Nuelle1_ - Hello Poetry

Too many stops. Too many pauses. Too many full stops. When moments could have flowed fluid Could have continued along time’s axis to unfurl experiences Now unknown, now wondered about, now pondered on. I’m not shaken. But it’s never cathartic. It is forever suspense. It is forever remembrance. It is not regret. I was who I was, and I am who I am. I cannot null that. It is, wishes, perhaps. It is, wanting, to exist as two, to stop, but to continue, to watch, to witness. I am full stops; given to elective ethos and jittering convictions. And given to these full stops, I wander, wonder, what, what if, should, should have. What? Happens? After?

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Jan 3, 2024

Jan 3, 2024 at 1:21 PM UTC

Forever Suspense.

Too many stops. Too many pauses. Too many full stops. When moments could have flowed fluid Could have continued along time’s axis to unfurl experiences Now unknown, now wondered about, now pondered on. I’m not shaken. But it’s never cathartic. It is forever suspense. It is forever remembrance. It is not regret. I was who I was, and I am who I am. I cannot null that. It is, wishes, perhaps. It is, wanting, to exist as two, to stop, but to continue, to watch, to witness. I am full stops; given to elective ethos and jittering convictions. And given to these full stops, I wander, wonder, what, what if, should, should have. What? Happens? After?

6

I’ve piled my books high. Stacked them against the window. He pecks And he clucks. He’s the greatest company! I blow dust off the hardcovers. He must think they’re sand dunes. I’ve mountains Of heaps Over which he bounces and skips. “Shoo! Shoo!” He’s attacking me. He seems plenty cross. I guess he’s lonely. But hey! So am I! I haven’t been outside In forever. He hasn’t been outside Since he flew in. He must, like I do, like it here. I read him a book. He likes the tale; The one of the windborne bird. He seems not to like the one, though. The one about the caged singing bird. I read a book. About sunlight And moonlight And about windows. For that’s how they come in. And I’m curious. Curious enough. And so I set about with him flitting here to there, picking, unpiling, unstacking. Most books I shove into a trunk. Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf. I use it mostly for things. Many things. And a book or two. The window. This solitary window. I open. And there’s a flutter. He’s gone. But when I leave the apartment, I always come back. I always come back because I’m tired of walking. So, I imagine that he will come back. Yes, he will be back, When he’s tired of flying.

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Dec 7, 2019

Dec 7, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC

The Bird in The Apartment.

I’ve piled my books high. Stacked them against the window. He pecks And he clucks. He’s the greatest company! I blow dust off the hardcovers. He must think they’re sand dunes. I’ve mountains Of heaps Over which he bounces and skips. “Shoo! Shoo!” He’s attacking me. He seems plenty cross. I guess he’s lonely. But hey! So am I! I haven’t been outside In forever. He hasn’t been outside Since he flew in. He must, like I do, like it here. I read him a book. He likes the tale; The one of the windborne bird. He seems not to like the one, though. The one about the caged singing bird. I read a book. About sunlight And moonlight And about windows. For that’s how they come in. And I’m curious. Curious enough. And so I set about with him flitting here to there, picking, unpiling, unstacking. Most books I shove into a trunk. Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf. I use it mostly for things. Many things. And a book or two. The window. This solitary window. I open. And there’s a flutter. He’s gone. But when I leave the apartment, I always come back. I always come back because I’m tired of walking. So, I imagine that he will come back. Yes, he will be back, When he’s tired of flying.

51

To deliver a smile Is to wrap it nicely In some soft tissue Of pale blue Or, softest hue Of yellow. Next, place it in a box, Cozy, Small, Four walls Fitting To keep it safe. Four walls fitting to hug it snug. Then, mail it to me or whoever may be in your mind, cherie. No qualms because we all need a smile one that glimmers like jewels in the sunlight. One that’s as wide, Stretching as far as the eyes, One that sets flutters all about, a flap flap flap in the heart. To deliver such a smile, Ooh, I can’t even tell you is a pure, thrilling delight.

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Aug 31, 2019

Aug 31, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC

To Deliver a Smile.

To deliver a smile Is to wrap it nicely In some soft tissue Of pale blue Or, softest hue Of yellow. Next, place it in a box, Cozy, Small, Four walls Fitting To keep it safe. Four walls fitting to hug it snug. Then, mail it to me or whoever may be in your mind, cherie. No qualms because we all need a smile one that glimmers like jewels in the sunlight. One that’s as wide, Stretching as far as the eyes, One that sets flutters all about, a flap flap flap in the heart. To deliver such a smile, Ooh, I can’t even tell you is a pure, thrilling delight.

30

Smoothly, she slinks onto the window sill, silky body settling before tall pane of glass; Outside, the city’s down and out Outside, the city’s golden light and darkest dark. She curls, long tail around slick body and stares out for the one who stares back. Tonight, It’s an empty window opposite, A single frame of oh, what her life could be. She’s never seen more doesn’t yearn to, Just for her amore her golden tabby love. Ah, there he is, a pounce atop window sill; he stares at her who stares back his joli chat noir (pretty black cat). But it’s all too soon when she’s wrapped in arms too smooth and a voice, lacking feline’s purr slurs, “Ah, puppy love, Rosette. It’s all just puppy love.”

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Aug 5, 2019

Aug 5, 2019 at 2:49 PM UTC

A Cat's Romance.

Smoothly, she slinks onto the window sill, silky body settling before tall pane of glass; Outside, the city’s down and out Outside, the city’s golden light and darkest dark. She curls, long tail around slick body and stares out for the one who stares back. Tonight, It’s an empty window opposite, A single frame of oh, what her life could be. She’s never seen more doesn’t yearn to, Just for her amore her golden tabby love. Ah, there he is, a pounce atop window sill; he stares at her who stares back his joli chat noir (pretty black cat). But it’s all too soon when she’s wrapped in arms too smooth and a voice, lacking feline’s purr slurs, “Ah, puppy love, Rosette. It’s all just puppy love.”

29

We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance, think and talk through the side of her neck. It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early, For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!” We would lean in and listen intently But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous! Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses, She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray! We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment. For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak. But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head; For she was practically logical, Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes. Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground. And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition. Those times, there'd be surprise and awe. Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge. So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head; And that is when we would cheer for her. But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.

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Jul 11, 2019

Jul 11, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC

A Piece Of Her Brain Fell To Her Neck.

We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance, think and talk through the side of her neck. It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early, For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!” We would lean in and listen intently But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous! Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses, She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray! We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment. For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak. But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head; For she was practically logical, Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes. Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground. And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition. Those times, there'd be surprise and awe. Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge. So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head; And that is when we would cheer for her. But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.

22

The very night seems tangible; something grasped, But only in memory. It is interwoven with time, emotions. It is threaded tight, forever tied to her very thoughts, her very core. She won’t ever let it go.

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Jul 5, 2019

Jul 5, 2019 at 1:32 PM UTC

The Very Night.

The very night seems tangible; something grasped, But only in memory. It is interwoven with time, emotions. It is threaded tight, forever tied to her very thoughts, her very core. She won’t ever let it go.

10

"Peek and retreat is the term for it. Is the term for what I do." "Treating the world to a prime game, a fine game of relentless peek-a-boo."

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Jun 28, 2019

Jun 28, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC

Peek and Retreat; A Classic Game of Peek-a-boo.

"Peek and retreat is the term for it. Is the term for what I do." "Treating the world to a prime game, a fine game of relentless peek-a-boo."

5

Today I put on that perfume And it hit me With a memory forgotten; Sunken at the bottom of the almost empty bottle. “Mhm, wow you smell so good. What perfume is that?” You had asked. I’d been over the moon waxing outside. You had tickled my insides. So when I’d spritzed that on my neck and inhaled that scent and that memory… I was glad. Glad that the bottle was finished. Glad that there was nothing left to remind me of that moment, Glad that as I tossed the bottle into the trash, I had, in turn, trashed the memory. The memory sunken at the bottom of that perfume bottle.

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Jun 23, 2019

Jun 23, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC

That Perfume.

Today I put on that perfume And it hit me With a memory forgotten; Sunken at the bottom of the almost empty bottle. “Mhm, wow you smell so good. What perfume is that?” You had asked. I’d been over the moon waxing outside. You had tickled my insides. So when I’d spritzed that on my neck and inhaled that scent and that memory… I was glad. Glad that the bottle was finished. Glad that there was nothing left to remind me of that moment, Glad that as I tossed the bottle into the trash, I had, in turn, trashed the memory. The memory sunken at the bottom of that perfume bottle.

12

"And you, my dear lady, are the poem. I just give it voice."

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Jun 18, 2019

Jun 18, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC

My Dear Lady.