knots in wrinkles
kinks in years,
creases holding
dried-up tears.
snags in laughter,
cracks in grin,
time folds outward,
memory folds in.
age in the folds,
memory in creases,
years tug tight on
what time releases.
memory in marrows
years cut into furrows
lines across hands
unwind the arrows.
creases in sheets
wrinkles in water
rings inside trees
encircle the slaughter.
weather on faces
time left in traces
leaves laces undone
to ace with graces.
rust in the hinges,
dust galore,
halls remember
feet on the floor.
dents on the pillow,
chill in the bed,
one side remembers
the weight of a head.
rings on fingers,
prints on the glass,
touch bears witness
long after we pass.
frost on temples,
salt in the hair,
seasons keep tally
of all that was there.
echoes in dreams,
dust on the sill,
silence grows louder
the longer it's still.
They gathered for adventure this summer
Till he damaged his father’s new Hummer
The dents turned his face crimson
Said he’s sorry and then some
Closed the book; peace was lost- what a bummer!
The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
The heat is given during this time
People grabbing ice like a crime
Venturing into places like Malls
Some go to man made food stalls
The air becomes so dry with frizzy Hair
The moments that men don't really care
Woman love to take pictures to share
Sometimes revealing things to beware
The evening becomes humid and relax
More so now when you go out you look at tax
The more we eat out reveals money cracks
We can surround the table like a wolf pack
The memories of beautiful set up of food
The Colors that show how much is good
The captured image of gourmet stood
Then as hungry wolf pack ate all we could
The Vacation was so much events
We have not explored or made a dents
Many things we see time could not be bent
So we take image into clouds can be sent
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
we built them in closets with worn out bed sheets
and couch cushions heavy as boulders.
the flashlight’s beam cut through the dark,
a knight's sword, our citadel against bedtime.
the carpet was moat-water,
broomsticks and mops our armored steeds.
We drew maps on pizza box lids—
Here Be Dragons in red crayon,
Mom's vacuum sketched as a sea monster
with fangs of dust.
there were no stone towers, just laundry-basket turrets
and battlements of stacked books where
discarded milk crates became our thrones.
we knew the magic: how a blanket draped just so
could turn December drafts into mountain winds~
they stood until Monday, these cardboard kingdoms—
until recycling bins swallowed the ramparts whole,
leaving only carpet dents where dragons breathed.
And us—we still smelt of marker ink and dust already
scanning the garage for next Saturday's unconquered country.
It hovers over leafless trees
and stalks the cold… warmed-hued.
Yet people fail to leave it be
for its always after you.
It's dents and marks scar it's face
and punches bruise it too.
But on this moon it has an ear,
its red, white, and blue.
This Hard Rock Moon is glowing white,
a rock, ancient and old by the clock.
And yet she bathes us in her light,
though she's just a cold rock.
Her only beauty,
one small thing it seems.
Her glowing radiance,
and oh! How she beams!
.
wool
twill weave
cardiganz
harem pants
boots
hoodiez
aran coats
dents
The door swells in its frame each winter,
paint curling like old tongues —
still you press it open with a finger,
leaving soft dents in the wood.
Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires;
plaster sighs under your barefoot weight.
Every step — a loosened nail,
a whisper of dust sliding down beams.
The windows breathe in drafts,
their single panes shivering;
no storm need rage —
your shadow is enough to rattle them.
In the hallway, wallpaper blisters;
your sleeve grazes it,
and flakes of me snow to the floor.
The ceiling, swollen with damp,
droops lower each night you sleep here —
timbers ache above your breathing.
Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips
like a clock without courage;
your laugh sends the pipes ringing,
and the cupboards cough up ghosts.
Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests —
you climb no ladder,
yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters
where rot waits, patient.
When you close the door behind you,
its frame leans inward, yearning.
The house is always colder after.
F acades of whorls and arches
I ncantations of dents and ridges
N umbness felt, freezes and pleat
G entleness of touch, rubbed so neat
E mblems of lights and shades
R olling like thunder of glades
P rinted souls of innocence
R ampage of hailed magnificence
I nk of spirited blood
N ascence cloaked from ancestral shroud
T attoos of known or odd origins
S ilhouettes drawn by hooded mannequins
if it were up to me
i wouldn't be here.
i would have left
a long time ago.
but others expect things of me.
things that i have to do.
and so i do them.
and i'm not dead yet.
from the minute we are born,
we are treated like clay.
carefully handled,
molded by the hands
of each person we come
in contact with.
so i'm sorry that i can't
undo the dents and imperfections
but they aren't my fault.
blame the girls who made me feel
useless.
blame the guys who made me feel
unlovable.
blame the teachers who made me feel like a
failure.
but i'm not dead yet.
i keep pushing, persevering,
praying.
praying that someone will see the
strain in my smile.
the way my leg shakes
under the desk.
the way i pick at my fingernail beds
the way i pull out my hair
the way i hold the knife to my skin.
i pray.
and i pray.
no one ever helps.
no one ever comes.
but i'm not dead yet.
and you can thank me for that.
Light arrives from its flight
wheeling behind its suitcase of shadows,
exposures, echoes and consequences.
It spills its hoard across the floor,
and gathers remnant dark
remains from dim corners.
It daubs and stitches
black silhouette capes and patches
behind all it passes.
These shadowy figures are light's wind vanes
tracing where its being seen.
Light reveals the cracks, dents, dust and flaws
hidden by unrealized expectations.
It dusts the scene for fingerprints
and other forensic traces
bringing all the hidden
unseemly before and afters
into stark relief.
Nothing escapes light's black valise
carry-on bag.
words seeking
distilling life
into lines
I'm here
I'm gone
I sure a/f
am
more
than these moments
and memories
I made
flesh
and blood from
the flesh and blood that
made me
the dent
that dents
forever
your cat
your dog
the fly
that bothers you
until
the big wheel
turns
I won't leave
a house in the Keys
with
six toed cats
just
music
and poetry
the flaws you see when you look in the mirror
are not visible to the world
stop judging yourself so harshly
stop diminishing your self worth
you are not the sum total of all your failures
nor those missed opportunities in life
you are a child of the Heavenly King
and a sibling to the Lord Jesus the Christ
you are a unique creation of God
individually and perfectly formed
and any slight dents you believe you have
can't stop you from being resilient and strong
they only give more character
and a purpose to manifest
they only add to your life's experience
and propel you to do your best
you are perfectly formed
see yourself as God sees you
and as your loved one's view you as well
for you are an awesome outcome of a life well lived
just go forward and continue to excel
Dimpled dents, not potholes I love,
Fair unfair both, all doles I love.
With most voted horses on sale,
Steeds, stallions, colts and foals I love.
Popular may be peoples’ rule,
Ought such recurrent polls I love?
If scored with the fair ends and aims,
All penalty scored goals I love.
Should they turn to diamond one day,
Carbons of all the coals I love.
________________________
Ghazal |27.09.2024|love
Surreal sonnets found their way
into the cavern of emptiness,
Scrolling through rusting rhymes and concrete couplets,
All in a chaotic cadence of crème de la crème.
This hard-held heart barely softened for the colors in the fading photographs.
What can the mere past do to these strings of stones,
When the dents from adrenaline-filled butterflies
Remain as few frozen water droplets,
Resting on an ocean-wide dinner table,
Questioning what lives and what wilts?
Have these hands abandoned the will to hold the moon?
For the absurd symphonies your worn-out wounds sing
Do not touch the skin of my ears.
Naive senses were the first silk to pay for lost love.
Delusions are funny when they play,
Crystal ball showing doves,
Promising everlasting angelic bells from above.
What difference does it make
When words can only be breathtaking as they float,
Without a beat, without bones?
The malicious necessity behind a heathen and it’s horns,
Making pouring Polaroids out of dreams and thorns.
For beyond a portrait of murky eclipses, there is nothing more,
Just ravenous ravens and stale blue shores.
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