"wicks" poems
I don’t always know what you think of our love
Or if I’ll ever learn
But I picture a two wick candle
set out to burn
I don’t know the depth of the wax
Or who’s wick will be the longest to last
All I see is the flame
So untamed
The light of the two wicks look one in the very same
The scent of everything
Happy and sad
Thoughts said and unsaid
I would turn my back to the sun
Watch our candle for eternity as my new one
I don’t know about you
But as long as I see our
Wicks in your eyes
It will always be you
I come to
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
god meets
mystic: the
swing of winter
and lakes frozen
over.
god meets
Judeo-Christian sinner
whose eyes sought
lead along the lake’s
shore.
heavy.
heavy.
god meets sin:
a welding of
metallic vines and
out of tune music.
god meets underwater
Vulcan as he swallows
a laugh. gasoline
tops the lid
of the lake.
god meets the
fire that wicks the surface
until the body bubbles.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
Autumn is a Greek sea,
A summation of wet leaves,
Gathered wicks of sunset,
A hypocaust of warm water,
That lies beneath our feet,
Incense from the Sea of Crete,
Risen to the airy suggestive.
Autumn is a word in the mind, fallen leaf-like to the mouth,
How like the orange rind, our ancient past is shriveled under pillars.
May 29, 2022
May 29, 2022 at 8:24 PM UTC
710
The Sunrise runs for Both—
The East—Her Purple Troth
Keeps with the Hill—
The Noon unwinds Her Blue
Till One Breadth cover Two—
Remotest—still—
Nor does the Night forget
A Lamp for Each—to set—
Wicks wide away—
The North—Her blazing Sign
Erects in Iodine—
Till Both—can see—
The Midnight’s Dusky Arms
Clasp Hemispheres, and Homes
And so
Upon Her Bosom—One—
And One upon Her Hem—
Both lie—
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883
The Poets light but Lamps—
Themselves—go out—
The Wicks they stimulate—
If vital Light
Inhere as do the Suns—
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference—
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Incandescent virtues , yet I'm a drought within .
I read tealeaves in mouldy cups of our tainted futures.
Our wicks that never saw the light, even though burnt out.
Untenable sight that we drank deeply on, but still thirsted for.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,
And top with silver petals traced
Like a strict box its gems encased,
Has spilt from out that cunning lid,
All in an innocent green round,
Those melting rubies which it hid;
With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted,
So birds get half, and minds lapse merry
To taste that deep-red, lark’s-bite berry,
And blackcap bloom is yellow-dusted.
The wren that thieved it in the eaves
A trailer of the rose could catch
To her poor droopy sloven thatch,
And side by side with the wren’s brood—
O lovely time of beggar’s luck—
Opens the quaint and hairy bud;
And full and golden is the yield
Of cows that never have to house,
But all night nibble under boughs,
Or cool their sides in the moist field.
Into the rooms flow meadow airs,
The warm farm baking smell’s blown round.
Inside and out, and sky and ground
Are much the same; the wishing star,
Hesperus, kind and early born,
Is risen only finger-far;
All stars stand close in summer air,
And tremble, and look mild as amber;
When wicks are lighted in the chamber,
They are like stars which settled there.
Now straightening from the flowery hay,
Down the still light the mowers look,
Or turn, because their dreaming shook,
And they waked half to other days,
When left alone in the yellow stubble
The rusty-coated mare would graze.
Yet thick the lazy dreams are born,
Another thought can come to mind,
But like the shivering of the wind,
Morning and evening in the corn.
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All things die
All kingdoms fall
Every waking hour
Incessantly recall
Grim reaps all
Drip by drip
Burn
Till wicks end
Choice, who here decides?
Pleasure beguiles, sets purpose via
Once voice strewn, lost through
Millions of cries in the continuum
Each time you blink your eyes
There is a glimpse
Behold! Nothingness!
Slaves to your own demise
What's the point prolonging?
When you are coming forth by day
Grim reaps all
All the while vitality escapes
Eternity succumbs to imminences of fate
Familiar pulsating rhythms will terminate
So what's the point?
Grim reaps us all
Coming forth by day
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 8:16 AM UTC
Retype number 3,018--
I don't really think I've written
this many entries for just one poem
it's a beam of light that
scores my thoughts
and begins to type across this board
but in the end
it was a refraction of shadows
hinting at another dream
because these ramblings of another world
are the minds way of scrambling
to form new words
and convey our Neverland
that we've Neverfound
Scented candles add an extra burst
of enthusiasm to wander this page a little longer
because they are my witness
that even Evergeen Woods
have some Cinnamon Bark hidden in them.
the candles are made of wax
and when I pour myself to sleep
perhaps our wicks stay lit
or do we fiddle away
with our dreams.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
Waxy sticks with wicks
Candles flicker in the dark.
They save me from fear
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
In the graveyard chapel
With the candle wicks nearly extinguished
Was a black dog who guards the grave of his master
Who's bond to this world is relinquished
Old bones sit in the mausoleum near by
Do the dead ever come back to the land of the living?
Sometimes the dog barks at seemingly nothing
But on Samhain when the divide between the dead and living is so thin
The ghosts of the deceased inhabit their homes again
The faint murmurs of voices heard a long time ago
The dog barks and the ghost light glows
People never seem to believe
Deceived by their own scientific nature
But if you stare into the mirror at Samhain
You can see the image of those who have passed
Maybe heaven or hell is not enough for these spirits to fit in?
Long forgotten souls their grave stones unwritten by time
Eroded away like the decaying of time
Youths flower fades into dust...
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:30 AM UTC
Quick to make an Irish exit
Missed the moments, leave them black
Stick to every silent lesson
Take them home and read them back
Wicks, they burn and fire lets them
You'll find home within the wax
Missed your turn, the pike, that exit
You're alone and time has passed
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
Love is a whip
and life but
a flogged target
plump cheeks rosy with
regret
Anticipation
and defiance.
fate is the grease-
and the fire
And we are feeble
wicks
thus, as the candle flame
falters and spits-
I grow afraid.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
I, (Love Thy Neighbor As Thyself)
*how I would, honor this with ecstasy joy effervescent,
the simplest of methodologies, if only I,
reasoned how one safely permits
to love myself, if only I,
knew how to love an
I
to self love well,
not a university course,
no simple answers like thirst, yet how I thirst,
hunger, burst, curse for this peculiar wisdom, please,
instinct me to navigate murderous shoals of take but give
I
who teaches this to the children?
I, parents, teachers, not ****** or pastors or
TV the great substitute for all of the above,
myself is not a selfie, no glorying got in I,
I, burdensome, never comprehended,
love thy neighbor better, love actually, no mere pretense,
if well executed, perhaps is when the trapeze line is at last
cleanly indistinguishable,
your I, my I,
both wicks will be joined, brighter lit for it,
one flame, one godlike burning, fusing,
with neither consumed, wax fusing,
but teaching easy loving
to explode the
I,*
~
9:24am EST
6/2/17
airborne over the Western US of A
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
We burn together, but with separate hues
Our flames flick and dance around the wick
Tips touch and mingle
And on occasion consume,
This wax that binds me,
That keeps me here, away from you.
The tears of knowledge weep thick and slow
From a time when what once thought was true,
Now is not.
Yet, your light enthralls me
It keeps me near.
A dragonfly glimmer, a shimmering morning dew.
Here we learn together, fervent flame ensue
Distant and close, not wicks but curtains
That can't be tamed;
Two bonfires in the night, birthing strifeful embers
Striking without cause or claim
Inflame all that behold us for a love unchained.
Your shared endeavors are not mine to keep
For elsewhere two little torches,
Kindred lanterns in which you keep a light
So bright, yet from me so far and dim
That to behold them myself would be a match
At the base of a tree.
But still for you that fire burns,
With it billows of smoke carve curvatures
Over mountains, which to me unseen,
Smoldering luster, an unwelcome glean.
Then the time comes, and with the soft spoken smoke
you whisper of a desired hue,
which you wish to have bound wick and wax
A dream within which she is there
and I
Outside of you.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
Her eyes
an enchanting pair,
alive and mobile,
gazing in to them,
in the beginning
of a journey
and at its end,
he finds himself reflected
just perfectly.
At times, he sees those eyes
brimming with tears
mysterious in origin,
(reminding nature)
Wet, flowing eyes
prompt him to introspect,
help him keep
his balance;
the hot spring
in those pools
quickly melts his-
rock hard arrogance,
makes him eschew
his macho male pose,
through rituals of such kind
reiterating love beyond words,
he is rechristened,
now, passionate lover,
inveterate protector,
an equal half ever.
He quickly gets elated
by the silver strands of light
emanating from the depth
of those kohl lined eyes
that tie him with easy love knots,
quiet eloquent eyes
reminds him the moments
never he would forget
with his mother as a child,
and all other women
who never failed to shower
love on him as he swam
in the pool of their adoring eyes.
Even now he is thrilled
by numerous memories
that still are prefulgent,
an oil lamp with thousand lighted wicks
he has seen in childhood
burning in the shrine of his family;
now that flame
sparkles in her eyes.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
A little black kitten
Spawn of witchcraft and Satan
Watches flames flickering
In manmade wax.
He bats at fire
To see if he's invincible
To see if the sorcery protects him.
I can smell the burning wicks.
His whiskers are bent
And his claws are long
And sharpened to fight
Against those who enter his territory.
The witches will protect him
And Satan will welcome him
When he tires of this world.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 11:36 AM UTC
And it just sits there reminding you of new memories to make, futures to come, friends to forget. Denial is in the icing, dead dreams in the wicks of the tacky pastel candles. The blade of regret cuts through the thick layers of new broken promises. Sprinkles to soften the blow of reality, chocolate crumbs to help savor the empty moment. The birthday cake of denial cannot be denied. Nothing is final until the last overly sweetened piece that sits on your tongue, full of expectations is
gone.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
1.
The peace of the brave
gave way to the war of allegories
illuminating our world
like a medieval manuscript
with a confusing colophon
of indecision.
2.
Unstable religious fuels
and volatile political compounds
energize the endless human wicks,
that light many an unsuspecting
yahrzeit candle.
3.
And love which may have
been 'stronger than death'
is not so strong lately
as an army that's already dead
cannot be defeated
as easily.
4.
"the children come right home from school"
Yossi said,
'perhaps they've already learned too much as it is?'
I think....
Our home is our castle
and like a missile defense
in American mythology
its walls are semipermeable membranes
of security.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
love is
our unkept bed on a Sunday morning
clothes thrown on the floor
candles burned down to no wicks
sleeping off last nights tangled limbs
on the grey leather couch
infinity in crystal blue eyes
palm to palm, fingers entwined our lifelines cross
counterbalancing personalities complete the circle
protective of what is within
so familiar our anatomical embrace
we breathe shared air
beats in autotune, universe intact
Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
The sun opens our eyes to a fresh start
And we let the day rot.
We beat the clock demanding more time
And burn the wicks of our lives with anger.
Hope is overlooked
As our vision turns to darkness
And life without light becomes truth.
All light appears as a tease,
So we lay in the dark
In fear of being let down.
Trapping our thoughts in negativity may be easier,
But by reaching for the light,
We find the strength to free our souls
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
Let you not say of me when I am old,
In pretty worship of my withered hands
Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
Of such a life as mine run red and gold
Even to the ultimate sifting dust, “Behold,
Here walketh passionless age!”—for there expands
A curious superstition in these lands,
And by its leave some weightless tales are told.
In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;
I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
Impious no less in ruin than in strength,
When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,
Let you not say, “Upon this reverend site
The righteous groaned and beat their ******* in prayer.”
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I yearn for a sombre eternity.
I yearn to be the diamond of your universe.
But i have been forgotten,
like shooting stars of the 1800s
I believe we had something,
a glowing spark that hung from fragile dynamite wires, threatening to detonate into a full blown love affair.
Day by day, your interest faltered, sending me into depths of sadness.
And i’d cry, every night, for i now knew, that our love was a dying flame, the kind that you see at the end of almost finished candle wicks.
And so my eyes bled, they bled sorrow and pain, and they made the spark on the dynamite wire die out. And there was smoke, and for a while, i was lost.
And the dynamite never blew up, and the love that could have been, never was. And here i stand, broken and bruised, just hoping you would find me again, and reignite the spark.
Because in all truth,
I really, really, really wonder what it would be like to be with you.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC