alexandra-jane-wheeler - Hello Poetry

My father is the music. My hearts rhythm a show of puppetry. A creation of passion, constructed solitude, Packing my world with repeated withering words In which meaningless love wanders, until it is Personal. Too high, too drunk, too moved by music, That ****** harmonica, guitar, microphone, even spoons These utensils too forgetful to notice, Other senses, What past notes have created. You are a monster music, that calms And rages, carves out playgrounds of feeling. Music sculpts everything, it defines me. Yet, if it is truly bad, off key, or sharp, Nothing sung, written, or played Can bring the sound of stories solace.

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Feb 17, 2012

Feb 17, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC

alexandra-jane-wheeler

A show of Puppetry

My father is the music. My hearts rhythm a show of puppetry. A creation of passion, constructed solitude, Packing my world with repeated withering words In which meaningless love wanders, until it is Personal. Too high, too drunk, too moved by music, That ****** harmonica, guitar, microphone, even spoons These utensils too forgetful to notice, Other senses, What past notes have created. You are a monster music, that calms And rages, carves out playgrounds of feeling. Music sculpts everything, it defines me. Yet, if it is truly bad, off key, or sharp, Nothing sung, written, or played Can bring the sound of stories solace.

17

My shadow passed me. He pulled the thin laces Attaching him to my feet, and disintegrated as curtly as he tugged. It would be one thing if he ran a little ahead skipping merrily in view. But, my shadow being nothing more than my own, became smoke in the fog, tickling my impatient cheeks and joined sky's fireworks. I should be alright in his absence. After all whats the purpose of a shadow? He is nothing more than earths black mirror a natural reflection of action. He is the other account which attests as truthfully as I to the lies of an evening, a sunrise, and the dimly lit greys of the night. I have been long without him. And he mails me chills sometimes, like the static of a flannel nest down my bare skinned spine, because my colorless mimed companion grew taller than my monotonous motions, provoking my dark puppet to seek more than I can provide. While I wander in the lights searching for him.

0

Feb 17, 2012

Feb 17, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC

alexandra-jane-wheeler

Nothing more than my own

My shadow passed me. He pulled the thin laces Attaching him to my feet, and disintegrated as curtly as he tugged. It would be one thing if he ran a little ahead skipping merrily in view. But, my shadow being nothing more than my own, became smoke in the fog, tickling my impatient cheeks and joined sky's fireworks. I should be alright in his absence. After all whats the purpose of a shadow? He is nothing more than earths black mirror a natural reflection of action. He is the other account which attests as truthfully as I to the lies of an evening, a sunrise, and the dimly lit greys of the night. I have been long without him. And he mails me chills sometimes, like the static of a flannel nest down my bare skinned spine, because my colorless mimed companion grew taller than my monotonous motions, provoking my dark puppet to seek more than I can provide. While I wander in the lights searching for him.

34

I have a bruise to mark each memory faded experiences, my tie-died vessels heal hurriedly as a huddled leaf chasing a stream. I have a bruise to mark moving hip-forward, greeting our kitchen counter first thing after threshold. I have a bruise from stubbornness we wrestled like chimps, my head finding first impressions with tacky tiles, your floor. You won our primitive match. A bruise to mark the midnight hike, I fell into the chaparral. One to many beers, and a spin-tingling fear of fallowing you up the mountain. I slapped you for leaving me behind. I have a bruise to mark our night, when anger awoke arousal Your thumb, your teeth, the main suspects to my man made splotch. A shower stinging stain trickled itself away A fleshy fading peace sign. I have a bruise from your discovery. In a constructed pile of soil You laid me down too ***** Stripping me of theatrical ties, temporary faces. I willingly wove the canvas, for you brave adventurer uncovered bruises. The maps you didn't mark, blacks and Blues you didn't write. Paints that I lose so frequently, like a child in a department store that I can't forget my human fear, Being Found. But though you paint me purple, break my veins like glow sticks, leave me in the dark, and wrestle me like a man, You heal Me, like rain to the grasses. To feel again. You crumpled contracted walls surrounding my ability in obtaining adventure, and your Happy Bruises.

0

Feb 16, 2012

Feb 16, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC

alexandra-jane-wheeler

The Mark

I have a bruise to mark each memory faded experiences, my tie-died vessels heal hurriedly as a huddled leaf chasing a stream. I have a bruise to mark moving hip-forward, greeting our kitchen counter first thing after threshold. I have a bruise from stubbornness we wrestled like chimps, my head finding first impressions with tacky tiles, your floor. You won our primitive match. A bruise to mark the midnight hike, I fell into the chaparral. One to many beers, and a spin-tingling fear of fallowing you up the mountain. I slapped you for leaving me behind. I have a bruise to mark our night, when anger awoke arousal Your thumb, your teeth, the main suspects to my man made splotch. A shower stinging stain trickled itself away A fleshy fading peace sign. I have a bruise from your discovery. In a constructed pile of soil You laid me down too ***** Stripping me of theatrical ties, temporary faces. I willingly wove the canvas, for you brave adventurer uncovered bruises. The maps you didn't mark, blacks and Blues you didn't write. Paints that I lose so frequently, like a child in a department store that I can't forget my human fear, Being Found. But though you paint me purple, break my veins like glow sticks, leave me in the dark, and wrestle me like a man, You heal Me, like rain to the grasses. To feel again. You crumpled contracted walls surrounding my ability in obtaining adventure, and your Happy Bruises.

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