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
Monday, August 24, 2009
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.
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