a-castillo - Hello Poetry

The bag exhales its emptiness. It has run out of things to give, only a few husks. I prop my hand under my chin. My darling puts her kit on the table and strings the kernels through. There were all shades of yellow #5. America's #1 Finest! She puts them round her neck, glistening in tv-light, that nacreous shell of a necklace. The white noise plays on. They start to burst, each one of them, into a different kind of flower— daffodils, dandelions, daisies— it was quite a piece. My hands are so close now, trembling, and I am hungry. The white noise plays on. Quickly I ****** at them, ****** into her, And my hand comes out empty, only a few husks. The petals scatter slowly around us. The bright, yellow sun is crashing, And so, too, does that crumpled bag Into the trash, above which hung My heavy heart, my sweet And her finest around her neck. I prop my hand under my chin again.

0

Apr 14, 2014

Apr 14, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC

Popcorn Jewelry

The bag exhales its emptiness. It has run out of things to give, only a few husks. I prop my hand under my chin. My darling puts her kit on the table and strings the kernels through. There were all shades of yellow #5. America's #1 Finest! She puts them round her neck, glistening in tv-light, that nacreous shell of a necklace. The white noise plays on. They start to burst, each one of them, into a different kind of flower— daffodils, dandelions, daisies— it was quite a piece. My hands are so close now, trembling, and I am hungry. The white noise plays on. Quickly I ****** at them, ****** into her, And my hand comes out empty, only a few husks. The petals scatter slowly around us. The bright, yellow sun is crashing, And so, too, does that crumpled bag Into the trash, above which hung My heavy heart, my sweet And her finest around her neck. I prop my hand under my chin again.

29

i can’t tell you how many of the apples you left in a basket are still untouched on my bedroom wall and how many are already thrown out because they began to rot. i can’t tell you how many of the apples you left in a hurry weren’t there in the first place i just grew them because i wanted them in the basket that you brought.

0

Mar 28, 2014

Mar 28, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC

better off

i can’t tell you how many of the apples you left in a basket are still untouched on my bedroom wall and how many are already thrown out because they began to rot. i can’t tell you how many of the apples you left in a hurry weren’t there in the first place i just grew them because i wanted them in the basket that you brought.

16

A kite—that's something I would like. When ground is damp and lambs are born, The kite floats up to lofty height. When sky is fleeced and trees are crisp, The kite is pulled up forks of light. When brittle leaves are shed and blown, The kite is thrown into their flight. When dewy grass is glazed in rime, The kite on frosty field alights. When frost creeps over, all is white.

0

Dec 14, 2013

Dec 14, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC

A Kite

A kite—that's something I would like. When ground is damp and lambs are born, The kite floats up to lofty height. When sky is fleeced and trees are crisp, The kite is pulled up forks of light. When brittle leaves are shed and blown, The kite is thrown into their flight. When dewy grass is glazed in rime, The kite on frosty field alights. When frost creeps over, all is white.

10

Below my feet are holes in a row And through them swerves the thread. My shadow, silently sewn to my sole, Lays stretched on the road ahead. So intricate the weave of the path As her soft bed of hair, My mind already beneath her lath Had found her seated there. And every thing my eyes lit upon Was laced with golden hue: The terrace, folding fields, oh! the dawn, The sunbeams shining you.

0

Jun 17, 2013

Jun 17, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC

Gold Leaf Tapestry

Below my feet are holes in a row And through them swerves the thread. My shadow, silently sewn to my sole, Lays stretched on the road ahead. So intricate the weave of the path As her soft bed of hair, My mind already beneath her lath Had found her seated there. And every thing my eyes lit upon Was laced with golden hue: The terrace, folding fields, oh! the dawn, The sunbeams shining you.

12

Dietary supplements Self-inflicted implements Gastronomical desires Quenched as if fire Turning heads from meat To vegetables and wheat Years pass by You shrivel and die.

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Feb 6, 2010

Feb 6, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC

Fooled by Food

Dietary supplements Self-inflicted implements Gastronomical desires Quenched as if fire Turning heads from meat To vegetables and wheat Years pass by You shrivel and die.

8