writing live
- Thread starter smithpeter
- Start date
butters
High on a Hill
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twilight comes
twice in each diurnal round
as quiet as tidal pools that slowly fill
and empty
a shadowless haunt
broken on the wing of thrush's first reveille
the backbird's liquid song as it calls on down the night
twilight
thrice a day,
sun rise, sun set and
when ever our eyes have met
that instant pales all else,
leaving nothing but shadows
in our wake
butters
High on a Hill
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transition
an incompleteness
the shell came first but never quite whole
the ability to form complexes
in colour
leaving a metallic taste
in its wake
why transition, when
we can bridge light
and shade,
complexities in
charms,
wrapped in metaphorical
arms,
the colour of happenstance,
but whole in substance,
metallic tasting
passion red,
the colour of
sky in twilights eye
so hang between the time
of shadow and light
and suspend me in your colours.
butters
High on a Hill
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butters
High on a Hill
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colours
begin: |12.01|
"suspend me in your colours" he said
but what if i were to tell you
falling into the blue is to lose yourself
dissolution?
what if i were to say
"white's too blinding,
a blindfold on a rainy day
when all soft-plumage pinks and greys
hold ripples like the thoughts within my hands..."
or
"green feeds me
i can taste it, new-cut grass my catnip"
?
what if i told you
"flamenco reds and lava-glows
drive me wild and
edged with golds
fan like flames that lace a darkened bough"?
yellows are for flowers and sun-dresses
but give me shades of lavender and rose, lilacs and dog-violet -
these make my inner self smile
the black
well
the black can be too softly welcome
maybe that's what comes after
falling into the blue
end |12.13|
begin: |12.01|
"suspend me in your colours" he said
but what if i were to tell you
falling into the blue is to lose yourself
dissolution?
what if i were to say
"white's too blinding,
a blindfold on a rainy day
when all soft-plumage pinks and greys
hold ripples like the thoughts within my hands..."
or
"green feeds me
i can taste it, new-cut grass my catnip"
?
what if i told you
"flamenco reds and lava-glows
drive me wild and
edged with golds
fan like flames that lace a darkened bough"?
yellows are for flowers and sun-dresses
but give me shades of lavender and rose, lilacs and dog-violet -
these make my inner self smile
the black
well
the black can be too softly welcome
maybe that's what comes after
falling into the blue
end |12.13|
Last edited:
HarryHill
Hairy fucker
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2012
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- 15,262
just a little while ago:
..
Yawn, stretch, scratch shoulders
arch and turn across the bed
peer through a curtain of hair
small numbers on the chronometer
my bed is empty
the neighbors are noisy
and there's the smell of coffee in the air.
..
just now:
..
Yawn, stretch, scratch shoulders
arch and turn across the bed
peer through a curtain of hair
small numbers on the chronometer
my bed is empty
the neighbors are noisy
and there's the smell of coffee in the air.
..
just now:
butters
High on a Hill
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HarryHill
Hairy fucker
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The oddest thing, thought I was reading butters, then looked again, nice second
butters
High on a Hill
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i know! it's weird when he does that - a mirroring. so many clever writers here, i love it
HarryHill
Hairy fucker
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9:15 behind the screen
..
Your words are a spectrum
cast through a pyramid of glass
transforming benighted into blinding bliss
illuminating in pyrotechnic flashes of insight
the abyss of my soul with colors of your life
I want to smell your blue
taste the bitter white
feel the red and lava glows
burning on my skin
soothed by greens un-tasted poultice
spread on wounds long unhealed
your fields of yellow topped in shades of indigo
a vision for eyes gone slow and old
that before you called for black.
..
9:38 think I'll take a break
butters
High on a Hill
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*speechless, wordless - for now. i'll be back, though, so don't think you've shut me up
* i keep seeing kaleidoscopes and prisms....
HarryHill
Hairy fucker
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Hard to find stones gone soft after yours.. or was it the heart gone sof, stones hard, no not erotic but very *sighs* well, very*speechless, wordless - for now. i'll be back, though, so don't think you've shut me up
butters
High on a Hill
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Hard to find stones gone soft after yours.. or was it the heart gone soft, stones hard, no not erotic but very *sighs* well, very
i'm starving! off to cook.
butters
High on a Hill
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where have all the poets gone?
long time
passing
when solitude fills your ears
with a press of silence that is less than silence
*mutes the tv*
more than silence
*that buzz of sleep demanding to be heard*
and no bright sparks to set kindle alight
with worded inspirations
give in
embrace the quietude
*you could play music but it's too much effort
in your hibernetic state*
curl a metaphoric tale about yourself
*yes, i said 'tale'*
drowse
content
*lids close*
long time
passing
when solitude fills your ears
with a press of silence that is less than silence
*mutes the tv*
more than silence
*that buzz of sleep demanding to be heard*
and no bright sparks to set kindle alight
with worded inspirations
give in
embrace the quietude
*you could play music but it's too much effort
in your hibernetic state*
curl a metaphoric tale about yourself
*yes, i said 'tale'*
drowse
content
*lids close*
butters
High on a Hill
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1201
begin |12.01|
there it is again
that time
oh happy circumstance - well, maybe
a stone of a man
but one hollowed
when you find his cave
it's filled with purple ice
but shine a candle flame
he is molten
notebook in hand
standing beneath trees
composing weightless words
stolen by the breeze
end |12.07|
begin |12.01|
there it is again
that time
oh happy circumstance - well, maybe
a stone of a man
but one hollowed
when you find his cave
it's filled with purple ice
but shine a candle flame
he is molten
notebook in hand
standing beneath trees
composing weightless words
stolen by the breeze
end |12.07|
Last edited:
butters
High on a Hill
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- Jul 2, 2009
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begin |20.37|
sometimes the tide pulls out
unexpectedly
leaves a fish stranded
in grit
a carefree child
walks the edge of the brick wall
laughing in delight at the pull of the wind
wavers
on the edge of danger
a breath away from torn hands and knees
blindfolds and ear-defenders
means feeling one's way
braille takes a little getting used to
and now it's time for candyfloss and carousels and the round and round and round
of spinning thoughts, discordant notes
waiting to find harmonies
end |20.45|
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