful names
Is not the same for the young ones
Who should be having fun and not
Suffering through this hell they got
From being born in the right city
In a time of no pity and no rescue,
No kindness the world should do,
Instead they cringe from angry faces
As if they were disgraces for living.
Nothing left for giving to them.
These are orphans now, not sons
Not daughters, what was begun
Has ended for them, permanently
While nations stand by silently
Watching the perfidy and sighs,
Ignorant of their cries and destitution.
No restitution can ever come to some.
To most there is only memory of death
And running, out of breath, nowhere
Because nobody is there for them.
It is their problem.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
It was a Victorian night where the streets were alight with braziers and gas lamps,when out of the shadows a man rose, in the sight of those poor waifs who were waiting for succour and a bowl full of supper from the sisters, and mercy they were,for the man wouldn't dare to buy favours from females,not in front of the saviours who went among poor men, whose behaviour was suspect and where the language was ripe.
The man sunk back into the blackness of night out of sight but in mind,a kind of reminder to those in the raggety clothes,that the streets were unsafe,and
a place fit for weirdos and those who looked through you and you looked for safety in the arms of the stately,but those homes were all shut,tut ,tut
The old Queens on the throne and you're thrown to the hounds and evil abounds in this Victorian night.
The morning breaks wind as you sniff at the air and wonder, just wonder why life's so unfair,
lice in your hair and you don't smell that good,a bath would be nice and if you could you would take one to relax in,but the morning backs into your face and let's face it,the life that you're living is not good enough to **** in,and we both know these oaths that pop out now and then are not spoken by you but are written by the pen,
and another page
an Edwardian age
but the rage carries on and Victoria's gone but it matters not
you've got what you've got and there's not much you can do about that.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
I can see
how men fall irrevocably in love
with women
with so much soul in their bones
that it must ripple, and fill out living flesh
women who possess thoughts
that could bring down the sky
women with platinum eyes and satin skin;
willowing waifs and dewy dreams.
But how they fall even a stones throw
for women with
sallowed cheeks and deserted eyes
who paint themselves out of freckles and blush
women with
minds that contemplate only as much as the mirror reflects
and mouths that open to unwittingly break a misleading silence
women with
not an ounce of longing or lust
or love
in their veins, just a crimson thud
without a beat.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
It's that time again folks,
Bikini weather,
Well, maybe not for me.
The six stone babes are out in force,
But i am ten stone three,
I daren't go out with such big *****
Those girls are small and pert,
I think that i'd make two of them,
I think i'll wear a skirt,
Oh look, the ice cream van approaches,
I'm going for a poke,
Those girls need two egg cups and string,
But i need two buckets , and a rope!,
I look with dread upon my thighs,
And sigh a moan of stress,
While barbie and the sindy dolls,
Could wear my shawl for a dress,
So in i go, indoors for now,
Til the sunshine turns to wet,
Please god, if you can't make me thin,
Then please make my friends fat!!!!
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 9:47 AM UTC
We sat pow-wow-style
exchanging our war stories,
admiring the smut-filled room
full of swirling nicotine-smoke.
We joked with each other,
wondered about
loose lips sinking ships
& figured it wasn't these types
that sunk such vessels,
these ones ruined lives.
Waifs & wisps floated
miraculously about
while cheap perfume &
broken English
wafted our senses.
Desperate dripping
honeycomb-eyes
searched for
potential customers,
rot gut whiskies flowed
& disappeared to ease
the sexual-tensions.
Everyone was there
to either ****
or to get drunk
'cause the
decor & atmosphere
literally ******
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
For Beep & Sue Robinson, Foreman, Victoria Park Tunnel
Auntie Elaine Kingii
Died last night in her sleep,
Ninety years of age
Keeping secrets she would keep.
Last night she passed away
In her tiny single bed,
At the Onehunga rest home
Where she finally laid her head.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
Lived her long life on the street
Helping other vagrants
Find a kinder place to sleep,
Helping other street kids
With the hassles of their day,
Sharing a quick cigarette
Or a dryer place to stay.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
In her ninety years of life
Had eighteen babies born to her
From sailors , waifs and like.
Eighteen babies born to her
Beneath the Grafton bridge,
Each with unknown fathers
Or a family heritage.
Auntie Elaine Kingie
As a girl danced out of class
Where the morning sunshine sparkled
On the crystal dew, clad grass,
And her green eyes shone with lustre
In her joy of dancing free,
Whilst the street kids stood in cluster
Quite entranced by what they see.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
With her eyes of emerald green
Lived her days among the lost souls
Of the City Mission scene.
Life amongst free spirits
Was a chosen path for her
Shunning organised prosperity
With a structured raconteur.
Auntie Elaine Kingii
With her eyes of emerald glass
Chose to die the way she lived
Quite serenely with her class.
Happy with the company
Of whom she would befriend
In the park surrounds of Auckland city’s
Busy people blend.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 June 2011
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
I am dead,
but do not weep for me.
Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:
the dispossessed that walk your streets
homeless and lost
hands held out for some morsel of change
or maybe just a kindly word
or a glance of recognition.
Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:
emaciated waifs
clinging to the tattered robes
of their mother
flies buzzing round the fetid sores
that pock their melancholy faces
Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:
pathetic souls that huddle
in the rubble of their homes
scratching at the ruins in vain hope
of finding those lost in the onslaught of
Nature's wrath
Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:
the lost children
who will search in vain
for those nurturing hands
and soothing words
gone in a hail of lead
scattered in a blast of revenge
to splatter the faces of these innocent ones
Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:
your regrets
your mistakes
your knowledge
that you stood by and allowed
these assaults on humanity to continue
day upon day
life upon life
I am dead
so will you be
and ask yourself now
who will weep for you?
Not these.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
I don't understand, but your tone incites.
Is this ignorance or bravado
Is love and hate the same when the day of fated relations stays mocking on the morrow
Are the planted dead standard
Pentagram repenting it's whistles to the waifs
Who captivates plenty yet scrape for their dinner pennies like dog scraps.
Why am I still beneath this lake?
Nov 4, 2020
Nov 4, 2020 at 10:01 PM UTC
emaciated faces placed hastily in waste filled space
graceless shapes, mass of flesh
lidless eyes scanning endlessly
searching for rest
impoverished waifs piled
on the mentally ill homeless
skin pressed together
inappropriately –
lost child wildly blinded, bound
gagged on diesel rags used to clean tools
torture implements rented on ebay
scented candles transmogrify blank surroundings
and color splashed lashes shine red in the afternoon
glistening –
fake baking ******* easily ballooned
ozone less atmosphere cooks plastic skin
releasing Botox and wheat germ
creating orange clouds engulfing tanning booths
light skinned pretenders swish across foray’s
looking both fabulous and abhorrent
frolicking –
camera angled babies
in thick foundation hide tears
so as to not disappoint
or fail in the eyes of the media sharks
fear and gun-rights send them into a frenzy
seeking to raise and destroy
everyone –
political ridicule in a public tribunal
grandfathered unborn wait to rule
wombs of power hold genes of control
eggs designed to tax
meeting ***** engineered to manipulate
deform –
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
I left my heart in our broken city
deep beneath the dark and crushing sea
In the cold and crumbled streets
where you and I used to run and hide.
We'd stick each other with syringes,
and ****** black eyed waifs
from off the backs of violent giants.
Set them free for a taste of their blood.
We'd listen to Django and Stephanie
on that old Victrola,
while we snacked on chips
and drank pilfered gin
from the busted Circus of Values.
Because, your tightwad *******
brother, couldn't spare a dime.
I still have that snapshot,
of you with your Tommy gun
mowing down splicers,
a puddle of Eve at your feet.
Where did we go wrong?
Was it in the half-flooded sections,
were we hid from Ryan's rampage,
before he made me smash his skull.
Or was it that last gene tonic we split,
after the reactor went supernova.
Somebody Rapture me, already.
I wasn't made to last anyway, my lovely.
I just wish I could have lived long enough
to see the girls grow up,
under the cerulean and cream sky.
But, all dreams are destined to die,
the fire and freakshow was fun
while the liquor and shotgun shells lasted
The only thing I know for sure,
is that what they call freedom
is just Dystopia waiting to happen.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC
soft acoustic plucking
reverberating strings
buzzing tones flutter
freely creating visions
differing from space to space
occupied between my ears
twists whole majors into 7th quarters
altering the landscape from within
bleeding fingertips hide broken verses
note for note we lie to the sound
expressing pleasure in the mundane –
gently strumming with loving caresses
melodic to the point of melancholy
old tears sit on a stained floor
eclipsing the smiling children
that hide just beyond the glass pane
glossing the pain with symbolic imagery
a crucifix dangles
swaying to and fro
barely audibly tapping the fat statue of an enlightened oriental
in the shadow of a dream catcher
made not by native americans
but instead by undernourished brown waifs—
bending tones for a better view
I shed the physical and go incorporeal
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
Put your ear to the concrete, now.
It has the same rhythm as watercolor,
our souls have the same consistency as dirt.
La la la. Everything is plowed in the ground eventually –
every ticktock shows Atlantis a friend.
This balcony smells like violins, like a comet, like waifs
& has the sound of crowded prose.
A man will spit, spit, spit on you:
a girl will crawl from a bottle of effervescence –
both carry their flask
one is so red, do worry about communism.
We will all have our canteen
microwave like a thermos & aerate into
our crowded spit bubble, big finale la la la.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
We don't need
no Bieber Fever
We don't need
no ****** songs
No bad lip syncing
on the dance floor
Barbie dolls in
rubber thongs
All in all it's just more
plastic **** against
the wall
Yes, all in all it's just
more plastic **** against
the wall
We don’t need
no **** from Brittney
We don’t need
her rehashed rhymes
No songs of anguish
from Christina
Washed up waifs
beyond their prime
All in all it's just more
plastic **** against
the wall
Yes, all in all it's just
more plastic **** against
the wall...
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
Innocence lost
Laughter and play savaged by early death their mother only a framed picture
Her living breath once their perfumed fragrance of grace uncommon air
To this sweetest pair nothing else could compare this life so rare
Morning or evening they drew from this well golden droplets truest love they did spell
Oh grim reaper to all you pay a visit none are safe the smallest hearts easiest to break apart
With ease love’s formidable bastion you did breach unquenchable pain shown by your reach
Daughters four and eight now left dark eyed waifs no one to mend for them who will contend
Motherless thread bare without defense against the icy wind no hope can they find
Faces pale and blue stagger on be brave if I could only give to you what you crave
Swallowed by the black void left senseless no reference point in this seamless sea
Advice worthless only left to stare how can they comprehend a cold grave so bare
Beholding their faces you choke and sputter with worthless words you say be strong
Go in winter to the field and hill in broadest views witness nature subdued in darkest hues
The landscape stark and severe this your mirror from this grand picture your soul grows still
Mother nature God’s handy work from its source you will be lifted and given assurance
Truly the furrow of sorrow runs to unknown depths not so in the everlasting tomorrow
Today tears of silence does eloquently whisper tears to joy a mighty river roaring with mother united in laughter
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:32 PM UTC
inside their own penitentiary of thought
waifs await a quiet moment
when rare birds aglow with a treasure of color
may gather in the dusk.
The leather skinned waifs
and wayward hardcase eye ballers
pick the fallen feathers to remake their own
images into one of a leisurely glide from grace
into one of freedom from guilt
and with deft fingers peel away the last page
as i burn the next
with the hot ink of impatient ideas
leaving only this page behind
under a spread of stars like a mastermind
madman's ideal tool of complete confusion
baffles the heart and soul by a scattering of kittens laced with poison eyes
undermines the self with overwhelming dark mirth
and leaves a river of doubts in the trenches between
you and all your loved ones of yesterday
Its this temple of repentance and reluctance
a brick and mortar remembrance
of a summers day delicate beginning
a spiders web thin mist
on the open water
and the dulled sparkles of fading stars wheeling overhead
rocking on the waves like in a mothers arms
safe and reassuring
this empty palace of the sun
brings me to my knees
to beg my worth in paper
and weight in coin...
measure the lengths which
i must go to find peace at my days end
and wonder at how long i must linger behind
to watch the ribbons of cloud chase each other across
azure skies
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
The melting toll of empty hours,- chaste
Among the dry-stone steeples,-stirs
The cobbled rune of foetal wonder.
Forgotten waifs, in teasing, see
The scheming torpor of our ways
Then mingle in the vaults of our regret,
Through half closed eyes the
Unremembered rise on drafts
Of innocence, to spell their names
In Spirit in these scuttled, pin drop Realms.
The utters of an arcane tongue that
Whittled horses from the hill, now merge
Into the chiseled henge of lanterned Citadels.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
Crouching beggar upturned cup
Singing children hunger sup
Mongrel bounds on a short chain
We are all caught in the rain
Policeman standing proud
Busking waifs are singing loud
******* lies where it was lain
We are all caught in the rain
Pigeons bobbing strut right by
Seagulls scream with glinting eye
Old man mutters 'not insane'
We are all caught in the rain
Babies hold up their palms
Mothers push them in their prams
Babies google their necks crane
We are all caught in the rain.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
I wonder if the sky gets sad
Its common purpose
A different herald
Floating like an un-forgiveness
Its clouds, its clouds, its clouds
Waifs in white clothing
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
the ......needy
******* the night
with raw madness
seeking to be a
"lover-who-need-not-be-loved!"
seeking death
--
the crippled night
collapses and damages
every child's dream
but the mothers and fathers
are in burning beds
cuming morosely
with fake unity
--
the seas yield their songs
to the psychodelic
musing
of the vagabonds and waifs
who will be crushed soon
by economic necessity
--
"who cares?"
rings loudly in the
mystic dying dawn
no-one answers
there are none to answer
no one
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 10:27 AM UTC