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Best Poems Written by Witty Fay

Below are the all-time best Witty Fay poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Seabird

The drawer holds no confusion,
Nor secrecy or calculated space
Of rotting and impure breeding,
Under these invisible under-layers
Of brittle papers and sharp pens.
The drawer has life in the hinges
That speaks of pain at being unopened
And creaks of zealous joy for wrists
That pull love out of insignificance
And approve of unfabricated stances.

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Wild Pleasures

You must love me sideways,
Desert island of poetry and lace
Embroided inside the fleshy
Tunes of the drunken balladeer.
The overcast day, my warm soul
Inside the cold bed of gloom,
Comes to inhabit the sunny side
Of your world, cracking the whip
Of the edgy tales of tomorrow.
Sane for me, insane for you,
Choose a picky battle to ruin,
With the gaze that turns me
Defenseless as Scheherazade,
Before the storytelling squad.

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To the Unavailable Lover

I know. I have left you
With your worst enemy: your own.
I am only keeping what I’ve unlearnt
Throughout your education of me:
The enchantment of dialogic desire
And the near perfection of shared intimacy.
In this furnished house of you,
I walked in and I walked out
Because I am not yours to hold
And mould into a keepsake.
You think the unchanged shall rob
Me more and dare me less
Than living in the adventure of you.
While the projection of me bears fault,
The inside woman is burdened,
Yet, alive and introvertedly poignant.
Indeed, I live coarsely and serve the devil
That pulls at my flesh till words sprout
Into wingless birds of ink
And I give myself more to this dream
Of a minor god than to your atomized
Version of how love has never failed me.
Still, who dreamt up whom in the end?

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Emancipation

There is no word for the barn-burning
Dream I didn't have in my mouth,
Tasting like blade, running like blood,
Through the inlaid veins of the kite.
There is no dictionary writing at the tip
Of the inky quill of time suspended,
Time adorned, time wombed and born.
The rose swallowed the bee ant the sting
Burned a whole, the size of a day apart
Into the heart of the vowels running amok
The seesaw earthiness of the ethereal self.

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Seasoned Love

We are close for perfection.
The neon lights tired walls,
The downy smell of misty
Steps is but for demanding
Nostrils gone astray by dawn.
Springs comes and goes 
A whimsical frail thought
Caught between rain and pain,
One kind of lump that grows
Inside the pernicious heart. 
Summer has not caught up to me,
Much as it is promised to others,
Living in dream, spread around
In clumps, like clouds on a trip.
Come fall, things are dark until
They are not, and you linger
Inside the sheets, winter against,
Me adorning your right arm,
The one luring the cold inside.
You crave us in rime, awaiting
The ensuing becoming spring.

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Seated Woman With a Parasol

Sitting on the love seat,
Today I feel a moth
Bodily peeled from its chrysalis
To meet the world’s dim eyes
And worrisome gales.
God left precisely X years ago.
I had no use for one afterwards,
Until I met your breath along
The sinful clamor inside my veins.
And I am caught between duty-
Should I build you into a shrine
Of eternal unfaith-
And the wildling taste at the roof
Of my mouth- do I crush your
Grandness of the wrist,
Under the ball of my foot,
The one you kiss before you
Reach the troubled line of my leg.
My butterfly confliction
Succumbs to your godless ways.

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Out of Sight, Deep Into Mind

You have come undone 
And I was air.
Then I betrayed you- not with a man,
But with a country that owned me blind
And enchanted to the edges.
This alingual scent of a colorless skin
Tamed my cells into being loud
And I am numbed of life now.
I perspire a no man’s land in my pores
And on that limb of grace,
My homelessness feels warm and cozy
To the thought of you and the likes of me.
Different is to walk into familiar clothes
And have them stare at your nakedness
And unwind the threads of you
Out loud and plain to see.

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Sycophant Blues In Seattle

Slowly dripping down the steamy panes
To the warm floor, where the gasps
And the moist rest into numbness,
On a rainy nameless afternoon.
The sax fawning over the thin ankles
As they daintily savor the dark.
And the piano chords tickling
The brazen cheeks of drowsiness.
And then you pull out from the touch
For a smoke that fills the room with attire
All words are silent and all trees are free,
Unwonted by any cunning tongue or alphabet of God
And I keep looking this story in its fiery eyes
Waiting for its breath to ground and humble me.

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Caravels of Thought

Into a frail boyhood,
The moment seizes us
More than we grasp
Its shady edges.
Little by little,
We undress the bruised knees
And the warm wounds
To the grown-up day
That winks at the kites.
Take one handful of bitterness
And some silver frowns
Throw them into the face 
Of the undimmed wheel
And the splashes of summer laughter.

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Vanity

Mirror-leather cheekbones and a smile belt
Hanging like a lucky charm on a girlish wrist.
Thick lashes to shelter the green I could only dream of
In painted reveries, while stringing beady sighs
Around the neck of the endless day.
Yet, I put more scraps of midnight
Into my pockets, on a quick touch of time,
And I let my gaze rest on the shape of you,
As your pace darkens into the deep.
I follow you, breathing in the foldings of the skin
That grew out of mine and lives on another.