Paloma
You always told me that the pigeons led you home. That when the skies rained down and the water washed into your tears, instead of thinking about your saltwater polluting the atmosphere, you thought about flying. You stood in the empty slick blacktop street and revolved like a music box dancer, arms raised perpendicular to your body, finger fluttering as if they knew they were meant to be feathers.
This is how I like to picture you: I don't want to remember you with clipped wings.
You tried to tell me that in Spanish, the words for dove and pigeon are the same, and that the only difference was in how you looked at it. Or how other people looked at it. I told you to button your shirt, to please wear socks, to eat your dinner. But I never told you to look at a pigeon and call it a dove. Never.
Maybe that was it. You saw everything in the extraordinary, and I was your realist. Your muse in the mundane.
Do you know that I think about that day every night when I can't sleep? When the moon shines in my window, casting improbable shadows that all manage to look like you, and I'm suddenly lost in your world, in a nighttime horrorscape that I, suddenly, find lovely.
I count the pigeons that fly by, but none of them are doves, to me.
"Don't worry," you said, weaving your fingers into the awkward piece of hair at the back of your neck. "I'll be back in two minutes. Count them."
Did you know that I actually did? That I breathed in every second in time to the ticking of the impassive grandfather clock, losing oxygen without you to remind me it was there.
1200 seconds of breathing atmosphere vapors. Do you know what that's like?
Try a day of that. Try hours of waiting, counting stars and street lamps and drunken pedestrians. The number of times the phone rang before I picked it up, my fingers trembling like beaten drums.
There are millions of people in this city. You'd think that one of them could have stopped you. Every night I picture it; you had such an attention for details, and I know you made it picturesque. I see you standing on tar-laden rooftop shingles, pallid moonlight illuminating you from the back, standing over the city like an angel of death. I imagine you raised your arms and the light was drawn to them, that your feet left the ground with a movement of your muscles and that for a brief second, you were airborne above the city made of pinprick lights, held aloft by wings made of borrowed starlight and dreams and the knowledge that you were immortal.
Then I see you plummet, race towards the ground, and collide.
The clock stops. There is no more air in the room. The birds sit frozen on the rooftop, as if in a tableau from a bad play with static characters, and for a moment, I can almost tell them apart. Then reality hits, and I slide out of your world, out of the vibrant imaginations and movie subtitling, gasping like a newborn on the cold hardwood floor, I'm just alone in this apartment, and nothing can bring you back, no matter how I look at it.
There is one thing I wish I could tell you. You were my dove, and you didn't need to fly away to prove it.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Excerpt #1: Sandcastles.
...some things aren't meant to last, like memories and sandcastles.
I wander the small, cramped room, careful not to stumble on the crooked, garage-sale furniture. Next to her bed, on a garish little table painted rust orange, sits a single photograph in a plastic frame. She is smiling and radiant, hair blowing in the wind, perfectly matched pink cardigan and tan skirt, her arm looped around him.
He is dark and morose, eyes raised to the camera in a plea, mouth unmoving, jaw ever so slightly clenched.
It is a perfect photograph.
Because sometimes, one person's disease can spread in ways you couldn't imagine, and the only proof is in the before and after shots.
***
excerpt from a short story/novel I've been writing.
I wander the small, cramped room, careful not to stumble on the crooked, garage-sale furniture. Next to her bed, on a garish little table painted rust orange, sits a single photograph in a plastic frame. She is smiling and radiant, hair blowing in the wind, perfectly matched pink cardigan and tan skirt, her arm looped around him.
He is dark and morose, eyes raised to the camera in a plea, mouth unmoving, jaw ever so slightly clenched.
It is a perfect photograph.
Because sometimes, one person's disease can spread in ways you couldn't imagine, and the only proof is in the before and after shots.
***
excerpt from a short story/novel I've been writing.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Why I Am A Terrible Person:
Oh my.
Well I never intended to let this go for so long...
but it became clear that it was
totally
unrealistic
to think that I could update every day,
considering I actually have a life
now.
so.
I will still post poetry, but
not as often.
Because I haven't been writing
But I will.
Well I never intended to let this go for so long...
but it became clear that it was
totally
unrealistic
to think that I could update every day,
considering I actually have a life
now.
so.
I will still post poetry, but
not as often.
Because I haven't been writing
But I will.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Poems #47-51: Sincere Apologies!
Fireflies
1.
If I could meet your eyes,
I'd tell you
about the lightning bugs,
and how I forgot them.
2.
If I could remember your name,
I'd sing about the thunderstorms
and shelter.
3.
If I had one wish,
I'd waste it.
___________________________________
Stopwatch
I'll pretend for a moment
that the world spins for me,
that time and space mean nothing
and that I am certain.
Please don't ask advice
you can't receive
from me.
I'd stop the world
And breathe
The air
from space
Just to know for sure
that what I do
is mine.
__________________________________
Reflection
Show me a girl who writes poetry
Whose love notes are whispers
That tumble to ash.
Who like walking barefoot
and loves rain for dancing,
but not the pounding,
incessant dark wet.
Show me the girl who gives tattoos
like kisses, who loves to use color,
Who swings from the heartstrings
Who loves apple picking,
and cherry-tree climbing
and drawing you pictures,
and painting eyelashes-
Show me this girl who loves the mirror
but doesn't know herself; she is
the dancing in the wildflowers
trapped beneath a parking lot
waiting for the sun.
Show me this girl,
hand me the mirror,
I'll turn it back to you,
you can't see the colors unless
You open those eyes.
______________________________
The Search
What do you do,
When you’re sixteen,
and they find you?
The mail pours into your home
Like floodwater,
Smooth pamphlets that sing
Of future security and success,
All the while lying to you
With their picturesque tongues.
What if you, unlike them,
Do not have a plan?
What if all you want is to be,
To decide later and live now,
To burn the slick pamphlets,
Rip up the booklets, and finally
Hear the trees?
What do you do,
When you’re seventeen,
And it’s one year closer?
________________________________
Lillywrite
A little man
makes a little time
to try again.
The letters shake
his hand the cobwebs
holding his mind together.
Dear, he writes,
save me from myself.
Save me from becoming
what you are.
Letter 473 mailed in a box
in his attic,
carried by angels
to a god's sacred brothel,
she plucks it with pale palms
the fingers like lilies
she reads-
Dear, save me from myself.
And the little man
has little time
to lie in the snow
and wonder,
surrounded by those beautiful
pale,
waiflike
letters
like tombs.
***
I KNOW I MISSED 5 DAYS!
but here are 5 *NEW* poems
1.
If I could meet your eyes,
I'd tell you
about the lightning bugs,
and how I forgot them.
2.
If I could remember your name,
I'd sing about the thunderstorms
and shelter.
3.
If I had one wish,
I'd waste it.
___________________________________
Stopwatch
I'll pretend for a moment
that the world spins for me,
that time and space mean nothing
and that I am certain.
Please don't ask advice
you can't receive
from me.
I'd stop the world
And breathe
The air
from space
Just to know for sure
that what I do
is mine.
__________________________________
Reflection
Show me a girl who writes poetry
Whose love notes are whispers
That tumble to ash.
Who like walking barefoot
and loves rain for dancing,
but not the pounding,
incessant dark wet.
Show me the girl who gives tattoos
like kisses, who loves to use color,
Who swings from the heartstrings
Who loves apple picking,
and cherry-tree climbing
and drawing you pictures,
and painting eyelashes-
Show me this girl who loves the mirror
but doesn't know herself; she is
the dancing in the wildflowers
trapped beneath a parking lot
waiting for the sun.
Show me this girl,
hand me the mirror,
I'll turn it back to you,
you can't see the colors unless
You open those eyes.
______________________________
The Search
What do you do,
When you’re sixteen,
and they find you?
The mail pours into your home
Like floodwater,
Smooth pamphlets that sing
Of future security and success,
All the while lying to you
With their picturesque tongues.
What if you, unlike them,
Do not have a plan?
What if all you want is to be,
To decide later and live now,
To burn the slick pamphlets,
Rip up the booklets, and finally
Hear the trees?
What do you do,
When you’re seventeen,
And it’s one year closer?
________________________________
Lillywrite
A little man
makes a little time
to try again.
The letters shake
his hand the cobwebs
holding his mind together.
Dear, he writes,
save me from myself.
Save me from becoming
what you are.
Letter 473 mailed in a box
in his attic,
carried by angels
to a god's sacred brothel,
she plucks it with pale palms
the fingers like lilies
she reads-
Dear, save me from myself.
And the little man
has little time
to lie in the snow
and wonder,
surrounded by those beautiful
pale,
waiflike
letters
like tombs.
***
I KNOW I MISSED 5 DAYS!
but here are 5 *NEW* poems
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Poems #45 and 46: Solar Systems and Melancholy (Plus a very long apology)
Solar Systems
Be
Mine.
My solar system,
Because your face in photographs
Is like staring at the sun,
Because you are
A
Star.
And because no one
Cares
About profanity, no one
Cares
About sexuality,
Or at least-
You have to pretend not,
Have a witty response, like-
Supernova with me.
Like enter my black hole,
Lightspeed read me,
Try and
Touch my
Ultraviolet rays
Or write me more poetry
To stargaze.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Melancholy
I promise:
That when the roof falls in on your head,
I will be there to hold your hand
Even if you died in the crash
And I’m comforting your ghost
Through a divide in time.
I know I said:
That raindrops tasted of summer grass,
And lamplight made you beautiful
That blue felt like the wind’s soft kiss
That I was nothing special
But I forgot the truth
I wanted to tell you:
That even in the dark, there is light
Reflected from your eyes, and even
If you jumped the ship, I would be
Standing in the wake, and even
Though you’re gone away-
I wanted to whisper:
That love feels like sandpaper and pebbles,
And both will wear you away
But they can’t erase you because
Only you have that power
And I hope to god you forget
***
Oh my.
So I seem to keep forgetting days, which makes me feel like a slacker in so many ways since I am mostly just copying and pasting old work, not even being original. Most of the time I don't even have a good excuse. It's probably a good thing that this is most likely unread internet trash, since if I did have followers, they would be ticked off and most likely trolls and spambots.
Anyways. If you are an honest actual person and stumble across this, know that as penance for my forgetfulness, I have posted two poems that I promised myself I wouldn't, mostly because I think they're dishonest, oddly personal, and at the same time impersonal and cliche. Enjoy.
Be
Mine.
My solar system,
Because your face in photographs
Is like staring at the sun,
Because you are
A
Star.
And because no one
Cares
About profanity, no one
Cares
About sexuality,
Or at least-
You have to pretend not,
Have a witty response, like-
Supernova with me.
Like enter my black hole,
Lightspeed read me,
Try and
Touch my
Ultraviolet rays
Or write me more poetry
To stargaze.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Melancholy
I promise:
That when the roof falls in on your head,
I will be there to hold your hand
Even if you died in the crash
And I’m comforting your ghost
Through a divide in time.
I know I said:
That raindrops tasted of summer grass,
And lamplight made you beautiful
That blue felt like the wind’s soft kiss
That I was nothing special
But I forgot the truth
I wanted to tell you:
That even in the dark, there is light
Reflected from your eyes, and even
If you jumped the ship, I would be
Standing in the wake, and even
Though you’re gone away-
I wanted to whisper:
That love feels like sandpaper and pebbles,
And both will wear you away
But they can’t erase you because
Only you have that power
And I hope to god you forget
***
Oh my.
So I seem to keep forgetting days, which makes me feel like a slacker in so many ways since I am mostly just copying and pasting old work, not even being original. Most of the time I don't even have a good excuse. It's probably a good thing that this is most likely unread internet trash, since if I did have followers, they would be ticked off and most likely trolls and spambots.
Anyways. If you are an honest actual person and stumble across this, know that as penance for my forgetfulness, I have posted two poems that I promised myself I wouldn't, mostly because I think they're dishonest, oddly personal, and at the same time impersonal and cliche. Enjoy.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Poem #44: The Icy Wall
The icy wall before them, they sat in an irregular circle, hands on their knees and heads bowed. Wintertime was their one glory, the only time that the tempestuous earth seemed to agree with them. It became cold, gloomy, as they were year round. Light barely even reflected through the frozen waterfall, and where it did, gave off blue and purple hues.
“It looks like a bruise,” one of them mumbled, breaking the silence that haunted their melancholy group.
There was no response.
A fire flickered in the middle of their circle, struggling, like them, a bare blue wisp of light billowing more smoke than flame. It had been constructed haphazardly with no regard for size or design, and so it failed to produce warmth.
They all wore thick coats of a dark material which enveloped their bodies, to counteract the futility of their fire. Together they looked like minuscule bears hiding in a cave, hidden behind a wall of glass that would not shatter, even in this cold. One of them peered out, seeing nothing but frost and suffering trees.
Inside their bare sanctuary, the dirt floor was layered with slick ice and the walls dripped inconsistently along to their own rhythm. A lantern glowed, inefficient, casting wilder shadows juxtaposed with those from the fire, turning all of their faces orange and yellow.
They breathed in unison, filling the space with smoke, with hopes, with dreams that glowed cerulean for only seconds before flickering out.
Like the fire, like the lantern, like the insubstantial wishes, they were evanescent.
***
What? Did I hear you say prose? Really? No Way!
tags ftw.
“It looks like a bruise,” one of them mumbled, breaking the silence that haunted their melancholy group.
There was no response.
A fire flickered in the middle of their circle, struggling, like them, a bare blue wisp of light billowing more smoke than flame. It had been constructed haphazardly with no regard for size or design, and so it failed to produce warmth.
They all wore thick coats of a dark material which enveloped their bodies, to counteract the futility of their fire. Together they looked like minuscule bears hiding in a cave, hidden behind a wall of glass that would not shatter, even in this cold. One of them peered out, seeing nothing but frost and suffering trees.
Inside their bare sanctuary, the dirt floor was layered with slick ice and the walls dripped inconsistently along to their own rhythm. A lantern glowed, inefficient, casting wilder shadows juxtaposed with those from the fire, turning all of their faces orange and yellow.
They breathed in unison, filling the space with smoke, with hopes, with dreams that glowed cerulean for only seconds before flickering out.
Like the fire, like the lantern, like the insubstantial wishes, they were evanescent.
***
What? Did I hear you say prose? Really? No Way!
tags ftw.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Poem #43: Was He Caught?
“trust me” she’d said,
almost invisible without light,
almost laughing without sound,
and so, masking his aching eyes with
the back of a weathered palm,
he stepped to the edge of the rooftop,
pebbles skittering into the obsidian water
under the rubber soles of his
not quite cool shoes.
he exhaled softly in relief,
trusting that, everytime someone brought him this high,
they would inevitably reverse the action
like broken gearshifts.
“are you ready?” she asked,
holding out a pale hand that somehow
glowed in the moonlight, making him think
of how unnatural they were
his feet left the ground like a cloud
crashing to earth, and he gasped
--not out of shock that she had released his hand
and now stared unbelievingly from above,
her mouth a frozen yell of “stop--”
but because from here,
the air was ten times more dazzling,
and whistled in his ears
full symphonies.
the water swam upwards,
and his body bit through to the bottom,
as he realized that finally, he had found something reliable
that would catch him if he fell
with open arms,
and keep him forever.
almost invisible without light,
almost laughing without sound,
and so, masking his aching eyes with
the back of a weathered palm,
he stepped to the edge of the rooftop,
pebbles skittering into the obsidian water
under the rubber soles of his
not quite cool shoes.
he exhaled softly in relief,
trusting that, everytime someone brought him this high,
they would inevitably reverse the action
like broken gearshifts.
“are you ready?” she asked,
holding out a pale hand that somehow
glowed in the moonlight, making him think
of how unnatural they were
his feet left the ground like a cloud
crashing to earth, and he gasped
--not out of shock that she had released his hand
and now stared unbelievingly from above,
her mouth a frozen yell of “stop--”
but because from here,
the air was ten times more dazzling,
and whistled in his ears
full symphonies.
the water swam upwards,
and his body bit through to the bottom,
as he realized that finally, he had found something reliable
that would catch him if he fell
with open arms,
and keep him forever.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Poem #42: A Disaster Waiting to Happen
You are look like a disaster waiting to happen
Only smaller, thinner, less concrete.
You look like mascara around your eyes
That lingers when you fall asleep,
Alone at one in the morning in your clothes,
Wishing that you hadn’t gone home.
You look like a fallen rainforest in the mud
With cattle sinking into your filth
Bellowing like it will somehow save them
Like someone actually cares.
***
I don't think it's finished.
Only smaller, thinner, less concrete.
You look like mascara around your eyes
That lingers when you fall asleep,
Alone at one in the morning in your clothes,
Wishing that you hadn’t gone home.
You look like a fallen rainforest in the mud
With cattle sinking into your filth
Bellowing like it will somehow save them
Like someone actually cares.
***
I don't think it's finished.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Poem #41: Boo Radley
***
i'm really really REALLY sorry for the shitty formatting. This was the only way to get this poem online.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Poem #40: It
It’s like your limbs are extended five hundred feet, maybe twenty, and you can hug the world with one arm, as fluorescent hues traipse around you and you feel so alive.
It’s the way that you feel when sleep eludes and you stare at the ceiling hoping for stars and finding only a cracked beige, barely visible in the jagged blue toned light from the broken window.
Have you ever wished on a meteor, or a planet, and known it would come true?
My lucky color is green, it is the earth, the sun, the moon, it is balance and energy, life and death, it decides for you.
Survive.
It’s the snow rushing from the heavens like god just got blown. That’s not sacrilegious, it’s a simile.
It’s your muscles moving in unison to make a better look on your sad face. That’s not improvement, it’s a smile.
It’s finding your way home in the dark after one in the morning, mud on your jeans and twigs in your hair. Who really cares where you were before, because you didn’t exist then, and now you do, you’re real. Real scared.
I tried to find it. The map you gave me was written in blood and that simple fact made my tears stain it beyond legibility. I’m so sorry I can’t ask you to make another.
Once upon a time, you existed. Now you’re just a speck in the distance, a star in the sky, a shadow at night. Now you’re only in my dreams, in my writing, in paintings of fruit and faces and dead animals. Now you’re no more real than me.
It’s hidden in a red toolbox rusting under your broken porch, it’s in a safe in that hotel in Vegas you never went to, it’s under your pillow waiting for you. It’s anywhere you’re not and everywhere you want to be.
It’s like you’re four hundred feet tall and everyone else is a thousand, and they have gills and breathe underwater and you can’t follow them and drown and you can’t stay on the shore and mourn and starve and so you-
Have you ever wished on anything, and known it would come true?
***
This is more prose-poetry random drifting artsy completely incomprehensible babble. Old work, but I like it.
It’s the way that you feel when sleep eludes and you stare at the ceiling hoping for stars and finding only a cracked beige, barely visible in the jagged blue toned light from the broken window.
Have you ever wished on a meteor, or a planet, and known it would come true?
My lucky color is green, it is the earth, the sun, the moon, it is balance and energy, life and death, it decides for you.
Survive.
It’s the snow rushing from the heavens like god just got blown. That’s not sacrilegious, it’s a simile.
It’s your muscles moving in unison to make a better look on your sad face. That’s not improvement, it’s a smile.
It’s finding your way home in the dark after one in the morning, mud on your jeans and twigs in your hair. Who really cares where you were before, because you didn’t exist then, and now you do, you’re real. Real scared.
I tried to find it. The map you gave me was written in blood and that simple fact made my tears stain it beyond legibility. I’m so sorry I can’t ask you to make another.
Once upon a time, you existed. Now you’re just a speck in the distance, a star in the sky, a shadow at night. Now you’re only in my dreams, in my writing, in paintings of fruit and faces and dead animals. Now you’re no more real than me.
It’s hidden in a red toolbox rusting under your broken porch, it’s in a safe in that hotel in Vegas you never went to, it’s under your pillow waiting for you. It’s anywhere you’re not and everywhere you want to be.
It’s like you’re four hundred feet tall and everyone else is a thousand, and they have gills and breathe underwater and you can’t follow them and drown and you can’t stay on the shore and mourn and starve and so you-
Have you ever wished on anything, and known it would come true?
***
This is more prose-poetry random drifting artsy completely incomprehensible babble. Old work, but I like it.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Poems #38 and 39: Peppermint and Perspectives
Peppermint
Bitter sweet, my mouth is
Remnants of a day gone by
Time caught, moments
Of disaster,
Of acceptance,
Of denial.
Red and white striped, candy
Symbol of eternal youth
Do you think that
You can have it?
You can break it,
You can lose.
________________________________________________________________
Perspectives
I.
I walk down the dripping streets,
Taking in with my eyes
What I cannot sense otherwise.
In this dark alleyway, there is no light
Besides that I create
And the stones cry moisture
For all that I fear
II.
You stroll down the alley,
Your head held high
To keep the demons on their chains
Your eyes forward
Taking in the fall of rain
With only ears and tongue.
You do not notice
The rainbow above.
III.
He is small and afraid,
Scurrying down this dim lit path
As if he didn’t belong
On this rainy day
To the city itself
Which swallows you whole.
IV.
It watches and laughs
As mortals flee the daylight
And cower in darkness
Moving the way we act
One point left or right
But never really changing
The outcome of the graph.
***
Once again, sorry sorry sorry for being lazy and missing a day.
Bitter sweet, my mouth is
Remnants of a day gone by
Time caught, moments
Of disaster,
Of acceptance,
Of denial.
Red and white striped, candy
Symbol of eternal youth
Do you think that
You can have it?
You can break it,
You can lose.
________________________________________________________________
Perspectives
I.
I walk down the dripping streets,
Taking in with my eyes
What I cannot sense otherwise.
In this dark alleyway, there is no light
Besides that I create
And the stones cry moisture
For all that I fear
II.
You stroll down the alley,
Your head held high
To keep the demons on their chains
Your eyes forward
Taking in the fall of rain
With only ears and tongue.
You do not notice
The rainbow above.
III.
He is small and afraid,
Scurrying down this dim lit path
As if he didn’t belong
On this rainy day
To the city itself
Which swallows you whole.
IV.
It watches and laughs
As mortals flee the daylight
And cower in darkness
Moving the way we act
One point left or right
But never really changing
The outcome of the graph.
***
Once again, sorry sorry sorry for being lazy and missing a day.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Poem #37: You Are Me
Your crooked spine
Is the bareback outline of a sea monster
Devouring the waves
Your face, the moon
Luminescent but for the shadows
Which scar you
I want to
Put all your pieces back together
Just to prove I can
I want to eclipse you
I want to stop you
I want to tame you
I want to learn your language
So that I, too,
May speak with the stars.
***
...wait, WHAT?
Is the bareback outline of a sea monster
Devouring the waves
Your face, the moon
Luminescent but for the shadows
Which scar you
I want to
Put all your pieces back together
Just to prove I can
I want to eclipse you
I want to stop you
I want to tame you
I want to learn your language
So that I, too,
May speak with the stars.
***
...wait, WHAT?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Poem #36: Fuego y Amor
Yo me siento en el suelo
Tratando de decidir
Cuál libro a quemar hoy.
No piense que soy loca,
Solo quiero ver
La manera en que algo
Decide que expirar.
Dame una cerilla,
Y voy a mostrarte
Que significa la vida.
Cuando estás lleno
De fuego y amor
Veas que los dos
Son el mismo.
***
Poesía en espanol...lo siento.
I wrote this awhile ego, so it may not be grammatically correct or anything... or even make sense...
Tratando de decidir
Cuál libro a quemar hoy.
No piense que soy loca,
Solo quiero ver
La manera en que algo
Decide que expirar.
Dame una cerilla,
Y voy a mostrarte
Que significa la vida.
Cuando estás lleno
De fuego y amor
Veas que los dos
Son el mismo.
***
Poesía en espanol...lo siento.
I wrote this awhile ego, so it may not be grammatically correct or anything... or even make sense...
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Poem #35: An Excerpt
I painted you a picture, and you smiled
And hung it in your room, and I thought
“that is love.” You gave me silver earrings
And I lost them within minutes, and
I cried and tried to find them, but you
Just said, “that’s ok.” I danced for you
In drifts of snow, and showered you with
Glitter dust, and tried to make you
Smile again, but you remained so cold.
***
Apologies for my recent laziness... last post was just crap, and this one is literally an excerpt from a longer poem entitled "This Would Be the Best Breakup Note Ever" that was just too ridiculously long and awful to post. This was the only good section in it, seeing as the whole thing was entirely theoretical and abstract.
And hung it in your room, and I thought
“that is love.” You gave me silver earrings
And I lost them within minutes, and
I cried and tried to find them, but you
Just said, “that’s ok.” I danced for you
In drifts of snow, and showered you with
Glitter dust, and tried to make you
Smile again, but you remained so cold.
***
Apologies for my recent laziness... last post was just crap, and this one is literally an excerpt from a longer poem entitled "This Would Be the Best Breakup Note Ever" that was just too ridiculously long and awful to post. This was the only good section in it, seeing as the whole thing was entirely theoretical and abstract.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Poem #34: Pending
This is not a poem.
It is a broken
Sentence
About how I like
Strobe, flash,
dance
and
jumping to catch
the sun.
about how i love
to yell
until my voice
is thin
and gone
away.
goodbye.
It is a broken
Sentence
About how I like
Strobe, flash,
dance
and
jumping to catch
the sun.
about how i love
to yell
until my voice
is thin
and gone
away.
goodbye.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Poem #33: Tsst
There is a place
Where you and I could
Possibly fall and learn
That the sky is not
A ceiling
Not a river
Not a net
There, in the middle
We could stand
Like fountains,
Could be
Triumphant, for once
Forever?
I would catch you
If the sky
Swooped down to claim you
Tried to trap you
Learned to steal you
From my fingers
Caked with cloud
There is nothing
Besides fire,
Other than rivers,
Nothing else like
Sunsets and rain
And the aftermaths of both
I was there
When you climbed
Up into the sky
And I laughed
That you would have
To come down sometimes
We could be there
In the middle,
Not in the rainclouds,
Not in the alphabet;
Just here,
Nowhere,
Everywhere
Where you can’t fall
And you can’t climb
And the monotone beat
Of your heart thumps
Making a disaster
Of melody.
***
Not entirely sure when/why this was written, but I'm pretty sure it's from the viewpoint of a character in a story I wrote about a year ago, which involved a bunch of surreal/fantasyish crazy alternate universe goodness.
Where you and I could
Possibly fall and learn
That the sky is not
A ceiling
Not a river
Not a net
There, in the middle
We could stand
Like fountains,
Could be
Triumphant, for once
Forever?
I would catch you
If the sky
Swooped down to claim you
Tried to trap you
Learned to steal you
From my fingers
Caked with cloud
There is nothing
Besides fire,
Other than rivers,
Nothing else like
Sunsets and rain
And the aftermaths of both
I was there
When you climbed
Up into the sky
And I laughed
That you would have
To come down sometimes
We could be there
In the middle,
Not in the rainclouds,
Not in the alphabet;
Just here,
Nowhere,
Everywhere
Where you can’t fall
And you can’t climb
And the monotone beat
Of your heart thumps
Making a disaster
Of melody.
***
Not entirely sure when/why this was written, but I'm pretty sure it's from the viewpoint of a character in a story I wrote about a year ago, which involved a bunch of surreal/fantasyish crazy alternate universe goodness.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Poem #32: When the Zombiez Come to Get Us
When the zombies come,
I'll be prepared-
To look you in the eyes, my owl
as suns explode
and stars collide,
to tell you-
it'll be alright.
The zombies, crooked hearts and bones
Cannot be stopped with feeble cries-
For techno music leads them on,
And we are hiding here... alone-
Except for thirty zombie men,
Their eyeless sockets closing in,
Their fetid breath,
their teeth like knives-
Oh god-
I'm bit.
And so are you,
My zombie dear,
Our very hands are tasty now,
I will not munch your finger off
I only want to eat your arms-
And touch your hair-
My zombie love.
***
ZOMBIEZZZ??? OHNO.
I'll be prepared-
To look you in the eyes, my owl
as suns explode
and stars collide,
to tell you-
it'll be alright.
The zombies, crooked hearts and bones
Cannot be stopped with feeble cries-
For techno music leads them on,
And we are hiding here... alone-
Except for thirty zombie men,
Their eyeless sockets closing in,
Their fetid breath,
their teeth like knives-
Oh god-
I'm bit.
And so are you,
My zombie dear,
Our very hands are tasty now,
I will not munch your finger off
I only want to eat your arms-
And touch your hair-
My zombie love.
***
ZOMBIEZZZ??? OHNO.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Poem #31: Oh Poor Thing
When I see
That you are breaking,
I do not quake,
For we are made
To shatter on the ground
And fly again
Forgive me
For burning off the feathers
That kept you
You mean nothing
Without the stones that hold
You flightless
I waited
For the day to pour into
Where we are
I watched
Your struggles for flight
And smiled
That you are breaking,
I do not quake,
For we are made
To shatter on the ground
And fly again
Forgive me
For burning off the feathers
That kept you
You mean nothing
Without the stones that hold
You flightless
I waited
For the day to pour into
Where we are
I watched
Your struggles for flight
And smiled
Monday, August 3, 2009
Poem #30: I Warned You
What have I become?
I’m trying to make the pieces
Fit again, but why, they just
Won’t go together, they’re
Like mismatched signals
And the feedback is making
My stomach burn inside
I just want this over with
So I can sleep again, so that
My dreams are no longer
Filled with the screams,
So that my head is clear
Of the blood, and the pain,
And so that I can go away,
Find a new name, and then
Sin no more. I didn’t want
This. I didn’t dream of this.
I didn’t dream of it when
The daylight penetrated my
Downcast eyelids, or when
The laughter came to me
Through the thin paper wall,
Or even when I saw myself
Just go ahead and lose control.
I did dream at night, but
Really, that doesn’t count.
We were just single filed,
All in one line’d, we were
Slated anyway, or so they
Whispered to me, and made
It hard to breathe. You know
The rest of this story, so
Why are you still here? Why
Don’t you run away, as they
Could not, did not, would not,
And why are you listening
As I bury the bodies, why
Don’t you see yourself among
Them, in my mind? You are.
You will make a beautiful catastrophe,
And I will be the final stroke.
***
I think this needs explanation... this is written from the viewpoint of some creepy mass-murderer type who's staking out his next victim. But he also realizes that what he's doing is wrong, even as he's planning to kill the next victim. This is the last warning that he's giving, because he really doesn't want to kill the person, but knows that he will. I know, it's a lovely, lovely story :)
I’m trying to make the pieces
Fit again, but why, they just
Won’t go together, they’re
Like mismatched signals
And the feedback is making
My stomach burn inside
I just want this over with
So I can sleep again, so that
My dreams are no longer
Filled with the screams,
So that my head is clear
Of the blood, and the pain,
And so that I can go away,
Find a new name, and then
Sin no more. I didn’t want
This. I didn’t dream of this.
I didn’t dream of it when
The daylight penetrated my
Downcast eyelids, or when
The laughter came to me
Through the thin paper wall,
Or even when I saw myself
Just go ahead and lose control.
I did dream at night, but
Really, that doesn’t count.
We were just single filed,
All in one line’d, we were
Slated anyway, or so they
Whispered to me, and made
It hard to breathe. You know
The rest of this story, so
Why are you still here? Why
Don’t you run away, as they
Could not, did not, would not,
And why are you listening
As I bury the bodies, why
Don’t you see yourself among
Them, in my mind? You are.
You will make a beautiful catastrophe,
And I will be the final stroke.
***
I think this needs explanation... this is written from the viewpoint of some creepy mass-murderer type who's staking out his next victim. But he also realizes that what he's doing is wrong, even as he's planning to kill the next victim. This is the last warning that he's giving, because he really doesn't want to kill the person, but knows that he will. I know, it's a lovely, lovely story :)
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Poem #29: Whispers
It’s funny-
I just thought of this now
(now that it’s irrelevant, time melted away)
But when you left-
Forever-
I didn’t even see you go
(leaving your memories, ghost snowflakes, behind)
The only proof
That you ever really
Existed
(and not just in my tired, frozen-in-place mind)
Was the door swinging
Slowly
Shut.
(ever so softly, falling in place)
Behind you.
***
Blah. Really old work. Feelin lazy.
I just thought of this now
(now that it’s irrelevant, time melted away)
But when you left-
Forever-
I didn’t even see you go
(leaving your memories, ghost snowflakes, behind)
The only proof
That you ever really
Existed
(and not just in my tired, frozen-in-place mind)
Was the door swinging
Slowly
Shut.
(ever so softly, falling in place)
Behind you.
***
Blah. Really old work. Feelin lazy.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Poem #28: Flickerlight
I tried to make a movie about my life, and I found the tape blank. You tried and it was rainbows in the dark. We merged our empty screens together and found nothing.
I paint everything within sight with red and purple, one for each color of my rainbow at night. And green for when you flicker flicker flicker light.
I want to skip school and lie on the grass and gaze at the sun. I want to know it as my friend, not in the biblical sense, and to die in the shakespearian sense within someones arms under that same light. Or starlight. Natural light and not filaments that I make with my hands.
The car wouldn’t start and so I walked. The miles stretched out and the road wound and I found myself singing the only hymn I know, replacing the words with bits from my life, and in the clouds I traced a smile.
When you teach me physics and math, my head spins. When you tell me that light is a motion and stationary, I don’t believe. And when you tell me that sin is knowing these things, I cry late at night wondering why I was created then, if not to doubt everything.
A slideshow of my life plays. We’re swallowing fears in the garage and we’re dancing off pain in the driveway. Inside they talk about life.
The movie theater showed a film of my life and it flickered flickered flickered and went out, but not before producing a gorgeous scene out of your fantasies. When they looked back through the tape, there was nothing, and that moment, that scene, was never seen again except in the memories of all who were there.
Sometimes I flicker like a light, and I can’t seem to find myself. And those are the times I’m just reflecting someone else. And sometimes I flicker flicker flicker and just fade to night.
***
More apologies. Something about prose poetry makes me happy right now. Old work, tho.
I paint everything within sight with red and purple, one for each color of my rainbow at night. And green for when you flicker flicker flicker light.
I want to skip school and lie on the grass and gaze at the sun. I want to know it as my friend, not in the biblical sense, and to die in the shakespearian sense within someones arms under that same light. Or starlight. Natural light and not filaments that I make with my hands.
The car wouldn’t start and so I walked. The miles stretched out and the road wound and I found myself singing the only hymn I know, replacing the words with bits from my life, and in the clouds I traced a smile.
When you teach me physics and math, my head spins. When you tell me that light is a motion and stationary, I don’t believe. And when you tell me that sin is knowing these things, I cry late at night wondering why I was created then, if not to doubt everything.
A slideshow of my life plays. We’re swallowing fears in the garage and we’re dancing off pain in the driveway. Inside they talk about life.
The movie theater showed a film of my life and it flickered flickered flickered and went out, but not before producing a gorgeous scene out of your fantasies. When they looked back through the tape, there was nothing, and that moment, that scene, was never seen again except in the memories of all who were there.
Sometimes I flicker like a light, and I can’t seem to find myself. And those are the times I’m just reflecting someone else. And sometimes I flicker flicker flicker and just fade to night.
***
More apologies. Something about prose poetry makes me happy right now. Old work, tho.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Poem #27: Still Running From You
Remember that one time,
When our fates twined together like blood-red twin kite strings,
The glass-strewn edges whispering their innermost desire: to snap?
No, you’re right
I don’t remember that either.
***
Old work & emoness. Very short. Sorry.
When our fates twined together like blood-red twin kite strings,
The glass-strewn edges whispering their innermost desire: to snap?
No, you’re right
I don’t remember that either.
***
Old work & emoness. Very short. Sorry.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Poem #26: Grocery Store Gods
Wednesday afternoons
Are when the end will come;
When the sky screams red
And bloody, sound of
Shopping cart wheels
Turning corners
The quiet is sanctuary,
Sheep in skins human
Roll carts and hopes through aisles
To the tune of
Old pop songs,
We are the music
We make in the dark,
We are the shoppers,
Alone with the cart-
Men alone crawl like something
Not properly evolved,
Like they have not shed
Their shells,
Their baskets are full,
Their eyes are-
This woman’s heels
Click, breaking the silence
That we have imposed,
She is tall, and dark skin,
And alone.
Staring at packets
Of cornflour and salt,
She is here
She is not
She is-
The little girl staring
The list in her head reading:
Milk, eggs, coffee-
Shit. What else?
She’s too young to do this
Yet too old to be young
In this freezer-space world,
She is-
The employee roams aisles
Off duty, we wonder,
Does she want this?
Surrounded by labels,
To buy them, to sell them,
To go home and love them,
Love is a bargain
On grocery store shelves.
They wander;
They weave.
Their stories are endless
Like stars on horizon
We reach out to touch them,
Our eyes are on fire,
The signals they can’t see
At dark.
We know, now, the sorrow
We invented the longing,
We are the last lobsters
The emptying tank,
Watching the shoppers
As bleary eyes seek us,
And whisper-
“thank god that’s not me.”
While we mouth,
“thank god I’m not you”
And the grocery store gods
Make us whole.
Are when the end will come;
When the sky screams red
And bloody, sound of
Shopping cart wheels
Turning corners
The quiet is sanctuary,
Sheep in skins human
Roll carts and hopes through aisles
To the tune of
Old pop songs,
We are the music
We make in the dark,
We are the shoppers,
Alone with the cart-
Men alone crawl like something
Not properly evolved,
Like they have not shed
Their shells,
Their baskets are full,
Their eyes are-
This woman’s heels
Click, breaking the silence
That we have imposed,
She is tall, and dark skin,
And alone.
Staring at packets
Of cornflour and salt,
She is here
She is not
She is-
The little girl staring
The list in her head reading:
Milk, eggs, coffee-
Shit. What else?
She’s too young to do this
Yet too old to be young
In this freezer-space world,
She is-
The employee roams aisles
Off duty, we wonder,
Does she want this?
Surrounded by labels,
To buy them, to sell them,
To go home and love them,
Love is a bargain
On grocery store shelves.
They wander;
They weave.
Their stories are endless
Like stars on horizon
We reach out to touch them,
Our eyes are on fire,
The signals they can’t see
At dark.
We know, now, the sorrow
We invented the longing,
We are the last lobsters
The emptying tank,
Watching the shoppers
As bleary eyes seek us,
And whisper-
“thank god that’s not me.”
While we mouth,
“thank god I’m not you”
And the grocery store gods
Make us whole.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Poem #25: 3-part Message
Iambic Pentameter Sucks Ass
They were as still as leaves on a front lawn
as awkward stiff as sheets of metal grass
oh how i wish they could be far, and gone
but no, the man commanding them's an ass.
They once were words but now they are deceased,
they once had feelings, now they say no more
with silken ropes you went to tame the beast
and lost what the lines were once fighting for
if you can't tell, i hate the poetry
that loses meaning just to be in form
of ways that sound like silver on the glass
and fall to earth like nothing that they are
Please stop ruining poetry for us
please stop ruining poetry for us.
--------------------------------
Uniform
They tell me that,
when you write
poetry, it must
Be in fashion.
why on earth
would i subscribe to
killing an art
just to make
half the world happy?
---------------------------------
Rhyming Poetry Sucks Ass
We were tired: our eyes were medals
of grey. And we sat as we are, pedals-
What? wait, that makes little sense.
forgive me, for i think that you are- tense.
Tense? these words aren't mine, rather
they are the creation of some other, gather
that i don't believe in these things
much less than you would speak in rings
(Rings?)
Apologies.
It seems that my mouth has been shut
and that these words, once mine are- but?
a remainder of what once was, what could
have been a scene, what should
have been promise, is now
nothing but a cold, black -cow?
dammit.
***
This is a series of poems I did when I had an assignment to write a poem either in iambic pentameter or with some sort of rhyme or syllable structure. This ended up being too hard for me and I turned in a half-legible unrhymed unstructured mess that I wrote on an 8-hour flight. I still got full credit. The above are meant to be read humorously.
They were as still as leaves on a front lawn
as awkward stiff as sheets of metal grass
oh how i wish they could be far, and gone
but no, the man commanding them's an ass.
They once were words but now they are deceased,
they once had feelings, now they say no more
with silken ropes you went to tame the beast
and lost what the lines were once fighting for
if you can't tell, i hate the poetry
that loses meaning just to be in form
of ways that sound like silver on the glass
and fall to earth like nothing that they are
Please stop ruining poetry for us
please stop ruining poetry for us.
--------------------------------
Uniform
They tell me that,
when you write
poetry, it must
Be in fashion.
why on earth
would i subscribe to
killing an art
just to make
half the world happy?
---------------------------------
Rhyming Poetry Sucks Ass
We were tired: our eyes were medals
of grey. And we sat as we are, pedals-
What? wait, that makes little sense.
forgive me, for i think that you are- tense.
Tense? these words aren't mine, rather
they are the creation of some other, gather
that i don't believe in these things
much less than you would speak in rings
(Rings?)
Apologies.
It seems that my mouth has been shut
and that these words, once mine are- but?
a remainder of what once was, what could
have been a scene, what should
have been promise, is now
nothing but a cold, black -cow?
dammit.
***
This is a series of poems I did when I had an assignment to write a poem either in iambic pentameter or with some sort of rhyme or syllable structure. This ended up being too hard for me and I turned in a half-legible unrhymed unstructured mess that I wrote on an 8-hour flight. I still got full credit. The above are meant to be read humorously.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Poem #24: Music Box
Music box,
Spin me a story
So I can forget
The remembrance
Of your last one;
I’m tired
Of all this
Goddamn
Grief.
Play me a melody
That I can weep to-
So no one sees
My bleary eyes
And tries to help me
Cope.
Spin your dancers
Off into the distance
And leave me be-
Alone
When the key stops
I will know
The world is healed
At last.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Poems #22 and 23: Metronome and Fleeting
Metronome
I metronome you
Like you need a heart
To keep place
In this time.
***
Fleeting
I am a ghost that once existed in your life
And now nevermore
I am the fallen pages of ancient history,
The sweet forgotten strains of a sensual harmony
The thoughts that come when sleep eludes you-
Malevolent phantoms challenging your very sanity
I am the time you’ve lost
The chances that passed
The love that faded like a bruise-
Now nevermore.
***
I missed a day yesterday because I was busy 0_0. Hopefully this will not become a trend. Anyways, I posted two shorter poems to make up for it.
I metronome you
Like you need a heart
To keep place
In this time.
***
Fleeting
I am a ghost that once existed in your life
And now nevermore
I am the fallen pages of ancient history,
The sweet forgotten strains of a sensual harmony
The thoughts that come when sleep eludes you-
Malevolent phantoms challenging your very sanity
I am the time you’ve lost
The chances that passed
The love that faded like a bruise-
Now nevermore.
***
I missed a day yesterday because I was busy 0_0. Hopefully this will not become a trend. Anyways, I posted two shorter poems to make up for it.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Poem #21: Frog Babies
Look, I need your help
Because last night is a blur
Of technicolor pond scum
And semi-amphibious words
And I fear-
That my belly grows large
With the quivering spawn of
An eerie translucent,
Headlights-eyed, slimy-skinned
Frog.
Yeah, you heard me right.
Because a frog’s got a lot in common
With the way I am,
Jumping from
Conversation
To
Conversation
In an attempt to
Bring you back
Again.
And if you don’t wanna talk,
Keep the words locked in, cause I-
Gotta tell you
About frog babies.
I’m sorry to tell you
It’s all my fault.
And they’re marching in swarms
Of shiny-toed, ribbiting green,
Webbed feet slapping the ground
To the tune of disaster,
They’re calling me mommy,
Their eyes show me
Sorrow.
Because you know,
There’s some things in the world
It’s ok to be sad about,
Like straddling two worlds,
Half human, half frog,
Half whatever the hell you may be,
Half crying,
Half laughing.
Because I would birth
Several hundred armies of
Tadpole-filled eggs,
Yawning frog babies with
Pearly green teeth
Just to make you forget
And feel human again.
***
True story.
Because last night is a blur
Of technicolor pond scum
And semi-amphibious words
And I fear-
That my belly grows large
With the quivering spawn of
An eerie translucent,
Headlights-eyed, slimy-skinned
Frog.
Yeah, you heard me right.
Because a frog’s got a lot in common
With the way I am,
Jumping from
Conversation
To
Conversation
In an attempt to
Bring you back
Again.
And if you don’t wanna talk,
Keep the words locked in, cause I-
Gotta tell you
About frog babies.
I’m sorry to tell you
It’s all my fault.
And they’re marching in swarms
Of shiny-toed, ribbiting green,
Webbed feet slapping the ground
To the tune of disaster,
They’re calling me mommy,
Their eyes show me
Sorrow.
Because you know,
There’s some things in the world
It’s ok to be sad about,
Like straddling two worlds,
Half human, half frog,
Half whatever the hell you may be,
Half crying,
Half laughing.
Because I would birth
Several hundred armies of
Tadpole-filled eggs,
Yawning frog babies with
Pearly green teeth
Just to make you forget
And feel human again.
***
True story.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Poem #20: Intercepting Strangers and Falling in Love
I saw you from a distance,
Walking as if the world
Had ended
And you were the only one who knew
So why did I want to
Make you see the sunrise?
My star, eating the horizon
Means nothing to your
Dark, brooding moon
And they can
Spin
And
Spin
And never meet
So why should we?
Because we’d both make the world
Spin its axis, or
Because maybe we’d finally
Stand still?
I want nothing more
Than to share your gravity.
***
sometimes you just wonder about these things...
Walking as if the world
Had ended
And you were the only one who knew
So why did I want to
Make you see the sunrise?
My star, eating the horizon
Means nothing to your
Dark, brooding moon
And they can
Spin
And
Spin
And never meet
So why should we?
Because we’d both make the world
Spin its axis, or
Because maybe we’d finally
Stand still?
I want nothing more
Than to share your gravity.
***
sometimes you just wonder about these things...
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Poem #19: Celestial Bodies
You could be a shooting star
Racing across pitch-dark ceilings
To final destiny,
Beautiful in glamour light
And in simplicity
Or
You could be a black planet,
Miles from the sun and turned
From all pallid starlight
Spinning an eternity
Of whispered thoughts,
Alone.
***
this explains my feelings about a lot of things in very few words.
Racing across pitch-dark ceilings
To final destiny,
Beautiful in glamour light
And in simplicity
Or
You could be a black planet,
Miles from the sun and turned
From all pallid starlight
Spinning an eternity
Of whispered thoughts,
Alone.
***
this explains my feelings about a lot of things in very few words.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Poem #18: Monotone Renditions of Poetry
We delivered monotone renditions of poetry, standing at the forest’s edge. It was winter, and my breath burst like shards of glass on the air.
You asked, “am I afraid?” and I could only stare at the way your face complimented the lines of the valley below. My icy breath cracked your smile.
We were sentinels of the unknown, knowing only what we were never told, rooted to this spot because it was our everything. The trees were imposing, whispering among themselves that we were the imposters, that we could not stand so tall and bear so much. But we proved them wrong.
There was no warmth in your smile, or even your eyes, as your hands, clasped behind your back like talons, shook with despair. The others looked only to the sky but, you and I, we knew what they did not. We knew, as the trees knew, that nothing good will end.
We were not good. We were the spawn of discontent and disillusion, the reaction of the sky to a thunderstorm, do you understand, love, that we were the trees? That we were the breath of the sky.
You grew weary and as your eyes dropped their pretenses I glanced at the others, rooted in this haphazard circle we formed with our upright bodies, mocking the foliage before us, mocking the earth that formed us. Their eyes were marbles of silver glass reflecting the sea of leaves that was to surround us, times yet to come.
And we laughed. We could not write the poetry we spoke so fluently and it broke down into language, it broke into confetti, it rained on our faces. We were.
And you? I wondered, love, if you were like us at all. I wondered if the pine trees were your brothers or your friends, and if when the sky fell on you, it broke your back.
We could move on. Uprooting ourselves from what we had thought to be real, we grew into something more. It was the trees in the end that taught us, that spoke to us through the wind and the rustle of needles.
You said, once, that it reminded you of dying. But tell me, how did you know what that was like?
It reminded us of living, and we left you there to take root, to give up, and to whisper. Maybe, someday, I will come back and spread your seeds across the globe. Today, you are just foliage.
***
PROSE POETRY!!! sorry if it's annoying.
You asked, “am I afraid?” and I could only stare at the way your face complimented the lines of the valley below. My icy breath cracked your smile.
We were sentinels of the unknown, knowing only what we were never told, rooted to this spot because it was our everything. The trees were imposing, whispering among themselves that we were the imposters, that we could not stand so tall and bear so much. But we proved them wrong.
There was no warmth in your smile, or even your eyes, as your hands, clasped behind your back like talons, shook with despair. The others looked only to the sky but, you and I, we knew what they did not. We knew, as the trees knew, that nothing good will end.
We were not good. We were the spawn of discontent and disillusion, the reaction of the sky to a thunderstorm, do you understand, love, that we were the trees? That we were the breath of the sky.
You grew weary and as your eyes dropped their pretenses I glanced at the others, rooted in this haphazard circle we formed with our upright bodies, mocking the foliage before us, mocking the earth that formed us. Their eyes were marbles of silver glass reflecting the sea of leaves that was to surround us, times yet to come.
And we laughed. We could not write the poetry we spoke so fluently and it broke down into language, it broke into confetti, it rained on our faces. We were.
And you? I wondered, love, if you were like us at all. I wondered if the pine trees were your brothers or your friends, and if when the sky fell on you, it broke your back.
We could move on. Uprooting ourselves from what we had thought to be real, we grew into something more. It was the trees in the end that taught us, that spoke to us through the wind and the rustle of needles.
You said, once, that it reminded you of dying. But tell me, how did you know what that was like?
It reminded us of living, and we left you there to take root, to give up, and to whisper. Maybe, someday, I will come back and spread your seeds across the globe. Today, you are just foliage.
***
PROSE POETRY!!! sorry if it's annoying.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Poem #17: Sarah to Abraham, Years Later
I want to change my name.
It’s a burden being blessed,
And if I were Sarai,
I would be free.
Take it back.
Because the blessing
Holds a curse,
The kind that finds its way
Through leafy vines
And birth canals
And children’s eyes-
We are the remainder.
What is left of man
Stripping his skin off
And giving forth ribcage,
We are blessed bones
And camouflage smiles.
I want to be more
The dividend
To every divisor
And the nameless,
Shame-free someone
Who bit her lip
And smiled
Through the canopy of leafy green
I want to wear your shoes,
Not borrow them,
Not ask for them
Returning them-
Fine keep the shoes,
I’ll take your pants
And
Wear them.
Call me Sarai,
Because my lord is me,
He promised you
The world’s
Pulsating heart
In streaming bands, but
God’s covenant was made
Through circumcision
And I
Am my
Own
Woman.
***
Sincere apologies for a religious poem, even one that becomes so sacrilegious. This is based on the book of Genesis which I have recently read and at some points reread, and which I find completely ridiculous on many counts. I feel like the women in it need some empowerment hence... this.
New work, though! :)
It’s a burden being blessed,
And if I were Sarai,
I would be free.
Take it back.
Because the blessing
Holds a curse,
The kind that finds its way
Through leafy vines
And birth canals
And children’s eyes-
We are the remainder.
What is left of man
Stripping his skin off
And giving forth ribcage,
We are blessed bones
And camouflage smiles.
I want to be more
The dividend
To every divisor
And the nameless,
Shame-free someone
Who bit her lip
And smiled
Through the canopy of leafy green
I want to wear your shoes,
Not borrow them,
Not ask for them
Returning them-
Fine keep the shoes,
I’ll take your pants
And
Wear them.
Call me Sarai,
Because my lord is me,
He promised you
The world’s
Pulsating heart
In streaming bands, but
God’s covenant was made
Through circumcision
And I
Am my
Own
Woman.
***
Sincere apologies for a religious poem, even one that becomes so sacrilegious. This is based on the book of Genesis which I have recently read and at some points reread, and which I find completely ridiculous on many counts. I feel like the women in it need some empowerment hence... this.
New work, though! :)
Monday, July 20, 2009
Poem #16: Sometimes, I Write Poetry
I.
I’ve had dreams about falling
But oddly enough, when the blacktop rushes towards me
I open my eyes and hit the ground.
II.
I get sick backwards,
Or so I’ve been told because to me,
There is no other way, like
To the colorblind, there is no red and green,
Like to a child,
There is no love or hate.
III.
I create characters from dreams,
Half baked ideas I should have thrown out,
Moldering in my brain
Bringing me the insanity.
They have lives and names that I will forget,
They have loves and fears I do not know,
And they know me, trust me,
Do not cry when I kill them.
Do not leave when I need them
Do not exist.
IV.
Sometimes I dream that I am flying
And as I lift off of the ground, the world brightens
Because finally, I am free
And the green of the grass below is no longer a prison,
The hum of the wind is a soundtrack,
The trees lift me up.
V.
Today I did nothing
But think about writing this
And forget why.
VI.
I wonder if a man name Melvin
Would ever fall in love with a girl named Myra,
And if they would have four children,
Naming each one after a brand of cigarette
And leaving them in the park
To sit and burn out.
VII.
Sometimes I dream that I hit the ground,
Roll over, and stand up.
I walk away through the bodies of raindrops
Known as your tears.
***
Section III still seems somewhat off to me, but I figured I'd just post this as is, since I don't generally like to mess with my work after it's been done for awhile because I've usually forgotten what inspired it.
I’ve had dreams about falling
But oddly enough, when the blacktop rushes towards me
I open my eyes and hit the ground.
II.
I get sick backwards,
Or so I’ve been told because to me,
There is no other way, like
To the colorblind, there is no red and green,
Like to a child,
There is no love or hate.
III.
I create characters from dreams,
Half baked ideas I should have thrown out,
Moldering in my brain
Bringing me the insanity.
They have lives and names that I will forget,
They have loves and fears I do not know,
And they know me, trust me,
Do not cry when I kill them.
Do not leave when I need them
Do not exist.
IV.
Sometimes I dream that I am flying
And as I lift off of the ground, the world brightens
Because finally, I am free
And the green of the grass below is no longer a prison,
The hum of the wind is a soundtrack,
The trees lift me up.
V.
Today I did nothing
But think about writing this
And forget why.
VI.
I wonder if a man name Melvin
Would ever fall in love with a girl named Myra,
And if they would have four children,
Naming each one after a brand of cigarette
And leaving them in the park
To sit and burn out.
VII.
Sometimes I dream that I hit the ground,
Roll over, and stand up.
I walk away through the bodies of raindrops
Known as your tears.
***
Section III still seems somewhat off to me, but I figured I'd just post this as is, since I don't generally like to mess with my work after it's been done for awhile because I've usually forgotten what inspired it.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Poem #15: Promise
Remember how at the age of 7
You laced my fingers together and said,
“girl, that is a promise,
And don’t you ever break it.”
Well I’ve been walking around
With my fingers crossed for years now,
And I’ve got to tell you that some things
Aren’t worth keeping.
***
I apologize. I'm feeling lazy, so this one is short.
You laced my fingers together and said,
“girl, that is a promise,
And don’t you ever break it.”
Well I’ve been walking around
With my fingers crossed for years now,
And I’ve got to tell you that some things
Aren’t worth keeping.
***
I apologize. I'm feeling lazy, so this one is short.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Poem #14: Santiago
That self righteous bastard ran through this town,
Breaking my heart and stealing my sheep.
The wizened eyes that saw his good are closed,
And his influence is gone, leaving me alone,
Leaving me with nothing, no treasure, making
Me the fool, his lost unquenching drink of water.
How could I believe in a boy, not even a man,
Who could believe not only in me, but in fate,
And oppose his own destiny, speaking in truth
To the stars that are only mute to my kind?
I suppose he is happy now, or dead, but I don’t
Think, and I don’t mind, that he never returned,
I just wonder, if he loved so much, then why,
Tell me why his heart was so selfishly cold?
I thought that I wanted his treasure, tantalizing
And glowing luminescent at dusk, only to be
Trashed and burned, slaughtered at dawn, and
Lost forever, when the pyramid sun set on him.
I hope he died in the desert and his bones were chewed,
I hope that the pyramids crumbled down onto his lying body,
I hope that he remembered the simple merchant’s daughter.
He came to town and took my sheep forever,
And I didn’t get any of his damn treasure.
***
This poem is written as a response to the book The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. It's from the viewpoint of the merchant's daughter who the main character, Santiago, is completely in love with, until he leaves and totally forgets her, despite the fact that he has been trying to get with her for years. I thought she'd probably be pissed, but she's not given a voice in the story at all.
Breaking my heart and stealing my sheep.
The wizened eyes that saw his good are closed,
And his influence is gone, leaving me alone,
Leaving me with nothing, no treasure, making
Me the fool, his lost unquenching drink of water.
How could I believe in a boy, not even a man,
Who could believe not only in me, but in fate,
And oppose his own destiny, speaking in truth
To the stars that are only mute to my kind?
I suppose he is happy now, or dead, but I don’t
Think, and I don’t mind, that he never returned,
I just wonder, if he loved so much, then why,
Tell me why his heart was so selfishly cold?
I thought that I wanted his treasure, tantalizing
And glowing luminescent at dusk, only to be
Trashed and burned, slaughtered at dawn, and
Lost forever, when the pyramid sun set on him.
I hope he died in the desert and his bones were chewed,
I hope that the pyramids crumbled down onto his lying body,
I hope that he remembered the simple merchant’s daughter.
He came to town and took my sheep forever,
And I didn’t get any of his damn treasure.
***
This poem is written as a response to the book The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. It's from the viewpoint of the merchant's daughter who the main character, Santiago, is completely in love with, until he leaves and totally forgets her, despite the fact that he has been trying to get with her for years. I thought she'd probably be pissed, but she's not given a voice in the story at all.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Poem #13: Chinese Water Torture or Things Your Semester Exam Can’t Teach You
Why does the sky always fall
specifically
On me
And why is my shadow laced
With black and blue
And fading,
Why is my mind a fragment,
Spinning in an endless
Void, why
Am I destined to make
Mistakes, and
Why me?
Why is the answer never
Simple as
“I love you,”
Why must we all lie,
Cheat and find
Nothing, why
Is the sound of defeat
Louder than heaven,
Why me?
Why can orange and green
Complement yet defy
Laws of nature
Why can one child
Personify a
Nation, why
Can your heart beat softly
Like a drum
Out of time-
Why
Me
This time?
***
There seems to be an ongoing trend of emoness in this poetry. Note that it's all old work so far.
specifically
On me
And why is my shadow laced
With black and blue
And fading,
Why is my mind a fragment,
Spinning in an endless
Void, why
Am I destined to make
Mistakes, and
Why me?
Why is the answer never
Simple as
“I love you,”
Why must we all lie,
Cheat and find
Nothing, why
Is the sound of defeat
Louder than heaven,
Why me?
Why can orange and green
Complement yet defy
Laws of nature
Why can one child
Personify a
Nation, why
Can your heart beat softly
Like a drum
Out of time-
Why
Me
This time?
***
There seems to be an ongoing trend of emoness in this poetry. Note that it's all old work so far.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Poem #12: Let Us Be
Shh.
Let me place my fingers over your eyelids so that you can see
The world in its rightful hues of red and silver:
Let me be the one to show you that the caverns of your mind
Are far more open than those you find in winter,
To lift you above the pedestal and thrown you on the floor,
Knowing that you’re better off shattered,
And please be the one to hold my breath in your palm,
To take my tears in your arms and lift me up,
When I am at the bottom of the hill, to take me
To take you to the place we all desire, to own your smile
I would pay more than free and less than infinity.
We are infinite like radio and i. We make the heavens fall.
Let me brush your hands with sympathy, to look into you
To see that I am just a monopoly on your heart and
That I do not deserve any better than the back chamber.
Let me hold you in my eyes and drink your laugh,
Let me have at least this to own. Let me be your quiet.
Let us be the quiet,
Let us be the silent
Let us be.
***
This was one in a series of poems a lot like this, not written to any person in particular, just a general message/explanation/stream of thought.
Let me place my fingers over your eyelids so that you can see
The world in its rightful hues of red and silver:
Let me be the one to show you that the caverns of your mind
Are far more open than those you find in winter,
To lift you above the pedestal and thrown you on the floor,
Knowing that you’re better off shattered,
And please be the one to hold my breath in your palm,
To take my tears in your arms and lift me up,
When I am at the bottom of the hill, to take me
To take you to the place we all desire, to own your smile
I would pay more than free and less than infinity.
We are infinite like radio and i. We make the heavens fall.
Let me brush your hands with sympathy, to look into you
To see that I am just a monopoly on your heart and
That I do not deserve any better than the back chamber.
Let me hold you in my eyes and drink your laugh,
Let me have at least this to own. Let me be your quiet.
Let us be the quiet,
Let us be the silent
Let us be.
***
This was one in a series of poems a lot like this, not written to any person in particular, just a general message/explanation/stream of thought.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Poem #11: Ultrasounds With an Etch-a-Sketch
I am not qualified for this
My attentions turn like
Telephone wires
And carry no messages
I am the professional-
Or so I thought, til finding myself
In my own custody
I know better-
But I never learned
Those important lessons
Of kindergarten
And infancy;
I imagine that the screen,
Filled with amorphous shapes
That are not childhood,
Is the grainy grey
Of the etch-a-sketch
Shake it enough, and it disappears.
Erase a line and make your image
On your own terms,
Something to be proud of,
Something that will grow
With firm roots,
And not make your same
Goddamned
Mistakes.
The ultrasound tech smiles,
And I know that movement of muscles,
Because it is mine.
Because in any other situation,
I would not be the one wishing
That my work would be erased,
And realizing that no amount of shaking
Can undo-
This-
Child.
My attentions turn like
Telephone wires
And carry no messages
I am the professional-
Or so I thought, til finding myself
In my own custody
I know better-
But I never learned
Those important lessons
Of kindergarten
And infancy;
I imagine that the screen,
Filled with amorphous shapes
That are not childhood,
Is the grainy grey
Of the etch-a-sketch
Shake it enough, and it disappears.
Erase a line and make your image
On your own terms,
Something to be proud of,
Something that will grow
With firm roots,
And not make your same
Goddamned
Mistakes.
The ultrasound tech smiles,
And I know that movement of muscles,
Because it is mine.
Because in any other situation,
I would not be the one wishing
That my work would be erased,
And realizing that no amount of shaking
Can undo-
This-
Child.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Poem #10: Dear C
Dear C:
How naïve we were,
Dumb lambs blinking in the daylight,
Thinking that you,
Were the last.
The best.
The one that would solve our troubles
And make us breathe
Like saints.
C, you were a disaster
Unto yourself.
You made yourself a temple
And then burned it to the ground.
You walked the way that royalty
Looks down on the earth,
And yet you cut
Your soul away
In a breath.
C, you were an idol.
You were the way that we hold
Our breath on elevators,
The way that dead men
Move forever, the way
That I once was,
Never was.
You fooled us all,
Until the end.
Until the bloodred curtain dropped
Revealing you, only you,
Making a tragedy out of sympathy
Or maybe the other way around.
He has not forgiven you,
And I-
Cannot forget.
I wonder, when you did it-
Were you thinking of him,
Sliding through life
Using him as your origin?
C, you make me sick,
Not in the flu, cough, lemon way,
In the way that can’t be undone.
In the way that means
I will forever reach
Away from you, my trees
Will wind apart from yours,
My fences all are built
For you.
C, are you happy?
Now that you’re famous
In infamy, are you finally,
Maybe, finished?
Only time will reveal and today,
It is muted by the fact that
You are never going
To go away.
And by the fact that I,
Who hate what you mean,
Feel sympathy,
For the girl who holds a mirror image
Of the world in her hands.
***
When I wrote this, I was working through some stuff that happened awhile ago, hence all of the vague allusions to people that I have and do know. Note this is incredibly overdramatized.
How naïve we were,
Dumb lambs blinking in the daylight,
Thinking that you,
Were the last.
The best.
The one that would solve our troubles
And make us breathe
Like saints.
C, you were a disaster
Unto yourself.
You made yourself a temple
And then burned it to the ground.
You walked the way that royalty
Looks down on the earth,
And yet you cut
Your soul away
In a breath.
C, you were an idol.
You were the way that we hold
Our breath on elevators,
The way that dead men
Move forever, the way
That I once was,
Never was.
You fooled us all,
Until the end.
Until the bloodred curtain dropped
Revealing you, only you,
Making a tragedy out of sympathy
Or maybe the other way around.
He has not forgiven you,
And I-
Cannot forget.
I wonder, when you did it-
Were you thinking of him,
Sliding through life
Using him as your origin?
C, you make me sick,
Not in the flu, cough, lemon way,
In the way that can’t be undone.
In the way that means
I will forever reach
Away from you, my trees
Will wind apart from yours,
My fences all are built
For you.
C, are you happy?
Now that you’re famous
In infamy, are you finally,
Maybe, finished?
Only time will reveal and today,
It is muted by the fact that
You are never going
To go away.
And by the fact that I,
Who hate what you mean,
Feel sympathy,
For the girl who holds a mirror image
Of the world in her hands.
***
When I wrote this, I was working through some stuff that happened awhile ago, hence all of the vague allusions to people that I have and do know. Note this is incredibly overdramatized.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Poem #9: Insomnia
It’s about this time
That you realize: it’s too late.
The hours have passed in which you could have
Simply drifted away, and now,
Now you must stay awake, suffering.
Don’t misunderstand, it’s wonderful
That you created art, and words,
And colors. But honestly, was it worth
Waking up and knowing
It’s only five minutes later?
It’s seven in the morning.
Your eyes, are iron doors,
Impossible to lift.
Your head, is a dance floor,
And all the idiots
Are pounding their feet to the latest beat.
Do not cry.
It will make it worse.
The best thing to do?
Pretend that the whole time you were awake,
You were dreaming,
And you are dreaming now.
Sleep is wakefulness;
You are asleep more often
Than awake.
Now, you feel worse.
I’m sorry.
I’m not the one who made you do it
You could have gone to bed
And forgotten the dreams.
But you wouldn’t do that.
You hold in yourself,
A painting, a poem, a short story?
They are all there now,
And you?
Have escaped to their world.
Sweet dreams.
That you realize: it’s too late.
The hours have passed in which you could have
Simply drifted away, and now,
Now you must stay awake, suffering.
Don’t misunderstand, it’s wonderful
That you created art, and words,
And colors. But honestly, was it worth
Waking up and knowing
It’s only five minutes later?
It’s seven in the morning.
Your eyes, are iron doors,
Impossible to lift.
Your head, is a dance floor,
And all the idiots
Are pounding their feet to the latest beat.
Do not cry.
It will make it worse.
The best thing to do?
Pretend that the whole time you were awake,
You were dreaming,
And you are dreaming now.
Sleep is wakefulness;
You are asleep more often
Than awake.
Now, you feel worse.
I’m sorry.
I’m not the one who made you do it
You could have gone to bed
And forgotten the dreams.
But you wouldn’t do that.
You hold in yourself,
A painting, a poem, a short story?
They are all there now,
And you?
Have escaped to their world.
Sweet dreams.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Poem #8: Dirt Room
Dirt Room
A thousand windows open
Breathing tropic air,
Stale with time
It whisperbrushes
Your pale, lost face
The bones beneath,
The dirt floor.
Fingers sweeping
Dust from corners
And shaking
Leaves dry and spent
Exhaling like
Winter is over
At last
Light filters
Like ocean drains,
Like sunshine never
Comes this way,
Like you are never
Alone.
Mumble softly,
Tell the dark
To go away, and
Try to stop
Your own eyes
From closing to
The windowpanes.
I dare you to leap through
And flee
Alone.
And I dare you
To breathe you own oxygen
To move from the shadow,
To dance in the center
To shed your skin
And sweat out life.
You will sit in the room
With its death floor, window eyes
Waiting for someone
To lead you out blind.
***
This poem was loosely inspired by the song 'Dirt Room' by Blue October.
A thousand windows open
Breathing tropic air,
Stale with time
It whisperbrushes
Your pale, lost face
The bones beneath,
The dirt floor.
Fingers sweeping
Dust from corners
And shaking
Leaves dry and spent
Exhaling like
Winter is over
At last
Light filters
Like ocean drains,
Like sunshine never
Comes this way,
Like you are never
Alone.
Mumble softly,
Tell the dark
To go away, and
Try to stop
Your own eyes
From closing to
The windowpanes.
I dare you to leap through
And flee
Alone.
And I dare you
To breathe you own oxygen
To move from the shadow,
To dance in the center
To shed your skin
And sweat out life.
You will sit in the room
With its death floor, window eyes
Waiting for someone
To lead you out blind.
***
This poem was loosely inspired by the song 'Dirt Room' by Blue October.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Poem #7: Insignificant
Immobile to the power of one small
Square of cheap plastic and
Pixel words:
You are what is wrong with me
And what I love about everything.
Move like silver, quick and jumping
Rhythmic like dance and time
Tick tick
Let’s put it all together
And see how far we get.
Broken on a curb, spilling
Guts of green chipped panels,
Golden circuits dying,
Face cracked.
And you shed one tear
Rolling from your cheek
Like a tidal wave
For all of the lines
That you have lost.
Becoming insignificant
In the daylight.
Square of cheap plastic and
Pixel words:
You are what is wrong with me
And what I love about everything.
Move like silver, quick and jumping
Rhythmic like dance and time
Tick tick
Let’s put it all together
And see how far we get.
Broken on a curb, spilling
Guts of green chipped panels,
Golden circuits dying,
Face cracked.
And you shed one tear
Rolling from your cheek
Like a tidal wave
For all of the lines
That you have lost.
Becoming insignificant
In the daylight.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Poem #6: World War II and Blue Jays
He says,
“I want your essay
to put tears in my eyes”
Honestly?
I can’t write about those sorts of things
Except in my head.
It’s funny to see them together
Two feathers of opposite color
Lain in the grass,
Side by side
Like brothers
Separated by birth
And fighting A bitter end.
I take a picture
But only to capture the moment
As words can’t.
We dropped the bombs, and the war was won.
No one cared about the dead children
Lining the streets.
It lay past the bench,
Empty body frozen for months
And now picked clean,
Its heart still clinging on as if
It thought it could restart
Truman supposedly didn’t hesitate.
Did brother bird pause
Before killing his sibling?
Empty skull and bones.
Radiation poisoning and
Mushroom cloud.
They point opposite directions,
Ruby and sapphire twins
On the ground that keeps,
That nourishes skeletons
And imbibes leaves.
They are not as beautiful
We are not as beautiful
As I make you believe.
(are there tears in your eyes?
I suppose not.)
“I want your essay
to put tears in my eyes”
Honestly?
I can’t write about those sorts of things
Except in my head.
It’s funny to see them together
Two feathers of opposite color
Lain in the grass,
Side by side
Like brothers
Separated by birth
And fighting A bitter end.
I take a picture
But only to capture the moment
As words can’t.
We dropped the bombs, and the war was won.
No one cared about the dead children
Lining the streets.
It lay past the bench,
Empty body frozen for months
And now picked clean,
Its heart still clinging on as if
It thought it could restart
Truman supposedly didn’t hesitate.
Did brother bird pause
Before killing his sibling?
Empty skull and bones.
Radiation poisoning and
Mushroom cloud.
They point opposite directions,
Ruby and sapphire twins
On the ground that keeps,
That nourishes skeletons
And imbibes leaves.
They are not as beautiful
We are not as beautiful
As I make you believe.
(are there tears in your eyes?
I suppose not.)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Poem #5: Untitled
no one has time for art anymore.
it’s all about computer finish,
bold lines and bright statements,
matching and complete.
it’s about Capital Letters,
complete sentences, paragraphs
mean nothing more than lines.
follow fashion, the superthin
enunciated out of proportion
crazy polished nothing.
the pink flower scrawled
on lines of unsigned love notes
won’t qualify anymore.
it’s all about computer finish,
bold lines and bright statements,
matching and complete.
it’s about Capital Letters,
complete sentences, paragraphs
mean nothing more than lines.
follow fashion, the superthin
enunciated out of proportion
crazy polished nothing.
the pink flower scrawled
on lines of unsigned love notes
won’t qualify anymore.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Poem #4: Simplicity
Simplicity
You begin with a veritable plethora
Of luminescent words, spouting them
In alphabetical order over my
Uncaring, immobile face
In the tumultuous weather, we are stagnant
On a dilapidated porch swing, frozen
In a perpetuality of time and quality
And as your lips spread saccharine dreams,
I wander away to the amaranthine land
From which I came and to which
You will recede.
Here there are dragons,
Rearing their scaly heads
In the form of the murder
Of language And poetry.
But beyond that,
Into the indigo depths
Of an endless lake
You see the beginning
Of something past
These tired words
Of refrain
And I want to show you
That not everything
Is about the showmanship.
Sometimes, it’s a single breath,
And sometimes,
It’s one heartfelt word,
And sometimes,
It’s just-
You begin with a veritable plethora
Of luminescent words, spouting them
In alphabetical order over my
Uncaring, immobile face
In the tumultuous weather, we are stagnant
On a dilapidated porch swing, frozen
In a perpetuality of time and quality
And as your lips spread saccharine dreams,
I wander away to the amaranthine land
From which I came and to which
You will recede.
Here there are dragons,
Rearing their scaly heads
In the form of the murder
Of language And poetry.
But beyond that,
Into the indigo depths
Of an endless lake
You see the beginning
Of something past
These tired words
Of refrain
And I want to show you
That not everything
Is about the showmanship.
Sometimes, it’s a single breath,
And sometimes,
It’s one heartfelt word,
And sometimes,
It’s just-
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Poem #3: Untitled
Spitting words backwards won’t
Make them any less
And I want to whisper
Girl, you’re forgetting a line
Because we’re standing up
Sideways and falling down
Diagonal
Maybe it’s the way that
Memory flees before time
And time quakes at progress
But honestly, tell me
That you never brought the stars
Down, you never tore the sky
Apart
I’d compare you to a book
With conceits (as I told you
Metaphors on drugs)
Because you mean nothing more
Than words on a page, words that
Cling to each other faster, go down
Slower.
Swallow your pride.
Make them any less
And I want to whisper
Girl, you’re forgetting a line
Because we’re standing up
Sideways and falling down
Diagonal
Maybe it’s the way that
Memory flees before time
And time quakes at progress
But honestly, tell me
That you never brought the stars
Down, you never tore the sky
Apart
I’d compare you to a book
With conceits (as I told you
Metaphors on drugs)
Because you mean nothing more
Than words on a page, words that
Cling to each other faster, go down
Slower.
Swallow your pride.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Poem #2: Devolution
Devolution
So
I wanted to open my mouth,
To say to you, to take your fumbling words
And make them align, to take
Your hands and weave them into the wall
So I wanted
To grab the hood of your sweatshirt,
Drag you down to me and say,
That you can’t go on forgetting to breathe this way
And you can’t live in progress,
Awaiting democracy,
Feigning care.
So
The sun streaked through the ceiling
Casting an aura about you head like a halo
Made of tears and sewn
With your skin.
Angel, do not fear
To open your mouth and let
The words speak for you
Do not forget your place
Among these stony walls
Do not forget me
When I am old.
So
I wanted to open my mouth,
To say to you, to take your fumbling words
And make them align, to take
Your hands and weave them into the wall
So I wanted
To grab the hood of your sweatshirt,
Drag you down to me and say,
That you can’t go on forgetting to breathe this way
And you can’t live in progress,
Awaiting democracy,
Feigning care.
So
The sun streaked through the ceiling
Casting an aura about you head like a halo
Made of tears and sewn
With your skin.
Angel, do not fear
To open your mouth and let
The words speak for you
Do not forget your place
Among these stony walls
Do not forget me
When I am old.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Poem #1- For Granted
For Granted
The cold chocolate crystals,
Clinging to the silvery spoon in lethargy
Are nothing but superfluous.
Miles and worlds away,
A dark skinned child weeps,
Her tears more salt than water
And her limbs jagged lines of bone
Twisted into the human shape
A single bowl of ice cream is nothing,
Here, it is an afterthought,
A pause,
A comma in the sentence.
The girl in Africa can count her ribs
And her backbones, but not past ten.
The endless lines of formulas
Make my head beat its own drum,
While she can only think starving
And wonder without answers.
She often drifts past the skyline
And dreams of a world where
Her mother smiles back from death,
The earth blooms tranquil green,
The gunshots fall away
to peaceful mute.
Here we tick our way through days
And curse the master clock,
But never know the rhythms
Of hunger,
Of hope.
And I feel that I can see her eyes
Searching my face in daydreams
Begging me to keep fighting
If only to give her something
To hold on to,
When even cheap fantasies
Of foreign ice cream
Can't hide the truth anymore.
***
The cold chocolate crystals,
Clinging to the silvery spoon in lethargy
Are nothing but superfluous.
Miles and worlds away,
A dark skinned child weeps,
Her tears more salt than water
And her limbs jagged lines of bone
Twisted into the human shape
A single bowl of ice cream is nothing,
Here, it is an afterthought,
A pause,
A comma in the sentence.
The girl in Africa can count her ribs
And her backbones, but not past ten.
The endless lines of formulas
Make my head beat its own drum,
While she can only think starving
And wonder without answers.
She often drifts past the skyline
And dreams of a world where
Her mother smiles back from death,
The earth blooms tranquil green,
The gunshots fall away
to peaceful mute.
Here we tick our way through days
And curse the master clock,
But never know the rhythms
Of hunger,
Of hope.
And I feel that I can see her eyes
Searching my face in daydreams
Begging me to keep fighting
If only to give her something
To hold on to,
When even cheap fantasies
Of foreign ice cream
Can't hide the truth anymore.
***
I might go further into the background of poems that are more abstract, but in my opinion this is very straightforward. Basically, I had a moment, like I think we all do, when I realized that whatever I was complaining about at the time, there was someone whose life was a lot worse.
Hello, world
While unable to sleep, I came up with the idea to start a poetry blog. Mainly, to motivate myself to write a poem a day, or at least have one suitable enough to post online. I probably won't be able to update as often as I'd like, but I'm going to try to stick with it: a poem per day.
With any luck, I'll be able to put out some really cool stuff. Or a ton of trash. Either way, something's getting done, and maybe someone will even read it. Or, crazy enough, like it.
With any luck, I'll be able to put out some really cool stuff. Or a ton of trash. Either way, something's getting done, and maybe someone will even read it. Or, crazy enough, like it.
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