frances-1 - Hello Poetry

Mother paranoia and father inadequacy slept together to make my ghost. They cradle me. I nestle into them with a cold nose, and a tense jaw. Sore teeth chatter inaudibly; I ask for assurance. They whisper back to me softly, lovingly, “No.” They swaddle me. I shrink into invisible delight.

0

Jan 16, 2021

Jan 16, 2021 at 11:11 PM UTC

Untitled

Mother paranoia and father inadequacy slept together to make my ghost. They cradle me. I nestle into them with a cold nose, and a tense jaw. Sore teeth chatter inaudibly; I ask for assurance. They whisper back to me softly, lovingly, “No.” They swaddle me. I shrink into invisible delight.

3

With anvils for feet, the snails may have moved faster, for their noose of anxiety wasn't pulled so tight. They may have covered more than to that of which I see, though the entire existence of their species may have been as long as I may had been looking. I would shoot arrows of curiosity without knowing where the target be. Just as another fairy tale, relief on my feet was seemingly unimaginable, far fetched and unattainable. Like old change, seeds of a variety filled my pockets. The soil and sun were the only things I trusted. Reaping a sow would be a blessing unto me. After years of crawling, discovering, and disappointing wandering with wide eyes, the hills and peaks had shown as a distraction from the lessening softness of my now calloused hands. The necessity of rest was as strong as the need of a newborn baby's mid afternoon nap, but before the seeds are nestled, work mustn't cease. By every stem, petal, fruit, and butterfly, in the center of the valley of a vast bed of wild flowers would I hope to carry this heaviness no more. The desire for this comfort and caress lead me to find a sweet place to rest. For uncountable hours of wandering, only this would be gratification. I came upon a large patch of dirt as dark as midnight. With every handful of soil wriggling of worms graced my hardened palms. Only the ground saw me enchanted by the romance of its potential. The seedlings would be sung; "As you cuddle in the soil, remember that's where your roots will prepare, unto you this watering will fall, as you are all so loyal, I will be loyal to you, the air will give you care, let me lay eyes upon your beautiful hue, as the sun is what you will see, don't leave the soil bare, set yourself free". In the troughs like dried moats, each seed received a adornment of a kiss like that unto a child by their mother. Every hole doused like that of a spring sunflower, and burrowed into the sleeping dusk of dirt with the expectation of an awakening of a blossom. There, as one expects the rising of the sun, I would await the flowers arrival. I lay suspended by the freedoms of a remote forest. Within the untouched, unadulterated altruistic scene of remoteness, the skepticism let drained. Knowing my skin may not be slaughtered by reaching thorns, I undressed layers of tattered threads. Most of what would freely escape from my lips were the enticement of belief motivated by bliss and enjoyment. Where my skin remained blushed and dewy from the days after the solstice of summer, to the later days of leaves saying good bye to the trees extended arms, and grass frosted by the baker of autumn, like a lightning bolt strikes at random, as did a stagnancy. The seedlings were viewed upon as the old dark witch from the town: cursed. It was as though they had stage fright and the sun was their audience. I ask, "why, Lord? Has though forsaken my field? What must I bestow?". Concealed, like a feral cat, was the reasoning for this. As ritual as the church goers Sunday excursion, was my ritual of prayer. Clouding in my mind happened with contemplation of a new pioneering. I knew this to be only a sliver of land off of the plank of fertile country side. Simultaneous to this fantasy, a shadow danced in the corner of my eyes. Usually trust worthy was my vision, though it became a mystery. Fear not did I, as I turned to follow the darkness, I saw nothing forthright. It's reappearance came as a ***** but as one would in a sword fight, I followed the elusive figure within my eyes. It was as though there was an unsuspecting solar eclipse at high noon. The figure didn't remain hidden, and the dancing ceased. As a knight removes their armor to cradle a loving partner, he opened his cloak to reveal a man with the most poignant essence of freshly mowed grass, smoldering ashes, and a thanksgiving meal. These things were the quintessence of my childhood. His eyes, not beating, but, like a baby's glare, soft and forgiving, unlike the folktales my father told me. Did my eyes deceive me? Ensorcelled, I had succumb to this. Uncontrollably my eyes repeatedly vertically gaze upon him. I met no gaze, but darkness. While the remembrance of evening tide pull you further if not in recognition of its power, without choice, or fight, I had succumb to this. Weighed down by rocks you couldn't see, as though I was called to my knees. His presence eluded to a parental guide. When I lay there, as I become sunk in the soil, He advised me. "This acreage will be your ball and chain for entering this land. With out excavation, Intentions of leaving your possessions have inhibited exiting though you desire continuation. You must water it with your tears". My golden hair became brown with dirt, and my pale skin so dark, as I wept till the sun grew cold, and the moon graced me like a lullaby with soft illumination. As a once saturated sponge goes dry, by every last drop, drained dry were my eyes, and the ground enriched. After the clock hit twelve for the 10th night, The reaper spoke again. He said "This land was mine. I set it aside, so those who have evil in their heart may not reap what they sow here, so it may not be robbed of its nutrients for something unwholesome. Within it's enchantment, the soil may only be fertile by those who will enrich it with passion. If you wanted to leave you wouldn't be confined, but if your heart remained, as would you. You will stay until you may leave with something beautiful. This priceless soil belonged to me, as this is where my betrothed had lain. The tables have turned because it has been sowed by a someone who has surrendered to me. Your patients serves you. My dear, The wealth is in your heart." His encompassing gratitude, and cherishment remained, as he had left. The grandfather clock sung to the flowers, as did I. I was always told only the sun could bring beauty in life. I wore a black veil of naive belief. The garden appeared to always have been misted. The sun kissed my plants so gently, their blooms were welcomes to this realm, and the wind would make them frolic together like a colorful oceanic wave, but instead of dolphins peaking the dense surface, you would see the makers of the garden. Relentless pollinators made the perimeter buzz. You could see the twinkle and flutter of every dragonfly, lady bug, butterfly, and bee as their fluorescent wings caught the sun. Almost as though my life depended on it, like a bear in a cave of constant hibernation, I would nestle myself in this secret garden. Leaving here with nothing but flowers intertwined in my hair, and around my heart.

0

May 26, 2018

May 26, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC

The Pioneer and The Reaper

With anvils for feet, the snails may have moved faster, for their noose of anxiety wasn't pulled so tight. They may have covered more than to that of which I see, though the entire existence of their species may have been as long as I may had been looking. I would shoot arrows of curiosity without knowing where the target be. Just as another fairy tale, relief on my feet was seemingly unimaginable, far fetched and unattainable. Like old change, seeds of a variety filled my pockets. The soil and sun were the only things I trusted. Reaping a sow would be a blessing unto me. After years of crawling, discovering, and disappointing wandering with wide eyes, the hills and peaks had shown as a distraction from the lessening softness of my now calloused hands. The necessity of rest was as strong as the need of a newborn baby's mid afternoon nap, but before the seeds are nestled, work mustn't cease. By every stem, petal, fruit, and butterfly, in the center of the valley of a vast bed of wild flowers would I hope to carry this heaviness no more. The desire for this comfort and caress lead me to find a sweet place to rest. For uncountable hours of wandering, only this would be gratification. I came upon a large patch of dirt as dark as midnight. With every handful of soil wriggling of worms graced my hardened palms. Only the ground saw me enchanted by the romance of its potential. The seedlings would be sung; "As you cuddle in the soil, remember that's where your roots will prepare, unto you this watering will fall, as you are all so loyal, I will be loyal to you, the air will give you care, let me lay eyes upon your beautiful hue, as the sun is what you will see, don't leave the soil bare, set yourself free". In the troughs like dried moats, each seed received a adornment of a kiss like that unto a child by their mother. Every hole doused like that of a spring sunflower, and burrowed into the sleeping dusk of dirt with the expectation of an awakening of a blossom. There, as one expects the rising of the sun, I would await the flowers arrival. I lay suspended by the freedoms of a remote forest. Within the untouched, unadulterated altruistic scene of remoteness, the skepticism let drained. Knowing my skin may not be slaughtered by reaching thorns, I undressed layers of tattered threads. Most of what would freely escape from my lips were the enticement of belief motivated by bliss and enjoyment. Where my skin remained blushed and dewy from the days after the solstice of summer, to the later days of leaves saying good bye to the trees extended arms, and grass frosted by the baker of autumn, like a lightning bolt strikes at random, as did a stagnancy. The seedlings were viewed upon as the old dark witch from the town: cursed. It was as though they had stage fright and the sun was their audience. I ask, "why, Lord? Has though forsaken my field? What must I bestow?". Concealed, like a feral cat, was the reasoning for this. As ritual as the church goers Sunday excursion, was my ritual of prayer. Clouding in my mind happened with contemplation of a new pioneering. I knew this to be only a sliver of land off of the plank of fertile country side. Simultaneous to this fantasy, a shadow danced in the corner of my eyes. Usually trust worthy was my vision, though it became a mystery. Fear not did I, as I turned to follow the darkness, I saw nothing forthright. It's reappearance came as a ***** but as one would in a sword fight, I followed the elusive figure within my eyes. It was as though there was an unsuspecting solar eclipse at high noon. The figure didn't remain hidden, and the dancing ceased. As a knight removes their armor to cradle a loving partner, he opened his cloak to reveal a man with the most poignant essence of freshly mowed grass, smoldering ashes, and a thanksgiving meal. These things were the quintessence of my childhood. His eyes, not beating, but, like a baby's glare, soft and forgiving, unlike the folktales my father told me. Did my eyes deceive me? Ensorcelled, I had succumb to this. Uncontrollably my eyes repeatedly vertically gaze upon him. I met no gaze, but darkness. While the remembrance of evening tide pull you further if not in recognition of its power, without choice, or fight, I had succumb to this. Weighed down by rocks you couldn't see, as though I was called to my knees. His presence eluded to a parental guide. When I lay there, as I become sunk in the soil, He advised me. "This acreage will be your ball and chain for entering this land. With out excavation, Intentions of leaving your possessions have inhibited exiting though you desire continuation. You must water it with your tears". My golden hair became brown with dirt, and my pale skin so dark, as I wept till the sun grew cold, and the moon graced me like a lullaby with soft illumination. As a once saturated sponge goes dry, by every last drop, drained dry were my eyes, and the ground enriched. After the clock hit twelve for the 10th night, The reaper spoke again. He said "This land was mine. I set it aside, so those who have evil in their heart may not reap what they sow here, so it may not be robbed of its nutrients for something unwholesome. Within it's enchantment, the soil may only be fertile by those who will enrich it with passion. If you wanted to leave you wouldn't be confined, but if your heart remained, as would you. You will stay until you may leave with something beautiful. This priceless soil belonged to me, as this is where my betrothed had lain. The tables have turned because it has been sowed by a someone who has surrendered to me. Your patients serves you. My dear, The wealth is in your heart." His encompassing gratitude, and cherishment remained, as he had left. The grandfather clock sung to the flowers, as did I. I was always told only the sun could bring beauty in life. I wore a black veil of naive belief. The garden appeared to always have been misted. The sun kissed my plants so gently, their blooms were welcomes to this realm, and the wind would make them frolic together like a colorful oceanic wave, but instead of dolphins peaking the dense surface, you would see the makers of the garden. Relentless pollinators made the perimeter buzz. You could see the twinkle and flutter of every dragonfly, lady bug, butterfly, and bee as their fluorescent wings caught the sun. Almost as though my life depended on it, like a bear in a cave of constant hibernation, I would nestle myself in this secret garden. Leaving here with nothing but flowers intertwined in my hair, and around my heart.

7

Today is a day of travel Late for the first train Early morning marvels We're lucky there isn't rain With you I needn't strain My love and I Oh my sweet Samuel I can't wait to see how far we can go Our first big trip Together we'll see Milwaukee to Chicago Where the wind hymns Through the concrete redwoods Sheds infectious excitement The buzz of an infrastructure hive To pulse through every scurrying limb With beating darting glossy eyes Where necks crane concave To gaze upon the monuments The statues The striking glory of an architectural revolution This train, ridden in adult hood Is still reminiscent of my youngest days Where curly golden locks Oshkosh b'gosh overalls And fists the size of a common house mouse Dutifully and loyaly gripped The softly sanded wooden train whistle Galloping around my grandparents Gently cooing to the moon and sun Until my little lungs couldn't blow any more This trains horn is more authoritative It asks us to hurry or watch out But inside the car it's only a lullaby a benevolent force All red, blue and silver Glistening upon arrival and exit These metal cans have long windows Stretching from seat to sea to forest through the trees Children's faces adhear to it wide eyed and chin dropped As we pass swiftly and smoothly The lush verdure and crushing azure Of the Midwest's rolling glacial fields All transient and ghostly passing through Farther though as close as could be An unseen body and lonesome forearm Reveals itself from behind the curtain seat One finger hold a golden wedding ring This halo he wears or it wears him ever so perfectly Only slightly indented upon his golden hued skin His wrist watch is of the like Shows 11:45 upside down to mine eyes

0

May 23, 2018

May 23, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC

The trolley

Today is a day of travel Late for the first train Early morning marvels We're lucky there isn't rain With you I needn't strain My love and I Oh my sweet Samuel I can't wait to see how far we can go Our first big trip Together we'll see Milwaukee to Chicago Where the wind hymns Through the concrete redwoods Sheds infectious excitement The buzz of an infrastructure hive To pulse through every scurrying limb With beating darting glossy eyes Where necks crane concave To gaze upon the monuments The statues The striking glory of an architectural revolution This train, ridden in adult hood Is still reminiscent of my youngest days Where curly golden locks Oshkosh b'gosh overalls And fists the size of a common house mouse Dutifully and loyaly gripped The softly sanded wooden train whistle Galloping around my grandparents Gently cooing to the moon and sun Until my little lungs couldn't blow any more This trains horn is more authoritative It asks us to hurry or watch out But inside the car it's only a lullaby a benevolent force All red, blue and silver Glistening upon arrival and exit These metal cans have long windows Stretching from seat to sea to forest through the trees Children's faces adhear to it wide eyed and chin dropped As we pass swiftly and smoothly The lush verdure and crushing azure Of the Midwest's rolling glacial fields All transient and ghostly passing through Farther though as close as could be An unseen body and lonesome forearm Reveals itself from behind the curtain seat One finger hold a golden wedding ring This halo he wears or it wears him ever so perfectly Only slightly indented upon his golden hued skin His wrist watch is of the like Shows 11:45 upside down to mine eyes

53

I scratch my head I don't want to believe she's dead Flood gates are to pour Chaos is a roar Her eyes aren't gleaming While mine are plentifully streaming I hold little satisfaction Of this forlorn form of action My words are kept at bay Of my emotions I can only say Let her smile be reborn And her heartstrings strum untorn

0

May 23, 2018

May 23, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC

May her smile be reborn

I scratch my head I don't want to believe she's dead Flood gates are to pour Chaos is a roar Her eyes aren't gleaming While mine are plentifully streaming I hold little satisfaction Of this forlorn form of action My words are kept at bay Of my emotions I can only say Let her smile be reborn And her heartstrings strum untorn

12

He was dying Panting at her fingertips Ingesting each print So she cuts them off The pinkie to thumb Hoping she can escape his presence Before he can finish his first meal She weeps as she runs He prefers the chase Not the satiate Taking more than he needs Insatiable greed Some live through hunger to avoid the fears of the forest But the forest belongs to no man Nomad or not man We are all human So why do some seem to be at the bottom of the food chain? Why are men living as rats, mice, vermin Swallowed by the system We find our own selves choking on the moldy food they feed us And breed us Collapsed at the hands of the scientists Squirming against the foreboding Injection of complacency Death, oh Death Please not me Spare my flesh Who decided it was yours to take The mercy of freedom, Debased, Monetized, Capitalized, For the gain of nothing Of my soul resistance, Of my desires, Of my thickened blood and scarred skin, Sleepless nights, apocalyptic dreams, blood cutting screams, and pipe scheams These night mares awaken me to the reality- The fires, looting, not knowing where you'll sleep, how deep will it steep? How long can we sieth and writhe in our unchained skin, Unsure where to begin? They shove our noses to the grind until we lose our senses and fall into the dog food stew of a greasy McDicks burger Chewed up and spit out Stumbling and wandering And the panic only rises until we think we've found and outlet somehow able to see a shred of time where the aren't walls arent climbing and our feet aren't aching And our chest breathes slowly with the waves

0

May 22, 2018

May 22, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC

Chase

He was dying Panting at her fingertips Ingesting each print So she cuts them off The pinkie to thumb Hoping she can escape his presence Before he can finish his first meal She weeps as she runs He prefers the chase Not the satiate Taking more than he needs Insatiable greed Some live through hunger to avoid the fears of the forest But the forest belongs to no man Nomad or not man We are all human So why do some seem to be at the bottom of the food chain? Why are men living as rats, mice, vermin Swallowed by the system We find our own selves choking on the moldy food they feed us And breed us Collapsed at the hands of the scientists Squirming against the foreboding Injection of complacency Death, oh Death Please not me Spare my flesh Who decided it was yours to take The mercy of freedom, Debased, Monetized, Capitalized, For the gain of nothing Of my soul resistance, Of my desires, Of my thickened blood and scarred skin, Sleepless nights, apocalyptic dreams, blood cutting screams, and pipe scheams These night mares awaken me to the reality- The fires, looting, not knowing where you'll sleep, how deep will it steep? How long can we sieth and writhe in our unchained skin, Unsure where to begin? They shove our noses to the grind until we lose our senses and fall into the dog food stew of a greasy McDicks burger Chewed up and spit out Stumbling and wandering And the panic only rises until we think we've found and outlet somehow able to see a shred of time where the aren't walls arent climbing and our feet aren't aching And our chest breathes slowly with the waves

51

Their figures stiffened but not aching Her fingers poised, as though gracing a hollowed egg At great length, unyielding their preciously mastered positions Like snowflakes in the bell jar of an icy tundra Tickled pink by the fine point brush of her creator She spins, embracing your gaze Yet she is paralyzed Her grace and strength bleed through the same wounds which rest, unhealed on the block of cedar which her weight dutifully suppresses as she suspends herself amidst the voluptuous starlit glittering illuminations Their beating, breathing counterparts whose swiftness grants nostalgia to a world where clocks no longer resemble Dali's But instead are made of gold With hands spinning faster than you can see Her feet daintily hault the gears of this robotic stimulus, She becomes the mesmerization Calling the onlooker like an herbivorous siren to a safe and warm pool of ablution

0

May 22, 2018

May 22, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC

The Ornament

Their figures stiffened but not aching Her fingers poised, as though gracing a hollowed egg At great length, unyielding their preciously mastered positions Like snowflakes in the bell jar of an icy tundra Tickled pink by the fine point brush of her creator She spins, embracing your gaze Yet she is paralyzed Her grace and strength bleed through the same wounds which rest, unhealed on the block of cedar which her weight dutifully suppresses as she suspends herself amidst the voluptuous starlit glittering illuminations Their beating, breathing counterparts whose swiftness grants nostalgia to a world where clocks no longer resemble Dali's But instead are made of gold With hands spinning faster than you can see Her feet daintily hault the gears of this robotic stimulus, She becomes the mesmerization Calling the onlooker like an herbivorous siren to a safe and warm pool of ablution

14

Sinking sands untouched by the eternal sun rays burn holes through the hours' glass It shatters Disintegrated By a pacing shock like a blooming spring's lightening Blackness falls as eye lids flutter Blue lips tremble in the cold But the unchained heart is warming and radiant Radiant like ephemeral breath These pulsating branches weaveing us in enchantment The rhythmic breezes wrapping Rapping on our silken tender necks Furrowed in a feathered nest Bunking with Zues Eating his grapes next to the fountain of youth

0

May 22, 2018

May 22, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC

Evenings Gift

Sinking sands untouched by the eternal sun rays burn holes through the hours' glass It shatters Disintegrated By a pacing shock like a blooming spring's lightening Blackness falls as eye lids flutter Blue lips tremble in the cold But the unchained heart is warming and radiant Radiant like ephemeral breath These pulsating branches weaveing us in enchantment The rhythmic breezes wrapping Rapping on our silken tender necks Furrowed in a feathered nest Bunking with Zues Eating his grapes next to the fountain of youth

15

Mellow Mundane Mutiny Meets the madman Conducting orchestration For our mothers lips Saint Frances Saint Frances Saint Frances I hope you've arrived Cacooned eyes awaiting Ephemeral steady fluctuation Persephone gaze Diana's rage Eternal blue flame Dripping crimson fingertips The heavens eloped when you left us here. us. here Remains. Remains on the fire escape An external buzz Heard during my cigarette break My sight caught by persephones polenating powerhouses who remains meditative and floating Above the clover grass Elucid and fleeting Yet evermore Remains on the tumbling limestones and mounds of our ancestors. I beg for your wisdom Sometimes I think I'm hearing your voice Asking me to be calm And stop searching so deep Saying your "with me In more than the form of a humble bumble bee But still keep running for me through the vast trees Until you find your self unmoving and buckled at the knees"

0

May 21, 2018

May 21, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC

A call for your arms

Mellow Mundane Mutiny Meets the madman Conducting orchestration For our mothers lips Saint Frances Saint Frances Saint Frances I hope you've arrived Cacooned eyes awaiting Ephemeral steady fluctuation Persephone gaze Diana's rage Eternal blue flame Dripping crimson fingertips The heavens eloped when you left us here. us. here Remains. Remains on the fire escape An external buzz Heard during my cigarette break My sight caught by persephones polenating powerhouses who remains meditative and floating Above the clover grass Elucid and fleeting Yet evermore Remains on the tumbling limestones and mounds of our ancestors. I beg for your wisdom Sometimes I think I'm hearing your voice Asking me to be calm And stop searching so deep Saying your "with me In more than the form of a humble bumble bee But still keep running for me through the vast trees Until you find your self unmoving and buckled at the knees"

37

The finer things you see Adored and cherished forever they may be Frigid morning with a bitter cup of hot coffee And a sense of blooming comradery

0

May 21, 2018

May 21, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC

Untitled

The finer things you see Adored and cherished forever they may be Frigid morning with a bitter cup of hot coffee And a sense of blooming comradery

4

Ears throb, red enlarged like the calloused hands of a work man Progression succinctly procreating Will it be pruned to grow stout and fruitless Or will it be nurtured in its expanding plumage The hands of the divine grasp the newly grown roses, and they sniff Gawking, hysterical, astounded, grateful They roll in the thorns Because the wind doesn't blow

0

May 21, 2018

May 21, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC

Wading

Ears throb, red enlarged like the calloused hands of a work man Progression succinctly procreating Will it be pruned to grow stout and fruitless Or will it be nurtured in its expanding plumage The hands of the divine grasp the newly grown roses, and they sniff Gawking, hysterical, astounded, grateful They roll in the thorns Because the wind doesn't blow

10