"wrappings" poems
Start and stop
Up the street,
Turn 180,
Repeat the beat.
The gurus on
Confessional wheels,
Absolve our sins,
Emptying bins.
I swear
They swear
A solemn oath
Never to
Disclose the truth
Found in our garbage
By the brethern,
Garbage stinking
To high heaven.
Bottles, syringes,
Boxes, bones,
Peelings, plastics,
Old cell phones,
Discarded trash
From our homes.
Wrappings bleeding
Seeping ****
*By our garbage
Ye shall know us.*
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
This is how to eat a muffin
Flip it upside down, unwrap the wrappings
Nobody starts at the top in this town
Sip a skinny vanilla latte
Text your ex, start wondering
He'll try you later, of course he's busy.
What were you thinking?
In what world could this have worked?
Your existence is physical, is there any purpose you serve?
An actress, a dentist, a model, a florist, a teacher, a songstress
I hate to list projects unfinished
This is how to eat a muffin
You take one bite
and leave the rest as a metaphor
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 2:11 PM UTC
*************Today is yesterdays dreams,
and tomorrows accomplishments.
Today is a yesterday wrapped in
present to opened so they become
tomorrows precious gifts.
Today is a whisper of the past just tweaked
with grand tomorrows.
Today is the day I write a masterpiece filled with yesterdays thoughts and tomorrows dreams.
Today is yesterdays sorrows wrapped in paper
gold that shines like sun to dry up tears making room for tomorrows with new wrappings.
Todays schedule is yesterdays thoughts, ready to expand into the tomorrows.
***********
Yesterday don't leave home without it for it fuels tomorrows as todays motor revs.
Yesterday is infused in blood stream so heart beats with flow of aspirations today and riches for tomorrow.
Yesterday is culmination of tears and laughter
that unleash dam to float in more tears
but this time with a shinny dream boat.
One part Yesterday, and two parts today with table spoon of tomorrow makes a grand recipe for life.
Yesterday I recall mistakes well not to repeat in today so errors do not fill tomorrows.
Yesterday provides magical insights, so Today and tomorrow brings peace.
Yesterday becomes today and today becomes yesterday so... use it well.
Yesterday I planted a dream seed. It sprouted in today and grew tall inside tomorrows.
****************
Tomorrow is todays yesterdays, so step lightly as not to mix them up.
Tomorrow will be the new today and is the first day of my life.
Tomorrow is today simmered in the sauce of life.
Tomorrow I will wake up inside today to live authentically inside peace.
Yesterday is today turned inside out so wisdom comes in tomorrow.
******************
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow are houses of God so one is never homeless or alone.
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow is journeys gift to celebrate as if its Christmas.
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow are the chapters in our books of life. Write them well. ************
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 10:56 AM UTC
she writes of the falling days
- knows them well, one can tell
simple things like string
and wrappings
autumn and swallows -
hollow places she has seen
in boxes and photographs
and so it is - the falling days
the number of birds at my feeder are fewer
no more humming, no painted buntings
-only my homies come now, my vato birds, my mijas
the cardinal, both red and green
the nuthatch and chickadee, the titmouse-
all three
the wrens and finches, too-
and the blues still like to bathe
in the pyrex baking dish sun warmed
on a sunny day-serenaded by the mocking
one hopping from grub to worm below
- my usual feathered friends
not caring about the weather-fair or foul
and in the pale blue, a gull still laughs
at the folly of it all-
leaving goes slowly-
a spiraling, a gust of wind-
days slowly graying
shorter, lightly fading
- friends, they go
the falling days, change and leavings
leave me - well, you know...
i see the simple things
that soothe, like string
and wrappings, swallows -
- autumn, you know?
r ~ 10/6/14
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Right food forward, left follows
Forth by the gravitational pull of his electric eyes
Like a magnetic force
Drawing me in, attracting me,
Influencing my strings, convincing me
I am still the puppeteer.
My hand slips away from the grasp of my rules
It has become busy
Tangled within bows and gift wrappings
First, my tongue.
It parts my lips, drools at the gleam of the sharp blade,
Then, communication falls.
Second, my ripe cherry of purity.
Naked. Peeled. Devoured.
Finally, the puppeteer demands
Take a sledge hammer to the wall.
Reveal the heart once and for all.
Tear it out. Gift wrap it.
Into the emptiness I plummet
Down into the bowel, through the stomach
****** awake by the sinking feeling
Empty room, all truth revealing
Right foot forward, left follows
Forth by the gravitational pull
left by his hollows
Body trapped in in the lingerings of his magnetic field
His electric gaze the portal
Storing the Love Comedy wielded in Horror
Tear out your heart. Gift wrap it.
Place it into his arms
Watch him drop it.
Mouth gaping. No tongue to speak.
Just eyes watching, from above to the side
Out of body out of my mind
I am the puppeteer who tore out my heart
Gift wrapped it with bows
Hypnotically placed it in his arms of doubt
He dropped it.
Severing me from the gravitational pull
Awakening me from my trance to witness
My heart there
Pulsating
Against the cold. Concrete. Floor.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
The world and its evil disgusted me
The dust of the earth and the grime
Acceptance of dirt and love of filth
The creatures complacent in slime
I searched for a higher existence
When I saw the ignorance around
I found there was nothing within me
They all faded without a sound
Living one moment, dead the next
This life seemed meaningless to me
But as soon as I thought I had no hope
I saw the Man on the tree
Surely the most gruesome sight of all
He hung nailed on a cross
But in his eyes I saw a gleam
That saw this as gain, not loss
Suddenly the whole earth trembled
As the man gave up his last breath
The moon rose red and sky went black
As his soul went into death
What hope could he have, this man
Who hung in agony to die?
Who could he possibly be?
What could his black death buy?
Three days I spent in thought
And in contemplation walked
Too confused to eat or sleep
So perplexed I never talked
But on the morning third
A woman ran past me and cried
I followed her as she ran to a grave
And told me, “He’s alive!”
The stone was rolled back,
The grave was bare
And the wrappings from the man’s body
All were there
I began to see that the man on the cross
Had known he would soon rise
And who but the Son of God
Has hope to live when He dies?
He must know my dilemma, for sure
I must now find this Man
For if He can rise up from the dead
He could change worlds with His hand
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
A friend of mine asks,
“Why do you only ever write about romance lately?”
Well, the answer is quite simple, really. It is because I have tasted it.
I tasted it when my eyes first drank the light from his grace when he stood tall above me
His saturnine windows called out to me behind flesh curtains whenever he spoke, ever asking me to join him in his ecstasy
He, from a distance, darted towards me and pressed our sides together—letting myself melt in the velveteen touch of fabric skin
There was a shower of momentary light that night but only his radiance did I bask in.
I tasted it in the heart of the stone city where usurpers of old stood on polished stone
The Bulwark’s adobe reach embraced our reverie as memories from sleep stories become reality
He, in the confines of that venerable fortress, made me vulnerable for I was secure in his arms
His fingers are in between my own like woven mithril unbreakable lest he broke its bond himself
It is in this kingdom of carven stone and handmade walls that he sang of ardor with a dragon’s petrifying gaze.
I tasted it in yuletide storms where men and women waged war with happiness and grief
When the armies of pain and suffering fell at our clasped hands and cheeks red from amorous verve you said you were to journey home
But you did not let go of my grasp
With me you remained and in your arms I stayed
As the bitter winds of bigoted mouths blew, as the fire from damnation is declared by self-righteous souls, we stood fast in the storm.
I tasted it when he said our love he could no longer endure
There we sat, on a tarnished vehicle, as the last of our love gave into rust
What is frightening to me peeked from his saturnine eyes and he closed his curtains shut for the downpour of despondency was to come
We flooded our façades and the rivers quaked our emotional integrity
He held my hand for one final chance before we ripped our wrappings forever apart and he kissed me tender
Our lips made love—like the first they ever met in weathered heat—for the last time.
I tasted it when I told him “Just do so, when your appetite roars to love me again,” and until now I am waiting.
So, why do I ever only write about romance lately?
Well, the reason is quite complicated, really. But–but it is because I’ve tasted it.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
and to you
I make myself
a gift
to be held in palm
unwrapped
s l o w l y,
an
ever-
evolving
apparition of
sculpture,
malleable
yet firm,
with backbone
and as you trace
your fingers
upon the small
of it,
running them
over
slopes
of spine
watching my skin
slip from
rough ache han
gi
ng
to
smooth quake
know that
underneath
crisp wrappings
of papery
gossamer
beats the ultimate
of ceremonial offerings:
the present of
my presence,
fiery,
pulsing
shimmering like
blood on lava
ready for you
to dip your
heart into
lips parting
as my breath fills your
spirit's cavern
slick dip
of opening
as you draw
shadows from
my deepest
Cimmerian caves
******* them through
in siphon's pull
to the side of light
until
around you and
deep inside
you split
me
oh so gently
and fully
completely
apart
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC
I love this time of year
seducing the nights of November
faintly hearing my past self praying to my present
most of my skin bare, colliding with the falls frosty air
I can see the stars but feel the effortless boundaries of gravity
pounding
yet its somewhat comforting knowing I am contained
I become more human than spirit
with senses intact
and in truth, it feels good, feels present
to have the soul and mind separated
my human wrappings can still inhale the world and feel the touch of the dead
but it suppresses eternity
suffocates the inner philosopher that analyzes everything as more than known..seen
it hears the time ticking, senses the warmth of the clocks arms
feels the weight of the choices
In my present self, in my flesh, my skin
I can feel the beautiful ecstasy
of simply
sitting on my rooftop
and drinking white wine.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
i am made of...
thought...
ink and pen and paper... and so much more.
scribbled phrases on diner napkins.
post it notes stuck to walls.
scrawled doggerel in bathroom pens.
phrased ideology in lined notebooks.
spinnered words on lazerprinted A4.
scraps of inklings, on ripped butcher's bags and wrappings.
condolences in funeral books.
ideas capital lettered on cards,
pinned to cork boards.
epitaphs stonemasoned
into granite blocks.
fury arranged just so,
on parchment.
newsprinted with loose blurry, black ink on broadsheets
scribed by pointed stick on
firm wet sand.
notes on heavy cards, of love
and light bright shiny stuff.
discarded sentence startings, left crumpled, lost in a bin.
loss, written with red wine on white table cloth.
art, etched on vellum anciently old, suprisingly relevent.
tapped into tablets both stone
and techview.
blue and red markers squeaked onto white boards.
daubed on canvas with a fine sable brush.
tatttoo-ed upon ones flesh.
carved into wooden school desks.
pressed into moist clay by delicate fingernails.
marked so deeply upon a soul.
chalked to cement,
to stay for...
but a short season.
written for some very, (un)important reason.
courage to speak, sing, whisper, shout, cry, laugh, observe and ponder.
this is me....
i am a word written down.. any word, any word.
i am undeniable, desirable often incomplete
always open always waiting
for some one...
......just like you ...
to open your heart let me in
to recognize a new start
to have a play, a scribble,
doodle, pen jive. to become
alive.... to thrive,
just begin with a single letter.....then another,
go on be brave...
..........grant me liberty....
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
exchange me
in your sight.
let me grow
and soak in light.
my shadow's got me
trapped inside,
words crumble from my lips tonight.
admiring you, admiring me.
my actions are subconscious and timid,
not enough action to get a reaction.
I'm building mountains to destroy them:
mountains made of flesh covered drums,
vibrations of thought, and honey dipped bones.
I crawl to move forward because sudden movements make you flinch.
you want me alone
and you're alone
and I'm wrapped up sweetly
wanting nothing but to sink so deeply into my wrappings
that I become the wrappings
like a bird in the cage
that soon becomes nothing but feathers.
kiss me
taint
my lips.
eat me
absorb
my sin.
ink is on the page to reveal this sinking stage
and the time that it takes
to change from bad habits to new ways.
self-reflection is the stitch that broke the
dams that built up through neglect.
now the flow is aching for a record
of it's mass accumulation, only through this process
will it provide sweet stimulation.
you carry a heart of sand,
and you left a grain
inside my brain
to cure the pain
of a smoldering flame
for what remains
in my own sand crusted box of feelings.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
E v
e
r
y
so often I
like to think back on
that greasy summer- my hidden
lover. Teeth ripping into me like they
were devouring a sticky peach on a patio
near the beach; hungry and so full of desire.
Early eyes quivered as I suffered your satisfied
fingers on my thigh- feeling the contusions that
replaced my pale pink skin. A felt existence left
devoted in moments like these-our compulsive
wrappings conceal the fortunes that can be
found only in one another. In a way, this
biblical dimension carries a perpetual
forgiveness and passion that play
together hand in hand.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:10 PM UTC
When your mouth moves I remember
what it felt like as I rushed to flip a page
and sliced my hand on the edge of words.
Every syllable you murmur in my ear stings
salt-lick strong.
I am four again. I will not breathe
until you untangle me slowly
from you, from your own undoings
that have become the paper wrappings
around the bird-cage of my heart.
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC
In the chapel of the glitter ball
in the hall of the dance machine
I am the suburbanite alone, a
dream on a white
horse.
On the steps to the crypt where many
angels have slipped on the wrappings
of condoms,
the silent ****** plays.
The vicars in hobnails prey on those
who travel high trails,
like vultures from the mission and
there's a ****** of churches all flocking
as one to ****** the kindness that once
flashed in the eyes
of his son.
**** them with kindness his Highness demands
but his blindness defeats him and the white horse
will only meet him
half way.
In the chapel of the glitter ball where we
see nothing but the diamonds fall and in
the hall of the dance machine his Highness
becomes the Queen.
It's all alter it now and we'll take refuge somehow
in the flower of the sixties
where 'please please me'
was an anthem for young men.
I can't see, but I think that suburbia's a skating rink
and we are the skaters darting away from the sharks
to be eaten by alligators, or
to be saved at some cost by the one on the cross where each point that he points to
is a station that I've been to.
So I shuffle the view and turn the glitter ball on
and everything's gone
like it used to be
except for me.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
They don't have donkeys at South Bermondsey or market stalls.
The pigeons find it easy to loiter
the thoroughfare now
fish and chip wrappings are considered passe.
I wonder if the girls should dress in black
as a counter statement
against the new builds above Tesco.
A sort of mourning for these changes.
What's left of community?
last shot down by mothers helpers.
Town planners, gosh
nail and execution executive
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Just like the recent change of the emerald favorite to the bitter taste of coffee,
the battering gale force winds hammering on the door,
as it screeches to be let in, as it wails of its sorrow.
Reminiscent of the innate excitement of the jiggle of bells,
and half eaten carrots and an emptied glass of whiskey
the passing of casserole dishes full to the brim to borrow.
Knocks on the door loud and swift
kettle boiling and the offering of chocolate sweets all wrapped up in their shiny rainbow wrappings,
Nothing but good wishes and hope for the New Year.
But, what of last years resolutions?
The faded floral wallpaper is still peeling, and cuts that wounded just down to the marrow have not healed.
A ****** bandaged seeping fear.
Change you arrive when planned or as unexpected as the snow in Summer.
You tap on our windows,or you blast through the panes like dynamite
Exploding.Damaging. Injuring.
In a split second you find yourself cracking open a rounded blue tin
to discover a surprise,a green coffee sweet
for better or for worse in this small little ways the world changing.
Changing.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC
Rustling among his odds and ends of knowledge
Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds
How Cleopatra and Senebtisi
Were dug by many hands from ancient tombs.
Cloth after scented cloth the sage unwinds:
Delicious to see our futile modern sunlight
Dance like a harlot among these Dogs and Dooms!
First, the huge pyramid, with rock on rock
Bloodily piled to heaven; and under this
A gilded cavern, bat festooned;
And here in rows on rows, with gods about them,
Cloudily lustrous, dim, the sacred coffins,
Silver starred and crimson mooned.
What holy secret shall we now uncover?
Inside the outer coffin is a second;
Inside the second, smaller, lies a third.
This one is carved, and like a human body;
And painted over with fish and bull and bird.
Here are men walking stiffly in procession,
Blowing horns or lifting spears.
Where do they march to? Where do they come from?
Soft whine of horns is in our ears.
Inside, the third, a fourth . . . and this the artist,--
A priest, perhaps--did most to make resemble
The flesh of her who lies within.
The brown eyes widely stare at the bat-hung ceiling.
The hair is black, The mouth is thin.
Princess! Secret of life! We come to praise you!
The torch is lowered, this coffin too we open,
And the dark air is drunk with musk and myrrh.
Here are the thousand white and scented wrappings,
The gilded mask, and jeweled eyes, of her.
And now the body itself, brown, gaunt, and ugly,
And the hollow scull, in which the brains are withered,
Lie bare before us. Princess, is this all?
Something there was we asked that is not answered.
Soft bats, in rows, hang on the lustered wall.
And all we hear is a whisper sound of music,
Of brass horns dustily raised and briefly blown,
And a cry of grief; and men in a stiff procession
Marching away and softly gone.
1.1k
and sometimes I wonder;
maybe if i looked like her
he would love me
but them I remember the painful stab of his words
and keep them close to my heart, forever unchanging, to keep me from changing
because maybe he'll settle again.
maybe he'll come crawling back and enfold me in the dark recessed of his mind
with whispered i love you's
that you tuck away into the crevases of your open mouthed soul
but then,
I remember him saying **** you.
that he meant it. that he really, really meant it.
and then him walking off
trailing behind him the wrappings of me
as if i was some excess piece of lust, he just brushed me off
and never
ever
did he look back again
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Smiles spread across faces
Like the tinsel on the tree that
Decorates and reflects beauty
All around, we can see past the
Hatred discarded like the wrappings
On gifts, carefully prepared
But torn aside to make way for
Kindness that lies beneath our
Hardened eyes, made cold not by
Winter, but something greater
That will not fade after these months of
Festivities and cheer that feel so strong
And wipe away our tears so easily,
Underneath our laughs like presents
Below the tree are undertones of
An unstoppable, unquenchable desire
TO BE LOVED
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
'Twas weighing down her petite frame; rendering her weak.
Tugged at her very being; left her anguished and meek
'Out of sight, out of mind,' her rationale whispers everyday.
What happens, though, when she just can't look away?
She shields her face; turns her head in advance.
Ruthlessly judging herself, as she steals a discreet glance
As a mother warns her child, so her rationale intervened.
Yet, by the forbidden always tempted was the little fiend.
Her weak smile they see- no visible scars will they find.
Of the ever-raging battle; heart against mind.
Her feelings tore her open; the wrappings of a Christmas present
An empty box, laden only with pain and disappointment.
A closely guarded secret- it was hers and hers alone.
She sang herself to sleep, willed her heart to turn to stone.
She chose her words carefully lest the world should know.
Her long tresses moist from the tears on her pillow.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Pianos cried
Sad, this lonely figure on a gloom ridden street,
head low, looking for diamonds in a dumpster
Chasing dreams in slow moving express lanes,
tracing graffiti on the edges of his skin,
following a blood trail hoping for orange juice
Once upstanding, a real community guy,
a giver, not a taker of sunrise gestures and hot coffee
Tossing an alarm clock no longer needed as
each day was something to look forward to,
slumber happily abandoned for the love of his life
Now duct taped shoes, silver on black scratched soles
worn from pacing in low signal zones, bad areas where hills
and valleys interrupted service, beeps meant voices straining
to hear over the high rise shadows,
while twenty dollars bought enough gas for two days
Fancied himself a poet a long time ago
Phrased emotions in sunny side up stanzas
Mornings and evenings reveled in inked harmonies
as two hearts sung a duet of rhymes in cursive cadence
so song like, pianos cried when left out
The only melodies these days are off key assumptions
stored behind locked doors of closed businesses,
offering desolate concrete steps for liquor bottles
with brown paper bag wrappings and unpaid receipts,
where he finally returns to sleep, to dream about her
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
Cracked and dry,
they perform my
craft.
Long after midnight.
Past the morning bird
which sings
"welcome, New Day".
Welcome, New Day
I've waited till dawn
to see that radiant
blink
of light.
Orange light
effortlessly fights
its way through
glass
to greet my eyes
with a passionate
exclamation.
Cracked and dry,
they absorb the orange.
Transfigured into smooth,
bone-wrappings.
My joints guide my
relief.
Past noon.
Afternoon.
Evening moon.
Midnight.
Long after midnight.
My eyes will
never
shut
or I would miss
the star of morning
and the bird's melodic
"welcome, New Day".
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
She borrowed the tiger’s eye necklace,
glinting
golden-amber-brown,
for a wedding.
A wedding
they never made it to.
The tire blew out on the way,
and no-one knew how to fix it so
they stayed in the car.
Heat made the air
ripple and roil;
a still pond disturbed
by the sun’s burning fingers.
Rolling down windows,
opening doors;
none of it helped.
The sun baked the moisture from the air like
bread in an oven,
****** the sweat from their bodies like
juice from an orange,
leaving behind the shriveled skins
to petrify in its heat.
Modern-day mummies;
wedding finery for linen wrappings,
their car a crowded sarcophagus.
The amulet on her neck,
the borrowed tiger’s eye
blinking fiercely
golden-amber-brown
under the brighter, fiercer eye
of the sun.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
I was no ordinary child,
if anything I was something mild.
My Friends were not always people,
but something more desirable.
For one day, as chance did have it,
I was walking through the store,
my parents just behind me, then, there it
was, that teddy bear I began to adore.
I raved and I got excited...
There was simply this wonderful bear,
and to receive it, I would have been delighted,
but...Little did I know the story of this bear.
Many weeks if not months had passed,
Christmas fell upon us, and in the passions
of removing christmas wrappings, I had
seen the white fur, I thought is was illusions.
But nay, It was my bear from the store,
wrapped in a box, with his sapphire cloak
and his lovely soft and white fur,
and it was never a cruel joke.
Now, However, Its tale is somewhat sadder,
He sits enthroned on a shelf, ne'er seeing use,
recognition or thanks. It must be a kind of abuse,
to leave this bear sitting on the shelf each day growing sadder.
I would like to make a change,
but unfortunately I had to age.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC