"yellowy" poems
Frisky, little, swimmer
danceful wiggle dips
Yellowy, orange, shimmer
puckering fishy lips
Thoughtful, quiet, feller
never any yips
Lonely, curious, critter
Got any life tips?
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.
spiritus.
kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.
[skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]
thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.
this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.
dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
[streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.
poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
lickings.
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.
cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.
non-profit.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
Shropshire the outback of hives and mires
A birthplace of industrial revolution
Built with ***** iron and bricks
submerged in the depths of the water beds
Shropshire the strength in the metal structure
A cast of firm shields and fields
The greenery of contrasting yellowy yields
A mirage of hills sat on pillar heights
The breeze so fresh as sun prints on the canal
The warmth so intense as the bird hums in the nests
Labour artisans and metalsmith at the heart of coalbrook dale
Bricks aisles of pathways along the river
Bordered by vintage delicacies of the magnificent nature
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
*the phone turns yellowy orange,
low power mode,
have fallen below
the 10% threshold,
we both drowsy,
yet competitively locked-into
separate screen servitude
she notices,
I don't,
she says,
"you need a charge"
god, she's so correct,
our mutualizing power is
fastly slow draining
this we both
know~notice,
and neither
says nada~nothing
we,
both poets in our way,
acutely aware
of the power of metaphor,
and she knows
that I know,
I noticed
what just went unspoken*
>an untitled poem<
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Where do the wrecks of our children lie????????????????????????????????
Lukewarm as a silent draught in saturated heads
Yellowed in smoothness
of apples with silk so ancient and in vermouth
so cheap
mixed with the chlorine water of the city
where do the wrecks of our children lie
lukewarm
& yellowy
& tremulous
just like an archangel's gesture
which we use for forcing them to leave us
for ages or for never
Yes, our expelled white and green and yellow cry
thirstily yells in the desert of bedsheets
and with the skin in a sweat up to our neck
we struggle for that smell in the air with beginning
of decay
which belongs to our
doubled loneliness
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Watercolor crimson skies
bleed indigo blue pastel lines
waterfall rains spill over
Yellowy blues sink viridian green
paper clouds bloom fire
a sunrise to devour
She is a sable brush
born of resurrected ashes
sifting her soul in colors
Hillsides greening, looking out
a painter of days and ruins
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 11:36 AM UTC
The sun sets me free,
from morning, chill, to evening glow,
where would I be?
Without yellow warmth filling me head to toe.
Those glistening ponds,
forests full of green,
make many bonds,
with this yellowy sheen.
Dark is at bay,
shadows must wait,
on earth colours lay,
the sun's on its way.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:12 AM UTC
From your bed in the ward you saw a modest ribbon of pale sky through a window that could open only slightly, like your eyes
a high sky as achingly thin as the skin of your arms bruised like rain clouds
Yellowy eyes revealed what lips never uttered
a beaten acceptance that the sky will exist long after you do not
and your eyes fell on me like a child rushing for a tight hug
and mine swept you up like a father who'd failed to stop you tripping
Oh you patient soul who had never asked for more or complained of less
that same sky will also stretch above my grave
but until I fall into shadows I'll never forget you
an easy companion who said little during drives and nothing during pain
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
Dragging my *** to the liquor store
After midnight on a brand new Tuesday
I sort of wish
That I could sit cross-legged in a desert somewhere
With the sun ripping into me
And sweat out all the cheeseburgers I ever ate
All that yellowy cheddar would ooze out of my pores
All the slippery chunks of meat would fall off my forehead
And sizzle in the sun
Maybe all the tar from all the cigarettes would slip out too
All the whiskey would steam off into the great big blue sky
All the slaves my great great great whatevers owned would come whooping freely out of me
All the meanness and rudeness and all those little selfish thoughts would drip on out
The *** would crawl right out of my *****
And any little pieces of broken hearts would fly back to their owners
And I'd wither into a shrunken pillar of pure good
That'd be nice
A relief
But if there was a shred of me left on my bones
I'd probably just drag my *** to another liquor store
To celebrate
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
Martha Maguire sits
in the back pew of the church
cigarette between fingers,
smoke drifting slowly
to the high beams and tiled roof,
her blue eyes focusing on the Crucified
His arms stretched wide
His head lowered
His eyes shut
the skimpy cloth
about His midriff
nails in hands and feet
and wound in the side
a slit of red paint revealed,
she takes a drag on the cigarette,
inhales deeply holds the cigarette
just away from her lips and
with no effort releases
the smoke in a steady stream
over the pew in front,
the Crucified's skin
has a yellowy sheen to it,
the crown of thorns have
acquired cobwebs and dust,
only her in the church
silence except for distant traffic,
Magdalene had talked
of the priest and one
of the nuns and some
kind of thing going on,
Martha muses
watching the smoke rise,
the young priest not the old codger,
which nun was it?
not St Agnes that's for sure
she'd only *** out of
her thingamajig,
as would most of the sisters
no doubt,
Sister Lucy was it?
maybe can't recall the gossip,
she inhales deeply again
scratches an itch
on her thigh,
Mary Moran and her ways
with the boys
and she only fourteen too
as am I,
she smiles recalling
what Mary said of Brian Brady
and what he tried to do
put your hand in some other
girl's private place not mine
she said she said,
the Crucified hangs in silence
not a word
not a judgement,
some days she's sure His head
lifts and He gazes at her
with an awkward smile,
His eyes half open
the **** thorns pushing
His hair over His eyes,
the door at the far end opens
and the young priest enters
in his black garb
like a young rook
on the prowl,
he genuflects
and makes the sign of the cross,
then peers down towards Martha
who hides her cigarette
out of sight,
the smoke drifting less so
but under the lower pews,
he looks away
goes to the altar
fiddles with things
goes to the tabernacle
and opens the door
and fiddles inside,
she looks at her cigarette,
lowers her head
and takes a swift inhalation,
then sits back up
gazes at the priest
**** arsing about,
the cigarette between fingers
out of sight,
and she thinking
if it was the priest and Sister Luke
and the carrying ons
and what and where if so,
anyway she muses
letting the smoke drift
from her lips
what do they know?
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
He passes by,
Sigh,
Brown, yellowy hair,
Jigjag outlines like fallen leaves
Adorn his clothes,
In his eyes autumn blue skies shine,
Tussled hair brushes his face from the wind
And he makes me smile.
He passes by,
A smile on his face,
A ruby red stripe on purple bluish cheeks,
Ebony brown hair and pale blue eyes like the winter sun.
He holds his hands to his face,
Breathing the breathe of life into them,
And he makes me warm.
He passes by,
Thistle green eyes and bruising body,
Coiled like a spring day, come undone, sprung.
Like the fresh flowers along the lane
And adorn the hedges.
And he makes me love.
He passes by,
He smiles at me,
I sit there in the summer sun,
All these years I have loved him,
But Time passes on.
Oh Son of Time,
You are so youthfully beautiful,
But how quickly yet gracefully,
You grow old.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 10:49 AM UTC
Isn't it a strange thing when the sun begins to set?
Like some too-romantic field of dreams that haven't happened yet?
How entrancing when the sun goes down and life just turns to gold
Lying gilded there before my face
--lies blatantly and to my face, just like the myths of old
And that sliver of a second that looks magical to most
To most a golden royal ball, but it doesn't have a host
See, that moment is just sacred, in an awful sort of way
Where the holy and the evil darks have a common note to play
During every other time of day, the light and dark are two
During every other song they play, they play a different tune
During sunset everything deceives itself into a common hue
The vivid reds and blues of midday,
Hidden behind this yellowy lens into a hazy view
And even when the darkness sets, it has two separate parts
One with elegance and beauty, one a cloak for acts of all ****** hearts
But in this moment the angel and the devil do the same
To pull your soul into your mind, your body and your brain
At this time you feel every good you've never done
And all the sickest thoughts you've known? You re-feel every one
The holy self of all goodwill within you breaks
for everything it's missed
While paralyzed in a lustful glow
Remembering every sultry sin you've kissed
For the angel, it's to guilt you,
On the wings of heaven's dove
While the devil tries to win you back
And reclaim all your love
But for me, it's just like the half-second you get
To both step off of the chair, and suddenly regret
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:51 AM UTC
I have been overtaken by the color of the leaves.
Sugary reds and faded yellowy greens
For now, they are falling slowly like the bits of me
All the answers I am searching for so desperately
When will this falling apart bring glory to His name?
And how can I disconnect myself from fame?
I’m attracted to the trees and their way of surrendering their beauty
Stretching higher, hoping to be closer to their Creator.
To know and to make Christ known is their game.
Teach me the same. Less thinking, more falling.
To know Christ and Make Him known
it does not matter where or how.
It matters now.
Maybe I was created to fall, fall down on my knees.
And to stretch towards to the heavens, Let go of all my leaves.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
Auntie met her friend Milly
in Milly's place
at the other side
of the barrack grounds
and she took me along
not wanting
(or maybe willing)
to leave me behind
with the black mutt
back at her place
sit down Eileen
I'll get us tea and biscuits
o fine
Auntie said
did Benny want a drink?
Milly asked
would you like a drink Benny?
Auntie asked
have you lemonade?
I asked
Milly said no but
she had orange juice
the stuff you can give babies
but it's good stuff
Milly said
I said that'd be good
her daughter Elsie
came in to the room
straight faced
carrying a doll
by the neck
(motherly kid)
hello Elsie
Auntie said
hello
Elsie replied
and walked to her mother
and took hold
of her skirt
are you shy?
Auntie asked
the kid said nothing
but stared at me
with her beady eyes
Elsie
Eileen asked you
a question
it is rude
not to answer
Milly said
not shy
Elsie replied
her eyes not
leaving me
I looked at the doll
(slowly being strangled)
it had a dull
pink dress on
and little else
its hair was yellowy dull
and matted
nice doll
I said
Elsie looked at me deeper
and said
her name's Miss White
why Miss White?
I asked
because she is white
Elsie said
or pink
I said
Auntie and Milly
talked over by the oven
where Milly
was stirring something
she's white
Elsie said
my dad brought it back
from Germany
is it a German doll?
I asked
no
she said glumly
it's China
and looked at her mother
by the oven
o
I said
can I play with it?
no
she said
get your own doll
she hugged her doll
tighter to her chest
I don't want a doll
I just want to play
with your doll
I said
well you can't
she said
o right
I said
4 year old boys
don't play with dolls
they play with guns
and toy soldiers
and such stuff
she said
have you got any guns
or toy soldiers?
I asked
no
she said
and walked away
and that was me
done for for the day.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 4:29 AM UTC
Another song
Begins to
Catch that
Dancing beat, which
Excites the minds and
Feelings of all around.
Groups and single people
Huddle around, waiting to
Ignite a battle,
Joyful and merry, they bounce
Knowing the outcome could
Limit their times together.
Many cheer,
Nobody is silent or still.
Outsiders slide around,
Prancing to get a look,
Questions are flying from all faces.
Rainfall, the
Situation becomes
Tricky.
Uninvited, the police
Visit the scene,
Wanting no need for
X-rays on attendees.
Yellowy bruises run,
Zigzagging the thrill of the chase.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
The summer sun
warmed you and Jane
as you made your way
up the dried up
muddy track
towards the Downs
the sunlight
pouring through
the branches of trees
overhead
you thinking
of your work
on the farm below
the day before
the weighing of the milk
the clearing out
of cowsheds
and the cowman saying
what do you want to do
when you leave school?
to be a cowman
you replied
you want to get yourself
a proper job
you don’t want to do this
for a living
and Jane said
breaking you
from your thoughts
I want to show you
where I used to sit on the Downs
and where I used to collect
bones and skeletons of rabbits
and moles and birds
and you turned
and looked at her
as she walked beside you
her hands swinging
as she walked
her black hair tied
in a small bun
at the back
and her yellowy flowered dress
capturing your eyes
my father works in the woods
further along
you said
he works in the ditches
and hedgerows too
she bent down
and plucked a flower
that’s Squinancywort
she said
showing you the flower
as she twirled it
between fingers
she offered it to you to smell
lovely isn’t it?
you nodded
and carried the scent
with you as you both
moved on up the track
she turned to you and said
your dad does well
at his work for a townie
and you smiled
and so did she
and you captured
her lips parting
and her bright white teeth
and her eyes
moving over you
like a soft caress
and she whispered
turning her head away
do you love me?
and you whispered
yes.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 8:26 AM UTC
Winter
Fog and mist from Winter Hill drew
over West Pennines it blew
over moorland gorse and bracken
into soot filled chimneys it did blacken
Through howling wind and driving snow
dogwalkers walk in degrees below
The water flows freely down Pick up bank
Thunderous skies miserable and dank
Spring
The hard winter doth disappear
The flowering buds reappear
Starlings arrive cometh May
lighter nights here to stay
Food plentiful rodents group
Barn Owls prepare the swoop
The green grass grow, the wind dies down
Darwen Tower sentinel over Town
Summer
The heat of summer finally here
barbecues ready flowing of beer
The Moorland cattle graze
Too much sun Moorland ablaze
Families depart summer vacation
Off they fly to foreign nation
on their return they did miss
Beautiful Darwen land of bliss
Autumn
Autumn brings forth first frost
Final sign summers lost
leaves fall russet yellowy reds
Butterflies and Bumblebees prepare their beds
Autumnal warmth bereft of heat
Hoddesden walks crunchy underfeet
Washing lines away , Out tumble driers
Kids collecting wood for their bonfires
Martyn Grindrod
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
crossed expanse of the night-
bright with moonshine high-rise-
in the black yellowy -
told of distance and
other unknown journeying
to foreign places- galaxies
too incomprehensible for
minds eye meditating to touch
to see to smell taste or hear-
rumour spread that far-
a wanderer all were seeking
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC
Just sitting here in my tent
No radio, trying to do everything on my phone
Did I say peaceful? In my tree there's an owl.
Nothing strange about that you might say
Well this ones got the biggest mouth on it
That I've ever heard
Never eaten an owl before but this ones pushing its luck
Earlier today I had a few hours fishing and yes I did catch a few
I also watched dragon flies of ever colour
and the aptly named damsel flies dancing on the breeze
No choreography but still perfect synchronisation
There's so much wild life here and it's easier to spot now the leaves are falling
Multi coloured snow, russet, red, yellowy green, browns
Like autumnal snow drifts round my feet.
You know even if I could I would never harm that old owl
After all he belongs here while I'm just a guest
I like it here under this tree
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
What a discovery
In between
Those yellowy perfumed pages
Of Tom Sawyer.
Your two-dimensional form undeterred
From your first installment of life
Some thirty odd years ago.
Immortal shell, you
Unlike your wind torn
Finally winter buried friends
Now of new purpose - As ornament,
As fossil, own a new beauty.
I dare not peel your fragility,
Your thin, dried silk like skin.
The new epoch which has now found you,
Daisy and Forget-me-not entwined
In still-life, frozen, embraced;
I gently close the book, closing
Your new chapter against the page
Leaving you for the next to discover.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
There are two kinds of blond. Theres the subtle blond, with the dark highlights curling around yellowy strands of hair lain out like grain on a late summer day, baking in the heat of the sun and swaying in the Southern breeze. Most tale this blond and own it like a miser would their gold. They just can't let it go, no matter the personal cost, and every time they see it, it takes their breath away.
Not this blond.
This blond got you asking questions. It's a cloud and a blade all in one. It's an icy frost piercing through to the warmth underneath your skin. Its got claws in you now, crawling up your spine, in your back. Your mind tells you it just cant be real, its too different, too perfect. But its got the heart in you racing wildly, a roller coaster that ends at reality and starts up again when you announce impossibility. No way, no way, no way. The blond of yesterday is today's satin sheets, and you can feel it dragging you closer and closer to bed, that pesky little ******* in your ribs, around your lungs. Light as feathers you think as you feel yourself floating and falling in rapture in the mystery of it all. The snow outside's got you questioning if you'll ever see that brightest white again in this storm. Not this blond. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity and it's shining right in front of you like bitter cold diamonds. But **** you think it comforts like a dove. So hope and stay silent, so this get rich quick scheme falls into place, synchronizing with the purest, most blinds white you've ever known.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
it felt like a summer day
the sun casting shadows
consuming the world with its yellowy tint
it felt like a pat on the back
from an old friend
reaching up
and smiling wide
that book,
it felt like
a never ending friend.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
I'd like to note on greeniest breathing life leaves and grass of swords
and bluerest billboard of sky with it's clouds advertised flying what dreamers might
whitester winds who grasp at your clasp, undoing your coat of thoughts
yellowy naps of the sunlight cat - fat in its guarding the gates of comfort
I'd like to rhyme on time (but I don't)
which should not distract from suchly facts
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
I have never stood accused of a sunny disposition
yellow doesn't linger in my eyes
see the starkness of the darkness
glare at the plastered happiness
smirking
What gives this paint such power?
What warmth is mixed among the chemical reaction?
With in my mind I feel daisy meadows
burning in yellow
petals of white caught in the breeze
shivering stems of green
Banana skin skies
haloed in sunshine kisses
brighten the world
with a joyless disposition
In my room, the walls bleed the same
yellowy and rusty
I'm mocked by an optimistic face
reflecting in the shadow
of my yellow walls
Will the irony fade?
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 9:48 AM UTC
I sat on the bank
by the pond-
or lake as Yehudit
termed it-
Yehudit lay on her back
with one leg stretched out
and the other bent
with the knee
pointing skyward
I watched dragonflies
skimming
the water's skin
then taking off
zig-zagging
then off
out of sight
that cloud
looks like a swan
Yehudit said
I looked up
looks like your mother
I said
that's not nice
she said
saying my mother
looks like a swan
it's the neck
that does it
I said
she looked at me
smiling
her neck is not
like that at all
she said
or maybe it's the beak
like her nose?
she slapped
my arm playfully
that neither
she said
now the clouds changed
I said
the swan has dissolved
or moved on
she became serious
I thought
I was in trouble
last week
she said
I gazed at her
why was that?
I was late
she said
looking at me
seriously
late for what?
dinner?
school?
lessons?
no I mean my...
you know...
my thingy
I watched
as a duck landed
on the water
and swam towards
the edge
thingy?
I said
it was green
and yellowy feathered
it had a sense
of gracefulness
as it swam
my periods
she said
and that means?
I said
turning to gaze
at her
she sat up
and sighed
I thought
I was in
the pudding club
she said
o I see
I said
taking in
her features
the brown hair
a few loose strands
over one eye
her thigh visible
where the skirt
had moved down
but I was just late
it's ok now
she said
turning on her side
back to normal
I said nothing
it was a science
beyond me
another duck landed
on the water
skimming along
like an airplane
crash landing
must be careful
she said
guess so
I said
the image
of the duck's landing
and her thigh
stuck inside
my 14 year old head.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC