I long for the future,
but the future thinks not,
for the future desires only
to betray and delay expectations
and youthful desires.
It relishes in disappointing
its once promising appearance.
Or perhaps my hatred is misplaced
and the blame isn’t on the future itself
but the people within:
a list of names whose hearts
are made of gunpowder and minds
think only to pull triggers and press buttons,
because that is the future we are given;
an execution of human rights.
Nov 17, 2024
Nov 17, 2024 at 6:42 PM UTC
A single message flourished away,
a smooth brush across cold paned screen,
for, there we met on the sixth of May.
So many things are ephemeral;
dark chocolate beneath the sun, bubbling into sugary pools;.
Grainy white cubes, dissolving into porcelain cup.
Descending petals from bearded, autumn branch.
Paper in a book, lines on a page;
a melodious song, or grand theatric play.
But this was to last forever
for, there we met on the sixth of May.
Surrounded by domains of mellow duvets,
he’s a crepuscular ray through sombre clouds, and rainbow rains.
Love beats steady, slow and safe;
warming heart and thumping vein.
Benevolent burning, a fervent haze;
pawing at molten hills of silky skin.
Creamy haired head moulds into
grooved shoulder and beating chest;
made whole, a set pair.
Timeless, a tender dimension;
a rose bubble, a hallowed, undying day,
for, there we met on the sixth of May.
x.
Nov 14, 2024
Nov 14, 2024 at 7:11 PM UTC
Silent days, delicate rains,
clip clopping like marching horse,
on thin, steel roofs, and nylon umbrellas.
Drenched, sweating foreheads in summer climates,
consistent, cool winds like drooling ice,
drying sopping skin, a rough cloth to an oily pan.
Starved road trip bellies, after intermittent rests and games of eye-spy,
salivating at laminated menus, and passerby plates,
pre-meal hot fries, fulling deep guts with salty chips and fizzing raspberry.
Waking hours before blaring alarms,
knocking parents, a whistling kettle, and the popping toaster;
an hour to lay restless head into the deep world of snug pillows and warm blankets;
as if your whole universe is one big cushion.
Finishing a chapter and curling rough page with soft finger,
placing floral bookmark into the straight crease,
placing it back into its spot on the shelf or bedside table.
Dawn coffee.
Friday afternoon.
Saturday morning.
Kind encounters.
Meeting deadlines.
A finished poem.
Nov 13, 2024
Nov 13, 2024 at 8:20 PM UTC
For once, I would like a ruler.
A really big one, large enough to span all time,
or my time at least – which isn’t too much to ask.
To draw a straight line through life,
and make it all fall in, drill sergeant style.
Free me of all the jumps and bumps,
dancing about the hurdles which
slow me to halts,
as if life were a blob of mashed potatoes;
surfing through its smooth white clouds,
like a true California girl.
For once, can it be a tunnel?
No more mazes of roads and streets,
avenues, crescents, highways and lanes.
To close my eyes, raise my hands,
and push my bare foot into the pedal,
unafraid of the walls of people.
For it all to be a bowling alley
with the railings up and a ramp to slide down.
To shamelessly ride with pink, bedazzled training wheels
and a lemon learners plaque
to blind all nosy parkers up my ***
For once, wouldn’t it be nice if it all could line up,
so I could be, for once, entirely happy.
Nov 13, 2024
Nov 13, 2024 at 12:01 AM UTC
I am wounded,
I am scorned,
but here I exert my pain
in permanent ink,
and here in my words, it will stay;
the red webs in loose skin,
an arm of scars;
a tome to tell stories
of depression,
for it seems that love withers
and tears stain.
Nov 12, 2024
Nov 12, 2024 at 9:39 PM UTC
So they say:
I am diseased
because I’m different.
I am disgusting,
for I am distinct.
I am a widow on the wall,
a cockroach in the kitchen.
I am stubbed within the sand,
gouged into the grass.
You hold me in your index,
and huff me out your mouth,
for I, the English cigarette;
am a sickness in your lungs,
and the cancer beneath your feet.
I am black,
I am bubonic,
I am a plague.
They seem to fear my spread,
yet, I am pushed, I am prodded,
I am pummeled down to bone,
for I, the English cigarette;
am extinguished by your touch,
a light, and lifeless ****
an easy target
caught between your malice
and the cruelty of your words.
Nov 12, 2024
Nov 12, 2024 at 5:07 PM UTC
I like the waves.
The way their static fizz tickles
the bristles of my ears,
as if they were long brown thistles in beach dunes,
engirding pools of sand between
the wet crevices of my toes.
I’ll lie in the bayside sheets of gold,
where the clouds drift silent,
encompassed by its warm fold,
soaking my horse-haired brush
into sand-speckled jar,
painting my watercolour flowers;
butter daffodils and heavens daisies.
I’ll lie on sun-dried towels
beneath chequered brolly
and scribble my brain
into summer-kissed parchment,
with leaded letters and granite words.
I’ll write in the colour of my soul,
using what’s left of my heart,
as I’m flayed down to the white-skinned bones
that hold me upright:
left thin and pale.
But, for these tapestries,
I find it worth my loves
discounted sale.
Nov 12, 2024
Nov 12, 2024 at 4:43 PM UTC