andrew-chau - Hello Poetry

It was time, it was time. You held my hand underneath the table cloth, and your feet next to mine. My parents sat across from us, and they clapped, and laughed. You pecked me on the cheek and they cheered, spilling wine. So we picked up our ***** plates and took them to the kitchen, where you proposed to me with a sterling silver spoon. It was time, it was time, my stomach was swollen and **** Nebulous and veiny, but you didn’t mind, didn’t mind. You touched my tummy and wailed, as I laughed a scream. An automated thud tapped the walls inside, and you ran, and you ran to the door, keys in hand, hopping and dancing a fool. It was time, it was time. How you ran, how you ran. The teetering Titan steps, you ate your hands, you ate your feet, you ate any mush you would find. You were here, you were there, eating, pooping, all divine. You gloriously didn’t mind, didn’t mind. You didn’t mind, that I screamed. Sea green eyes, thunder thighs. You were wise, and I was meek.  Watching me with a knowing gaze. You didn’t mind, that I was clueless, you beamed light that broke like god. Dark brown hair, fairchild stare. It could end now, and that’d be fine. I would’t mind, wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t mind if it was time.

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Jul 26, 2014

Jul 26, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC

It was time

It was time, it was time. You held my hand underneath the table cloth, and your feet next to mine. My parents sat across from us, and they clapped, and laughed. You pecked me on the cheek and they cheered, spilling wine. So we picked up our ***** plates and took them to the kitchen, where you proposed to me with a sterling silver spoon. It was time, it was time, my stomach was swollen and **** Nebulous and veiny, but you didn’t mind, didn’t mind. You touched my tummy and wailed, as I laughed a scream. An automated thud tapped the walls inside, and you ran, and you ran to the door, keys in hand, hopping and dancing a fool. It was time, it was time. How you ran, how you ran. The teetering Titan steps, you ate your hands, you ate your feet, you ate any mush you would find. You were here, you were there, eating, pooping, all divine. You gloriously didn’t mind, didn’t mind. You didn’t mind, that I screamed. Sea green eyes, thunder thighs. You were wise, and I was meek.  Watching me with a knowing gaze. You didn’t mind, that I was clueless, you beamed light that broke like god. Dark brown hair, fairchild stare. It could end now, and that’d be fine. I would’t mind, wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t mind if it was time.

37

Fall displaces our sun Hidden behind a sterile vale I wait in ignorance Wolves chase me Tear me through the open Long drawn out dashes of red Streaks on the cheeks of the river She soaks in the end of a prayer A dried ball of cotton dyed into other Ways of being And matter The stone Buddha smiles Red ink in my palms with thanks An offering made in prostate pose like the subject to the question Answered with distilled teeth Unclentched the tongue soft Under the lips of a kiss in the winter's day To be given Not had This thanks of dubious nature Red tape outlines the past Red like the ink in your pleading hands Red like the cotton in your mouth Red like the beginning of your life It comes swiftly into her eyes Against the blue and green of our days in thought The candle wax red too Holds the negative space Between the pages A promise written to home "My child is born today"

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Oct 4, 2013

Oct 4, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC

A Father's Poem

Fall displaces our sun Hidden behind a sterile vale I wait in ignorance Wolves chase me Tear me through the open Long drawn out dashes of red Streaks on the cheeks of the river She soaks in the end of a prayer A dried ball of cotton dyed into other Ways of being And matter The stone Buddha smiles Red ink in my palms with thanks An offering made in prostate pose like the subject to the question Answered with distilled teeth Unclentched the tongue soft Under the lips of a kiss in the winter's day To be given Not had This thanks of dubious nature Red tape outlines the past Red like the ink in your pleading hands Red like the cotton in your mouth Red like the beginning of your life It comes swiftly into her eyes Against the blue and green of our days in thought The candle wax red too Holds the negative space Between the pages A promise written to home "My child is born today"

32

She had a small flower Attached to her hat There was a lilt in his smile It seemed to give much without Having a need of return She talked a lot But she was easy to follow And he listened Patiently Not because he wanted to change Some word or two later And sadly his attention was bent Dulled and fogged at times At best Maybe she was afraid to hear Afraid of following him Maybe he was too quiet She too was normally a quiet one she said But he followed on Taking one breathe at a time Keeping his head clear of mist Or persons else where else when He would rather not remember Years later he answered When she asked him Why did you follow so well So easily and why oh why oh why He took a small breath Stopped her and smiled It was a force of nature That urged it on to happen Just as the wind fills the sails Your voice filled my ears And though at times I did feel lost It felt good

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Apr 16, 2013

Apr 16, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC

Easy to Follow

She had a small flower Attached to her hat There was a lilt in his smile It seemed to give much without Having a need of return She talked a lot But she was easy to follow And he listened Patiently Not because he wanted to change Some word or two later And sadly his attention was bent Dulled and fogged at times At best Maybe she was afraid to hear Afraid of following him Maybe he was too quiet She too was normally a quiet one she said But he followed on Taking one breathe at a time Keeping his head clear of mist Or persons else where else when He would rather not remember Years later he answered When she asked him Why did you follow so well So easily and why oh why oh why He took a small breath Stopped her and smiled It was a force of nature That urged it on to happen Just as the wind fills the sails Your voice filled my ears And though at times I did feel lost It felt good

35

Wasted Wasted are the sounds The sweeps The lonesome Hallway Empty seat Bare Cold Littered There is more un-favored Un-savored Delight In your eyes I see Grapes unwashed by water Fume with need to taste *** the wasteful father Perfumes our reproductive Waists There is—Something—A mote Sitting In the kettle But dead birds and assorted fish Come forever Endless Excessive Wantonly needed There are sticks Perchance Gouging from your Urn Dead bones In the marshes Roots Pumped black with tar To my plexus Ten dark hats Spun-woven on your finger Tips And We Fell Over the white Porcelain graphs Of networks and tiles Powerful deeds Harpooning the ocean Trying to make a hole Wide enough For a silhouette

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Apr 16, 2013

Apr 16, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC

Nil

Wasted Wasted are the sounds The sweeps The lonesome Hallway Empty seat Bare Cold Littered There is more un-favored Un-savored Delight In your eyes I see Grapes unwashed by water Fume with need to taste *** the wasteful father Perfumes our reproductive Waists There is—Something—A mote Sitting In the kettle But dead birds and assorted fish Come forever Endless Excessive Wantonly needed There are sticks Perchance Gouging from your Urn Dead bones In the marshes Roots Pumped black with tar To my plexus Ten dark hats Spun-woven on your finger Tips And We Fell Over the white Porcelain graphs Of networks and tiles Powerful deeds Harpooning the ocean Trying to make a hole Wide enough For a silhouette

39

Sardonically ironic, moronically harmonic, Are beats of emotions unspent. Overly protective, and somewhat selective, My shoes on the gravel-laden roads Of winter are old. Your silvery hair, neat and bare Is unfinished. We’re not there yet, you and I. My name becomes forgotten, Yesteryears laundry on clotheslines So hauntingly frigid, and cold they could dance. The secret of warmth is lost As the moth dies into the hold of my hands. Bone-framed windows, with a cryptic message Surround my palm-tree hair. My front door is open, hopin’ for a Short visit, of friends I had not there. Winter’s approachin’, tree lines are lookin’ in On the cuckolded dreamers. Repent.

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Apr 9, 2013

Apr 9, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC

Tethered Winter

Sardonically ironic, moronically harmonic, Are beats of emotions unspent. Overly protective, and somewhat selective, My shoes on the gravel-laden roads Of winter are old. Your silvery hair, neat and bare Is unfinished. We’re not there yet, you and I. My name becomes forgotten, Yesteryears laundry on clotheslines So hauntingly frigid, and cold they could dance. The secret of warmth is lost As the moth dies into the hold of my hands. Bone-framed windows, with a cryptic message Surround my palm-tree hair. My front door is open, hopin’ for a Short visit, of friends I had not there. Winter’s approachin’, tree lines are lookin’ in On the cuckolded dreamers. Repent.

19

Like (Chinese) brush strokes I shall find the point on which I’ll pivot turn Differentials woven in as bristles spin Ink across the surface although it appears as a two-dimensional space It seeps further through capillaries reaching depths Often forgotten The infinite dimensions within the page Made possible by the grace of a hand Devoid of any fate save the fate of ink is to be writ the fate of paper is to be written on save the fate of ink and paper are in subjective hands And now a bond emerges from this pair In a dreamlike movement fact has come To act and bind as brush binds ink and paper Fiber Flesh Fluid Foam A single stroke of inspiration turn Inward and ‘round the perimeter Of the page there sits an image of me (Chinese) Character

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Apr 9, 2013

Apr 9, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC

(Calligraphy)

Like (Chinese) brush strokes I shall find the point on which I’ll pivot turn Differentials woven in as bristles spin Ink across the surface although it appears as a two-dimensional space It seeps further through capillaries reaching depths Often forgotten The infinite dimensions within the page Made possible by the grace of a hand Devoid of any fate save the fate of ink is to be writ the fate of paper is to be written on save the fate of ink and paper are in subjective hands And now a bond emerges from this pair In a dreamlike movement fact has come To act and bind as brush binds ink and paper Fiber Flesh Fluid Foam A single stroke of inspiration turn Inward and ‘round the perimeter Of the page there sits an image of me (Chinese) Character

20

Never seen again, Going and soon gone To pipes thorough the air as steam. Give the libations, those You never did need, to those Up top, they, towering kings. Never still. You demanded to be Going, to be gone. To-morrow through the streets, Let the moon guide your bilge. You admit defeat, temporarily. Down with humility, was your sickly hound of pride. Never then, did the waters ever part, Going was not so spent, or to be done. To the shores you wept. Turn the tide, thoughts grew in vines Around the sun, And you felt stronger, drunk. Desert the power once given by me, now go on. You were blistered from the sun, only drunk from the ***

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Apr 6, 2013

Apr 6, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC

The Troller

Never seen again, Going and soon gone To pipes thorough the air as steam. Give the libations, those You never did need, to those Up top, they, towering kings. Never still. You demanded to be Going, to be gone. To-morrow through the streets, Let the moon guide your bilge. You admit defeat, temporarily. Down with humility, was your sickly hound of pride. Never then, did the waters ever part, Going was not so spent, or to be done. To the shores you wept. Turn the tide, thoughts grew in vines Around the sun, And you felt stronger, drunk. Desert the power once given by me, now go on. You were blistered from the sun, only drunk from the ***

20

Summer calling in August, for the bird named after Saints. There is a befitting proposition for them both, the season and the bird. She is offered to fall in love for a day, for less than a day, and in so many words, she does. Two migratory birds dove into hopes and dusted dreams, Picked the salt form old wounds, binding and mending, singing loss, Crafting off of creational dust, making new things. The their giving and giving, given into spent, like pendulums swing. Nature has tricks up her sleeve, and her hopes and promises are not the hopes of promises we keep. Flying, looking for something over the water. Wanting under depths of wanting, under depths of imaginations. The two got stuck deep in the chemical dreaming of songs that played pretend. The heat lost in the sun, and the season dies in a shell of milky Indifference. Birds swoop for signs in the air, flying and hoping that something would land in their narrow mouths so that they may go home and go to sleep. They glide on. Hoping for ends to their broken songs, dipping and diving farther and farther away, with the batting of imagined wings behind their backs.

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Apr 6, 2013

Apr 6, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC

Equionox

Summer calling in August, for the bird named after Saints. There is a befitting proposition for them both, the season and the bird. She is offered to fall in love for a day, for less than a day, and in so many words, she does. Two migratory birds dove into hopes and dusted dreams, Picked the salt form old wounds, binding and mending, singing loss, Crafting off of creational dust, making new things. The their giving and giving, given into spent, like pendulums swing. Nature has tricks up her sleeve, and her hopes and promises are not the hopes of promises we keep. Flying, looking for something over the water. Wanting under depths of wanting, under depths of imaginations. The two got stuck deep in the chemical dreaming of songs that played pretend. The heat lost in the sun, and the season dies in a shell of milky Indifference. Birds swoop for signs in the air, flying and hoping that something would land in their narrow mouths so that they may go home and go to sleep. They glide on. Hoping for ends to their broken songs, dipping and diving farther and farther away, with the batting of imagined wings behind their backs.

13

“Yes,” is the sound I make At this crossroads, barren, And cold. A clean-cut cringe, hoarse Noise of boisterous old men Sitting, playing. Slapping hands, applause Of slight defeat to one man, Atop the tower of cards. The power lines watch him From above. Critters of the sky, Perch with worms and bugs, Even babies in their bellies. Harboring the coming Change. My bare ****** catches The attention of watchers, Voyeurs, timid learners, Who all like the examples But seldom skid any stones Themselves. I’ve put down the kin, I’ve put down the knife, I’ve put down the selfish night Owl, eyes teeming now, With respect, Dilated, humbly begetting, Stealing with sight.

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Apr 6, 2013

Apr 6, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC

Cross

“Yes,” is the sound I make At this crossroads, barren, And cold. A clean-cut cringe, hoarse Noise of boisterous old men Sitting, playing. Slapping hands, applause Of slight defeat to one man, Atop the tower of cards. The power lines watch him From above. Critters of the sky, Perch with worms and bugs, Even babies in their bellies. Harboring the coming Change. My bare ****** catches The attention of watchers, Voyeurs, timid learners, Who all like the examples But seldom skid any stones Themselves. I’ve put down the kin, I’ve put down the knife, I’ve put down the selfish night Owl, eyes teeming now, With respect, Dilated, humbly begetting, Stealing with sight.

28

I wanted to set markers in the future, So that, when I came to Points of no return, I was able To show myself, what I could not tell. Along the guard rail of my life, I tied ribbons. Over the Cliffside They would blow, reaching out for me, Touching, and tasting the air, As the sky, oblivious of my treks, Continued her smile. Down the road, I found one, A ribbon tied in red. Not put there by myself, I wondered where they were, Those others, tying knots of my life For me. With my eyes closed, I created night. Through the space between my eyes, I caught their smiles, and toys, Their tricks and their attempts At being coy. Pretty soon, I opened my eyes to a whirl Of dance, swooping and looping With partners I hadn’t seen before. Kisses and smiles exchanged with friends. I forgot the Cliffside, and the ties That I tried to make.

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Apr 6, 2013

Apr 6, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC

Cliffside

I wanted to set markers in the future, So that, when I came to Points of no return, I was able To show myself, what I could not tell. Along the guard rail of my life, I tied ribbons. Over the Cliffside They would blow, reaching out for me, Touching, and tasting the air, As the sky, oblivious of my treks, Continued her smile. Down the road, I found one, A ribbon tied in red. Not put there by myself, I wondered where they were, Those others, tying knots of my life For me. With my eyes closed, I created night. Through the space between my eyes, I caught their smiles, and toys, Their tricks and their attempts At being coy. Pretty soon, I opened my eyes to a whirl Of dance, swooping and looping With partners I hadn’t seen before. Kisses and smiles exchanged with friends. I forgot the Cliffside, and the ties That I tried to make.

27