aiseiri-bramble - Hello Poetry

When the first human to discover excess Patented the story of ownership And filled their mouths with more food than they could eat They ate a hole into the future of their kind

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Jun 2, 2015

Jun 2, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC

Untitled

When the first human to discover excess Patented the story of ownership And filled their mouths with more food than they could eat They ate a hole into the future of their kind

4

We dance the dance Of a thousand beating, aching hands Held and bound tight in hatred Throbbing with a curse To love or be lost To hate or be hated Each one longing for something that the other can give But nobody speaking And the earth became drowned in tears

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Jun 2, 2015

Jun 2, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC

Untitled

We dance the dance Of a thousand beating, aching hands Held and bound tight in hatred Throbbing with a curse To love or be lost To hate or be hated Each one longing for something that the other can give But nobody speaking And the earth became drowned in tears

9

I get very scared sometimes, so I wrote a list to give you about everything that scares me. So that you might not do those things But then I got scared again, and I didn't give it to you. And your very existence scares me And yet I love you And I think you might be the best person I know And I don't ever want to hurt you And yet your pain is so overwhelming I often can't breathe and I'm trapped in this world both with you and without you and I can't love you because I'm too scared of myself and it hurts. It hurts. I should give you that list But your pain outlasts mine And shouldn't I let myself sacrifice my fear for your happiness?

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Jun 2, 2015

Jun 2, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC

The List

I get very scared sometimes, so I wrote a list to give you about everything that scares me. So that you might not do those things But then I got scared again, and I didn't give it to you. And your very existence scares me And yet I love you And I think you might be the best person I know And I don't ever want to hurt you And yet your pain is so overwhelming I often can't breathe and I'm trapped in this world both with you and without you and I can't love you because I'm too scared of myself and it hurts. It hurts. I should give you that list But your pain outlasts mine And shouldn't I let myself sacrifice my fear for your happiness?

11

Today I heard The all too rare sound of silence When I took my boots and woollen socks And with them my feet and legs And the rest, From the noisy pebbles Up to the sea-soft grass that lies Between stone and rock, and beyond that, A sea, That lapped today no stronger Than a lake in summer. It is not quite yet the time for silence, As winter is loud, at least To my ears. But today there were Catkins, on the willow Coltsfoot flowers, which I had not seen Before, and I saw a plant I think looks As if it might be related to chamomile. I wore my long skirt, My sisters scarf And a green hat I felt as lovely as the trees today, Well maybe not quite… But I will say so because All is silent, but love in this moment, And if I am not to love myself I am not to love the earth on which I stand. Am I not the tree? Am I not the bird? Am I not the hoverfly? Am I not the insect that I almost ate, Upon plucking a gorse flower So enticingly filled with a scent of coconut and sweet warm sunlight I looked into the flower and found another being… Gorse flowers do not taste as they smell However often you try, thinking that maybe, this once, they will liken primroses, and taste like…. Flowers. Maybe I am more like the grass.

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May 11, 2015

May 11, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC

A Silence

Today I heard The all too rare sound of silence When I took my boots and woollen socks And with them my feet and legs And the rest, From the noisy pebbles Up to the sea-soft grass that lies Between stone and rock, and beyond that, A sea, That lapped today no stronger Than a lake in summer. It is not quite yet the time for silence, As winter is loud, at least To my ears. But today there were Catkins, on the willow Coltsfoot flowers, which I had not seen Before, and I saw a plant I think looks As if it might be related to chamomile. I wore my long skirt, My sisters scarf And a green hat I felt as lovely as the trees today, Well maybe not quite… But I will say so because All is silent, but love in this moment, And if I am not to love myself I am not to love the earth on which I stand. Am I not the tree? Am I not the bird? Am I not the hoverfly? Am I not the insect that I almost ate, Upon plucking a gorse flower So enticingly filled with a scent of coconut and sweet warm sunlight I looked into the flower and found another being… Gorse flowers do not taste as they smell However often you try, thinking that maybe, this once, they will liken primroses, and taste like…. Flowers. Maybe I am more like the grass.

39

I hardly knew you And yet sometimes the wind Decides to hit me in some way And I remember that you're gone. Sometimes someone mentions your name Or I see a flower For you were like a blossom And I feel like someone has placed me in a dream It's easier to forget that you existed It's easier. If you were alive but just not around I would hardly bat an eyelid. It's just that every time I go back to the last place I saw you I remember that I held your hand. Could I have done something? Could I have eased your pain? I would do anything. Standing on the beach where you died, I wondered where it was that you took your final breath And if it was your own decision. You are among the faeries now, in the hawthorn, The primrose blooms brighter now that you are in her earth The birds sing with you And sometimes I can almost see you among the trees, Laughing as the wren dances. I don't know where people go when they die But I hope you're somewhere in the forest. I can't stop wondering. Who found you lying there? When did your children hear? I cannot begin to think, For if you were my mother I would have loved you Loved you to the deepest part of my heart I will never know, because I am And always will be, Just some girl you saw once in a while Shared a song and a kind word with Shared some of your beauty with And who wishes she had never met you Because she can't handle the pain of losing someone that she would have loved if she had known she would die.

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May 11, 2015

May 11, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC

I miss you

I hardly knew you And yet sometimes the wind Decides to hit me in some way And I remember that you're gone. Sometimes someone mentions your name Or I see a flower For you were like a blossom And I feel like someone has placed me in a dream It's easier to forget that you existed It's easier. If you were alive but just not around I would hardly bat an eyelid. It's just that every time I go back to the last place I saw you I remember that I held your hand. Could I have done something? Could I have eased your pain? I would do anything. Standing on the beach where you died, I wondered where it was that you took your final breath And if it was your own decision. You are among the faeries now, in the hawthorn, The primrose blooms brighter now that you are in her earth The birds sing with you And sometimes I can almost see you among the trees, Laughing as the wren dances. I don't know where people go when they die But I hope you're somewhere in the forest. I can't stop wondering. Who found you lying there? When did your children hear? I cannot begin to think, For if you were my mother I would have loved you Loved you to the deepest part of my heart I will never know, because I am And always will be, Just some girl you saw once in a while Shared a song and a kind word with Shared some of your beauty with And who wishes she had never met you Because she can't handle the pain of losing someone that she would have loved if she had known she would die.

39

The girl awoke, as ever before Younger than herself yet older, As before, too young to know her own words And too old to speak them freely. Words, she said, were like sneezes, Maybe not so frequent, but still, For some erupting easily and eloquently And for others, hanging painfully unheard Building pressure yet never ceasing until forgotten. She sat up, her tousled hair catching in the morning light. No, she said, sneeze was not a clever metaphor She tried again. Words, she said, were like flowers, Maybe not so dainty, but still, Some big, catching the eye, the ones we plant in our gardens, Others smaller, the wildflowers that often go unnoticed Yet somehow carry more beauty than the others. She pressed her sun-kissed feet to the floor. No, she said, flowers could not be compared To something as graceful as words. She tried again, her tender lips unsure Her blue eyes sparkling yet broken. As she stumbled over thoughts, The corners of her mouth curled subtly. I wished I could kiss those lips. Words that are not hers fall from my hands And thoughts that are not hers spring to me, More eloquently than my own thoughts. When I am alone, and my chest hurts, Oh it hurts, and my heart won’t stop. My eyes often fill with tears and I cannot stop Or feel what keeps me here, It all goes, it all goes. The words I say are hers began as words That only sprang to mind from fiction And yet everything comes back to her once more, again. When I am alone, and my heart is not beating with my consent, The face that fills the pain is hers alone. I love him deeper yet I do not feel the pain from him For when I feel an ache, an ache is all I feel Therefore the things that hurt, hurt all the more. She sat up, her tousled hair catching in the morning light. She smiled with those perfect lips, yet those words were not hers. I do not remember any words. She pressed her sun-kissed feet to the floor. Her blue eyes fixed on me, I think she does not love me, Although her words say otherwise. I would not wish for her to love me, for I love another more. Words that are not hers fall from my hands And thoughts that are not hers spring to me, More eloquently than my own thoughts. The words I say are hers began as words That only sprang to mind from fiction And yet everything comes back to her once more, Again, again, Again.

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May 11, 2015

May 11, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC

Again

The girl awoke, as ever before Younger than herself yet older, As before, too young to know her own words And too old to speak them freely. Words, she said, were like sneezes, Maybe not so frequent, but still, For some erupting easily and eloquently And for others, hanging painfully unheard Building pressure yet never ceasing until forgotten. She sat up, her tousled hair catching in the morning light. No, she said, sneeze was not a clever metaphor She tried again. Words, she said, were like flowers, Maybe not so dainty, but still, Some big, catching the eye, the ones we plant in our gardens, Others smaller, the wildflowers that often go unnoticed Yet somehow carry more beauty than the others. She pressed her sun-kissed feet to the floor. No, she said, flowers could not be compared To something as graceful as words. She tried again, her tender lips unsure Her blue eyes sparkling yet broken. As she stumbled over thoughts, The corners of her mouth curled subtly. I wished I could kiss those lips. Words that are not hers fall from my hands And thoughts that are not hers spring to me, More eloquently than my own thoughts. When I am alone, and my chest hurts, Oh it hurts, and my heart won’t stop. My eyes often fill with tears and I cannot stop Or feel what keeps me here, It all goes, it all goes. The words I say are hers began as words That only sprang to mind from fiction And yet everything comes back to her once more, again. When I am alone, and my heart is not beating with my consent, The face that fills the pain is hers alone. I love him deeper yet I do not feel the pain from him For when I feel an ache, an ache is all I feel Therefore the things that hurt, hurt all the more. She sat up, her tousled hair catching in the morning light. She smiled with those perfect lips, yet those words were not hers. I do not remember any words. She pressed her sun-kissed feet to the floor. Her blue eyes fixed on me, I think she does not love me, Although her words say otherwise. I would not wish for her to love me, for I love another more. Words that are not hers fall from my hands And thoughts that are not hers spring to me, More eloquently than my own thoughts. The words I say are hers began as words That only sprang to mind from fiction And yet everything comes back to her once more, Again, again, Again.

56

He woke, as before, a boy. She told him he would be a man, As his father was out cutting turf, And his mother told him the story, He had heard before by the fire. No pages to this book, not a leaf. When he was younger, this boy Had once cut, alone, the turf. But upon placing it in the fire, He decided instead to burn the mother of the leaf, And that he did not want to be a man. He couldn’t tell himself her story. He saw his mother, an aspen leaf Trembling by the fire, As what was deemed a man Turned her blackened eyes into a story. He had always resembled a boy Even to his own son, who pressed his tear-stained face into the turf. His father tried to prove the boy a man But found instead that he was hardly even boy. So drink hid him from the story While the not-boy cried by the fire Knowing that he could not touch his fathers turf. It was not like a man to shake as if a leaf. The not-boy decided again not to be a man, And lying in the earth found a fire Inside that showed him a story He had told himself as a boy In which those who were only leaves Could not have their own turf. He was not the only boy Who did not understand “man” None did, and instead told a story About how only the strongest leaf Would cut the turf And that only women would tend the fire. Boys do not cut turf. Leaves fall and we still tell stories Of how fire somehow makes a man.

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Sep 8, 2014

Sep 8, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC

The Rejection of Manhood

He woke, as before, a boy. She told him he would be a man, As his father was out cutting turf, And his mother told him the story, He had heard before by the fire. No pages to this book, not a leaf. When he was younger, this boy Had once cut, alone, the turf. But upon placing it in the fire, He decided instead to burn the mother of the leaf, And that he did not want to be a man. He couldn’t tell himself her story. He saw his mother, an aspen leaf Trembling by the fire, As what was deemed a man Turned her blackened eyes into a story. He had always resembled a boy Even to his own son, who pressed his tear-stained face into the turf. His father tried to prove the boy a man But found instead that he was hardly even boy. So drink hid him from the story While the not-boy cried by the fire Knowing that he could not touch his fathers turf. It was not like a man to shake as if a leaf. The not-boy decided again not to be a man, And lying in the earth found a fire Inside that showed him a story He had told himself as a boy In which those who were only leaves Could not have their own turf. He was not the only boy Who did not understand “man” None did, and instead told a story About how only the strongest leaf Would cut the turf And that only women would tend the fire. Boys do not cut turf. Leaves fall and we still tell stories Of how fire somehow makes a man.

39

Scribbling in little weaving scratchy black lines, neat but still uncertain, unsure of where the ink should turn to next, leaving blotches of unsureity riddled awkwardly across my page, my hand turns a phrase of no meaning, only to strike it through with a line too curvy yet too straight to be intentional. We are forced to write until shooting pains crawl up our hands and arms and we cry out “no more, no more” and all of a sudden they turn it to your life, they say we are useless without these marks depicting memories of frantic late night remembering.

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Jul 29, 2014

Jul 29, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC

School

Scribbling in little weaving scratchy black lines, neat but still uncertain, unsure of where the ink should turn to next, leaving blotches of unsureity riddled awkwardly across my page, my hand turns a phrase of no meaning, only to strike it through with a line too curvy yet too straight to be intentional. We are forced to write until shooting pains crawl up our hands and arms and we cry out “no more, no more” and all of a sudden they turn it to your life, they say we are useless without these marks depicting memories of frantic late night remembering.

20

Soft, loud, loud. What am I? Not music, just the lines on a page. Yet depicting the pitterpatter of moonlight, music, lines, dreaming, all the same. Soft loud soft Gently in little strokes a delicate face emerges Loud loud The night sings through my hand, darkening until no line is left unshaded, no place left unworked.

0

Jul 29, 2014

Jul 29, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC

Untitled

Soft, loud, loud. What am I? Not music, just the lines on a page. Yet depicting the pitterpatter of moonlight, music, lines, dreaming, all the same. Soft loud soft Gently in little strokes a delicate face emerges Loud loud The night sings through my hand, darkening until no line is left unshaded, no place left unworked.

8

Spreading Cracking Growing Pulsing Slowly, breathe Into me. I am not the earth nor air you live on, but the pain you drink Sorry but I can’t help myself. If I were one inside instead I would take it all back Out The raindrops tumble slowly, Dripping off your weathered skin, Winter is coming, I’ll never again See the words you softly spin Peaceful I am not the earth you live on, but the tears that fall Slowly Upon your leaves.

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Jul 29, 2014

Jul 29, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC

Innermost

Spreading Cracking Growing Pulsing Slowly, breathe Into me. I am not the earth nor air you live on, but the pain you drink Sorry but I can’t help myself. If I were one inside instead I would take it all back Out The raindrops tumble slowly, Dripping off your weathered skin, Winter is coming, I’ll never again See the words you softly spin Peaceful I am not the earth you live on, but the tears that fall Slowly Upon your leaves.

22