FGFiore - Hello Poetry

I slid into the kitchen in my bleached white socks as my mother sways to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon at the stove. The amber glow of 6 am melts across the kitchen; the bountiful red maple tree leaves are on the brink of draping across the lawn. I plopped myself down on the couch to watch my cartoons and enjoy my buttery pancake breakfast. - 10 years since the move, I drive by. My brother has since sold the house as well, and a new family parks its car in the cobblestone driveway. The tree looks small and dull. I don't remember it ever looking that way as a child. - Stumbling down the maple out front, for what seems to be the hundredth time, I add another scar to my legs, pausing and darting right back up to admire the boys playing soccer next door. - I still can't stand the look of my bare legs in short dresses. - We gather green leaves to concoct a “soup” of leaves and flowers. We giggle and serve our concoction to my older brother. He holds the spoon to his mouth and rubs his stomach, laughing and leaving a raving review of me and Grace's "restaurant". - Grace and I lost touch after a fight over a mutual crush on William in the 3rd grade who we made a pact neither of us could marry. We signed the contract in my pink barbie diary at our 4:00 meeting spot after school, under the maple tree. - I desperately itched to roam the block, or I itched because of the cheap polyester of my witch costume. I stood under the tree waiting for the neighborhood kids to gather in front of my house to begin our hunting route for the fancy full-size candy bars. Julie’s mom threw a jacket over her shoulders, destroying the essence of her Princess Ariel dress. - The cat got out and must have attacked him that morning. My eyes burned with tears as I ran to my mother's arms; I had never seen anything like this before. A wild rabbit was torn apart under the tree. This sight caused me to avoid the tree for a while… as well as the cat. - My father tossed the rake on the lawn, giving up on the task. He despised cleaning up the leaves. - The boxes were packed up and scattered; there was no Christmas tree that year. My father gathers me and a few lingering strands of lights to drape upon the bare winter branches of the maple tree out front. A makeshift tree will have to satisfy this year since my brother and his wife already began moving in their belongings as we prepare to hand over the key to them. - The clean pink bedroom, with the beautiful view of the maple tree was destroyed. I walked in from school and there were strange men painting my walls. My brother hired painters and my father packed all my belongings, with no chance to say goodbye. I picked up a small pink paint chip and slid it into my pocket before I walked out into the hall in shock. - I picked a leaf from the front lawn when no one was looking. - Both the paint chip and dry leaf reside in the current scrapbook under my bed. - Our new house had no tree for me to climb.

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Apr 27, 2022

Apr 27, 2022 at 2:16 PM UTC

The Red Maple

I slid into the kitchen in my bleached white socks as my mother sways to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon at the stove. The amber glow of 6 am melts across the kitchen; the bountiful red maple tree leaves are on the brink of draping across the lawn. I plopped myself down on the couch to watch my cartoons and enjoy my buttery pancake breakfast. - 10 years since the move, I drive by. My brother has since sold the house as well, and a new family parks its car in the cobblestone driveway. The tree looks small and dull. I don't remember it ever looking that way as a child. - Stumbling down the maple out front, for what seems to be the hundredth time, I add another scar to my legs, pausing and darting right back up to admire the boys playing soccer next door. - I still can't stand the look of my bare legs in short dresses. - We gather green leaves to concoct a “soup” of leaves and flowers. We giggle and serve our concoction to my older brother. He holds the spoon to his mouth and rubs his stomach, laughing and leaving a raving review of me and Grace's "restaurant". - Grace and I lost touch after a fight over a mutual crush on William in the 3rd grade who we made a pact neither of us could marry. We signed the contract in my pink barbie diary at our 4:00 meeting spot after school, under the maple tree. - I desperately itched to roam the block, or I itched because of the cheap polyester of my witch costume. I stood under the tree waiting for the neighborhood kids to gather in front of my house to begin our hunting route for the fancy full-size candy bars. Julie’s mom threw a jacket over her shoulders, destroying the essence of her Princess Ariel dress. - The cat got out and must have attacked him that morning. My eyes burned with tears as I ran to my mother's arms; I had never seen anything like this before. A wild rabbit was torn apart under the tree. This sight caused me to avoid the tree for a while… as well as the cat. - My father tossed the rake on the lawn, giving up on the task. He despised cleaning up the leaves. - The boxes were packed up and scattered; there was no Christmas tree that year. My father gathers me and a few lingering strands of lights to drape upon the bare winter branches of the maple tree out front. A makeshift tree will have to satisfy this year since my brother and his wife already began moving in their belongings as we prepare to hand over the key to them. - The clean pink bedroom, with the beautiful view of the maple tree was destroyed. I walked in from school and there were strange men painting my walls. My brother hired painters and my father packed all my belongings, with no chance to say goodbye. I picked up a small pink paint chip and slid it into my pocket before I walked out into the hall in shock. - I picked a leaf from the front lawn when no one was looking. - Both the paint chip and dry leaf reside in the current scrapbook under my bed. - Our new house had no tree for me to climb.

27

We were ravaged, beaten, artistic souls looking for memories and muse. Any reconnection was never the same as the feeling of the first night up in the lifeguard stand over a bottle of cheap Zinfandel. Barefoot along the battered beach town streets. Light finger traces over the talk of the universe we thought we knew. It never ended; it just dissipated into the smog of reality at home. I can spin the Al Green album again without fear of awakening something that may be missing from my long days. I'm warmed by the presence of these memories in my life, like aloe smoothed along starkly sunburnt skin. At that period in my timeline, you helped me grow immensely. I'll never know where your head was, but I trust that is for the best. Every once in a while when my phone notifies me of your presence once again, maybe you’ll be thinking of the same moments too.

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Jan 5, 2022

Jan 5, 2022 at 1:20 PM UTC

Letter to a Friend

We were ravaged, beaten, artistic souls looking for memories and muse. Any reconnection was never the same as the feeling of the first night up in the lifeguard stand over a bottle of cheap Zinfandel. Barefoot along the battered beach town streets. Light finger traces over the talk of the universe we thought we knew. It never ended; it just dissipated into the smog of reality at home. I can spin the Al Green album again without fear of awakening something that may be missing from my long days. I'm warmed by the presence of these memories in my life, like aloe smoothed along starkly sunburnt skin. At that period in my timeline, you helped me grow immensely. I'll never know where your head was, but I trust that is for the best. Every once in a while when my phone notifies me of your presence once again, maybe you’ll be thinking of the same moments too.

1

Fleeting be the depth you preach. Commanding the quarrel you've coated in softness. Disillusioned by your mind as you cower to the images you’ve sought to parent. Hypocritical? Hypocritical. You’re fearful and pitiful.

0

Oct 6, 2021

Oct 6, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC

To the girl with moldavite and Lexapro in her purse,

Fleeting be the depth you preach. Commanding the quarrel you've coated in softness. Disillusioned by your mind as you cower to the images you’ve sought to parent. Hypocritical? Hypocritical. You’re fearful and pitiful.

7

I can’t blame you, You never meant for the harm it caused. Its my fault, I chose to let it happen. No really don’t worry about it, they asked nicely. Its not that serious, If they ask for it I have to share. Right? You taught me that. Sharing is caring. As long as they say please. Don’t make them sad! Be a nice girl.

0

May 25, 2020

May 25, 2020 at 1:46 PM UTC

share your toys

I can’t blame you, You never meant for the harm it caused. Its my fault, I chose to let it happen. No really don’t worry about it, they asked nicely. Its not that serious, If they ask for it I have to share. Right? You taught me that. Sharing is caring. As long as they say please. Don’t make them sad! Be a nice girl.

13

Wanna make a deal? Let's make a deal. It's just one time. Don’t do it. Do it one more time. Wanna make a bet? Turn the dial to 5 Watch what happens when you don’t listen. But you’re gonna listen. Why wouldn’t you? It's just one more time.

0

Apr 26, 2020

Apr 26, 2020 at 7:37 AM UTC

You left the curler on.

Wanna make a deal? Let's make a deal. It's just one time. Don’t do it. Do it one more time. Wanna make a bet? Turn the dial to 5 Watch what happens when you don’t listen. But you’re gonna listen. Why wouldn’t you? It's just one more time.

11

Is your motive intended in validation? Must we constantly be fed the thick mentholated syrup of clarity? Luring itself down the throat, a head-rush plainly, Yet you’re doing just as we want for you. But are you doing as you want for yourself?

0

Apr 21, 2020

Apr 21, 2020 at 3:35 AM UTC

Societal Approval

Is your motive intended in validation? Must we constantly be fed the thick mentholated syrup of clarity? Luring itself down the throat, a head-rush plainly, Yet you’re doing just as we want for you. But are you doing as you want for yourself?

6

What makes something writeable? My typical struggle is that of one with all ideas, and yet no authority to output them. What terms must one abide by in order to have validity in them. My words have no meaning, simply because I have chosen not give them any.

0

Apr 19, 2020

Apr 19, 2020 at 11:44 PM UTC

Untitled: Precisely

What makes something writeable? My typical struggle is that of one with all ideas, and yet no authority to output them. What terms must one abide by in order to have validity in them. My words have no meaning, simply because I have chosen not give them any.

4