Nettersue - Hello Poetry

The body remembers. Even when the mind forgets. Grief is seasonal like that. She waits for the air to turn. For the light to bend a certain way— low and sideways, like it did that December when I stood beside my father’s bed, watching the shape of his soul grow thin. Winter does this to me. And strangely, I welcome her. She strips the world of performance, peels back all the defenses. No pretending in this season. In her stark authenticity, everything is laid bare. Not alive, but not dead either. Just… waiting. Winter is the pregnant pause— the gestation— before the flutter of life begins to crown again. She knows how to make silence sacred. She knows that stillness is not stagnation, but the fallow ground of reception. And so I sit with her. To receive. Allowing Grief to crash like a ***** tide against the shoreline of my being, taking the bittersweet debris out to sea, making way for Spring, where birdsong will return, and the faintest pastel colors will once again peek shyly from beneath the frost. I was born in Winter on a Sunday at the end of January during a blizzard. And I’ve always felt the weight of that like the first breath I ever took was from beneath two feet of snow. Maybe my mother was grieving when she birthed me. Maybe her sorrow folded into my skin before I even had words to ask what I had done wrong. Now, every Sunday whispers back to that. Not in sentences. But in sensation. A low tide of lamentation that never quite recedes. I’ve always felt it— Winters and Sundays, whispering of endings Of something pulling me back, under Beneath ground. Winter always knows before my mind catches on, before the calendar reminds me of the ache, The light begins to bend just so— and something triggers within. It’s not sadness at first. Just a pause, a heaviness in the back of my heartspace. And then comes the knowing. The air sharpens. Overhead, the geese— a ragged "V" written in the pewter sky— call out their ancient echo And my body, without asking, begins to reprocess. Not just one loss, but all of them. My mother vanished with November’s leaves. My father, in the darkness of December’s Solstice. My marriage cracked with January’s ice I’ve been carrying these winters like folded letters tucked away in drawers no one ever read aloud. And here I am— lighting candles for ghosts who never learned how to knock. Making warmth out of everything that tried to leave me cold. Still, I love winter. Isn’t that the strangest thing? I love her honesty, her bare branches, her refusal to lie. She is Death and Beauty. Grief and Acceptance. She keeps me insulated in a blanket of sacred reverence Despite the cost. This is how Grief tiptoes back in— when the light leans a certain way at 4pm when dusk casts a bruised lavender hue when the songs shift moods on my playlist when the air softens just enough for her familiar knock No calendar reminder just a fractal knowing— summoning the ache from the cellar where the memories rest in tear-stained time capsules awaiting remembrance. And Winter… She is the key. So I welcome her— like an old friend who sometimes knows me better than I know myself. I let her remind me that I have survived more than I admit That love—nay, loss— reshapes the soul. And that maybe being born into a season of stillness—of waiting, of death taught me how to find warmth in the coldest, barren places and how to hold vigil for the bones not yet buried. How to grieve ghosts.

0

Dec 13, 2025

Dec 13, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC

The Season That Remembers Me

The body remembers. Even when the mind forgets. Grief is seasonal like that. She waits for the air to turn. For the light to bend a certain way— low and sideways, like it did that December when I stood beside my father’s bed, watching the shape of his soul grow thin. Winter does this to me. And strangely, I welcome her. She strips the world of performance, peels back all the defenses. No pretending in this season. In her stark authenticity, everything is laid bare. Not alive, but not dead either. Just… waiting. Winter is the pregnant pause— the gestation— before the flutter of life begins to crown again. She knows how to make silence sacred. She knows that stillness is not stagnation, but the fallow ground of reception. And so I sit with her. To receive. Allowing Grief to crash like a ***** tide against the shoreline of my being, taking the bittersweet debris out to sea, making way for Spring, where birdsong will return, and the faintest pastel colors will once again peek shyly from beneath the frost. I was born in Winter on a Sunday at the end of January during a blizzard. And I’ve always felt the weight of that like the first breath I ever took was from beneath two feet of snow. Maybe my mother was grieving when she birthed me. Maybe her sorrow folded into my skin before I even had words to ask what I had done wrong. Now, every Sunday whispers back to that. Not in sentences. But in sensation. A low tide of lamentation that never quite recedes. I’ve always felt it— Winters and Sundays, whispering of endings Of something pulling me back, under Beneath ground. Winter always knows before my mind catches on, before the calendar reminds me of the ache, The light begins to bend just so— and something triggers within. It’s not sadness at first. Just a pause, a heaviness in the back of my heartspace. And then comes the knowing. The air sharpens. Overhead, the geese— a ragged "V" written in the pewter sky— call out their ancient echo And my body, without asking, begins to reprocess. Not just one loss, but all of them. My mother vanished with November’s leaves. My father, in the darkness of December’s Solstice. My marriage cracked with January’s ice I’ve been carrying these winters like folded letters tucked away in drawers no one ever read aloud. And here I am— lighting candles for ghosts who never learned how to knock. Making warmth out of everything that tried to leave me cold. Still, I love winter. Isn’t that the strangest thing? I love her honesty, her bare branches, her refusal to lie. She is Death and Beauty. Grief and Acceptance. She keeps me insulated in a blanket of sacred reverence Despite the cost. This is how Grief tiptoes back in— when the light leans a certain way at 4pm when dusk casts a bruised lavender hue when the songs shift moods on my playlist when the air softens just enough for her familiar knock No calendar reminder just a fractal knowing— summoning the ache from the cellar where the memories rest in tear-stained time capsules awaiting remembrance. And Winter… She is the key. So I welcome her— like an old friend who sometimes knows me better than I know myself. I let her remind me that I have survived more than I admit That love—nay, loss— reshapes the soul. And that maybe being born into a season of stillness—of waiting, of death taught me how to find warmth in the coldest, barren places and how to hold vigil for the bones not yet buried. How to grieve ghosts.

119

Why the dance with paper figures, this ceaseless shuffle of the deck— when the one who saw your face never turned away? Why this noise, this need for novelty, when the card that knows your name is a smooth, warm stone in the cold creek of the deck, waiting? The screen lights up. Fingers tap. But the soul is a dormant seed, curled beneath the ribs That will not stir for any frequency But the truth. The one who held that note offered her heart like a tendril in devoted hands. A steady whisper: She saw you. And the card was yours. And still— the shuffle continues. So let it. Let the wind take the chaff, The wheat remains. Let the morning rearrange the false mirrors. Once again. Yet the card below does not vanish. It simply does not care for the game. It is a stone keeping warm wrapped in the soft glow of its own light, unbothered by the static of the shuffle. ~Remaining true~

0

Nov 22, 2025

Nov 22, 2025 at 2:01 PM UTC

The Face Card

Why the dance with paper figures, this ceaseless shuffle of the deck— when the one who saw your face never turned away? Why this noise, this need for novelty, when the card that knows your name is a smooth, warm stone in the cold creek of the deck, waiting? The screen lights up. Fingers tap. But the soul is a dormant seed, curled beneath the ribs That will not stir for any frequency But the truth. The one who held that note offered her heart like a tendril in devoted hands. A steady whisper: She saw you. And the card was yours. And still— the shuffle continues. So let it. Let the wind take the chaff, The wheat remains. Let the morning rearrange the false mirrors. Once again. Yet the card below does not vanish. It simply does not care for the game. It is a stone keeping warm wrapped in the soft glow of its own light, unbothered by the static of the shuffle. ~Remaining true~

30

You liked to bite my juicy *** But froze when feelings came to pass. You wanted fun, not sacred flame Then called it taxing when truth came. You wanted bhakti in a thong, But ran when Shakti came on strong. You craved the muse, but not her scroll Preferred her parts, ignored her soul. I thought I’d met a man of thought— Turns out it’s *** you mostly sought. You bit my lip, then ran from light, Said ego death didn’t feel quite right. I sang Shakti, you played dead, Cried "too intense," left me on read. I reached for depth, you grabbed your shield Another wound now left unhealed. You ghosted once I dared to feel, Preferred a fantasy to what was real. You love all butts, so you have claimed, But backed your *** up when truth was named. A dopamine hit, a thrill, no heart, You lit the match, then killed the spark. You wanted heat, not where it led, Love asked for more—you ran instead. If cheeks and chuckles were the key, Would that have kept you close to me? No soul, no depth, just laughs and **** Would that have kept the door unshut? You found your calm in passive eyes No questions asked, no truth to rise. But when your soul begins to ache, Will silence satisfy the heart that wakes? So keep your red, your calm, your ease Your mind unbothered by degrees. But when you crave the fire you fled Who will dance inside your head? You called me deep, too much to stay— But I’d have lit you every day. You thought I’d burn and then grow tame But I don’t bore. I blaze. I flame. So here’s your bhakti—wild and rare But way "too much" for you to care. I saw your soul, I gave my heart, You wanted *** I gave you art.

0

Aug 23, 2025

Aug 23, 2025 at 12:55 PM UTC

On Butts and Bhakti

You liked to bite my juicy *** But froze when feelings came to pass. You wanted fun, not sacred flame Then called it taxing when truth came. You wanted bhakti in a thong, But ran when Shakti came on strong. You craved the muse, but not her scroll Preferred her parts, ignored her soul. I thought I’d met a man of thought— Turns out it’s *** you mostly sought. You bit my lip, then ran from light, Said ego death didn’t feel quite right. I sang Shakti, you played dead, Cried "too intense," left me on read. I reached for depth, you grabbed your shield Another wound now left unhealed. You ghosted once I dared to feel, Preferred a fantasy to what was real. You love all butts, so you have claimed, But backed your *** up when truth was named. A dopamine hit, a thrill, no heart, You lit the match, then killed the spark. You wanted heat, not where it led, Love asked for more—you ran instead. If cheeks and chuckles were the key, Would that have kept you close to me? No soul, no depth, just laughs and **** Would that have kept the door unshut? You found your calm in passive eyes No questions asked, no truth to rise. But when your soul begins to ache, Will silence satisfy the heart that wakes? So keep your red, your calm, your ease Your mind unbothered by degrees. But when you crave the fire you fled Who will dance inside your head? You called me deep, too much to stay— But I’d have lit you every day. You thought I’d burn and then grow tame But I don’t bore. I blaze. I flame. So here’s your bhakti—wild and rare But way "too much" for you to care. I saw your soul, I gave my heart, You wanted *** I gave you art.

45

(a poem for the women left holding the dustpan) I remember when my children were small— eager hands reaching for the broom, begging to help. They’d trail behind me, half-heartedly sweeping, missing corners, scattering crumbs. But they wanted to try. So I let them. I’d guide their tiny hands, show them the rhythm, and still end up doing it myself. They’d get tired, bored— drop the broom mid-sweep and run off laughing while I stayed behind to clean it properly. That’s what this felt like with you. You insisted. “I want this. I can do this.” So I gave you the broom. I showed you the way. I slowed down, waited, offered my heart like a home. But the minute the work began, the minute the dust stirred, you handed it back— too heavy, too much, not fun anymore. And like a child, you disappeared into yourself, while I stood there— hands full of splinters, heart full of ache, sweeping up the pieces of everything you couldn’t carry. You wanted the broom. Until you didn’t. And now I’m here, again— cleaning the mess you made of me.

0

Jul 12, 2025

Jul 12, 2025 at 5:05 PM UTC

The Broom

(a poem for the women left holding the dustpan) I remember when my children were small— eager hands reaching for the broom, begging to help. They’d trail behind me, half-heartedly sweeping, missing corners, scattering crumbs. But they wanted to try. So I let them. I’d guide their tiny hands, show them the rhythm, and still end up doing it myself. They’d get tired, bored— drop the broom mid-sweep and run off laughing while I stayed behind to clean it properly. That’s what this felt like with you. You insisted. “I want this. I can do this.” So I gave you the broom. I showed you the way. I slowed down, waited, offered my heart like a home. But the minute the work began, the minute the dust stirred, you handed it back— too heavy, too much, not fun anymore. And like a child, you disappeared into yourself, while I stood there— hands full of splinters, heart full of ache, sweeping up the pieces of everything you couldn’t carry. You wanted the broom. Until you didn’t. And now I’m here, again— cleaning the mess you made of me.

43

She is in another place Fading What does it feel like to be caught in the in-between? Moving through To the other side.

0

Dec 9, 2024

Dec 9, 2024 at 4:21 PM UTC

Twilight

She is in another place Fading What does it feel like to be caught in the in-between? Moving through To the other side.

5

He was the sexiest man she had ever laid eyes on His countenance rugged and bronze His smile was infectious and his lips perfectly curved And his body was a five alarm And his accent--oh his accent! Well, that did her in. She was smitten and wholly entranced Bound and determined to have him, and thus began their dance. He showed that country girl exquisite things that her heart had only dreamed He wined her and dined her and...(well I will leave that to your imagination what happened next) But things weren't exactly quite as they seemed. Little cracks during conversations that seemed rather odd. Not returning calls, being drunk, angry and cold. Inconsistent, resistent, not true to his word, he would tell her he would call then go off for days, not to be heard. She would wait and worry and fret and stew, but he would eventually call again That thrill of excitement, that wonder of lust, revving up her rusty engine. This went on for quite some time--the ups and the downs in her soul and her mind. It all seemed quite normal to him as long as she didn't whine or demand his time. She was in love. He said he was, too. But something didn't seem right when she would occasionally feel blue. Anything not fun and sunny and light would anger him and turn him from Jekyll into Hyde. She would weep and cry and try to bring him around. But that made him angrier the more she would expound. His moods tossed and turned like an insomniac. But she still loved him to the moon and back. She was used to her mother who was similarly made, so placating and pleasing became a routine way. The times, when good, were amazingly great. He crossed the Atlantic to make her his wife. His first week there was a crash course in strife. Demanding and cursing rather than just trying to fit in, it was going to be his way or the highway, her resilience wearing thin. The name calling began, the anger more mean The weeks were spent recovering from the screams. He called her names she had never been called. She withered and wept and emotions were raw. Nothing was good enough from her to him. She tried to make them a life, but there was too much sinking to swim. Her friends never knew if they were on or off. Her children just tried to stay aloft. She would breathe a sigh of relief when he would come down, allowing them to repair the break from this round. But finally the ups and the downs took their toll, and after leaving twice before he took the plane back home. Leaving her devastated and emotionally drained, not knowing where they stood, feeling she was to blame. Two years later and two worlds apart, they are still legally married but of questionable hearts. She still loves him as from that first sight. He on the other hand, doesn't seem to want a wife. He tells her he wishes they had never met-- **** you, ***** rings his voice in her head. Why can't she let go? No need to walk away or leave. He's 4,000 miles away, and couldn't care less for her needs. She knows this is wrong. She knows he is toxic. But her heart rules her head. Perhaps she is hypoxic.

0

Dec 9, 2024

Dec 9, 2024 at 4:20 PM UTC

TraumaBond

He was the sexiest man she had ever laid eyes on His countenance rugged and bronze His smile was infectious and his lips perfectly curved And his body was a five alarm And his accent--oh his accent! Well, that did her in. She was smitten and wholly entranced Bound and determined to have him, and thus began their dance. He showed that country girl exquisite things that her heart had only dreamed He wined her and dined her and...(well I will leave that to your imagination what happened next) But things weren't exactly quite as they seemed. Little cracks during conversations that seemed rather odd. Not returning calls, being drunk, angry and cold. Inconsistent, resistent, not true to his word, he would tell her he would call then go off for days, not to be heard. She would wait and worry and fret and stew, but he would eventually call again That thrill of excitement, that wonder of lust, revving up her rusty engine. This went on for quite some time--the ups and the downs in her soul and her mind. It all seemed quite normal to him as long as she didn't whine or demand his time. She was in love. He said he was, too. But something didn't seem right when she would occasionally feel blue. Anything not fun and sunny and light would anger him and turn him from Jekyll into Hyde. She would weep and cry and try to bring him around. But that made him angrier the more she would expound. His moods tossed and turned like an insomniac. But she still loved him to the moon and back. She was used to her mother who was similarly made, so placating and pleasing became a routine way. The times, when good, were amazingly great. He crossed the Atlantic to make her his wife. His first week there was a crash course in strife. Demanding and cursing rather than just trying to fit in, it was going to be his way or the highway, her resilience wearing thin. The name calling began, the anger more mean The weeks were spent recovering from the screams. He called her names she had never been called. She withered and wept and emotions were raw. Nothing was good enough from her to him. She tried to make them a life, but there was too much sinking to swim. Her friends never knew if they were on or off. Her children just tried to stay aloft. She would breathe a sigh of relief when he would come down, allowing them to repair the break from this round. But finally the ups and the downs took their toll, and after leaving twice before he took the plane back home. Leaving her devastated and emotionally drained, not knowing where they stood, feeling she was to blame. Two years later and two worlds apart, they are still legally married but of questionable hearts. She still loves him as from that first sight. He on the other hand, doesn't seem to want a wife. He tells her he wishes they had never met-- **** you, ***** rings his voice in her head. Why can't she let go? No need to walk away or leave. He's 4,000 miles away, and couldn't care less for her needs. She knows this is wrong. She knows he is toxic. But her heart rules her head. Perhaps she is hypoxic.

32

If I could take your pain away And make your world all right I'd give you silky kisses And tuck you in at night I'd sabotage the hurt inside So you could feel my love That pulses through my veins And shines down from above Your wounds would disappear No longer to be felt And you would bask in love's lush light And make my starved heart melt With every action, word, and deed You'd blanket me in love Warm and cozy we would be Like a pair of woolen gloves Our world would finally then be one No more hurt to bear And from our newfound freedom This love we then could share

0

Dec 9, 2024

Dec 9, 2024 at 1:48 PM UTC

Shared Fantasy

If I could take your pain away And make your world all right I'd give you silky kisses And tuck you in at night I'd sabotage the hurt inside So you could feel my love That pulses through my veins And shines down from above Your wounds would disappear No longer to be felt And you would bask in love's lush light And make my starved heart melt With every action, word, and deed You'd blanket me in love Warm and cozy we would be Like a pair of woolen gloves Our world would finally then be one No more hurt to bear And from our newfound freedom This love we then could share

20

Laughing giggles where did they go? Frowns are the only thing right now we know What happened to us? why did we grow So far apart like warm earth beneath snow Bring back the light to warm our days The cold is mean and bleak. The seasons change too quickly The days turn into weeks Let our hearts be light, For it's in the dark they seize And make our days so painful That all we see are trees The trees they are so big and tall Obscuring the simple path The forest awaits with its wisdom If we can avoid the wrath The wrath with which we self destroy The path we've already worn The one made of our history And of the vows we've sworn. Let the forest be our goal Who cares about the trees? With love and faith and kindness May we navigate with ease And let us recollect all the times we've had along the way-- The good, the bad, the in between They all have things to say We are better navigators than at times we seem Get out your map and compass And lead us to our dream

0

Dec 9, 2024

Dec 9, 2024 at 1:46 PM UTC

Naïveté

Laughing giggles where did they go? Frowns are the only thing right now we know What happened to us? why did we grow So far apart like warm earth beneath snow Bring back the light to warm our days The cold is mean and bleak. The seasons change too quickly The days turn into weeks Let our hearts be light, For it's in the dark they seize And make our days so painful That all we see are trees The trees they are so big and tall Obscuring the simple path The forest awaits with its wisdom If we can avoid the wrath The wrath with which we self destroy The path we've already worn The one made of our history And of the vows we've sworn. Let the forest be our goal Who cares about the trees? With love and faith and kindness May we navigate with ease And let us recollect all the times we've had along the way-- The good, the bad, the in between They all have things to say We are better navigators than at times we seem Get out your map and compass And lead us to our dream

30

There is a sadness in my eyes That no one knows Feeling lost and alone The emptiness grows All I ever wanted was a love, a love that was true A love that would shelter me when everything was blue With hope in my eyes and pain in my heart I look to you to help me restart My life Can you put your anger aside and hold my hand through this dark lonely night And carry me to a brand new day Where the sky is blue again and the sun shines the way You are my rock, my shelter from the storm Can you give to me and keep me safe and warm Hold me in your arms and never let me go Letting nothing come between us Ever again.

0

Dec 9, 2024

Dec 9, 2024 at 1:44 PM UTC

Vacio

There is a sadness in my eyes That no one knows Feeling lost and alone The emptiness grows All I ever wanted was a love, a love that was true A love that would shelter me when everything was blue With hope in my eyes and pain in my heart I look to you to help me restart My life Can you put your anger aside and hold my hand through this dark lonely night And carry me to a brand new day Where the sky is blue again and the sun shines the way You are my rock, my shelter from the storm Can you give to me and keep me safe and warm Hold me in your arms and never let me go Letting nothing come between us Ever again.

17

Her eyes tell a story if you look close enough Her shoulders are rounded from a life that's been tough Her days carry on with no hope in sight The same old song repeated each night The angst of longing for the one that won't love back Her heart is heavy and her days are black But yet she keeps on hoping for him to see the light To learn how to give himself and make everything alright. She needs him to be with her while the chips are down He can't seem to understand why she needs him around She screams for help but no one hears her call The one she needs the most won't listen at all No understanding that this sadness she can't help. There's no way out for her. Her life is a living Hell.

0

Dec 9, 2024

Dec 9, 2024 at 1:41 PM UTC

Chiaroscuro

Her eyes tell a story if you look close enough Her shoulders are rounded from a life that's been tough Her days carry on with no hope in sight The same old song repeated each night The angst of longing for the one that won't love back Her heart is heavy and her days are black But yet she keeps on hoping for him to see the light To learn how to give himself and make everything alright. She needs him to be with her while the chips are down He can't seem to understand why she needs him around She screams for help but no one hears her call The one she needs the most won't listen at all No understanding that this sadness she can't help. There's no way out for her. Her life is a living Hell.

14