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amanda-cooper
Poems2
Followers3
Words178
you are staring at the floor and youre tongue tastes like cigarettes and your eyes look like frosty windowpanes. i say your name but you are staring at the floor. now i am staring at my toes and my tongue tastes like the ocean and my eyes look like the california sunshine. but its raining outside and i am staring at my toes. and you speak to me in lyrics and you tell me i’m the moon and you tell me my hair is braided with the stars and you tell me i am lost in some great galaxy gaze. and i speak to you in white noise and i tell you that youre hazy and i tell you your eyes are dusty from the stars and i tell you youve stopped looking toward the sky.
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Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 9:57 AM UTC
amanda-cooper
speak to me.
you are staring at the floor and youre tongue tastes like cigarettes and your eyes look like frosty windowpanes. i say your name but you are staring at the floor. now i am staring at my toes and my tongue tastes like the ocean and my eyes look like the california sunshine. but its raining outside and i am staring at my toes. and you speak to me in lyrics and you tell me i’m the moon and you tell me my hair is braided with the stars and you tell me i am lost in some great galaxy gaze. and i speak to you in white noise and i tell you that youre hazy and i tell you your eyes are dusty from the stars and i tell you youve stopped looking toward the sky.
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It was early morning when she descended the steps to the porch side, teacup in hand, dressed in her nightgown. Steam billowed from her cup, and with a swallow she examined her garden of weeds and unexpected peonies. It was early for blooming peonies; frost, like glass, still settled on the lawn, reflecting sunrise light of tangerine. The radiant glow of tangerine cast amber trails across steps covered in an icy coating of glass. Between her fingers she tucked her nightgown and gingerly treaded the garden of peonies that melted the frost in one great flower swallow. The barn swallow, perched not far from the path of tangerine, must have also taken notice of the peonies as he took the first steps to nest-building. She imagined that his lady bird, also in her nightgown, would enjoy the flowerbed of glass that he chose for their home. Sipping her glass of tea, she admired the familiar swallow lover as she folded into her nightgown bouquets of peonies that glistened in the tangerine sunlight. She took the steps back to the house, recalling her own swallow’s peonies: Peonies placed in vases of glass, peonies lining the porch steps, peonies presented over morning tea. With a swallow, she carefully, methodically lined the tangerine trail with the peonies from her nightgown. Her nightgown, stained with the rouge petals of peonies, dragged along the tangerine terrace of glass, blood red with the memory of her swallow lover’s peony-petaled steps. The steps to the house creaked beneath her nightgown. The barn swallow, quieted by the rouge of the peonies, shut his glass eyes to the skies of tangerine.
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Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
amanda-cooper
Peonies: A Sestina
It was early morning when she descended the steps to the porch side, teacup in hand, dressed in her nightgown. Steam billowed from her cup, and with a swallow she examined her garden of weeds and unexpected peonies. It was early for blooming peonies; frost, like glass, still settled on the lawn, reflecting sunrise light of tangerine. The radiant glow of tangerine cast amber trails across steps covered in an icy coating of glass. Between her fingers she tucked her nightgown and gingerly treaded the garden of peonies that melted the frost in one great flower swallow. The barn swallow, perched not far from the path of tangerine, must have also taken notice of the peonies as he took the first steps to nest-building. She imagined that his lady bird, also in her nightgown, would enjoy the flowerbed of glass that he chose for their home. Sipping her glass of tea, she admired the familiar swallow lover as she folded into her nightgown bouquets of peonies that glistened in the tangerine sunlight. She took the steps back to the house, recalling her own swallow’s peonies: Peonies placed in vases of glass, peonies lining the porch steps, peonies presented over morning tea. With a swallow, she carefully, methodically lined the tangerine trail with the peonies from her nightgown. Her nightgown, stained with the rouge petals of peonies, dragged along the tangerine terrace of glass, blood red with the memory of her swallow lover’s peony-petaled steps. The steps to the house creaked beneath her nightgown. The barn swallow, quieted by the rouge of the peonies, shut his glass eyes to the skies of tangerine.
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