Philadelphia, PA    1991 -   
Aug 9      Aug 10

honey-glazed summer
morning oozes--the coffee drips past 12 o'clock
I laze
tongue tickling cappuccino foam
like a good Roman

  Reposted by Bernadette  ·  Jan 19
Jan 18

We lived where the
factories frayed
in a horizon of terraces
where among three generations
I steeped in patterns
of twitching lips
and silent looks between eyes
that ricocheted a language fluent
known only by them
and that grandads and daddies
seemed not to hear.
The lady from number 6 crying
and cradling her cup
was helped out by Aunt Edie who
had just read her tea leaves
in the front parlour
where heavy drapes
newly hung and drawn
served only to thicken the odour
of polish and mothballs
And there-in the carved sideboard cupboards
I would delight in the odds and ends,
learning even then
about the process of finding
and how that which I sought most
would more than often emerge
from the bottom of a difficult pile.

  Reposted by Bernadette  ·  Dec 31, 2014
Shashank Virkud
Shashank Virkud
Jan 13, 2012

my identity
as I fumble
through your
I'm finding
my identity
as I stumble
through some
palm trees.

Sitting on the sand
where I watch the tide,
I'm sitting on the sand
where I syllogise;
sunshine and sugar pills,
of which I am comprised.

if I'm a bum,
it's because you made me one.

Dec 30, 2014      Dec 31, 2014

"What is your name?"
                              ,  "What is your name?"
                              ,  "What is your name?"
                 ­             Bernadette
I should meet new people but my name is Bernadette,
in the corner where I like to be. Peeling a Yuengling
label slowly, while Mayfield tells me he's gonna lose
half his ass by summer

at a pre-New Year's eve eve eve party. Not every head
turns, but I spun the ones I wanted to. You enter the
room and there's a wind due east. I've got a bitten
bottom lip and an elevated heart rate. As of late, you're
back on my mind. The year switches a digit from 4 to 5
and suddenly I can't seem to shake that time I kissed
your pelvic bones in Jonah's closet.

                                   "We probably shouldn't do that again."


You grab my Yuengling

                                   "Do you think we finally have to grow up this year?"

and chug it.

  Reposted by Bernadette  ·  Dec 30, 2014
JJ Hutton
JJ Hutton
Oct 24, 2014

All of my friends were there
and their friends, too
and the friends of my friends'
cousins and their dogs
and their all-seeing aunts crammed into
ill-fitting blouses with
their husbands in New York or L.A.
and their inbetweens sending them
dirty texts and someone, I think it was
my mother, she said, Why don't you
lay in the river
And I said, Of course
The leaves fell
The birds sang a four-note phrase
and all my friends, the best ones,
they tossed half-empty packs
of gum, flower petals, quarters, pens--
anything they had in their pockets
As I passed by them I said, Remember
when we ate the poison berries and
said our goodbyes. Remember when
I played pitcher on our t-ball team.
Remember when Drew took the electric
fence to his crotch. Remember when
we threw Josh's library book into the rain.
Remember when I learned to ride a bike in
sixth grade. Remember when I kissed
you on the backseat of the school bus.

And they said, Yes. And they laughed.

Those were good times.

My brother, he was there too, he hopped
in the river and gave me a push, said,
I'll see you around the next bend.

Life number two, I said.

Life number two.

Mar 3, 2014      Mar 3, 2014

this morning spring blew kisses to me in my bed
but the internet forecasts all say winter's far from dead
and the weatherman on the television said we're reaching record lows
so spring, unyielding sent a missionary breeze
that promised I would hear the neighbors playing with their kids
and smell the hyacinths, that I would see magnolia trees and feel like
rolling up my sleeves soon enough

though the streets are still lined with snow,
I looked outside my window and saw the sun

Feb 9, 2014      Feb 10, 2014

January, The Queen of Tragedies,
changed her name to Mae
Mae, Countess of the Fire Escape
watches the city get colder while mulling over
problems decades older than she--

because their undertones are sweet,
their answers guaranteed
because the present's too difficult to understand
and the future's too impossible to conceive

Mae, Midtown's Mistress, habitually begs the sun
for the moon's forgiveness

"It's much easier to sin after 6pm," she says

with a wink so well-placed and practiced
it fools the masses, corralling clientele
into her tiny apartment flat
re-lighting cigarettes, re-filling drinks
Rosemary Clooney croons
while the men swoon at her feet

And though she knows some day they'll up and leave,

She doesn't pay any mind to time
atop her throne made from flattery received
and the vanity youthful beauty brings
embellished with declined engagement rings
Mae, An Heirloom Posing As The Next Big Thing

To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment