Best Under The Skin Poems
"What a Lark"
I used to be inspired once
like a lark beating it’s wings
higher and ever higher into a
golden and blue eggshell sky.
Hailstones hit me
during ascension
and I’ve fallen
into steep decline,
lying on a pavement somewhere
where bystanders walk by
ignorant and blind
to this broken
once shiny-winged lark
who sings no more
only breathing out shallow stories
bleeding into the right-hand margins
of a page, in a final chapter with no lines,
it's not lore.
Written on the body
deep under the skin
where no one else can see me
save a person pluck each feather out
and make them as their quill,
you could try to find a story there
if you dare -
then go ahead
and dip your chosen quill
in the heart inkwell
of this Lark,
and continue writing for her
with her magic blood from heart
to your heart,
but not in spite;
The Lark’s story
bleeds into that spartan white page
with no lines
except those damn margins
are keeping everything in
so tight and refined;
the rules are the margins
that require erasing
by and by.
There is a white page
begging to be coloured
with beautiful visages and rhymes
with more than what is read
you may find a story there my friend -
it’s of smoke and mirrors, grit and city
flights of love and
mores the pity
betrayal and disloyalty
and lies the hailstones hit
but they’re melting to invisibility
when the Sun shines out it’s ****
and she's remembering now
all that is hidden beauty in her dreams
as her eyes close softly lit.
The Lark lies on the pavement
breathing her stories out
into the Etheric Plane
bit by bit,
but no one holds the key yet,
to her Very Sacred Script.
A big black cat strolls ever closer by
arching his back he sees The Lark
and wonders why she don’t cry,
spill her guts;
He is drawing ever closer now,
so close he can feel her breath
and he reaches out a paw
"silently amuse me", he purrs, "just a little tweet",
A muse silently and slowly awakes
to touch his claw with her beak
and she tries
to taste the sweets.
Lovejoy-Burton, December 2017.
I feel a bit of envy – hue chartreuse-
when she, like a tart (sweet lemon with lime)
walks in; all the boys she seems to enthuse.
Tangerine words turn them crimson each time,
for saffron’s her voice! Her lavender eyes
flirt brightly like coral lining a sea
of aquamarine! But oh, how she lies!
The sugar of watermelon has she,
but under her flesh there lies a heart black.
I’ve seen it, and yet, they’re all taken in
by flavorful beauty – that which I lack!
Can they not see what lies under the skin?
Lilac may trail her, and heads still will turn,
but one day her true pitch-dark essence they’ll learn.
April 14, 2021
For Brian Strand's
Your Option Again Poetry Contest
Note: Your poem must include all of the following ten colors/words:
aquamarine, crimson, chartreuse, coral, lavender, lemon, lilac, saffron, tangerine, and watermelon.
“Love”
Hearts,
like dice, rolled
across a cold table
into the dark of Chance.
Love,
is a risky business.
A sudden plummet from Grace,
standing on the stable shore of all things,
only to be taken by the undertow of slippery Time,
“farewell to the past of all lost things”, whispers the id
holding firm onto its Pleasure Principle,
sucked in by the tide of the ocean that is Life.
Bare emotions ride pale wild horses far out into the deep;
where control is lost, the Sun kisses the soul naked every day,
golden highs are strummed and plucked like strings.
Love,
saves the lows,
for other lessons, to deliver better things.
Crowded thoughts like credits, rolled,
and the jazz joint smoked, Palo santo, Rosemary
and Juniper, smudge sharp corners phantasmagorically,
to eradicate sad stalking ghosts and tired voiceless dybbuks,
where the Sage-blue curls find their way around the room
fed to those far removed, yet present soundless poets,
like an addiction slipping under the skin.
Love,
rolls role calls, unannounced.
Like a beautiful thief in the night,
hungry for more than less,
it wants much higher things –
reaching ever upwards for its infinite twin.
Love,
like a grand maestro,
will always have its own way,
with what it takes,
and eventually brings,
with the cards it deals, and the keys it plays.
Love,
like an ancient mystic,
will always have its final say.
Love,
in one way or another, remains
haunting -
Sovereign,
Love rules, each
and every day.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“When I'm feeling high or I'm feeling low
Or there is no change
Somehow days keep melting into the night
And there's always light on the cosmic range
I am always high I am always low
There is always change…
Hear the strings are bending in harmony
Not so far from the breaking on the cosmic range…
In my life the piano sings
Brings me words that are not the strength of strings
Fiery rain and ruby's cooling sun
Now I see that my world has only just begun
Notes that roll on winds with swirling wings
Brings me words that are not the strength of strings…”
(excerpt lyrics, “Strength of Strings”, Gene Clark)
7
When young men meet with
inexplicably sudden and biting ends,
not the whitewashed passing of those long in the tooth,
the silver-maned for whom all mourning may expire at death;
that burrowed-under-the-skin ache
where labored breath takes speechless flight
and bids farewell to carefree thought -
that a God of love
carries my heavy heart
seems inadequate in its wake.
Why They Love
A hollow slept in me with the face of a window flung open to nothing at all,
I waited for a voice the way forgotten sand waits for the rain of a distant sea,
you came carrying the exact tone my soul had been dreaming inside its silences,
like a key made of air slipping into a lock of light no one had ever unfastened.
You saw me past the layers, past the fear, past the silence wrapped around my ribs,
you sank long glances under the skin of my days painted thin like cheap cardboard,
you introduced me to myself the way you'd meet a beautiful stranger in a mirror,
and ordinary life peeled off me slowly like an old poster from a forgotten wall.
My sky-starved soul received a pair of wings stitched together from your whispers,
love is not an equation, it's an unknown *x* we carry around through entire lifetimes,
you can't hunt it down — it shows up only when you've stopped looking for anything,
you collide by accident with a soul that somehow smells like a home you lost once.
How strange the human heart is — it ignores hundreds, then clings to one alone,
to the one who smiled differently, who looked at you from an angle nobody walked,
to the one who spoke with the softness of slow rain on a roof of old worn dreams,
and it doesn't pick the ones who'd die for us — it picks the one who makes us alive.
Love is imagination too, building houses in the mind from bricks of thinning dream,
we live whole lives with that person in silence, conversations that never happened,
we ache for futures left untouched, we miss mornings that haven't yet been born,
we carry entire cities in our heads where they breathe and we are no longer alone.
And maybe that's why it hurts so deep — they enter us before reality lets them in,
they slip past the ribs and settle into the quiet rooms beneath the brow of thought,
losing them isn't a parting — it's a territory dying slowly somewhere inside you,
a piece of yourself that only existed because they once woke it from a long sleep.
Scripture asks us to love our neighbor.
But some think love comes without labor.
It's something we speak,
Not something we seek.
A fine cup of wine with no flavor.
Declarations of love make me laugh.
Without knowledge such words are just chaff.
You say I love you,
But that isn't true,
'Til you've traveled that ship, fore and aft.
A neighbor is a gem in a box,
Which is freely displayed without locks.
But when you decide
To not look inside,
Your love goes no deeper than the box.
It's the heart that defines who we are.
And you cannot love that from afar.
You have to dig in,
Look under the skin,
It takes patience to open that jar.
Any love less than this is a lie,
Just a superficial lullaby.
When you won't connect,
It's sung for effect,
A performance arranged for the eye.
In God's kingdom, would this be your goal -
To have neighbors without heart or soul?
Should we love your grace,
Or only your face?
For a love without depth isn't whole.
If make believe love has sufficed,
Then your love is improperly priced.
Rewards one receives,
Show what he believes,
When such love has been offered to Christ.
For as you've loved the least of His flock,
Those empty faces there on your block,
That's how you love Him,
A name in a Hymn,
It's a church built on mud, not on rock.
So before He meets us at the gate,
Learn this lesson before it's too late.
Love's ultimate goal,
To open the soul,
Is a truth that determines our fate.
THE LITTLE MONSTER
It can be sweet, or very sour.
It can be your friend, or your worst enemy.
It lives inside.
Free to roam the outside.
It smiles big when it gets what it wants.
If taken away, on the floor it will stomp.
Like a magician with many tricks.
It farts.
It kicks.
When mad it has a very loud yell.
My mom dose not let me call it.
A demon from hell.
It pulls hair, it punches, and it screams.
With this little monster,
it is best to be on its team.
This monster who around others acts like an angel.
Is really a beast in disguise.
It tricks you with hugs and kisses.
It is very clever, very wise.
Under the skin the monster hides.
So what if it’s my sister from the outside
Skat & Son
Against the pale October Moon, a lone howling cuts
Through the chill of the winter’s night, gleaming yellow
Green eyes flash in the forests wilderness wild.
Sleek mystic swift of feet, white powder chameleons,
Living by the creed of basic instinctual desire to survive,
In this harsh environment of the Rocky Mountains.
By the flight of the morning blue jay, spooked from his
Perches vantage point on high, the pack hunts in the
Deep valleys thickening glen.
Snow wolves on the prowl, seeking freedoms liberation
By tooth and claw, but these are beasts of the free spirit,
Out laws nomads, wondering where the restless heart so
Leads them.
Beguiling creatures of beauty, representing the raw
Force of power of the untamed soul, roughed individuals,
Stalkers of the ice and snow.
Spiritual brethren to the tribal Indians are these
Sacred guardians of the great spirits creation, darned
With mutual respect and admiration honor, let them
Roam freedom’s path forever.
Symbolic warriors under the skin and fur, does the animal
Run beside the human hidden within the shadow realm of realism.
Echoing in the distance, with a chilling presence that
Crawls up the neck bone of mankind, announcing,
Erriely, of the hunger driving them in silence.
Nature’s selectors, weaving the weak from the strong,
Legacies ancestral brave, soldiers of canines pack,
Living on the edge of extinction mighty wrath.
But looking into the eyes of the beast, one can only
See the beauty of a wild creature, whom wishes to remain
As he was born to be, simply put FREE!!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Unsang song
To the body that buried crying souls turbulence is emotional
Womb for a wormhole life is optional,
One night stand for stars die quicker than supernovae and wrapped in
Mummifying sheets .thighs for dear dairy to hold record of men who came for visit.
The same thighs measure a how deep is the cut to the fetus should be.
No tiny hands or feet for lullaby songs.
back door clinics welcome unwanted life for the cost of living give life no meaning.
pillow talks to seek a place under the skin where lust resides,
for what reason should a latex determine the fate of responsibility?
rough talks heat of pleasure where demons dance for the sad tune of reality.
palms rough like surfaces of hard rocks,
tin men walking around with empty chests,
when prides are sold over the counter for a one night stand.
Friday afternoons are used for slaughter,
on the fourth termination, count increases every fortnight,
body heavy with smell of death around the waist like a waste site.
who smells the coffee when waters keep breaking for pleasure?
by:TSHEDISO SEROKI
Cheek to cheek, skin to skin
A pleasure under the skin
Tingling and warm
Freeing thoughts and minds
Reason and comprehensive
Relationship and meaning
Wholeness and artwork
Endless possibilities
Only those who can change
can continue
06.04.2013
A-L Andresen :)
Potatoes
I was on old steamer once it was loaded with
Idaho potatoes and bound for Peru it was not much fun
with the potatoes came rats and insects
but we got rid of them, the rats when unloading a Lima
Port, but there was a plague of crabs
that came onboard in Lima, but that was not the blame
of the potatoes.
I had thought the root vegetable potato was discovered
In Peru and brought Europe, I don`t if this was a blessing
seeing so many fat children
filling their faces with Pommes Frites.
When eating out, I make it quite clear I don`t want
any potatoes having seen a thousand rat dancing on top of them
but they still bring me potatoes; I used to give them to my dog
she got fat and had a heart attack
I had one too, but that was caused by smoking.
During the war when the Nazis occupied my country potatoes
boiled with the skin on was the norm, my mother said the vitamins are
under the skin, it could also be she hated peeling
I remember she was throwing up in the sink she blamed the spuds
But she was pregnant, and I didn`t know before
I had a younger brother who was fed mashed potatoes
Longevity dreamers don’t wanna
deal with me
I’m short straw bad for good health
Liquidators that are paid handsomely
to handle the hazard,
don’t quite make it home safely
after coming in direct contact with me
Material perks comes with a radioactive
buyers remorse poisoning penalty
Emergency workers sub-contracted to die,
get an all-expenses-paid funeral tax-free
Courtesy of government policy
Four lethal isotopes, I possess
Brief exposure can be genetic deadly,
even if you’re wearing a protective, cobalt-lined suit
Come any DNA closer to me,
and your uranium saturated body will receive
a guaranteed morgue visit, very shortly
Got four jellyfish gaseous tentacles
that’s gon beta burn sting
Two thyroid growth-stunting twins:
caesium-134 and 137
will double date you
with a mutating embrace extra finger eleven
Along with strontium-90
and iodine-131
These four cancer flirts are sure to give body hurt:
acute radiation ... grab the suicide gun
Extending invitations for a half-life
Party over
before the sunset get golden twilight
Radionuclides will get daydreamers sober,
as the mortality music stops at midnight
When I get under the skin,
epidermiological odds are,
your whole life is gonna get cut short
So don’t hold your breath,
half of nothing is all you got left
I know the truth, yet I struggle,
My mind wants to comprehend,
My heart challenges my perceptions,
Looking to love to understand,
I have always looked in between the lines,
I have always searched under the skin,
I have seen the hurt under the disfunction,
Directing my heart to give,
If God has given me eyes to see deep,
And compassion to speak to the soul,
No matter if it's out of the ordinary,
Or to a person I barely know,
Even when it's all too sobering to face,
And my heart is crying underneath the madness,
Or the truth will turn heads, and deception has the upperhand,
His love draws me in like a magnet,
There is always more to the story than what's given,
But I trust past what it entails,
My mind only sees a portion,
But my heart knows his love never fails,
There are no blanks given in his unfailing love,
There is meaning and healing behind it,
When the heart speaks, it's not about defeat,
But brings out the truth when we're blinded.
"The Beating Heart and Our Skin"
When the heart of a
people stops -
blood brothers
and sisters -
when does God
walk in?
there is no
waiting patiently
when children
are taken
by the monster
who grins
when does God
walk in?
to assuage
the Hell burning
non-discriminatory
in the lower levels
stoking its war
beneath our skin
when does God
walk in?
Beneath our skin
am I not that
I am
somewhere
within,
watching
we watch the fall
complacent
for we are human
what can we do?
we are we.
and that is them.
God
watches
the ghosts of
all the others
calling Morse code
to The Supreme Other
God watches
their mothers.
where does it all end?
where does it all begin?
the heart
starts beating
under the skin
Holy Ghosts within
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Teardrop”/Massive Attack
https://youtu.be/u7K72X4eo_s
Buzova near Kyiv, a mother
https://youtu.be/EPW-4JES6q0
Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty
Mariupol
Russian claims more than 1,000 Ukrainian troops surrender in Mariupol / BBC News
https://youtu.be/jd2MYpt4THE
Finland to decide on joining Nato - as Russia gathers troops for new offensive / Channel 4, UK
https://youtu.be/9p11LM2YLtM
"Come closer, you kids, let me tell you a story:
now you all see that there morning glory? Well
that was the blue of this little boy's eyes, born
right in this village; they named him Eli."
"Those eyes had lashes so black and so thick,
it sure was enough to make all us girls sick!
And his skin, do Jesus, was flawless and pure,
and smooth as this ole couch is, what's made of velour."
"Lord, he was held, he was never put down.
We girls took to totin' him all around town.
His hair was as black as a raven's wing,
and if that weren't enough, good God he could sing!"
"He just opened his mouth and out this voice came,
a voice that could put God's angels to shame."
"Now, y'all know how much fun little kittens can be?
But then they grow up, just filled with ennui.
Well, just like them kittens, Eli grew up, but he
was conceited and downright stuck-up!"
"Well, our village, we raised him, and we saw our mistake,
but by that time, humph, it was far too late.
He decided to grace the wide world with his presence,
get away from the village and all of us peasants."
"When he hit the big city, he was shocked and perturbed:
No one fell at his feet, no one praised him with words!
Perplexed and confused, he stared at his face:
his eyes were still blue, his complexion still chaste."
"His hair was still shiny and black as the night,
and his teeth were still even and perfect and white."
"What's wrong with these people?" he wondered out loud,
"Why isn't my beauty drawing a crowd?"
"Yes, he was still just as handsome, he touched his smooth chin,
not knowing true beauty lies under the skin."
"Well, what happened to him?" the children all asked,
"Did he come crawling back home, sad and downcast?"
"Naw, he actually did make it, he became quite a star,
he had the big houses, the money, the cars.
And girls flocked to him, but didn't stay long,
and he never did figure what always went wrong."
"So he died old and bitter, in his penthouse above:
childless and joyless, still filled with self-love."
©Danielle White