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.
Friday, July 31, 2009
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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