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Tag Archives: love
Poems of Smoke
Among The Coals
Born in the hazed amber I was swaddled and charred. Another faceless giver In a faceless sea Waiting to choke
Tarred and Feathered
Inhale, hold, exhale Self inflicted. Slowly pluck feathers spring chickens Cluck no more - cough - cough - Burn one more Spark up
Smother
Science is unwelcome It's unholy. Innovation is unholy It's unwelcome. Dunk the witch She'll float Burn the witch She'll choke
Parched
She's gasping again Under the wildfire. Mother Earth gasps Inland on avocado smoke While you're eating Avocado on toast
Imperfect
Intuitively I knew to let it go before My mind fixated on it too much. Perhaps I could distract myself Entirely from my own insecurity that's Reaching it's clawed hand up From the pits of my stomach to scratch my Esophagus as though it's itching. Controlling the impulse is pointless because - Take that apostrophe and that space - I'm Perfect
Citrine Dreamer
Originally Written 09/05/2020, Edited 12/05/2021
Bestowed gift of manifestation As laid by this babe's head, Bring abundance to this child With bounds yet to be unknown. Create from his flesh a conduit Flowing bountiful in curiosity And free in unabashed glee. Fortify his bones against misery And afford him only adoration. Grant him true expression of Boundless and pure creativity Cascading from his fingertips Or coursing from his pouting lips. Hold his tongue from envious spite. Transform those jealous intentions Into tangible and fortuitous actions. Harbour angers, fears and explosions To free his spirit for fresh pursuits. Transmute his negative shadows Into innovative and fertile passions That may regenerate his being And unshackle his ambitions. Produce from this humble bairn An infant of widened eyes and heart; An enduring and steadfast being. Make him true, fair citrine dreamer.
Spirit of the Sprite
The day has too few a sunrise to explore But the innumerous colours are counted In ritual along the distant early skyline anyway. Beyond the principle of merely being, There's the principle of endless sight seeing Fluttering on the delicate iridescent wingtip. Although all sights are born of intrinsic good, Reality requires a respite of recuperation So the sprite may realign it's own energies. Wrapped in nature's most pastoral gifts The sprite feasts on the bounty of true justice: Nourished by the fundamentals of harmony So it may be vibrant in passionate expression. Though delicate to the lowly observing eye, The spirit of the sprite is bodaciously hardy, Fearlessly inspired by the very air it breathes: Time had tested itself, and failed to win battle Against the ethereal protector of land and sea.
Breccia
A beautifully imperfect creation, Mottled in angst and frustration, Capturing stray drops of sunlight To warm you on the colder nights. The open evening air calls you To gain that moment of solitude Between the sediments of thought Lined and calmed in melodies. You don't absorb or reflect When bathing in the day's light, But refract polychromatic splendour Through your fused shrapnel. Each playing piece considered and Placed within the web of fragments Builds a mosaic of endurance: A tenacious testament of truth, Boldly embraced through fractures And acknowledged reality splinters. The weathered debris of survival Formed you a formidable warrior Encased in your own clast armour: Sharply witted within awareness, Yet dynamically poised, prepared For metamorphic elevation.
Faithless Grief
I’m faithless and unashamed
For God did not give us grief.
Love manipulated our trust
So that chance could gamble
With the futility of our existence,
Ripping the tense velcro bonds
Of hearts grown together.
I applaud it’s gamesmanship,
For it doesn’t laude it in our faces
By any means other than simply
Gathering the grim and gaunt
In coats of greyed gaberdine.
Long coats hanging as if empty,
Made black from the heart’s rain.
I am faithless and entirely alone,
But still gesticulating to the air:
An open chested final demand
To give back the gift of grief
That greeted me at this graveside.
Need I be a god-fearing glossolalist
To return this heartbreak?
75ml Measures
We got plastered on the mezzanine. Giving even less shits than before With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene Splitting prescription amphetamine Into servings of six, eight or four, We got plastered on the mezzanine. Supplementing lacking dopamine Pretending we wanted to feel more With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene On the childlike side of something-teen With store rooms of baggage to ignore We got plastered on the mezzanine. Steadily making more of a scene Baiting ourselves to even the score With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene These moments dipped light in sertraline Revisited in flashbacks galore We got plastered on the mezzanine. With cheap shots that burnt like kerosene
Dancing Brevettes
Couples s w a y Waltz
Waltz C i r c l e Princesses
Princess C a p t i v a t e Ballrooms
Written in response to an Ampersand Prompt
Gunpowder and Whiskey
A crystalized lowball glass sways; Jigging the rocks around the whiskey. Holding the glass is an aged hand, Belonging to an aged man Just threatening to tell a story. The bar listens with tense ears And choked breaths. "She was my first wife; June, beautiful, bewitching, bodacious; Too much so at times. She wore her hair pinned At the crook of her neck With a single silver barrette. It softened her harsh features Just a little you see. I came home one day To discover her on the floor, Deceased, With a single silver barrette Plunged deep in her eye socket. But nobody knew a damned thing!" The lowball swayed mores And the tavern slouches listened on. "Next there was my second wife, Anna-Marie. She was a pious woman, And her slight figure would pray Before performing any activity And i mean any, before the Lord. She tied the waist of her dress With a bright green ribbon; it was so tiny that waist of hers. Shame I found the ribbon Around that pretty porcelain neck. And for some reason, Everyone thought nothing of it!" The lowball was empty. Once the bartender topped it up The man continued. "Finally there is my beloved Jessie. Far too pretty and young Especially for this old ruffian, But she would ignite the fire To warm any man's soul. Now she's still alive. But that there stiff That got my gun going He's the bastard Snatched her from me. And with God as my witness, She remains my wife, So she belongs to me." And with one long final sip, He left the bar without his gun; High off of gunpowder and whiskey.
The Poet Armistead 