@j.ironword- she put the Art in my version of a heart. 🙂
Pink, velvet soft, blushing, misbegotten
Dirt stained, so many flowers lay
The sidewalks were carpeted, the
Alleys were filled
Rosy teardrops strewn
all over the world
For whom have these flowers blossomed?
To be thrown away,
what have they sinned?
Why did they grow, so painstakingly slow
To be this chagrined?
Were they for us? Did we forget
To witness their beauty, before age and neglect
Or am I seeing this the wrong way
– could it be
We owe it only to ourselves
Not for the world to see
It doesn’t matter who
turns away blindly
We all grow, so painstakingly slow
Alive, and warm, and dirt stained
And I bloom
Only for me?
‘Allo peeps. I’ve been away wayyy too long. Got some stuff sorted out, got some more sorting out to do- but I’m back! There’s a Cookie dispenser in ye corner, and a stack of poems over ye, and free hugs right here! ❤
Half By Dream
I know you by the shape of your sighs
By the reds of your skies
I’ve known you,
You don’t speak and I listen
I know you, by the smell of your skin
By the touch of your voice, I know you
There are timbers that hang in the air
Flakes of the sun dispersed everywhere
By the golden in your laugh I know you
As if your heart was laid on mine, and both
I know you as if you were bared
Exposed to the elements, revealed, unveiled
The motes of dust spiral in physical symphony
Glimpses of the night, embedded galaxies
In the quiets of your storms, unseen hitherto
As if you were black and white, I know you
In the mark of every touch you’ve laid on me
In every disheveled morning we’ve woken up to see
In every scar and every secret I have show you
In everything I have ever known
I know you
Make Me Beautiful
He wanted to make me beautiful. He made my eyes first. That’s how I could see him make the rest.
The poor God with the bloodshot eyes, kneeling before an empty pedestal. There was a vast shallow pan on the floor beside him, like a squashed bathtub, and remains of halfway abandoned creations littered the floor near its rim. His straw colored hair was my horizon for the first few hours. He smiled down at me and kept working. Slowly, the world gained clarity. Images sharpened an borders defined themselves as he shaped and prodded my eyes into place, coming close enough to kiss me while he carved my irises. Every breath he took washed over my face, and I heard the softly whispered promises on each of them, and smiled unseen. He wanted to make me beautiful.
He molded my lips, my nose, my jaw. He lingered for an unwarranted amount of time over my neck and my breasts, seeking to give permanence to some imagined perfection. I had no doubt of his skill- the world I saw was proof enough. Nymphs laughed at me from across the room, fawns lurked in the shadows, scared of the light, and from where I saw, gracefully perched on my plinth, I could see them all. He sang as he worked, my lonely God, working his dexterous fingers over my calves, drawing lines of life all the way to my feet. He would flit between my fingers and my hair, sculpting one to be delicate, the other to be heavy, to fall and cover me from the eyes of the world. So my hair fell to my waist- even obscured my vision of him for a little bit- but he fixed it immediately. He wanted to see me. He wanted me to see.
Ever so often, he’d walk to the depression in the floor and bring me some more clay. He made a seat next to me, covered my nakedness with flowers and leaves, and left enough place for him to sit by me, as I lived and breathed only where he could see. And he never stopped making me. Sometimes, he’d remake my lips. Sometimes, he’d rework my feet, and I’d watch his sunny hair gleam in the morning light while he broke off my toes, one by one, and make me new ones. For the most part, I was beautiful enough for him, and he was happy with me.
Till the night he came in, and sat next to me, and wept. He put his head on my shoulder and cried like he was the only man left alive, like his heart had seen unspeakable things and they knew no other language but tears. And he howled with impotent rage, screaming and lashing out at my inadequate efforts to soothe him. He picked up a trowel and hacked at my face, gouging out my cheeks, my forehead, methodically destroying every feature I had, while I gaped soundlessly at him.
And in the morning he woke up in a rubble of existence, unable to watch him, but I felt him. Slowly he got up, penitent, and fetched more clay, to make me again.
I didn’t mind. He’d make me beautiful.
Who do I hold responsible, for this summer’s sky’s rage
A fortress of clouds, imprisoned storms in a cage, of
Trapped vortices of fury, pinpoint pillars of shame
Teetering columns sway, against lights aglo, inflamed
By the whims of the sun, dropping groundwards in repose
The clockwork mechanisms undone by this sudden, grandiose
Bellicose display of temper, the winds mutinous, belligerent
Contentiously buffeting the trees, threatening, wild, truculent
While the thunderclouds swell ominously, pushing to burst in their bondage
Who do I hold responsible, then, for this summer’s sky’s rage?
Written for the Doubles prompt, Day 15 of NaPoWriMo.
Here’s to riding out the storm. Cheers. 🙂
On the Rocks- III
I drain the glass of whiskey
And let it fill me up
There’s a message in
a bottle, right there
I cared less with the last one
And I’ll care less with the next one
At some point, I
Won’t even care
I’m looking forward to that
I know I’ll meet you there
Love is a beautiful glow to carry around inside of you.
It’s like this concoction of secret smiles inside your head that no one else needs to see, spreading warmth like a mug full of hot chocolate filling you up, and a reason to feel curiously satisfied, even in an otherwise complicated and wholly unsatisfying life.
The undeniable honesty underlying it all only makes it better. It feels right, your gut knows and heart affirms and your mind cannot argue with it it either. Sure, it makes some of our promises bittersweet, but they’re honest- and nothing’s more important than that. Let’s face it. Friendship, loyalty, honesty, these have become almost bookish concepts amidst the otherwise mask like interactions we make on a daily basis. To be able to take that mask off to someone, without fear or vulnerability of any ugliness you may feel… I can’t think of anything more valuable. And happiness is relative. It exists within those three parameters. And they all come together to make up that small, overused and undervalued four letter word.
I wonder how much of a sap it makes me, even by my own cynical and pragmatic definitions of life and togetherness. More significantly, I don’t care, somehow. We may have our oscillations, I may have my oscillations, but something as beautiful as this, happens only once in a lifetime- if at all, for some people. It doesn’t matter, how many places you look for it. You can look all you want but one day, when you gave up looking long ago, you realize that you simply weren’t looking– it’s been sitting there between the both of you. And then you sleep feeling loved and wake up knowing that you are loved.
Time and place and distance and circumstance, all become very inconsequential.
You love, therefore you are.
We love, therefore we are.