"whitens" poems
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
69.3k
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
8.2k
her milk is him
her eyes are full of good tidings,
washing my body with lavender soap cake,
all the dirt crumbs of a hard life drained
into a circle of holes that carry away carings,
to places where their squeaking can’t be heard
her hands, pillows for a head so sorrow-weighty,
her body, her hips, a bed upon to rest,
and he wonders,
how did he exist before she become his nest,
her hair of grass, now, a coverlet for twigs and strings,
when then he laid his body down for disturbed sleep
her milk is him, a restorative that refreshes his content,
how did, once upon a time, he let existence subtract
his time on earth without any relativity, time unrecognizable,
he was in no one place, pathless, subsidizing nothing,
unable to distinguish tween the straight and the curved
her milk in him, whitens his soul, she calls out,
“*you are my shepherd, my king, my David,
my white marble sculpture of our current existence,
when you drink the white of me, it is I who is fulfilled,
when you write of me, your milk is me*”
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC
Shancoduff My black hills have never seen the sun rising,
Eternally they look North towards Armagh.
Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been
Incurious as my black hills that are happy
When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.
My hills hoard the bright shillings of March
While the sun searches in every pocket.
They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn
With a sheaf of hay for three perishing calves
In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage.
The sleety winds ****** the the rushy beards of Shancoduff
While the cattle - drovers sheltering in the Featherna Bush
Look up and say: "Who owns them hungry hills
That the water - hen and snip must have forsaken?
A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor."
I hear and is my heart not badly shaken?
3.2k
IN the cool of the night time
The clocks pick off the points
And the mainsprings loosen.
They will need winding.
One of these days...
they will need winding.
Rabelais in red boards,
Walt Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And there is nothing...
To be said against them...
Or for them...
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.
A man in pigeon-gray pyjamas.
The open window begins at his feet
And goes taller than his head.
Eight feet high is the pattern.
Moon and mist make an oblong layout.
Silver at the man's bare feet.
He swings one foot in a moon silver.
And it costs nothing.
One more day of bread and work.
One more day ... so much rags...
The man barefoot in moon silver
Mutters "You" and "You"
To things hidden
In the cool of the night time,
In Rabelais, Whitman, Hugo,
In an oblong of moon mist.
Out from the window ... prairielands.
Moon mist whitens a golf ground.
Whiter yet is a limestone quarry.
The crickets keep on chirring.
Switch engines of the Great Western
Sidetrack box cars, make up trains
For Weehawken, Oskaloosa, Saskatchewan;
The cattle, the coal, the corn, must go
In the night ... on the prairielands.
Chuff-chuff go the pulses.
They beat in the cool of the night time.
Chuff-chuff and chuff-chuff...
These heartbeats travel the night a mile
And touch the moon silver at the window
And the bones of the man.
It costs nothing.
Rabelais in red boards,
Whitman in green,
Hugo in ten-cent paper covers,
Here they stand on shelves
In the cool of the night time
And the clocks.
2.5k
Your Friendship
means a lot to me...
hearing your voice,
hearing your smile,
whitens my gloominess-
seeing your face,
seeing your smile,
brightens my emptiness-
feeling your hugs,
feeling your smile,
lightens my loneliness-
Your Friendship
means a lot to me!
2007
COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
~Angelmom~
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
I wrote you each August,
asking you to break the
tall, thick clouds into flat,
cold floes that vanish when
the sun vaults over them.
You bring your cool moon,
and it slides over my skin
from head to heel or hand
to hand. Cicadas feel it,
too. Like medicine on a cut.
I typically pause, let silent
vowels swallow the air
peeking around the curtain,
and until we feel fresher
by it, crisped, I stay still.
You test the leaves one,
two nights pulling with open
hands; I remember ice,
shattered on the pavement
and spread thin, whitens.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
I glide only so well, work too hard,
telemark, get set, go,
it all has to be a race, I disregard,
the full moon light,
the sun went away,
I still play at my pace,
frosted beard whitens my face,
years and years of going down hill,
something I do on skis as well, beyond my fill,
beyond my years, with only so much skill
I see the sweeping curves and shift of weight,
bend my knee and play with the balance or fate,
trace my fingers in the snow, such powder is
rare, like the air up where there is room to spare,
I hope that when I am gone one day,
some how these many tracks will
stay and I can see them from Valhalla,
Heaven for the Norse,
"Warrior" of course, off course,
I will continue to work (myself) away,
then play all day, when the moon lights
the way and stay longer than is right
for the weekend is the weak end of my
strength, to tear myself back to my home,
I alone.
©ClemC122013
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
crest brand 3D WHITE
GLAMOROUS WHITE, FRESH MINT TASTE
SAFELY WHITENS TEETH
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
flannel shirt and torn blue jeans
she always held her cards close
to her fragile heart
her wild heart
(a heart not for me)
and she fades into a cold wind
whitens into snowflakes
and wild infatuation
i'm faded
the torn page
from a list of lovers
broken and sad
my love is moonlight and mare's tails
the night's stars
shot full of lost tomorrows
Mar 8, 2024
Mar 8, 2024 at 11:48 AM UTC
last night when the mothership came
i slept in the trees full of night sounds and shadows
and my hair unwrapped in the wind
deciphering ancient scrolls on my eyelids
she hovered like a vulture in a clean open sky
and i awoke shivering as she swooped down
platooning over the riverbank
and i stood with my arms outstretched
at the edge of the bubbling water pit
for light years until snot icicles grew gray on my face
cringing under the great vacuum sky
and now fog whitens into morning and
i am enveloped in sun-silence
as the last three stars still flash like cities of the future
the smell of grain becomes tweezers in my nostrils
and the sun is a giant roaring furnace
burning a sense of adventure in my southern boy blood
the memory of big pale nutless creatures wearing zoot suits
escaping into the abyss from the green dawn in their classy airship
meanwhile my hairless face being polished by the wind
blind drunk on dew and awaiting salvation
lips pulling away from big white teeth and pink gums
in high song and shrill laughter
a naked schizoid of the morning warped and cunt-crazy
silently dancing beckoning the universe with
telekinetic strength to bring another cosmic storm
because i am double minded in this transformed version
of myself and i will ride the electric tidal wave created
by our sweaty kiss like the sound of a trumpet
being blown as triumphant and far away as a lightning strike
i have learned to control the magic manipulate
particles in empty space and i'll ride this
luminescent rowboat under the charcoal sky
into infinity
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
Underneath a willowtree
twists your summerbeard
with your winterbeard
entwined
You think your greenthoughts
of gnarl, leg, branch, and twig
of foretime kisses under moonlight
of nowtime creakings under foglight
You grasp with groaning fingers
after a moth in flight
and catching him
lick the dust from his wings
You crunch with rotten legs
through leaves in swirl
and crushing them
soak sunlight from their blood
Underneath your willowtree
your bark whitens
and in breathing out
unwinds
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
"...AS TREES WALKING . . ."
the goldfish ponders
the world the other side of the glass
retires to its castle
it watches the coming
& goings of us
unable to explain our existence
"...I see men as trees walking. . ."
the vicar reads
his thought visible to the fishes
"...but what does it mean?"
one fish asks the other
"...and what are - trees?"
the vicar dies
in his sleep
words still floating about in his head
the fish unable to explain
his stillness....loudly
the clock talks in tick tocks
the God hand
that feeds them...does not
come
hungry for answers
they cease
to believe
Time
darkens
whitens
& again
darkens
whitens
it all goes belly up
the dead vicar & his dead fish
frightening the home help
only the plastic Christ
nailed to the wall
hears her scream
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
the chains tighten
my face whitens
the realization that i'm lost
finally grips me
if it's assured that i shall one day reach my demise
does that not mean my purpose is pointless
every action i immerse myself in
all i'm really doing
is letting the seconds pass by
which makes me wonder
why we worship those with the most golden clocks
who've taken their minuscule seconds
and made something mesmerizing
but shun those who break the clock
those weary souls who were not
willing to have anymore of it
those who opened their own door
to the possibilities of something more
the possibilities of eliminating
this never ending torment
finally grasping some permanent form of elation
an escape
oh how I long for an escape
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Life starts as a blank page,
Where anything and anyone
Can contribute as an author.
Gaurdians carve the page
With passion and love,
But the passion fades away
And the love can change dramatically.
Dreams subconsciously fill the page
While the media whitens them out
And corrects them as fears and nightmares.
Happiness gets erased,
Then saddness stains the page in ink.
Then that one person comes along
To address the page with love.
Paint splatters onto the paper
And colors burst over
The white out and ink.
But as time crumples the page,
The paint chips off
And your lover searches for a canvas.
You remain lost in a stack of papers
As society bleed onto the page.
Your patience wears thin,
And sparks of confusion
Start a flame of anger.
Your life burns away,
You become a pile of ashes,
And realize how little value
One piece of paper can hold.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
I stare at my computer screen
hearts beating rapidly back
the stamping of feet at a stadium
Some hearts are glowing
filled with radium
some show a mass of white fat
too many years eating fast food
some are near death
flies soaring over a gray mass
anticipating the final thump
Occasionally I see healthy hearts
scrolling down my screen boldly
on a journey of self-experimentation
I let them breeze by on their voyage
careful to only pick the unfortunates
grabbing them from the screen
as if they were an apple on a shelf
I empty the heart of radium
letting the poison fill me instead
causing an earthquake in my head
I eat the white fat off the heart
feeling it travel down my esophagus
like a delayed release cyanide pill
I swat the flies off the gray mass
holding it to give my energy
my hair whitens and skin loosens
Collapsing with a loud crash
my face staring at the screen
holding tears back like rowdy children
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
hard liquor makes my stomach turn.
opening a bottle of ***** is like taking the lid off of a tupperware container full of liquid charcoal.
I swear it looked like something delicious,
but the way it folds in my stomach,
not at all like how my mother taught me to fold batter in a bowl,
tells me otherwise.
downing a shot in one go is challenging.
this cake ***** doesn’t taste at all like cake,
and fireball has a tendency to taste like actual fire,
and i’m still not sure if that’s actually intentional. maybe ironically.
but a dare’s a dare and spin the shot landed on me
i wasn’t playing, i was really just walking by
no really, someone else can have it, go ahead, spin it again
but the arrow is pointing right at me and now everyone is staring and well,
a dare’s a dare.
isn’t it?
a dare’s a dare until liquid charcoal isn’t all you’re spewing,
because word ***** and actual ***** kinda feel the same
at least after six shot of… well i’m not really sure.
that cute guy over there… no the other one. in the hat.
he gave it to me,
said it’ll loosen me up.
I suppose i believed him, half because i wasn’t really listening,
i was looking at his teeth
I wonder if he whitens them.
he must have had braces.
well anyway, i drank it and it kinda tasted like gasoline
but i bet i looked cool swigging from his two six.
probably only until the sixth chug, when the first one hit my eyes
and i couldn’t really see ****** expressions anymore
i guess that’s when i got brave
word ***** and actual ***** kinda feel the same,
especially when you’re not really sure which one is happening
oh, maybe both.
and now he’s holding my hair and i’m biting my tongue
but my stomach is heaving and he looks so good
he definitely had braces. no one is born with teeth that nice
i bet he doesn’t drink red wine
i bet he flosses twice a day.
i should brush my teeth
this doesn’t taste like cake at all.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
Amongst the laughter and celebration,
A black rainbow lurks.
Colour is her aspiration,
But in smiles, she sees smirks.
One fine day,
Someone knocks on her door.
Someone special, someone who has lots to say!
And caused an uproar.
The black rainbow is now glad,
That she has a special someone,
No longer is she sad,
Her fears have been undone.
A spring in her step, a sun in her smile;
The frosty winters to whom she said good-bye,
Erased is the phase that was hostile,
And so whitens her black eye.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
My face is my map
The map of Jigalong written on my forehead
crises after crises
countries after countries
back and forth from other countries to mine
Walking like a never ending cycle
The wrinkles on my face and my white hair that whitens like snowflakes
My dark chocolate skin that melts like butter kept under the sun for too long
My face is my map
The silence of the cold weather and the rolling weights that goes in unison .
The rain drops that goes on my wrinkles is like bomb shell stuck on my face forever
The only thing left is my frown and a rough journey ahead of me
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
I could just write about
the bliss
that whitens the sand below the water
but I chose to call upon
the moon
to trade some secret blues
Maybe I was like it,
Perhaps I was sad and alone,
Maybe I am the good..or am the evil
Being that
subtle lamp
over your lonesome stars
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
Face the winter
Or it will consume you
Face the winter
Or you will surely falter
I woke one morning
And found the morning's dawn
With icy fingers
Had reached down and grasped my world
Face the winter
Though it freezes your face
And whitens your hair
Face the winter
Though the winds nearly blow you over
And you can only stagger
I tried to ignore the winter
And live in a dream world
Of spring, summer, and clear blue skies
But in my heart I knew it was a lie
Face the winter
Or it will destroy you
Face the winter
And you shall stand strong.
(theinkthatspeaks.blogspot.com)
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
Ye are the salt of the earth; . . . (Matthew 5:13)
Preservative or pickler in the brine,
To render flora, fauna for our good,
Or season, that the flavor ever should
Appeal to palate, coarsest fare refine.
That drawing, drying halite from the mine,
Which whitens pasture, threatens livelihood,
Keeps calling out for only That which could
Begin to slake, assuage its arid shine.
And what but Water satiates our thirst?
The salty food that makes us crave the cup,
That bone-dry want for quenching from Above
Just proves the pow’r that salt had from the first
To drive us toward the Life that fills us up--
And plunge our thirsty souls into His Love.
. . . but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him
shall never thirst;
but the water that I shall give him
shall be in him a well of water
springing up into
everlasting life. (John 4:14)
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
Sylvia Plath, 1932 - 1963
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
very
very sudden
like the cream whitens coffee
like the sun
explodes on the horizon
like stars appear
before the dark
and the moon
chases the sun
from the sky
like things good
happen
Karma catches you dreaming
kittens are cute and
mischievious
and puppies cute
and the dream
is all those
and more
and can not be
metaphored
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Earth Fights Back
Mercury, methane – it’s not retaliation.
Earth neutral, holds not a grudge;
It follows laws, the sludge of ***** oil
And the sea that whitens coral
No revenge just law,
No matter how ****** awful it may seem.
As I react so it reacts,
Our pact with nature and its every star.
Perhaps the verb to fight is faulty.
Not a fight, just a response.
Not a response, just a reply.
Earth answering, perhaps with love
Obeying laws within, above.
I propose a theme in prose, transposing theme
To poem for those
Who also think in meter
Satisfying, clarifying thoughts,
Allowing them to peter out in symmetry,
Some understanding, amity and harmony,
Satisfied if poem when through
Gets through to you,
In which case
Phrase fights back
Has had impact.
Earth Fights Back 1.28.2017
Circling Round Nature II; Our Times Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 4:57 PM UTC