Columbusphere - Hello Poetry

Today is the day I am chosen and lifted High up from where I lay and Threaded through that small hole In your ear. Jingle, jangle, cling. Beads or brass or sunny glass, We swing with each way you turn your head ****** it’s a sight Gordon Bennett, what a delight Gentle shuffling sets us swaying The Sunday morning music Is playing as we dance About your lobes And the smell of coffee Rises, splendid. With each sip We glimpse the ceiling, Too and fro about the kitchen Rhythms that are trodden daily Outside in this luscious garden, We flutter, Somewhat wildly, Chattering, as a gust of wind Pronounces itself unexpectedly Vibrations. Buzz, shaking us aggressively The sewing machines hum Chugs relentlessly Fingers creating elegance deftly We clang and clatter With movements of laughter Bouncing brightly in good company Hearing new stories and All the old ones again. Back in the bedroom, We’re slipped off Buried in palm And placed back down For another day.

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Nov 16, 2022

Nov 16, 2022 at 8:01 PM UTC

An earring on your ear. The earrings you wear. The view from Anna’s ear.

Today is the day I am chosen and lifted High up from where I lay and Threaded through that small hole In your ear. Jingle, jangle, cling. Beads or brass or sunny glass, We swing with each way you turn your head ****** it’s a sight Gordon Bennett, what a delight Gentle shuffling sets us swaying The Sunday morning music Is playing as we dance About your lobes And the smell of coffee Rises, splendid. With each sip We glimpse the ceiling, Too and fro about the kitchen Rhythms that are trodden daily Outside in this luscious garden, We flutter, Somewhat wildly, Chattering, as a gust of wind Pronounces itself unexpectedly Vibrations. Buzz, shaking us aggressively The sewing machines hum Chugs relentlessly Fingers creating elegance deftly We clang and clatter With movements of laughter Bouncing brightly in good company Hearing new stories and All the old ones again. Back in the bedroom, We’re slipped off Buried in palm And placed back down For another day.

40

If you were to open the hills, all of the past would pour out. Treasure, piling on bones, piling on pottery, piling on stones Secrets and lives. Spilling out, in A flood of velocity, time breaking forwards Waking up above the ground, a stranger. You are small, in the wake of all that. Caught up to your ankles. Trudging Trudging for as long as your calves hold out Trudging and looking Scanning and sweeping Bowing your head and trailing a hand through the rubble The rubble stares back. Throbbing beneath your palm Charging you with something to know. You fall to your knees, getting down low and crawling Strands of hair fall into your vision As you crawl onwards. As you crawl your hair gathers treasures Coins and jewels and collar bones quiver with a force Melding into one. Callouses cover your hands now, you're in deep. Been trudging onwards for miles. The hills gaping wide. The treasure spins into strands, miles long, weighty strands They know you, reaching up like familiar hands And pulling you down, Roots of an ancient kind You peer through the weight of tired eyes The pinched sun going out and You desperately seeking Tearing at the ground at the piles of all that past And letting go of a dreadful wailing sound Killing the air. There's a glint Onwards, up ahead Taking charge. You drag, pull, peel yourself, just a little further Onwards, just up ahead. And brushing aside the lint, You have it in your hands, restored. A little piece of what went missing Rolling over into time, your hair wraps you, plaits you The grand hills gulp and the past sinks back inside.

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Mar 4, 2021

Mar 4, 2021 at 7:09 AM UTC

To open hills

If you were to open the hills, all of the past would pour out. Treasure, piling on bones, piling on pottery, piling on stones Secrets and lives. Spilling out, in A flood of velocity, time breaking forwards Waking up above the ground, a stranger. You are small, in the wake of all that. Caught up to your ankles. Trudging Trudging for as long as your calves hold out Trudging and looking Scanning and sweeping Bowing your head and trailing a hand through the rubble The rubble stares back. Throbbing beneath your palm Charging you with something to know. You fall to your knees, getting down low and crawling Strands of hair fall into your vision As you crawl onwards. As you crawl your hair gathers treasures Coins and jewels and collar bones quiver with a force Melding into one. Callouses cover your hands now, you're in deep. Been trudging onwards for miles. The hills gaping wide. The treasure spins into strands, miles long, weighty strands They know you, reaching up like familiar hands And pulling you down, Roots of an ancient kind You peer through the weight of tired eyes The pinched sun going out and You desperately seeking Tearing at the ground at the piles of all that past And letting go of a dreadful wailing sound Killing the air. There's a glint Onwards, up ahead Taking charge. You drag, pull, peel yourself, just a little further Onwards, just up ahead. And brushing aside the lint, You have it in your hands, restored. A little piece of what went missing Rolling over into time, your hair wraps you, plaits you The grand hills gulp and the past sinks back inside.

39

I'm sitting here. I'm standing. My forehead is sweaty, my arm drops to my side I can't keep still. Fidgeting and carving out my anticipation with my nails into plump skin, that is begging to burn To feel sharp and hot and draw attention, my attention, away. It's uncomfortable to be this aware. My cuff itches from the sweat and cheap nylon mix. Why is this all I own, Why does it fall over me like a waterfall. All downhill. Weight, that wears me. Saggy. I glare at my feet, throw my hands into my pockets and immediately pull them out again. In, out. She wears heels, they clack past. Him, in the leather soles, taps by. He wears boots. She's in pumps. I wipe my palms on my trousers Lift my wrist, pushing back the sleeve, I'm impatient. And I want everyone to know it. Him over there, I want him to know it. Her on the opposite side has to know, because I can't be the only one to know it. To carry it all. Then I might actually melt. Feel my shoes fill with water and my heavy suit to plummet, as I cascade over the edge, liquified. Not still? I lift my head to the sky, God it's bright, dash back down again. Bobbing. Time is dragging. It shouldn't be much longer I turn my head from left to right, for something to do. To appear unsure of the route. Will it come steaming from around the right corner or the left. It's so hot. Why is it so hot? Today, really? I lift a hand again, to comb back the stray hairs. Sweep them back into place. Hands in pockets Hands on hips Arms folded Down by my side Foot tapping Now pacing The birds are singing The sun's still blinding Now determinedly still, until I think I hear something. I whip my head, to the left And in the distance I see it. Drawing nearer. Crushing forwards. My chest. Won't my chest be still. I settle in tension. Now, it's unavoidable. Any minute we'll be face to face. And what will I do then?

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Feb 20, 2021

Feb 20, 2021 at 5:26 PM UTC

The Platform

I'm sitting here. I'm standing. My forehead is sweaty, my arm drops to my side I can't keep still. Fidgeting and carving out my anticipation with my nails into plump skin, that is begging to burn To feel sharp and hot and draw attention, my attention, away. It's uncomfortable to be this aware. My cuff itches from the sweat and cheap nylon mix. Why is this all I own, Why does it fall over me like a waterfall. All downhill. Weight, that wears me. Saggy. I glare at my feet, throw my hands into my pockets and immediately pull them out again. In, out. She wears heels, they clack past. Him, in the leather soles, taps by. He wears boots. She's in pumps. I wipe my palms on my trousers Lift my wrist, pushing back the sleeve, I'm impatient. And I want everyone to know it. Him over there, I want him to know it. Her on the opposite side has to know, because I can't be the only one to know it. To carry it all. Then I might actually melt. Feel my shoes fill with water and my heavy suit to plummet, as I cascade over the edge, liquified. Not still? I lift my head to the sky, God it's bright, dash back down again. Bobbing. Time is dragging. It shouldn't be much longer I turn my head from left to right, for something to do. To appear unsure of the route. Will it come steaming from around the right corner or the left. It's so hot. Why is it so hot? Today, really? I lift a hand again, to comb back the stray hairs. Sweep them back into place. Hands in pockets Hands on hips Arms folded Down by my side Foot tapping Now pacing The birds are singing The sun's still blinding Now determinedly still, until I think I hear something. I whip my head, to the left And in the distance I see it. Drawing nearer. Crushing forwards. My chest. Won't my chest be still. I settle in tension. Now, it's unavoidable. Any minute we'll be face to face. And what will I do then?

32

You, have conflict with the chill night air. Tussling tight in your bag for warmth Knotting yourself in twisted clothes, A chattering of bones, that won’t quiet... Discomfort strikes harder Flipping its attitude in anger. You boil in nausea as the sun rises Clawing fingers over limbs, breaking out Of your tent that’s abominably silent. The quiet culprit, burns as an oven. Uninterested in your clogged airways And ketchup red eyes, glued shut in sleep. You stalk, like Gary Oldman, burnt by sun As Dracula, weakened by day, By the pollen. That has you sneezing Twelve or fifteen in a row, Stoney rings about your eyes, you meet mine And brandishing an arm up high (To smear away the allergy) you say, ‘Never again. Never again in my life Will I, go camping.’

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Aug 10, 2020

Aug 10, 2020 at 7:59 PM UTC

Vampire of the day-time persuasion

You, have conflict with the chill night air. Tussling tight in your bag for warmth Knotting yourself in twisted clothes, A chattering of bones, that won’t quiet... Discomfort strikes harder Flipping its attitude in anger. You boil in nausea as the sun rises Clawing fingers over limbs, breaking out Of your tent that’s abominably silent. The quiet culprit, burns as an oven. Uninterested in your clogged airways And ketchup red eyes, glued shut in sleep. You stalk, like Gary Oldman, burnt by sun As Dracula, weakened by day, By the pollen. That has you sneezing Twelve or fifteen in a row, Stoney rings about your eyes, you meet mine And brandishing an arm up high (To smear away the allergy) you say, ‘Never again. Never again in my life Will I, go camping.’

21

It’s stoic and still, flushed in white light, Yellow and blue. Hollowed out in my wall, The cupboard. Disturbing its silence with our screams and sweaty touch It frames us. The art of me and you. The sound our colour makes spills out Over the sill, my flesh pressed in fury Up against five walls, Clasping. Our eyes lingering, I admire you. Soaking up your instinct. The art of me and you.

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Jun 15, 2020

Jun 15, 2020 at 2:59 PM UTC

The Cupboard (the art of me and you)

It’s stoic and still, flushed in white light, Yellow and blue. Hollowed out in my wall, The cupboard. Disturbing its silence with our screams and sweaty touch It frames us. The art of me and you. The sound our colour makes spills out Over the sill, my flesh pressed in fury Up against five walls, Clasping. Our eyes lingering, I admire you. Soaking up your instinct. The art of me and you.

14

Almost immediately in time with the weight my chin took in being placed in the palm of my hand, the thoughts that floated so delicately in space, transparent for my eyes, extinguished completely. I will have to rack and painfully grasp them into being again.

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Apr 27, 2020

Apr 27, 2020 at 12:08 PM UTC

The weight of a chin

Almost immediately in time with the weight my chin took in being placed in the palm of my hand, the thoughts that floated so delicately in space, transparent for my eyes, extinguished completely. I will have to rack and painfully grasp them into being again.

1

It doesn’t take much To be **** Drop out of your suit, Forget everyone else’s Meaning of crude. But your fingers Are burning cold And your heads, Hot as the sun Might be to hold. Aches that numb, The first fear Of eyes passing over, In white light You appear. Your music plays, Hands draw fast. Time wobbles, Sliding out of position, At last. It doesn’t take much To be **** Drop out of your suit, Forget everyone else’s Meaning of crude.

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Feb 28, 2020

Feb 28, 2020 at 10:46 AM UTC

The Life Model with a Temperature

It doesn’t take much To be **** Drop out of your suit, Forget everyone else’s Meaning of crude. But your fingers Are burning cold And your heads, Hot as the sun Might be to hold. Aches that numb, The first fear Of eyes passing over, In white light You appear. Your music plays, Hands draw fast. Time wobbles, Sliding out of position, At last. It doesn’t take much To be **** Drop out of your suit, Forget everyone else’s Meaning of crude.

25

Sometimes when sorrow sinks in I worry a wailing might screech from my chest And every person for miles might hear it. Or feel it shake the air, like hot flame Ripples carrying my saddest indulgence As the beast that weighs me down, croons. So that people quaking, step out of the way And we have room to sing the lonely wail, some more.

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Sep 29, 2019

Sep 29, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC

The Crooning Beast (Singing the Lonely Wail)

Sometimes when sorrow sinks in I worry a wailing might screech from my chest And every person for miles might hear it. Or feel it shake the air, like hot flame Ripples carrying my saddest indulgence As the beast that weighs me down, croons. So that people quaking, step out of the way And we have room to sing the lonely wail, some more.

8

As the shadows tick across the park Sun stretching out with might Reaching for an hour It doesn't have to fight Those who lounge about the grass Let the sun sink their skin through And crawl like hands, from quarter past Into the warmth of quarter to Imprisoned in the shine These willing people stay Moved slowly by a sun tide, until, Dowsed by cloud, chill and grey.

0

Jun 6, 2019

Jun 6, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC

a Sun Tide

As the shadows tick across the park Sun stretching out with might Reaching for an hour It doesn't have to fight Those who lounge about the grass Let the sun sink their skin through And crawl like hands, from quarter past Into the warmth of quarter to Imprisoned in the shine These willing people stay Moved slowly by a sun tide, until, Dowsed by cloud, chill and grey.

12

You're beautiful, he said. You're so beautiful, but why are you shaking your head? And I too, breathing deeply, thought how That you only, wanted me now, We were drunk and lonely And for me it was the moment only. I didn't want what you couldn't mean I wanted skin to be touched, not my self to be seen.

0

May 5, 2019

May 5, 2019 at 6:20 PM UTC

Early, Saturday April 28th

You're beautiful, he said. You're so beautiful, but why are you shaking your head? And I too, breathing deeply, thought how That you only, wanted me now, We were drunk and lonely And for me it was the moment only. I didn't want what you couldn't mean I wanted skin to be touched, not my self to be seen.

8