"whited" poems
it’s quiet and i hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder
i hear nothing but the paper
burn as my inhale imitates the gust of
wind that guides the cold to shutter skin —
street lights sit above the lit, white-flowered flakes
as they dance to the ground as a group
that whisper soliloquies to the crimson
lobes that hear nothing but the snowflakes
hit the fabric on my shoulder,
a hazy fog covers the air before my face
as it sways from nostril to upper lip —
a sight down to an illuminating ash,
blinking to meet a lid to whited lash —
as the paper burns
the smokey sky is content
with silence and nothing more
than a look to the fields MJB
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
3.1k
~~~
*a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one
my poor soul,
my rag tag heart,
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy get, easy spent
if only,
how I wish,
could harvest my best,
and with golden cutlery,
excise
the single flawless poem
that I know is in my possess
lay down this hand, so weary,
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that when my casket lowered,
two hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best,
to ease the rest,
a papered poem record to join his whited ash,
his flawless poem,*
his very best
*now eternal,
at long last*
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
The cold snow
fell upon the memories
and whited out the pain
The hungry wolf looks out
across the frozen tundra
and forgets his pain
Dreaming of a warm
summer rain
only to go out
and **** again
Knowing inside
is trapped
the lamb
in wolf clothing
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
His voice of crackling static
is known from round the corner.
It's raw from shouting news reports and
the music of an empty pocket
to a world, only half listening.
A toiling madness of chord and thread -
frayed, plucked fabric, strings
hanging from cuffs. This plaid ragdoll and
his bird **** stained guitar case are
collecting change like a magpie
His incompetent lips are their own shower
flecking the pavement. What music gathers
in the whited joins of his mouth is urban
desperation, but their grubbiness suggests
you could still plant potatoes in his fingernails.
Twitching and lined, his visage isn't as old as his art.
The jarring strum and lacquered voice
serve to remind us, that the tongue
is the only muscle in the human body
stronger than the heart.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
.
A thatched and wicker basket-nest
Cradles a cluster bright and new
And delicate and coolly blue,
With speckled royal freckles blessed.
The cherry blossoms pink the trees.
A snowy fall of tiny white
And quickly flipping petals light
Into an errant summer breeze.
Diffusely, prodigally blows
A heavy opiate-like scent,—
The lilac's prized accomplishment,—
The greenest envy of the rose.
And everywhere I idly walk
I see, in all the lightened notes
And whited tones and frosted coats,
The springtide paints that mix with chalk.
^ ^
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
Grace chose the poise of your
neck, what spring learned from
winter in white homage.
You longingly capture, and look
back at fate...your delicate head
sent slowly down upon its
pillowy body.
White, whited out...water clear
as invisible.
I dearly depart, I dearly arrive at
what dream settles upon you.
I loved you so much as you slept,
O swan, O Saraswati~
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
a teeny tiny
whited-out blank space,
the tenuous boundary that separates,
higher man from untamed beast,
so powerful when respected,
the crowning hallmark of human acclamation
we all do wear by right of birth and breathe
you see it right?
that invisible peaceful white
spatial, tiny yet palatial dot that separates
us from rack and ruin,
the mighty differential pause between
in civility and incivility
come not to preach or harangue,
my counsel kept within the
between beats of a mournful drum,
respectfully and slowly banged
each silent separation a prayerful plea,
the inserted peacekeepers of our spoken words,
employ well those powerful pauses that refresh
the speaker and the listener so well
leave behind your
self-righteous disbelief in others' beliefs,
that morphs into no toleration,
an arrogant surety,
that surely the anal-ytical results of
your thoughtful processes,
inevitability correct and brook no resistance
the shrill strumpets
of either side
confidently worship at no church
but to the false gods
of their own mirrored reflection,
who smiles back approvingly
at those who scream the loudest...
outlaw the outrage of your rage,
come to my white clothed table,
put aside the wrath of overbearing,
represent your disparate conclusions
with harmonious, breathable pauses
to reflect and respect
our distinctive and distinguished differences
no one ever lost a reasoned argument
that began with a considered, well tempered
good morning
*what has this to do with
only love poetry?*
***well, everything...for you must love thy neighbor
as you love yourself***
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
The wind and rain
Soon to be sleet and snow
These misted moors
Running to and frow
The leaves are falling
Clouds begin calling
For sheets of rain
And blankets of snow
Its winter or fall
Its cold outside for all
So bundle all up
In your blankets and furs
The time for carrols and rakes
And whited out states
Is running our way
But were here to stay
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
You don't really know how I struggle
just to string the words beading by color
threading them into a ring on my right hand
rainbow wrists and darling pinked heart-shaped
pockets at the ******* securely aligned.
A sneeze is an excuse to learn forward
and lurch inside with pleasure,
doesn'
t everyone know that?
It's all interrupted in the end
anyway, but
each cliche understands and I
transparate and soften physicality
fffft.
and rematerializing like a mother-
in-law I stake my heart on
a whited sepulchre-
but ain't originality a ***** The repetition
becomes quite tedious, but go
on with a smile, my dear;
For life is full of
surprises- wretched beats and
sweetened bruises, rather like a berry
and most unlike a radish.
So hold your basket gently as
you sway and twist within
a mellow breeze that teases
the auburn tendrils that once
framed a face too young
keep the corners of your mouth
up, and defy your forehead by
the strength of your brow
for I always stand ready
right behind.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
I found a love letter the other day
And it had so many pages
That I wished it were for me
But I was faced with the reality that it wasn't
So I stumbled upon the letter that had no to
No from
Just words confessing love
To an unknown man or woman
Who seemed to have either dropped it or forgot about it
I found a love letter on the ground
And I read it
Wondering what it could say
And felt my heart skip 5 beats
Because whoever wrote this
Meant it from the bottom of his or her heart
The words used in this letter create an atmosphere
No human could ever achieve
Yet did for the attention of a significant other
Who decided it wasn't important enough to hold onto
I looked at this letter
Trying to grasp a meaning
Failing to conceive the vleeding
Heart that aches
Because this isn't with the one it's meant for
But rather in the hands of one
Unworthy of reading even one word
That was drafted in pencil
Written in red ink
Whited out
And rewritten in black
This letter closes the gap that most
Literature teachers try to understand
And comprehend
And it lies in my hands
.....
I stumbled upon a love letter the other day
It was a thing of beauty
That must find its way
Back to its owner
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
you
with your charming, teeth whited, half-witted smiles,
clumsily showing me how things should be done.
you
with your endless rambles about no one but yourself
and occasionally asking about me as if i was special.
you
calling to me only when you're in need of something
or need of something from me
but never needing me.
you
with your opened, large, sea-blue eyes
blinking back at me.
you
and your words that could set me off into the sky,
the type that made me fly so high, that once i fell
my chances and i
will die.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
At first we did not know that being
Good would feel so glorious but
Being so conditioned we looked
For the reward and in doing so
Something was lost of the
Original impulse so freely
Conceived; and the the reward
worked against the virtue
and the virtue against the reward
Both being diminished until the
Only thing that was left was the law
A weight against freedom that
Ever inspires rebellion for when
Freedom is lost virtue is dead.
For time to exist can only mean
That Love can be born again.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
I'm not afraid of the galganaut,
Peering out from his overgrown huddle,
Inside his hole in the brook,
That I once mistook,
For the water faeries',
Hide-n-seek cove.
I won't fall for his,
***** ol' tricks,
And bluffs -
That slick beast,
In his feast, on those,
Deserving, the least -
The slow and naive,
Who believe what they see,
But, refuse to see,
What's there.
That cove has eyes,
If you'd just look inside!
Garish and eating,
Your soul,
Before its looks,
Reel you in,
With its hooks,
Of tin,
That you cradle,
Simply, 'cause
You can.
A victim, no more,
To the galganaut,
And his tendencies,
Toward swift,
Deception.
For, what?
I don't know,
But, to me,
He's no more.
I have whited him from,
My reality.
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
I sit my backpack down on the university bathroom floor with a clink.
I pull my pants down so I blend in to the other collection of feet below the stall walls.
Balancing the large glass bottle between my thighs --
I pick up the unwieldy weight and strangle its neck - I lip it.
I pull in ***** no chaser, like the rappers do.
Throat-clenching cold, metallic liquid,
I try not to retch.
Humming represses the gag reflex.
My best friend asks me why my breath smells like alcohol.
It’s 12:30 on a Tuesday and I’m chewing gum.
I stumble home for miles after a party on the cuff of dark roadway with shooting star cars bulleting by.
I just want my bed.
I violently stick my ***** finger nail down my throat.
I feel much better.
A girl asks me what I was reading at a coffee shop.
I’m too hungover to keep a conversation going.
I fall asleep to the view of a crumbling mountain of beer cans beside my bed.
I take shots before having to make a phone call.
***** looks like water until you shake it.
A nerve pinching, vertebrae crushing chronic back pain sets in.
I drink to numb the pain.
Hidden bottles and cans lay under my my bed in my house back home in Saint Louis.
My dad pulls me aside and timidly tells me I have a weird, dead, look on my face at a family party.
A poem that doesn’t make sense when I read it in the morning.
Haywire words that might have been beautiful.
A google search.
Has anyone died from cirrhosis at the age of 20?
A body-wide rash that was the result of 1.75 liters of ***** over the course of a weekend.
The toxins seep from my pores.
The rest of the lines are whited out.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
*"The world as it stands
is no narrow illusion,
no phantasm,
no evil dream of the night;
we wake up to it,
forever and ever;
and we can neither forget it
nor deny it
nor dispense with it.”*
Henry James
~~~
crumpled tissues soggy slog
brew of up-all-night tears
daylight brings no belief,
sunlight offers but illusory relief
we dream awake,
awoken, we yet dream
some one...any one
come to me
be number one
on my to do list
be my next breath
and
whisper with heated words:
the world as it stands is
never standing,
revolver shot turning unceasing.
permission granted for water borne drops of
fated phantasy,
shower shaken
to
never forget never deny
fresh in every turning,
write sourced furnacing
that though the
weary
worn worries of
forever and ever
have a terminal final,
and though the Phoenix consumed,
it's whited ashes give rebirths hope
our narrow illusions
will yet be transformed
into broad avenues of better directions,
there will be
restitution
there will be
Union
for the lesson is cotton plain:
*that the world as it stands,
stands not!
on its axis,
turn, turn, turn,
each revolution,
an explosion,
an opportunity
for restitution!
a revolution
if only we never dispense
with the belief
to believe*
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
The snow silences everything.
I walked,
nearly barefoot,
into the whited sepulchre
of my backyard this
evening.
And everything was white
and the same
and silent
like the
grave.
I hummed a low note
just to break the
silence.
Just to make
absolutely
sure I was not
in fact
already dead.
It was
almost
a perfect moment
of absolute oneness
and sameness
and purity.
And as I began to **** into the unbroken blanket of snow, I pondered
if we are not
destined
to break the silence.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
To know a window
for the light it allows,
to know a door for
the entry it allows...
orients the spirit in
this opalescent dream.
Dissolving elegantly
by being...a prophet,
a prophetess' attestation...
simply being.
Drifting through light
more expanded than day,
through dark more contracted
than night.
As if these are tempered by
spirit alone, a standstill...
a mercurial unearthing.
Presences out of Presence itself--
white steps, whited by white steps.
Unbearable scrutiny in the utmost
nakedness...unburdened to the
most beautiful non-judgement.
As if travail lingered just shy of
its ultimate resting point...white
steps, whited by white steps.
A familiarity so rending, the fore
of space bled true light...white steps.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
March came by, swiftly
As if an arrangement
Has been penned down
And a deed has being
Procured with curious secrecy
I used to ink down
My thoughts and fantasies
Come January, February
Spreading them seductively
On a neat whited sheets
Aligning them in stanzas
And meters and patterns and rhythms
But March,!!!
March was peculiar
She came running fast and wild
Wandering my melancholy lane
Into a path of timid hallucinations
I wrote less, and thought more
Her hair stood braided
In losed negligence
Her carcass of beauty
Spent in dismay
My Words were conceited into ghost characters
Laundering the silky figure
Of a whited sheet
Proclaimed by my careless
Hand of pride
Inspite of heaven's fair rage
Some characters peeped through
Letters of saddened thoughts
Wandering what content it bears
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
First and Last impression foisted a revelatory sheath that
is the looking glass of all incarnation.
Revelatory sheath Facing both ends of the whited tunnel...
prior to birth when exiting...upon death when entering.
What was, is, will be Faced...prelude to the sound of
silence...that is the mouth of the nameless called by Name.
White pearls that spun their shells, as dilating eyes that
behold self in no-self.
Space fatigued by perfect stillness...self in no-self, suspended
animation...whose mind is allotted infinite motion.
The Original Face...whore features insure paradox...must be
worn and beheld Wholly...lest a chaotic incoherence whorls...
irregardless of the image of self...imageless no-self.
If Pure Consciousness had a Face--divested of its Way through
materiality, to melt by that which it cannot transcend...how
would it appear?
*"Original Face" is a Zen terminology referring to our face before we incarnated.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Threadbare/ by myself/ Crucifixes cupids, your arrows gone missing, your fire has been quenched! Drenched from the storm's of warring times. All things shined between the pines of whited out bark, enclose in secret, walk with me you walls of central park! Reflective beauty is farthest away from the ugliest, the smuggest of guardian hero's. Organically I am troubled to notice the one for all lingo, where greedy tidings replace the mingle of gatherings festivities. Exhibiting van/goh visions of dispense! Some pay their dues in bathrooms, while other's lose their rent! Messiahs, soo many false! Hypercritical bringer's, beeless stingers of pacific west albatross gratuities loveliness takes hold of me, while others scold me I live to die young!!!!!:*
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
overwinter
you’re going to be with me
for the rest of the winter
i’ll watch the snowflakes melt in your hair.
the wind has hardened your skin
and now it softens against mine.
we thaw
our crystallized notions
congealing into a warm embrace.
if we retain our attraction,
our heat,
the cold won’t get us.
and this moment, this season
can remain in overwinter,
forever.
yet soon
our emotions will brew
into a perilous blizzard.
blinded by this universes quake,
and with our thoughts
whited out,
we cannot see.
we'll cling together,
shivering, frozen
cold,
a lover's tableau
shaken,
inside a static snow-globe
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
And yes, I still write.
I write him delicate letters,
like the ones I saved for you,
but I think of you
to fake love on paper.
Sometimes, I write the color wrong
of his eyes.
I’ve whited-out my praises of
the dreams I saw in your blue skies,
for the bland, brown that
are his.
And I don’t know
who hurts worse between him or me,
that the white out is still wet
– smudged –
and he sees when I hand them over.
V. K.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
*The Godhead's wrath and turbulence directs -
the bitter December coast
A plurality of seaside ghost appear in-
briny , whited confusion
Gray wayfarer illusions o'er -
stinging sands* ...
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 3:17 PM UTC