The fairy from yonder at night she would wander
under sparkling skies, the lush milkyway.
Skipped over bridges and ancient old ridges
along with the night and natures soft sway.
Till she came upon pixies sat loftly in ditches
who told her, "you'll soon see the cold light of day."
The fairy from yonder just laughed as she pondered,
something with light and love worth to say.
She gathered them round behind the old mound,
its said where the masters once knelt
and once prayed.
She told them the secrets
and shared natures trinkets,
and laughed as they all saw the cold light of day.
Laughed as they rejoiced the cold light of day.
Human Observations (the woman pees)
if you walk the world
with pen and paper,
sure as the sunrise,
the pen will leak,
white and so
when you can't sleep,and you
slam your fist into the
pillow, know that the
pillow is silent
fallen asleep in the soaking tub
a thousand and one times,
ain't never drowned like
the warning ones say
I will do, but
really, in my
the woman pees, safe and secure,
comforted by the knowledge
that we have bathrooms
separate, her toilet,
man pee free, tho
we just finished
she does not, won't put on makeup
to take out the garbage,
that is why she keeps
me around, her love,
once a night.
when you tell your child
that you love them, and
they do not reply,
it is not that they
don't love you back,
it is that they have
yet to learn how to
the more trinkets I buy her,
more she screams stop,
but never not once
has she said,
here, take it
if you don't believe in Faeries,
try, for then you have a
chance of getting the
If must look up the time where
you love is currently residing
then the probability is more,
> than 1.000, that you no
longer love them enuf.
you know it is time to
hang up the pen put
down the iPad, give up
on this poetry gig
when you really prefer
More to follow.
I locked myself away again
hid in a form of a closet
bunched between the jackets
and moth eaten dresses
I closed myself in a drawer
between the trinkets
and stale kerchiefs
a tresure hunter of sorts
will sift through the junk
to find the broken
stained little girl
who was once able to look in a mirror
and not see every inch of fat
every layer of skin
polish up the jewel to my heart
don't sell it though sweetie
this ruby gets cracked with
the slightest pressure
film. prayer. kittens in a box. serene nudes thrusting the skylight. trinkets in a first floor gift shop lifted by a man dreaming beneath a decompression chamber. a one use snowglobe. ash.
hole in a rabbit. a woman who talks once a year to firecrackers.
earth on earth. a baby without toes applauded for having two heels. a pregnant person who’s played on god
a simple hoax.
The breeze and pastel sundown remind of life
Door slam to same car, in same spot, in same lot
Strange hand drops modified food in squeaky
Cart, and they won't taste like anything
Same faces, same line
Grumpy man makes same cashier cry
We catch eye
And she doesn't remind
Same turns, same drive
Lids open, same home
Answer phone, fine, same old
Voice on line doesn't
Sound like anything
Strange hands touch trinkets on dusty shelf
But there are no memories
Chipped edges, ridged wrinkles, don't feel like anything
Strange hands open shades
Trees are bare, scattered warm
Stuffed in bags, piled high
Hadn't noticed anything
Body moves, mouth lies, passion friend and hobby fade
Mind set, decision made
We write to explore.
Delving into our own universe
catching comets of passion and
swinging from diamonds in the sky.
To then collide with neighboring heavens
studying the unknown lands
trying to understand and find similarity
between the unfamiliar and ours.
We write to rhyme.
To test our wits and pass the time
while waiting in a busy resturant
for a cold glass of wine
caught up in the thoughts and daydreams
of people we think are so fine.
We write to him or her.
To see the love we feel
radiating from that certain person's eyes
as he or she reads our own unique words.
To print what we are unable to speak
hoping the person can grasp the red letters
spoken from our heart.
We write to have fame.
To see people in admiration of us;
We ache to hear them speak
of how great our work
flows from pen to paper.
For acceptance of who we are
even though we are
strangers made up by words.
I write to ponder the trinkets and knickknacks
I find under deserts of sand in my mind.
Some are jewels I hold intimately
while others are random and beside the point.
At the same time I wonder
what people out there have found
and ask to you
Why do you write?
read it in the leaves of grass
withering as the time goes
we've sung of ourselves,
total selves, man and woman one,
ejaculating plumes of white cloudy
dreams into the holy skies,
writhing pleasure lips,
part smile, part begging,
the grass withers my old friend
those fields, tepid pools of oil
our skies, churning ebbs of burning progress
a civil war roils,
just beyond our yard
remnants of it tumbling within the square boxes
we worship for their divertive power
no longer brothers and fathers
north and south, pounding powder death
mothers killing mothers,
fathers murdering their unborn
sons and daughters
a generation of human flesh
eats the soil of the earth,
drinks the blood of its rivers,
plunges its arms deep within
the arteries of the land pulling
forth trinkets and black milk
to feed our steel cattle
to erect towering mirrors of our
false power and prestige and progress
and prowess of mind and prudence of judgment
no, no, no! lies of a blathering bitch unhinged,
we scream at our total selves, man and woman one,
this is not the song i intended to sing
Frightful abilities were pressured into
responses as the computer children
failed at hitherto reliable performance.
This was a description of the synchronous
effect brought into the shudder with a
catch in the breath of the mother,
and written by frenetic action that
destroyed the logical sequence of requests
presented by the mouse and the typing keys.
As directed through an esoteric process of
recovery, the minds of the device reoriented,
again attaining the ability to perform simple
and repetitive tasks as obliged by designated
prompts. There was no certainty this was not
related to the telephone connection which
picked thinking out of the air like a television
receiving a network broadcast. In the same
way, the exhaust pipe rambled as the engine
of the truck idled too rapidly and, then,
stalled. Everything was restarted. The vehicle
operated right away. The computer bumbled
along flashing through scenes and blank screens,
the curser pulsing like a heart beat in the upper
corner. This had to be worn like a sign of
concentration, meaning that the (citizen, computer)
was being observed, and the sensitive response
would be, literally, automatic, but sometimes
the potentiometer brought, to sight, a gesture
of communication. It was cute that such clever
trinkets were hiding down in there until the
spirit tapped the muscles of the shoulder blade.
It became apparent this relation depended upon
keys found in ancient aliens such as arcades and
magic books. A tiny soul was stored in a pocket,
in the telephone; it reached out with its vibration
and launched into the world to grab news with
its operating, search engines. It had eyes and
could see in the dark. So, the age was over in
which it could be expected that photographs were
the result of special manners and the courageous
offer of friendly snapshots. As torches confused
ferocious animals, the excuse depended upon dark
difficulties in the chemical room. In the garden,
the televised betrayal generated a crossfire of live
video, and, thus, fools were unlucky. Energy and
conflict had been misguided. New, public devotion
protected the evolution of tableware or discrete
implements that chimed to be taken into other rooms.
Discourse was enabled and following discursion,
long, private moments carried visitors away.
You are the blue tangled
mass of string in my bathroom
cabinet I cannot see where you end or
where you begin you embrace all of
my little trinkets with your vibrant
hue and when I think I find the end of
you you laugh at my silly idea and
lead me somewhere entirely different
when you sleep in my hands- a sweet
silk nothing almost- you deliver the
calmest sensation and I find that the more
I try to detach you from the little pieces
of my everything the more determined you
are to laugh
but I like your laugh it bubbles my mind
so I suppose you are welcome to stay
twisting your carefree blue fibers around
my eye drops and bracelets and love
you can stay
because the blue tangled string is you
To everyone else who used it to seal a present,
It was nothing more than
A color to choose
A length to measure
A string to knot
It was something that held together a treasure
But to her, a ribbon was so much more
The triangular slit
She herself had cut at the edge
Of the soft pink ribbon,
Ended in corners,
The way her smile did
Loop and pull
Loop and pull
The bows she'd craft
Were more to her
Than just bunny ears and tails.
They were trinkets of triumph
Hints of hope
Possessions of passion
They reminded her of spring
Not the season
Of the trampoline
In her first gymnastics competition.
The ribbon hugged her ponytail
Delicate and dainty
The ribbon lay around her neck holding
They reminded her of balloons
Not the hot air type.
Balloons at carnivals
If there was not ribbon
To secure it tight
On her fragile wrist
They reminded her of father.
Not that he wore ribbons or anything.
But that he left her with one
A freshly picked
Bundle of flowers
Bundle of happiness
Bundle of unspoken words of affirmation
But flowers die
And so did father
When they did,
She was left with nothing but the ribbon
Loose and dirtied.
But the pinkness
Unlike flowers and father,
Barely faded away
And for the first time in a long time,
She saw life
In something that didn't have any.