I quill whilst in a moment still,
I long to ink the sunrise pink,
capture shades of rapturous thrill.
I quill whilst in a moment still,
magentas petaled pleated frill,
floral painted in rosette-zinc.
I quill whilst in a moment still,
I long to ink the sunrise pink.
.
'twere if mine were
transparent
her
magnetized in thought
set'n on thuh park bench
in her pleated 50'z summer
skirt
yeah sport'n thuh
bodice
sparkle shine
glister
yep
almost diaphanous
and'er
curl'd tongue
under
just'uh out
peek'n
so i kiss'd it
oops
shnap (i mean tap)
")>
I've severed my conscious from the backplates of my brain. I’ve pleated vine and cord through the cracks of my rib, bedsores spreading across my ever-paling appearance. I haven't left this hole in weeks.
I get nauseous at my own proof of life, conviction, correction of every flaw flowing out the gaps in my crooked mouth. I let insecurity envelop me, so I hide. I hibernate through nightfall and shorter sunshine. I paint powder over blemishes and broken bones. I crave to be coddled in frozen droplets and sheer fabrics that cool my skin; But I can't bear to be draped in anything but harsh winter coats and the pudge that distorts my figure.
Maybe, I'm addicted to hatred. A taste so strong I can only starve it out of my system - though I'd drown in the taste of every regret I've shoved down. Every loss of control is sharp at the end, blackening my ivories and souring my savory-sweet till I'm all overt ailment and I can't salt the snow that strikes me.
Over time, I've been pricked and prodded. What is now only winter breath replacing empty calories down my throat. What was once soft snowfall is now avalanche, and I can't bring myself to do anything but lay down and freeze.
here I stand waiting
balanced on the edge of time
past draped at my back
the future creases forward
a bloom yet to be folded
creases cross the sheet
the past bends, then re-creases
future folds to match
both entwine though never meet
a puzzle time enlightens
like petals rising
origami takes its form
each wedge takes its place
a flower blooms in the room
unfurling in happenstance
paper remembers
each valley, each mountain path
trails of where I've been
ghosts of futures not yet lived
hidden in the pleated sedge
tilted polygons
wedges stacked in helical
time loops on itself
a structure both flat and vast—
endless bloom of folded space
each crease is a breath
a moment held in silence
each fold, a new path
unfolding from edge of time—
flowers blooming come alive
in the
atheist
wind
pleated
skirt
Marilyn
Memory Poem In Apartment A - 1971
a brace of wine glasses standing tall on a kitchen table
greasy frying pan luxuriating immodestly in the kitchen sink
two forks and two knives bathing naked in the steamy water
vinyl black record spinning clockwise under a cool ceiling fan
music by beethoven caressing the hour with perfume sounds
clock on the television console ticking with slicker love-bites
purple pleated pillow breathing excitedly on a big green sofa
portraits of curious dead people peeping through glass frames
bowl of red fruit sitting ripe and ready on an oak dining table
wide open window allowing a red sunset through shy curtains
bathroom faucet in pink bathroom dripping rivulets of sweat
silent resplendent wall mirror staring with secret fascinations
a brace of wine glasses standing tall on a kitchen table
A big, glass bowl of oranges
with eight pleated butterflies—
perfectly symmetrical
etched along the side.
The sunlight, with all the eagerness,
all the youth of morning
pouring through
each glass insect
casts forty intersecting rainbows
onto the deep brown landscape
of the dining
room table.
Your thumb, dragging gently along
the rim, as your tongue moves
in contemplative circles
behind a small smile.
It is always summer in the fields of my memory,
and the strawberries dance ceaselessly toward you.
on the waning edge of day
sunset rolls white clouds to pink and amber strands
sifting back and forth
like ideas framed by indecision
this sprawling vista
a quiet glide between hope and trepidation
gold-pink clouds knotted in warm stretches of glow
drifting into scattershot lives
pushing
pulling
like threads of firebrand fury
pleated folds of color
a sunset
marginalized to go
menaced by the hermit thoughts of night
leaving a restorative resolve
to look beyond one's self
earth-bound
to stir the life-fire within
Time to go
Spires rise above the clouds
gleaming gold against
the rainbow sky.
Pressed and pleated uniform
stylish on his shoulders
but he doesn’t know why.
Last thing he knew
it was time to go and
see his father and mother
Time slipped away as
it often does and keeps
us from one another.
This latest job he
finally got, he has
worked for all his life.
To guard the Pearly Gates
keeping an eye on Earth,
protecting his God and wife.
Created 15 Jan 2018
a blue chevy impala basks in a suburban driveway
like a beached whale it oozes gases and black oils
its seeping white walls beg for rubber movements
little boy inside the house sits on a pleated couch
he watches the setting sun through a screen door
fat mother stirs pudding in a wall-papered kitchen
smoking father works a tv guide crossword puzzle
he flicks white hot dust into a crystal glass ashtray
the corner television set transmits black and white
cathode rays of a half-naked wrestler pinned down
the destroyer with mask on lifts his victorious arms
little boy hears calliope music in the green distance
the ice cream man comes with dry ice and cologne
still three blocks away he makes another long stop
fat mother fries bloody meats in a fiery blue skillet
she turns on boss radio to hear elvis sing the blues
little boy goes to the admiral and turns the channel
bishop sheen appears in black cursing the darkness
skipper frank implores the kids to brush after meals
tennessee tuxedo chases tiger tornado to megapolis
smoking father finishes a tv guide crossword puzzle
the ice cream man arrives with dry ice and cologne
lacy ruffled gladiola with your dainty ways
made of a gorgeous pleated crepe, you take my breath away
describing you would be a win,
where to begin? Where to begin?
As striking a picture, leaf-twirled
A little off the ground
For a colour movement
Autumn-rich skirts, pleated and whirled
In both the folk dances
Scot and gypsy present.
Her tangerine wallet
clashed with her marmalade purse
Purple pleated pedal-pushers
just made things much worse
No eye had she for integration
her colors smacked of segregation
A ripple in time creased and folded like an origami pleated neatly in my heart
Feb 19 2023
A Ripple To Me 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: JCB Brul
I'm blessed to have landed in mother's quilted arms.
To romp in a sandbox with other blessed hearts.
I'm blessed to have a gentle-souled father.
Who dusted off a cluster of first heartaches.
Pulled me firmly up from the deepest pits.
Taught me how to run the bases... of life-
I'm blessed to have lovers and the love of adventure.
To pull weeds in a humble garden.
To climb the wrinkled face of uncertainty...
To hold in my pleated arms, a baby of my own.
I'm blessed to have teased out the lesson from failures.
Be rouged by the harsh karma of selfish victories.
I was given the chance to glissade down, the icy backbone of the unknown.
Into the blue eye of a heartless crevasse.
To come back into the light-bloodied but a bit stronger.
I was blessed and given the chance to sprint with infinity.
However, so very briefly.
I wish you could have tasted all these sweetened things.
But you were tossed to the cold slag heap called unwanted.
There was no first kiss... nor blessed last rights.
Nor anything in between-
Unblessed
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