In a dream or a vision you exist,
unshaken by the world's double edged knife.
You're as fearless as those that slay dragons
yet quick as a jester, dancing for bread.
A hardwood floor, an Italian cut suit,
any dainty ringed hand is yours to take.
In ripped Converse, you wait for her to come,
with your head on your chest and tongue on guard.
The world is known to be a monstrous place,
where those like you fall into crevices
spraining more than ankles, bursting livers.
Their fruit juice turns tart exposed to sugar
puckering their lips for eternity.
But in you there is still a greater hope.
You surpass the others that have fallen
behind, cackles beckoning your presence
to swill and swoon any stilettoed skirt.
A chance, a passing query, a mistake
that can lead to brain tumors and grey hairs.
But you know you are stronger than what tempts.
Your words ooze the wisdom that contains light,
for by him you were made, from him you come
to show the fallen that there are princes
boasting not robes nor crowns but on their knees.
And by your children you will lead, head high
shoulders bearing their weight down unseen roads.
To lead to a home where cider is warmed
and butterfly kisses are bedtime rule.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
In a Plastic Bag
He's here.
In Chuck Taylor's
and a button down blue shirt,
the collar slightly raised.
His knees are bent
ready to support the box in his hands,
or perhaps my weight before it hits the linoleum.
Soft 80s rock music
sweeps me to a world where
rules don't make sense.
His eyes find mine,
I turn away.
Yes turn away,
this world has rules, barriers
that mustn't be crossed.
His forearm brushes my elbow,
he hurries to answer those
that call from overhead.
I rest my hand on the shelf,
my eyes tracing each tooth in his smile.
This may be the only chance I get,
it's my moment.
From the shelf I pull a velvet heart.
Step to the back of his line.
His line is long,
everyone wants to hear his voice.
I wait.
His line disappears,
he's smiling at me.
I step to his counter,
my eyes on my hands.
He's speaking.
I'm nodding.
I'm leaving the counter,
a single heart in my plastic bag.
In Chuck Taylor's
and a button down blue shirt,
the collar slightly raised.
His knees are bent
ready to support the box in his hands,
or perhaps my weight before it hits the linoleum.
Soft 80s rock music
sweeps me to a world where
rules don't make sense.
His eyes find mine,
I turn away.
Yes turn away,
this world has rules, barriers
that mustn't be crossed.
His forearm brushes my elbow,
he hurries to answer those
that call from overhead.
I rest my hand on the shelf,
my eyes tracing each tooth in his smile.
This may be the only chance I get,
it's my moment.
From the shelf I pull a velvet heart.
Step to the back of his line.
His line is long,
everyone wants to hear his voice.
I wait.
His line disappears,
he's smiling at me.
I step to his counter,
my eyes on my hands.
He's speaking.
I'm nodding.
I'm leaving the counter,
a single heart in my plastic bag.
Sensitive Teeth
The stereo turned to full volume,
men and women plastered
on a pixilated screen,
sitting, drinking, dancing, kissing, leaving.
On the couch beside me,
a velvet box shaped into what
pumps blood throughout the body.
I swish water through my mouth,
ridding my teeth of the pain
caused by the chocolate.
men and women plastered
on a pixilated screen,
sitting, drinking, dancing, kissing, leaving.
On the couch beside me,
a velvet box shaped into what
pumps blood throughout the body.
I swish water through my mouth,
ridding my teeth of the pain
caused by the chocolate.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
After Tricia's Poem
Untitled
Stumpy evergreens
sag, their top branches
listing to one side with
the weight of the rain.
After Tricia's Poem
It'll grow tall,
he always told them
as they leaned their cherry faces
over emeral bushes.
Mitted hands and flowered rain boots
kick at puddles, brush the boughs.
It won't grow,
he knows it's true.
It'll put a dent in your ceiling,
he always crossed his heart with rippped gloves
as they tilted their necks
only to find the cone-needle backside.
Dwarf earmuffs are shoved into an onyx purse,
as mittens find something sweet.
It won't even hold lights,
he knows this.
It'll enchant your dreams,
it'll make every wish come true,
it'll die, once placed in water.
And here I am,
in his lot after years
of hating his trees.
Snapping my coat to the last button,
my flowered rain boots
hit the first puddle before
the car door can shut.
Stumpy evergreens
sag, their top branches
listing to one side with
the weight of the rain.
After Tricia's Poem
It'll grow tall,
he always told them
as they leaned their cherry faces
over emeral bushes.
Mitted hands and flowered rain boots
kick at puddles, brush the boughs.
It won't grow,
he knows it's true.
It'll put a dent in your ceiling,
he always crossed his heart with rippped gloves
as they tilted their necks
only to find the cone-needle backside.
Dwarf earmuffs are shoved into an onyx purse,
as mittens find something sweet.
It won't even hold lights,
he knows this.
It'll enchant your dreams,
it'll make every wish come true,
it'll die, once placed in water.
And here I am,
in his lot after years
of hating his trees.
Snapping my coat to the last button,
my flowered rain boots
hit the first puddle before
the car door can shut.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
After Amanda's Poem
To Nurture
My mother keeps
my baby teeth
hidden in her jewelry box,
pearls nestled in soft tongues of velvet.
After Amanda's Poem: To Nurture
I used to peer over the edge,
my nostrils picking up the scent
from the dresser's gloss.
I would walk across the room
until I saw my reflection
in the mirror, that hung on the wall
above the caramel paneled drawers.
On my toes, with my hand stretched,
I fingered jewelry boxes and perfumes.
I look down at the chipped gloss,
run my fingertips over what still shines.
I lift my eyes to the mirror
that seems to betray my image,
I'm either too wide or unproportioned.
My ears stick out too far from my head
or the lobes hang too low.
The caramel paneling has abandoned me,
adding a yellow hue to my pale complexion.
In the jewelry box
left by my mother,
when it seemed that she left us,
hidden among folds of velvet
were the pearls of my youth.
My mother keeps
my baby teeth
hidden in her jewelry box,
pearls nestled in soft tongues of velvet.
After Amanda's Poem: To Nurture
I used to peer over the edge,
my nostrils picking up the scent
from the dresser's gloss.
I would walk across the room
until I saw my reflection
in the mirror, that hung on the wall
above the caramel paneled drawers.
On my toes, with my hand stretched,
I fingered jewelry boxes and perfumes.
I look down at the chipped gloss,
run my fingertips over what still shines.
I lift my eyes to the mirror
that seems to betray my image,
I'm either too wide or unproportioned.
My ears stick out too far from my head
or the lobes hang too low.
The caramel paneling has abandoned me,
adding a yellow hue to my pale complexion.
In the jewelry box
left by my mother,
when it seemed that she left us,
hidden among folds of velvet
were the pearls of my youth.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Brief Images
the iron lamp,
wet and damp,
guards alone
the path
much traveled
------
on two feet
are blue
and orange socks
find their suitors?
I haven't the time.
------
click
goes the phone
click
goes the day
------
spread, intertwined
pink, grey, maroon
vines, stitched
on a comforter
------
the blue pen
gripped
between dry
fingers
------
eyelids half-mast
fingertips twitch
as thread
misses needle
------
faux leather boots
iced with snow
propped against
a propane
fireplace
wet and damp,
guards alone
the path
much traveled
------
on two feet
are blue
and orange socks
find their suitors?
I haven't the time.
------
click
goes the phone
click
goes the day
------
spread, intertwined
pink, grey, maroon
vines, stitched
on a comforter
------
the blue pen
gripped
between dry
fingers
------
eyelids half-mast
fingertips twitch
as thread
misses needle
------
faux leather boots
iced with snow
propped against
a propane
fireplace
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)