"warns" poems
nobody warns you about the first boy who tells you he wants to marry you.
nobody warns you about the tangible shift in the universe when he parts his lips to smile.
nobody warns you about the poetry he'll write you or how your knees will weaken or the melancholy hidden between the layers of his laughter.
nobody warns you that miles will morph into lightyears and you will curse the ocean for being the only thing that keeps his fingers from resting between yours.
nobody warns you about the day his sweater doesn't smell like him anymore.
nobody warns you that human hands are incapable of holding a person together.
nobody warns you that sometimes love is not enough, no matter how much you wish it was.
nobody warns you about the crippling nostalgia that renders you breathless.
nobody warns you about the nights when silence screams for your blood.
nobody warns you about the crater that forms in your chest in the middle of the night when he doesn't answer.
nobody warns you about how it's going to feel when he tells you he's in love with someone else.
nobody warns you that forever is a lie.
- m.f.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
A monster appears
like one from your childhood
An inner battle commences
Between the bad and the good
At first, you'd find them in movies
or under the bed
Now as you grow, you fear
The monsters live in your head
Disguised as shadows in night,
New monsters now appear
These monsters are sneakier,
They know what you fear
Struggling to breathe,
your eyes filled with fear
Trapped, alone, no where to hide
Can't escape, it's far and it's near
This monster is tricky,
It plays tricks on your mind,
You plead for it to stop,
But there's no where to hide
This monster knows you
It makes you question your past
With a bleak outlook,
You wonder how long this might last
The one place you felt safe
Before this monster invaded
Now your mind is no solace
Every good memory faded
How do you run from something
That plays tricks on your mind?
How do you know who you are
When it's yourself you can't find?
How do you feel joy from
things that now trigger pain?
How do you move forward with life
when only fear remains?
We all grow up
It's a natural part of life
No one ever warns us though
That life comes with great strife
No one ever tells us
To be afraid of our thoughts
Feeling lost and alone
With many battles still to be fought
Once this monster invades,
It's hard to get back
To a life once lived,
Before this monster attacked
Our parents warned us of
the bad guys outside
They never told us
of the ones in our minds
And now this monster has control
You no longer recognize the mirror
You pray for this to end,
For prayers fall upon deaf ears
You question your sanity,
You question your morals
This monster knows how to torture
To envelop you in its toil
You know you have a battle ahead
This monster can't defeat
Crippled by the past
You must overcome and beat
This is an illness
This is internal torture
But you mustn't forget
You've got a bright future
You must fight on,
Between this inner war
Good versus evil,
What do you fight for?
Fight for love,
Fight to win back your mind
Fight for family and joy
Fight for what you still must find
Monsters can attack
Anyone, anytime
Lest not judge
For you never know when a monster might prey upon YOUR mind
Author note: end the stigma of mental illness. Talk about it.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Ripples riddle the mirror,
Below, faint shapes shift
Elegant forms float here and there,
Little legs thunder, leaving a gentle wake
in lieu of turmoil.
The air is thick, the sun falling,
Already lost behind billowing storm clouds
Etched chaotically on the horizon.
Invisible but for the ubiquitous light.
It is the dragonflies time,
A darting zip and an effortless flutter.
From surfacing **** to towering Reed,
Searching for something we can only pretend to know.
Determined housewives, faces set,
Arms pumping and hips swaying
Their Anatidean waddle so fitting
Their quacks, a wall of stereo.
A lone rusted sign warns of gators,
but of signs, there is that one alone.
No rogue bubbles or beady eyes,
no ticking of swallowed clocks,
no suspicious splashes.
nothing.
My battery is now as low as the sun,
and my pen is as empty.
A not so subtle poke in the ribs
from a universe in protest of the
bad poetry being inked.
c'est la vie
or as we say in English
**** it
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic.
Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics,
Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then
Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription,
Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen,
Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission
Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves
Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth,
Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications,
Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing
Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent,
Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence
Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold
Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold
Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold,
Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told
Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined,
Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined,
Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined,
Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design
Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided,
Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united,
Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and
Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
you are beautiful.
you are tragically beautiful.
you are notre dame
at night.
you are the eiffel tower
amidst bombshells.
you are the house of commons
and the house of lords.
you are the lone beam
standing after Katrina.
you are the one baby sea turtle
who makes it off the beach.
you are the dark side of the moon.
you are the patch of sand
struck by lightning.
you are the remains discovered
after the plane goes down.
you're a smooth puddle in a parking lot.
you are the creaky stair
that warns of intruders.
you are all of the red skittles.
you are Job 3:14.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Average-joe protagonist wipes beer glasses
at the helm of his sports bar, blissfully ignorant
of the imminent laughable tragedy. Clouds circle,
and there's that obligatory radio broadcast,
the one that warns of inclement weather-
rainy, with a chance of Selachimorpha.
You hum the Jaws theme, tracing pickup lines
on the skin of my back, while sharks pour from the sky,
the improbable tornado dropping great whites
on the California shoreline. One arm curled
around my waist, you tickle erratically
until I squirm away, only to creep back again,
and put my head in the mouth of the sand tiger,
wandering too close to the edge of the water, foolish,
but this is a b-movie, we swam out too far
knowing how it would end. The extras
scream and scatter, arms flailing,
going through the motions of surprise,
stumbling in their scripted attempts
to flee the inevitable. Predictably,
they fall. We all fall, and the girl trapped
in the hammerhead's belly
has this peaceful expression,
as if she can't quite remember why
she ran away in the first place.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
In Đà Nẵng my friends cradled me like a child.
We screamed Taylor bridges,
tequila-toasted in bars until the lights blurred.
A single candle in the bathroom
danced warm sighs through open windows,
and all felt calm.
I grew new muscles balancing on a motorcycle,
sometimes gripping Harry’s jacket,
sometimes throwing my weight into the wind.
The city flared neon and gasoline in stuttered traffic,
but along the coast
he drove so fast the vibrations in my chest harmonized.
I pictured my bones becoming butterflies if I let go.
I had entered the Year of the Dragon on a futon,
swayed to half-sleep by a hundred chanting voices
from the temple next door.
I did not dream of dragons.
I only learned to breathe fire.
At midnight Bailey stood at an ancestral altar,
kumquat branches, apricot blossoms, red envelopes, wine,
burning full sticks of incense,
and smoking half a pack of Esse Lights.
This is how the year turns over safely.
Tết is not about faith; it’s about continuity.
The Year of the Snake slid in with new bones and old habits.
It hissed that suffering could be scripture
until letters slithered free from the page
and coiled like cold jewelry around my wrist.
I didn’t make it for Tết that year
no silk áo dài, blood orange, too big
for a body that learned shrinking
before it learned staying.
That was the shedding.
Salt water peeling old skin away,
songs shouted so loud they drowned the ache,
poems that did not start tragic,
nights when my body finally kept time with the moon.
At home the water did not move.
At home the dog’s teeth found my hope.
A terrified mouth rerouted rivers
through my soft parts.
A jewel carved from my nose.
Six punctures blooming across my arms like altars.
In Vietnamese stories the snake waits beneath the water
to claim whoever dares the bank.
I wonder if I was chosen the moment
I opened my mouth in those bars,
when I leaned into the bike’s curve
as if danger could be a swan song.
Now I lie awake at hours unnamed,
tracing scars that hiss answers back.
Something from Vietnam keeps breathing through me,
the candle’s heat, the coast’s long nerve,
voices braided into salt and night,
and I cannot tell if they are echoes
or fangs testing the dark.
They say snakes shed to grow,
but no one warns you how thin the new skin feels,
how everything burns against it,
how you mistake survival for prophecy.
I touch the scar and wonder
if I am still that girl clinging to the bike,
or if the snake has already swallowed me,
patient, sleepless,
feeding on my own venom.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:24 PM UTC
clinton rebukes israel over east jerusalem homes obama nasa plans catastrophic say moon astronauts alaska wolves **** woman's teacher out jogging ireland frees 3 cartoonist plot suspects sarkozy and brown attack u.s. over protectionism pope benedict's former diocese rehoused abuser priest chile puts quake damage at $30bn winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela climate change makes birds shrink in north america dr rowan williams is honored for work on russia weymouth ridgeway skeletons scandinavian vikings live bangladesh v england michael schumacher pledges to raise game in bahrain can the u.s. vice-president broker middle east peace? sarkozy's party faces socialist drubbing remote indian state set for development new york dust victims split on 9/11 deal german tells of childhood abuse by catholic priest a step closer to the american dream? lehman: how $50bn was buried in london ba strike union announces dates in march china's oil demand increase astonishing says iea china warns google to comply with censorship laws net clash for web police projects hsbc admits huge swiss bank data theft phil spector ****** conviction appealed sir david jason to voice cbbc animation climate change 'makes birds shrink' in north america thalidomide effect mystery solved blood pressure fluctuations warning sign for stroke winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela mogadishu residents told to leave somali capital same-sex couples marry in mexico city by mistake i clicked on wrong button and lost everything
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
*A kiss from the night
Drunk from all that pain
Struggles to breath
Can't remember her name
Lost his eyes
Love made him blind
Hate made him see
Scars remind
A story that'll fade away
Pages eaten by time
Memories don't go away
Weather is not kind
Storms bash the home
Walls ripped of from the bones
All his secrets in the open
Strangers are gone
Who will love him now
Caress and hold him now
Wipe away all the blood stained tears
Who will bring him down
From the skies he wanders at nights
Searching for a lost cause
A moon that glows in anger
A sun that's faux
A wolf howls at a distance
A dog barks nearby
Night shows resistance
Ghosts never pass-by
A bleak view from a window
And a madness from outside
A letter of hatred
Enough to hurt his pride
He cannot see but whisper
There's a tale hidden in the stones
He warns once again
About the rage hidden in his bones
No one listens
World won't skip a beat
It Dosent matter
Even if with blood he repeats
They'll only see red
Not what's in his head
They look right through him
Like staring at something dead
He's afraid of the demons
That guide him to scars
Gently takes his hand
Makes him draw on his arms
Death , he mused
Life had refused
Where to walk now
He is so confused
And lies that destroyed lust
Ashened black lies in dirt
Forgiven but not forgotten
In dark prisons they lurk
Prisoners of darkness
They weep solitude
Embracing their fate
Another sunrise they refute
And to feed them love
A mistake of the holy
Wise seeks hurt
Impervious of the story
But a mother does worry
If her child lives or not
Thirteen cents
For which he was bought
She loved him and fed him hate
Watched silently and smiled
While he ate
His mouth blood stained
From the flesh of the saints
Imploding the verses he preached
Every rule he ever bleached
Hands of god from heaven
All hell broke loose when they reached
And strangled his very neck
Coldness in his eyes
Staring at the mirrors that don't reflect*
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
from a dream
...My student's name is Ari
and he's dying...
“No serious talk today!” he warns
He wants to laugh –
and so we do
He wants the Patriarchs and Prophets
on this tropical island
He names them doing something funny
and I pick up where he leaves off--
with the second line:
“Elijah, with his ravens on a blow-up raft...”
“...Ascends with ham sandwich, sipping wine!”
“Jeremiah throwing mud *****
“...at Zedekiah's white garage!”
We rewrite the Old Testament
laughing till we cry
“Now that's what I'm talkin' about!”
He's pumped
and kicks that rebel trashcan 'cross the room
...and suddenly shouts out--
“For everything there is a season...!”
I do not finish this one....
“I'll tell Solomon you said Hi”
________________
...and in that moment half aware...
_________________
I'm wearing a grass skirt
in someone else's dream
I'm on Instagram
and I don't know how I got there
I have coconut halves for my ****
but for the life of me –
can't figure
how to keep them on
So I let them sway with my grasses
to the languid freedom of marimba music
toes clutching warmth of sand
No one here to see
but Instagram?
Nagging in the background:
How did I ever get here?
Dreaming like this... right?
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
kids march to school,
merry, hands linked,
socks strangling calves,
backpacks swelling with milk teeth,
dangerous smiles.
in the centre they stand,
fronds shivering overhead,
buttress roots clutching earth
like they know what’s coming.
bags dropped in a ring,
offerings to something older
than the walls they study in.
fractures komorebi,
and in its faded gold
i see pareidolia,
grinning from the leaves.
the tree is temple and witness both.
the trunks sway in a rhythm
older than speech.
a tree at the border warns:
don’t take pride in the faces—
power is the thing they can’t hold.
if, my friend, you see the tree
cast out its own,
know those who give the orders
are across the ocean—
safe, distant, very clean.
owls, fat with promises,
every five years
stuff a new child’s face
into the stump’s rot
and call it a future.
the old tree votes unanimously
to shed its skin once more—
they call it progress,
call the rot reform.
loosen your roots;
the wind doesn’t care
which children
it strips for kindling.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:50 AM UTC
my favourite song is sail to the moon live by radiohead and when he replied that it was his as well I was overwhelmed
we layed together and let the haunting phonics echo through your room
uninterrupted
I pressed my head to your chest and let your heart beat sync with the sound
two days later you told me you loved me and I was astounded when I heard the same words fall from my lips
I fell asleep listening to radiohead my head on the pillow and my heart in your hands
everyone warns you about heartbreak
They say that young love never lasts
and while they may be right I ask
Myself why I was never warned of the danger of a different kind of fracture
You broke my taste in music you ****
Teenage relationships don't generally end in divorces but the forces were at play and it ended anyway
Nobody worries about who walks away with the songs you've loved since childhood
Like Bono was my dude but you loved Beautiful Day so now we're not on good terms
Like Real People Do was the jam but you ruined it man
Why did I have to talk to you about music,
Janis Joplin, was poppin and Bob Dylan was killin but I told you all about it and now I'm not about it
the opening bars of sail to the moon rip me in open
and while we didnt have children I'm the short amount of time that we were living
In each other's embrace
music was our offspring and someone should have warned me about this thing where you aren't supposed to overshare
and though I have many questions about why it ended, why it's still going on, the biggest are why I told you my favourite song
and after the pseudo divorce
Who the hell gets custody of radiohead??
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
I know you think I'm the girl you've been looking for
I'm not you see,
I'm the storm
I'm the girl your mother warns you about
The girl that will ruin your life
Regret is laced in my blood
Heart break is tangled in the tips of my slitting hair
They name hurricanes after girls like me because they know all the disaster I leave
I'm the lion, never the lamb
My teeth are snarling and when they find nice boys to bite on they don't know how to let go until something has been ripped to pieces
I've tried to learn to be soft but you see I was born the storm
I'm the drug you don't want I'm the poison you really don't need
My snake bite heart ejects venom with my kiss then soon enough my boiled blood will be all over your best pair of Sunday shoes
I've never been a drizzle no matter how hard I try because I'm a ******* thunder rolling lighting cracking storm
I cannot calm the waves in my soul
Or the bombs in my words
I cannot shut of the earthquake that is me, it's been shaking my world since I was 5
I cannot love you right
Some girls are the beach but I'm a forest fire, come any closer and I will burn you alive
I know I'm beautiful in a tragic way
I know you think I'm the girl you've been looking for
I'm sorry
I cannot love you
I am the storm
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
I think one of the biggest struggles about being on your own is realizing that you can't run from things anymore.
No matter how small, if you put something out of your mind,
it comes back and it really *****
because you're forced to face everything that you're afraid of
and every emotion that you'd rather not have,
all at the same time.
Anything that you've shut out,
everything that you regret,
especially things you try to deny to yourself,
you can't escape.
I guess it's part of growing up but no one warns you about it
and if you don't know how to handle it
it's one of the hardest things.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
SHIVA
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
The silence of night scares you
With its eerie thoughts
Ever azar with doors wide open
To give vent to unrestrained dreams,
Never letting you to rise above
The mundane laws of existence.
Do you ever think of SHIVA
The eternal principle of the Sublime?
Sitting alone on the peaks of the Himalayan silence,
Speaking to you in His divine muse-
Of ineffable ecstasy.
The body is not all.
That obeys the physical laws,
The mind is not all.
That listens to odd yearnings.
And the spirit too is not your limit.
You have to go beyond
Far beyond life's petty limitations
To reach Truth, Consciousness and Bliss.
SHIVA, the enlightened.
Which translates human dialects
Into an indefinable divine hieroglyphic.
SHIVA, the Supreme
Creates the Universe,
Rules it too,
Annihilates when Harmony loses its identity.
The universal principle of Love
Gets bewildered in empirical rules of earthly existence,
And Spirit fails to rise above,
SHIVA opens His Third Eye,
In its piercing gaze
All lights fade and
The fugitive human mind finds no sojourn
He warns you.
Arise, awake
To reach your goal
Beyond the earthly ken.
(Bijoylakshmi Das Haridwar)
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 7:31 PM UTC
I am the Aphrodite
Goddess
Woman
Lover
Mate
From my double D’s
To scarred up knees
The pistol whipped
Stamen ready
Lady your wife
Warns you about
My mouth is open
And eyes wide shut
Speaking truths
Most cannot fathom
Perhaps
Ignore
Flower blossom
Open wide
Blooming in my winter
A goddess
Addict
Mind of a lady
And ***** face
Fire in your belly
Ice in my veins
From polished nails
To scented hair
Shaved skin
Smooth
All lady
With an attitude
I have lived
Enough hell
To know my
Heaven
A religion
Between my thighs
The Goddess
Of inhibition
Flash of animal
In my eyes
I dig my nails
Deep
Inside pink flesh
And whisper
What you want to hear
So here’s your lady
A *****
A *****
Queen for a day
And lifelong
*****
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
Green twisted in bone
Moss growing on stone
The forest floor overgrown
Tree's groan and moan
A predator on its own
It makes its presence known
Its scars are clear and shown
Letting out a long howl
It continues its prowl
With a low growl
Overhead warns an owl
On this quiet night
The moon shines bright
Watching the fight
Blood shining in the light
~18/4/21
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 5:10 AM UTC
Right over middle
Middle over left
You sit behind me
And braid my hair
"Don't move your head" he warns
"I don't want to mess up"
I smile and roll my eyes
Because you couldn't possibly mess up
You tie my hair
And rub my shoulders real quick
I turn around
And I don't understand the look he has
Hiding his smile with his hand
Trying not to stare but not succeeding
And I never knew
That braids could have this effect
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
A nectar lingers in the midnight,
Empty is the forum for all thought akin
Confused, reflected, or bade to come in
Or to come out.
With loose time the moonlight was bought
Playing with the chatter I hear desiring me:
To write a love poem with all its proper irony.
A thing of gold, I fantasy it
Though blurred and warm as lighted wick
Midst the darkness tall, timbers thick
The lenses, its vital antecedents
Are cracked or compelled by the acts of man.
Yet, so good the tools, these fragments of
Ears, eyes, and nose,
They produce all the power behind poetry
And find all I need, like a handless compass
Forcing me to follow the moss
That warns two strangers must first meet their paths
Before they may cross.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
When Mr Dracula goes out to work
on his permanent night shifts,
Mrs Dracula checks to make sure
her hubby’s taken his coffin syrup
and he’s got his coat on
and she warns him:
“You stay away from the girl necks door!”
She reminds him if he needs
to cross the seas
he should use the blood vessels
And the Dracula Kids too
(and their visiting drug ******
Auntie Drugula)
come to the door
and hang about wherever they can
to see Mr Dracula go off to work
driving off in his
Mobile Blood Unit
and they all bite each other
as they flap goodbye
And if you should wonder why
the Dracula family is so close
much more than most ****** normal families, well –
Blood is thicker than water – that’s why!
Well, fangcy that!
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Urban Community Living:
Some days I actually noticed how grey it was
All of this space, here around us
As our half-beaten stone trodden 52 bus
Rolls into its unfortunate terminus.
Terminal more like.
The shops have boarded windows,
Bakeries have bullet-proof counters
Staffed by bulky bakers-cum-bouncers
A praised underground centre for perilous shopping
Dodge rival factions on various floors
Fighting for stair supremacy
And burly painted girls with latent spent applause
Some colour on the underpass is some relief
Only it warns of impending doom
for someone soon
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
Dream for me
a Savannah,
a sestina in reds
at Pandoras threshold,
clothed in bludgeons of light
and these tears are nothing
but the nightingales burden,
the words laden and livid as storm
across the mauve wasteland
unfolds, the sky in its deceit,
promises rain, delivers nothing,
in this room the light will ruin me,
the squall of glass slippers overhead,
on my knees, now
the abstraction of the body, opaque
I write in the limber whisper
of fingertips, deep villanelles
about love, restless love
on the skin of your back,
histories annotated
by gestures of supplication,
I drag fingernails across a fairytale
and out falls a wide-eyed harem,
April-blue veils trail their blood, narrowing
the flagrant staccato echo in my sternum,
A palm reader warns of conduits
and spells, the darkness
that puddles like lake water
in my mind, moths of Summer
a fragrant blue,
restless blue
notes like scorpions
scurry beneath the blankets,
strands of hair, stained sheets
this vacancy glows through the shears
I forget, how early, and still
the night falls here,
as how early it fails.....
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
Dark branches dance against an aluminium sky
as dusk taints the edges with blue.
The last crow warns of death as it passes,
it's cry echoing along the shoeless streets
and down to the brook where once laughter played.
Storm clouds gather in furious array
shaking thunderous fists at the earth below,
their forked tongues tearing the atmosphere
as the first droplets spew forth from their ragged mouths.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
I am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on.
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on the top deck now
holding my wallet, my cigarettes
and my car keys
at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday
in August of 1960.
Dearest,
although everything has happened,
nothing has happened.
The sea is very old.
The sea is the face of Mary,
without miracles or rage
or unusual hope,
grown rough and wrinkled
with incurable age.
Still,
I have eyes.
These are my eyes:
the orange letters that spell
ORIENT on the life preserver
that hangs by my knees;
its ***** canvas coat;
the faded sign that sits on its shelf
saying KEEP OFF.
Oh, all right, I say,
I'll save myself.
Over my right shoulder
I see four nuns
who sit like a bridge club,
their faces poked out
from under their habits,
as good as good babies who
have sunk into their carriages.
Without discrimination
the wind pulls the skirts
of. their arms.
Almost undressed,
I see what remains:
that holy wrist,
that ankle,
that chain.
Oh God,
although I am very sad,
could you please
let these four nuns
loosen from their leather boots
and their wooden chairs
to rise out
over this greasy deck,
out over this iron rail,
nodding their pink heads to one side,
flying four abreast
in the old-fashioned side stroke;
each mouth open and round,
breathing together
as fish do,
singing without sound.
Dearest,
see how my dark girls sally forth,
over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut,
its shell as rusty
as a camp dish,
as fragile as a pagoda
on a stone;
out over the little lighthouse
that warns me of drowning winds
that rub over its blind bottom
and its blue cover;
winds that will take the toes
and the ears of the rider
or the lover.
There go my dark girls,
their dresses puff
in the leeward air.
Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs
or the breath of dolphins;
each mouth opens gratefully,
wider than a milk cup.
My dark girls sing for this.
They are going up.
See them rise
on black wings, drinking
the sky, without smiles
or hands
or shoes.
They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,
good news, good news.
2k
There's a fae
Who lives in a fern.
Her wings so little,
Her feet so kittle.
She was a tease,
But certainly not the least.
She flits through the grass,
With a skimpy dress of brass.
She hides in the shrub,
And offers a defiant shrug.
Her whistles beckons to the birds,
Even the goblins dare leave their beds.
Her step on petals are of light springs,
Even with hair tied in ribbon strings.
Mischievous little thing she was
Other wary faes ought to pause.
So carefree she treads,
Even mama could not knot her in a thread.
Most often, mama warns and shoos
Always, she'd never heed but coos.
One moon-ful night,
When she forgot her plight,
Into the sky, unwarily she soars,
And ends up torn in the bellies of owls.
With all her strenght did she beat
But the night birds had had their bits!
A mournful dirge for a fae no bigger than a wasp,
But who ends up dying with a gasp!
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC