anna-zagerson - Hello Poetry

Like it or not, each place holds a memory I may not have played on these streets But cemented beneath the building lamplights is my first real kiss-- Israeli-flavored, textured like tabouleh-- These shuttered storefront windows are not my version of Brooklyn at nighttime But I know what it is to turn this dark corner coming home-- Tired from dancing, completely alone-- This rooftop terrace is not mine, not where I crafted a hip adolescence But it is where I built bases for potluck communities-- Here my love of human connection was crafted, then bourne. My current apartment is still not really mine-- Belonging, as it does, to the landlords creaking the floorboards above me, their parrot, and their cat-- But it is where boys first slept over, where first I was marked by someone Leaving their toothbrush, their territorial imprint behind. I guess I'm saying-- We don't choose which memories get locked in where, Nor have we any say when they happen or why We can choose to rage against the imperfection of their sense of timing or location- As I so often do- Or we step onto a street of acceptance that these are our Lives, and our experiences Will happen at their will, where they will, when they will, And despite their imperfections, we are along for the ride.

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Aug 15, 2017

Aug 15, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC

Like It or Not

Like it or not, each place holds a memory I may not have played on these streets But cemented beneath the building lamplights is my first real kiss-- Israeli-flavored, textured like tabouleh-- These shuttered storefront windows are not my version of Brooklyn at nighttime But I know what it is to turn this dark corner coming home-- Tired from dancing, completely alone-- This rooftop terrace is not mine, not where I crafted a hip adolescence But it is where I built bases for potluck communities-- Here my love of human connection was crafted, then bourne. My current apartment is still not really mine-- Belonging, as it does, to the landlords creaking the floorboards above me, their parrot, and their cat-- But it is where boys first slept over, where first I was marked by someone Leaving their toothbrush, their territorial imprint behind. I guess I'm saying-- We don't choose which memories get locked in where, Nor have we any say when they happen or why We can choose to rage against the imperfection of their sense of timing or location- As I so often do- Or we step onto a street of acceptance that these are our Lives, and our experiences Will happen at their will, where they will, when they will, And despite their imperfections, we are along for the ride.

22

Come back, somebody who loves me Come back and sing me a song Come back, somebody who holds me Come back and carry me home Come back, somebody who needs me I can't believe I'm alone.

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Mar 6, 2017

Mar 6, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC

Alone

Come back, somebody who loves me Come back and sing me a song Come back, somebody who holds me Come back and carry me home Come back, somebody who needs me I can't believe I'm alone.

6

For the smallest lick of kindness I'll forgive ****** I'll move mountains, lay my belly flat down on the ground, ******* up **** syrup, frolicking in **** For your smallest act of kindness, I'll strip naked Let you touch my body and pretend I love you Just please God hold me through the darkest night. Look at me with kindness, And I'll clothe you, take you to my home Feed you all my hard-earned food and shove second helpings on your plate. For a little bit of kindness, For the one who stitches back together my shredded sanity I'd do it all, God, let me do it all.

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Nov 26, 2016

Nov 26, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC

Finger-Lickin' Kind Ness

For the smallest lick of kindness I'll forgive ****** I'll move mountains, lay my belly flat down on the ground, ******* up **** syrup, frolicking in **** For your smallest act of kindness, I'll strip naked Let you touch my body and pretend I love you Just please God hold me through the darkest night. Look at me with kindness, And I'll clothe you, take you to my home Feed you all my hard-earned food and shove second helpings on your plate. For a little bit of kindness, For the one who stitches back together my shredded sanity I'd do it all, God, let me do it all.

13

For my mother's mother All my clothes are patched with Soviet things. Needles, hardy and rough, dinosaurs withstanding time Spools of thread that were my grandmother's, Brought over in a special sewing box with clasps on the top and sides, Skin-colored and worn, cracked open to reveal Spikes to hang thread on, like the intimate insides of a body An ancient body, creased like grandmother's hands. For my father's mother, who taught me to embroider My father's mother taught me to sew Taught me to bring life to imagination, to calm my raw nerves With the ancient language passed down from the war and her grandmother The ancient language that lets our silences speak, Jump off the cloth, Embed permanently in the spaces between woven thread. If it unravels, it may be mended for as long as we are alive, Unless we pass it on to our daughters, our sons, and on and on, and on...

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Nov 19, 2016

Nov 19, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC

Thread(s)

For my mother's mother All my clothes are patched with Soviet things. Needles, hardy and rough, dinosaurs withstanding time Spools of thread that were my grandmother's, Brought over in a special sewing box with clasps on the top and sides, Skin-colored and worn, cracked open to reveal Spikes to hang thread on, like the intimate insides of a body An ancient body, creased like grandmother's hands. For my father's mother, who taught me to embroider My father's mother taught me to sew Taught me to bring life to imagination, to calm my raw nerves With the ancient language passed down from the war and her grandmother The ancient language that lets our silences speak, Jump off the cloth, Embed permanently in the spaces between woven thread. If it unravels, it may be mended for as long as we are alive, Unless we pass it on to our daughters, our sons, and on and on, and on...

17

I am the odds and ends of the things/lives I collect from others The last blank pages of your notebook finally filled With unrelated topics, phrases, words, precious only to me I am the afterthought, the forgotten things I save bits and pieces of books lives torn pages out of magazines, the original hoarder I am the value in the stuff strangers left behind Empty shampoo bottles, still good for one more use The last three bits of candy no one wanted I am commitments made and lost To maintain upkeep, to always BE THERE I am the plain fare of your first apartment Committed to SmartHealth, rich in none I hide in pseudonyms and basement apartments Lurking in shadows so darkly private that Should you even suspect my inner world exists I'd cut you off, shut the door in your face, asking, pleading For you Not to Exist.

0

Nov 11, 2016

Nov 11, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC

Commitments Made and Lost

I am the odds and ends of the things/lives I collect from others The last blank pages of your notebook finally filled With unrelated topics, phrases, words, precious only to me I am the afterthought, the forgotten things I save bits and pieces of books lives torn pages out of magazines, the original hoarder I am the value in the stuff strangers left behind Empty shampoo bottles, still good for one more use The last three bits of candy no one wanted I am commitments made and lost To maintain upkeep, to always BE THERE I am the plain fare of your first apartment Committed to SmartHealth, rich in none I hide in pseudonyms and basement apartments Lurking in shadows so darkly private that Should you even suspect my inner world exists I'd cut you off, shut the door in your face, asking, pleading For you Not to Exist.

17

Why do people say/Don't listen to the devil on your shoulder(?) He is your true self, the Self beneath the Iceberg. The one who is your evolution/your most basic biological connection. The Angel, your righteous self, is not the priggish, stick-in-the-mud Comparison. But perhaps the Devil was made for more than just the suggestion/excuse for Temptation. Perhaps he is the You of Primal Intent/Your innate ancestor, your Wild Self. The animal in us is the Feelings/the Emotions/the Matter over Mind. Maybe this poem is an excuse. Uncontrollable urges, a reason to let go/ and All that. Or maybe, When you're #toosmartforyourowngood, The fork-tongued Devil's exactly who you need.

0

Jan 26, 2016

Jan 26, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC

Age-Old Duality (It's What You Think It Is)

Why do people say/Don't listen to the devil on your shoulder(?) He is your true self, the Self beneath the Iceberg. The one who is your evolution/your most basic biological connection. The Angel, your righteous self, is not the priggish, stick-in-the-mud Comparison. But perhaps the Devil was made for more than just the suggestion/excuse for Temptation. Perhaps he is the You of Primal Intent/Your innate ancestor, your Wild Self. The animal in us is the Feelings/the Emotions/the Matter over Mind. Maybe this poem is an excuse. Uncontrollable urges, a reason to let go/ and All that. Or maybe, When you're #toosmartforyourowngood, The fork-tongued Devil's exactly who you need.

14

That's the thing about Hero You hope he'll take command of any situation even if he just happens to be a Bystander cloaked in the Right Time and Circumstance.

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Jan 26, 2016

Jan 26, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC

Subway Stop Hero

That's the thing about Hero You hope he'll take command of any situation even if he just happens to be a Bystander cloaked in the Right Time and Circumstance.

5

Don't be a ***** girl Why so sensitive? You're not your mother's daughter, that's for **** certain, Yes definitely your father's, that poor old Sod. That movie screen is not reality, Dry your God **** eyes. Spill the tears for true tragedies, The ones that relate directly to You, Me-- Why, which ones? The ones I say so, of course, the ones I deem most worthy. The ones the Normals react to. The tragedies of our own. Why weep for the sake of others? They are not Us, nor we Them. Save the river in your heart For the things that truly matter.

0

Jan 26, 2016

Jan 26, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC

***** the Girl

Don't be a ***** girl Why so sensitive? You're not your mother's daughter, that's for **** certain, Yes definitely your father's, that poor old Sod. That movie screen is not reality, Dry your God **** eyes. Spill the tears for true tragedies, The ones that relate directly to You, Me-- Why, which ones? The ones I say so, of course, the ones I deem most worthy. The ones the Normals react to. The tragedies of our own. Why weep for the sake of others? They are not Us, nor we Them. Save the river in your heart For the things that truly matter.

15

There are hidden pleasures Inside the fruit that nobody wants Peel back the brown banana skin To taste an undiscovered country A treat not withered and dry, not tarnished and old But rather just the perfect sweetness You didn't know you were looking for.

0

Dec 28, 2015

Dec 28, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC

Brown Banana

There are hidden pleasures Inside the fruit that nobody wants Peel back the brown banana skin To taste an undiscovered country A treat not withered and dry, not tarnished and old But rather just the perfect sweetness You didn't know you were looking for.

7

What else can I cover my mouth with Other than clear, cherry-flavored lip balm? It stains, otherwise Goes where I ask it not to go Its' gradients are as spread and varying as strands on a feather I prefer, to be different, to taste better than I look After all, it's my story that always wins It was never Red Riding Hood But the enigma beneath the cloak I am one of those girls Hairy and imperfectly coiffed Veiled in nudes, beiges, and understatements When men look at me, I wonder what their gazes snag on There's no snare of life about me except the berry on my fingers and toes These chipped, bright nails are my calling card Through the cracks in the polished veneer you can see **** me filtering through I hide my hands , tuck the berry away This is not what I want you to see

0

Sep 14, 2015

Sep 14, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC

My Berry

What else can I cover my mouth with Other than clear, cherry-flavored lip balm? It stains, otherwise Goes where I ask it not to go Its' gradients are as spread and varying as strands on a feather I prefer, to be different, to taste better than I look After all, it's my story that always wins It was never Red Riding Hood But the enigma beneath the cloak I am one of those girls Hairy and imperfectly coiffed Veiled in nudes, beiges, and understatements When men look at me, I wonder what their gazes snag on There's no snare of life about me except the berry on my fingers and toes These chipped, bright nails are my calling card Through the cracks in the polished veneer you can see **** me filtering through I hide my hands , tuck the berry away This is not what I want you to see

19