Best Chapped Poems

In Ordinary Cups

The blades of winter grind into the ice
like blood on a bitten lip
two lovers spin and twirl
The days pass from teacup to teacup
in...

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Oh how I do love November,
that magic month that outshines September,
where I look upon the face,
of the Twinkle Fairy in all her grace,
as she blesses...

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Daylight fades, a city pulsates, and traffic is reflected in store windows.  
Hurrying headlights come out of the darkness. 
They crisscross like dueling knights....

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As if the sea calmed his tides to lie down in peace
As if the thunders began to sing sweet lullabies
As if the flared up volcano...

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The nurse ordered her to push, push, push
in her best proper voice 
and linen balled in red fists knotted
and sweat falls from red face knotted...

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under crimson glow
frost blankets a hidden glen
chapped lips are licked...

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The moon casts a surreal light
Upon looking out of the window
The night is my mistress
Solitude my blanket
Then I think of you:
The daffodils dancing as they...

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I am losing you again

White, oh your skin, whiter than pearls…
I sit here, trying not to stare,
Serene you are, as you lie in your bed,
How...

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I filled a bottle of tears today,
While a rainbow danced across the page,
Then in the final line that bled,
Each tear I cried turned crimson red.

I...

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Could beliefs be wrong
I've survived for too long
in a world full of conflicts,
wilting nascent innocence--
with venomous fearful experiences..

Broken dreams crawl to breathe
inflicted with harsh realities
unaware...

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I WAS LED TO LEAD


Icicles of lead
Snowflakes of steel
The wind a gasp of liquid loss
From every branch hung clear spears of yesterday’s mighty weather
A reminder
An...

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Ivory flakes drift off snow-tipped pines with ease. December has come and it’s time to stay warm. Days when Autumn’s zenith disappears, when crystalline icicles...

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From fabrics torn, in ruin, she hail,
Above the deck, beneath the sail,
Above silent meadow, the sea,
Her frosty breath, in doom, she see.

Her fondness torn, her...

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Her chapped palms smell of
-ungrateful jasmine-
roughened by shrewd plays of world.
And in the creases of
- youthful forehead-
sleeps an orphaned childhood, old.

Among distasteful leering,
ineffectual rags of
-modesty...

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How lovely, isn't
It, to have an 'off' switch, shotty wiring
And all,
And a presence lined up to ****?

They are always there
To cauterize the wounds of emotional...

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