jordan-joanne-manser - Hello Poetry

I smelt the rain before it came, as The smiling sun was tucked away. I knew then that the time had come- For singing children with kites were done, Their joys and smiles gone with the sun. And butterflies (yellow, orange, and blue) Had to run and hide Until the storm was through. These daffodils, lilies, roses, too, Will stand beside me, Water rushing at the knee- A thousand city skylines, Waters fallen previously, Gigantic ships tucked in a bay, All stand waiting for this day. Like abandoned cars upon a country road, They will take on every load. Here I am, Arms to the sky, Like those daffodils on the Cloudiest day, the loudest night. Every piece of grass, Every grain of sand, The rain stops for no beast, The rain stops for no man.

0

Sep 2, 2014

Sep 2, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC

Summershower

I smelt the rain before it came, as The smiling sun was tucked away. I knew then that the time had come- For singing children with kites were done, Their joys and smiles gone with the sun. And butterflies (yellow, orange, and blue) Had to run and hide Until the storm was through. These daffodils, lilies, roses, too, Will stand beside me, Water rushing at the knee- A thousand city skylines, Waters fallen previously, Gigantic ships tucked in a bay, All stand waiting for this day. Like abandoned cars upon a country road, They will take on every load. Here I am, Arms to the sky, Like those daffodils on the Cloudiest day, the loudest night. Every piece of grass, Every grain of sand, The rain stops for no beast, The rain stops for no man.

26

He'd been watching the world Through a whiskey glass, Seeing every distorted image Of her that passed. A decade ago, They were adoloscent children Living on their parents' means- Adolescent children, With adolescent, childhood dreams. Sometimes, it takes separation To recognize guilt, The meaning of content, What matters and what does not, What lives, and what will rot. Whiskey, they say, Has a habit of wiping you away; Legend states that If you pour it over a broken heart, The cut will heal... But legend also has a way Of blending what is false And what is real. Skip a few heartbeats And a few pyramid schemes, Stop half-way and you'll see How they did love eachother once, But not like she needed to, And he Not as much as those childish dreams. Chalk it up to loneliness, Weariness, curiosity, Or what have you, But there was an intimacy, That much is true. Sometimes, it takes lonliness To reach an understanding, A sense of self, How to keep your heart upon a shelf. Sometimes, If you can figure out the grief, You can figure out the relief. He'd been watching the world Through a whiskey glass, Noticing how those images passed, Feeling he was free at last. Standing silently upon his raised throne, His stage, His front porch to the world, He played his fiddle Like an Appalachian yell, So that even the dust in the air Hung on every note As they rose and fell. They fled from the man in perfect time, Like jewels falling from the crown, Like a storm leaving its cloud, Like Earth birthing her leaves and grass, Like memories From an empty whiskey glass. What I mean to say, Is that if you're sitting there, Listening to 'Mozambique', And trying to figure out What happened to 'you and me': Release me from you Like an Appalachian yell- Yell, yell, Until to feel the quell, For I have screamed you out of me, And then, At last, 'You and me' Can both be free.

0

Aug 19, 2014

Aug 19, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC

Appalacian Yell

He'd been watching the world Through a whiskey glass, Seeing every distorted image Of her that passed. A decade ago, They were adoloscent children Living on their parents' means- Adolescent children, With adolescent, childhood dreams. Sometimes, it takes separation To recognize guilt, The meaning of content, What matters and what does not, What lives, and what will rot. Whiskey, they say, Has a habit of wiping you away; Legend states that If you pour it over a broken heart, The cut will heal... But legend also has a way Of blending what is false And what is real. Skip a few heartbeats And a few pyramid schemes, Stop half-way and you'll see How they did love eachother once, But not like she needed to, And he Not as much as those childish dreams. Chalk it up to loneliness, Weariness, curiosity, Or what have you, But there was an intimacy, That much is true. Sometimes, it takes lonliness To reach an understanding, A sense of self, How to keep your heart upon a shelf. Sometimes, If you can figure out the grief, You can figure out the relief. He'd been watching the world Through a whiskey glass, Noticing how those images passed, Feeling he was free at last. Standing silently upon his raised throne, His stage, His front porch to the world, He played his fiddle Like an Appalachian yell, So that even the dust in the air Hung on every note As they rose and fell. They fled from the man in perfect time, Like jewels falling from the crown, Like a storm leaving its cloud, Like Earth birthing her leaves and grass, Like memories From an empty whiskey glass. What I mean to say, Is that if you're sitting there, Listening to 'Mozambique', And trying to figure out What happened to 'you and me': Release me from you Like an Appalachian yell- Yell, yell, Until to feel the quell, For I have screamed you out of me, And then, At last, 'You and me' Can both be free.

73

Pressed together like autumn Oregon leaves Wet with morning rain; Hot like the taffy liquid in a Chipped mug leaving coffee rings; Mysterious and hurried like the breath of Two young people, standing on the porch in love; Weary as a new mother tilting bottles, Preferring not to sleep, but instead To thank her Lord above; Rested like a helpful hint nobody will use, Which came in the night but Went with the wind too soon; Pensive like two friends sitting Like bookends on a fallen log, One sighing, the other patting a faithful dog; Airy as a Venice lady in a lacy dress, Planning parties, creating the most beautiful mess; Stretching like the blue sky over the dry fields of Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Pelennor; Hushed as an old street in Ishpeming just barely Coming into dusk- Your understanding of my appreciation for you Is a must: A must, And nothing but.

0

Mar 11, 2013

Mar 11, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC

An Old Street in Ishpeming

Pressed together like autumn Oregon leaves Wet with morning rain; Hot like the taffy liquid in a Chipped mug leaving coffee rings; Mysterious and hurried like the breath of Two young people, standing on the porch in love; Weary as a new mother tilting bottles, Preferring not to sleep, but instead To thank her Lord above; Rested like a helpful hint nobody will use, Which came in the night but Went with the wind too soon; Pensive like two friends sitting Like bookends on a fallen log, One sighing, the other patting a faithful dog; Airy as a Venice lady in a lacy dress, Planning parties, creating the most beautiful mess; Stretching like the blue sky over the dry fields of Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Pelennor; Hushed as an old street in Ishpeming just barely Coming into dusk- Your understanding of my appreciation for you Is a must: A must, And nothing but.

24

He didn’t know what time it was, Except that it was early, And he wouldn’t need to be up for hours. So he turned his head toward the Only window in the room, Which was so white that it appeared To be encasing ten feet of snow. It was April, though, He remembered through the neon glow, And the room was 17 floors up. The old hotel was silent, Bathed in this new sunrise, so Cold and refreshingly bright; This new day- this white, ****** light. And then there was the girl- Sleeping beside him like a kitten In a sea of pale linens and downs, An arm over her forehead, Like a dozing damsel in distress. She’s fragile, he thought, Fragile and rare as a glass unicorn, The heart-wrenching, Tennessee Williams type- No broken horn, but something Indistinguishable setting her apart; Like the pure sunlight, here lies A beauty so blinding, yet hidden from plain sight. He didn’t know what time it was, Except that it was early, And he wouldn’t need to be up for hours. Her arm twitched. The room was boomingly silent. The infant light made a golden bar across the bed. The air was crisp. His breath was warm. He felt chilled. His skin felt raw. His eyes felt raw. His heart felt raw. Her skin looked soft. He wondered if her heart was soft. He swallowed quietly. He felt his head pound against the quiet. Her arm twitched again. A long-forgotten childhood scar shimmered, And he decided that this particular mark Is innocent, but… He would move a mountain and Protect her always; keep an eye on her, In all her wild wonder, Rather that give her another. And then there’s the slight voice: "Beautiful as if made of marble, Untouchable as if made of glass, If you’ve ever wondered how an angel sleeps, Now you know at last." And while he slipped back under the covers, He slipped helplessly into a love from which he'd never quite recover.

0

Feb 26, 2013

Feb 26, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC

The Tennessee Williams Type

He didn’t know what time it was, Except that it was early, And he wouldn’t need to be up for hours. So he turned his head toward the Only window in the room, Which was so white that it appeared To be encasing ten feet of snow. It was April, though, He remembered through the neon glow, And the room was 17 floors up. The old hotel was silent, Bathed in this new sunrise, so Cold and refreshingly bright; This new day- this white, ****** light. And then there was the girl- Sleeping beside him like a kitten In a sea of pale linens and downs, An arm over her forehead, Like a dozing damsel in distress. She’s fragile, he thought, Fragile and rare as a glass unicorn, The heart-wrenching, Tennessee Williams type- No broken horn, but something Indistinguishable setting her apart; Like the pure sunlight, here lies A beauty so blinding, yet hidden from plain sight. He didn’t know what time it was, Except that it was early, And he wouldn’t need to be up for hours. Her arm twitched. The room was boomingly silent. The infant light made a golden bar across the bed. The air was crisp. His breath was warm. He felt chilled. His skin felt raw. His eyes felt raw. His heart felt raw. Her skin looked soft. He wondered if her heart was soft. He swallowed quietly. He felt his head pound against the quiet. Her arm twitched again. A long-forgotten childhood scar shimmered, And he decided that this particular mark Is innocent, but… He would move a mountain and Protect her always; keep an eye on her, In all her wild wonder, Rather that give her another. And then there’s the slight voice: "Beautiful as if made of marble, Untouchable as if made of glass, If you’ve ever wondered how an angel sleeps, Now you know at last." And while he slipped back under the covers, He slipped helplessly into a love from which he'd never quite recover.

57

Sometimes I just want to stand all alone in the middle of a forgotten field on a sunny day, with my hair down, singing at the top of my lungs until I begin to cry at the feeling of sweet release, when all my raw emotion is just hanging in the air around me instead of crunched up inside my heart, making me feel weightless and heavy all at once in that one brief moment, because all of those things I've been holding inside about how you make me feel, how you were my magnum opus, my greatest work, and how after I created you, you still left without me and didn't even look back as you were strolling away, are finally free from me, even if only for a tiny, earth-shattering second, but I don't know where I'd find an open field at this hour, and I could never pick a song anyway, so I'll just sit here and think too much like always.

0

Feb 18, 2013

Feb 18, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC

Magnum Opus

Sometimes I just want to stand all alone in the middle of a forgotten field on a sunny day, with my hair down, singing at the top of my lungs until I begin to cry at the feeling of sweet release, when all my raw emotion is just hanging in the air around me instead of crunched up inside my heart, making me feel weightless and heavy all at once in that one brief moment, because all of those things I've been holding inside about how you make me feel, how you were my magnum opus, my greatest work, and how after I created you, you still left without me and didn't even look back as you were strolling away, are finally free from me, even if only for a tiny, earth-shattering second, but I don't know where I'd find an open field at this hour, and I could never pick a song anyway, so I'll just sit here and think too much like always.

1

It lingers in those midnight moments, During the black stillness Of the cold, technical mornings, When all is silent, Unnervingly frozen in time. It hangs in the air, Desperately waiting During bouts of repetitive silence, When memories move into focus And doubt sharpens, When the only noise (Your shaking, lonely breath) Rattles the walls, And old thoughts accumulate, Suffocate, Like yellow fog circling the hall. It's the little creature that Perches on the shower curtain rod As you stare at your reflection In the bathroom mirror and nod, Giving him his cue To fly down to you, Landing gently upon your shoulder So you can feel the breath, Hear the whisper loud and clear, Saying, "everything will be alright, my dear-" And at last you give a smile, Stretching from ear to ear.

0

Jan 27, 2013

Jan 27, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC

Resolution

It lingers in those midnight moments, During the black stillness Of the cold, technical mornings, When all is silent, Unnervingly frozen in time. It hangs in the air, Desperately waiting During bouts of repetitive silence, When memories move into focus And doubt sharpens, When the only noise (Your shaking, lonely breath) Rattles the walls, And old thoughts accumulate, Suffocate, Like yellow fog circling the hall. It's the little creature that Perches on the shower curtain rod As you stare at your reflection In the bathroom mirror and nod, Giving him his cue To fly down to you, Landing gently upon your shoulder So you can feel the breath, Hear the whisper loud and clear, Saying, "everything will be alright, my dear-" And at last you give a smile, Stretching from ear to ear.

28

I need a love that walks at a leisurely pace; I need a love that's poor, with a handsome, lucky face- One that can hold the world in its big, rock-steady hands, Ready to lay foundation to its best-laid plans. I need a love I can look in the eye; I need a love that's loyal, that proves it from time to time- I need a love I'm not scared to touch, That will not bend, that knows too much. I need a lonely love: A heretic-of-the-heart hognose snake, Preparing to strike at mid-day In some familiar place, Grinning mysteriously As it walks at a leisurely pace.

0

Jan 21, 2013

Jan 21, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC

At a Leisurely Pace

I need a love that walks at a leisurely pace; I need a love that's poor, with a handsome, lucky face- One that can hold the world in its big, rock-steady hands, Ready to lay foundation to its best-laid plans. I need a love I can look in the eye; I need a love that's loyal, that proves it from time to time- I need a love I'm not scared to touch, That will not bend, that knows too much. I need a lonely love: A heretic-of-the-heart hognose snake, Preparing to strike at mid-day In some familiar place, Grinning mysteriously As it walks at a leisurely pace.

14

I come with a deep stillness; I was born with a great shyness, a long quiet, a demurity. I feel it in the way a thousand notes play softly in an orchestra, Yet I have no adequate speech to show my appreciation. I sense it in the way the wind blows warmly in the springtime, And I can not begin to describe the beauty linguistically, so I do not. I’ll keep it within my mind, where it belongs. I can tell it by the way I sit alone, Writing bland, thoughtless poetry in the dark in late December, So that even my fingers freeze in uncertainty: To bring the thoughts from mind to pen- impossible. I need to make up my mind, I’ve been told, I need to speak out loud, Show my heart, Wear my pride, Hide my silence- Once in a while, anyway. But I find it so hard, Searching for my voice in the middle of the winter, Like standing beneath a snowy tree, about to speak, But you see your breath and so you stop and watch- I just watch. I feel that coldness, the quiet, the reserve. When I’m boisterous, I regret it. Being loud is fun, until you’re quite again. I’ll speak tomorrow, I think, knowing I really won’t; Maybe the next day, but probably not. But tonight, Tonight I come with a deep stillness, And I revel in it. I have no shame. For deep stillness Is mystery, And mystery is intrigue, Intrigue leads to complexity, And complexity... Is me.

0

Dec 27, 2012

Dec 27, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC

Standing Beneath a Snowy Tree, About to Speak

I come with a deep stillness; I was born with a great shyness, a long quiet, a demurity. I feel it in the way a thousand notes play softly in an orchestra, Yet I have no adequate speech to show my appreciation. I sense it in the way the wind blows warmly in the springtime, And I can not begin to describe the beauty linguistically, so I do not. I’ll keep it within my mind, where it belongs. I can tell it by the way I sit alone, Writing bland, thoughtless poetry in the dark in late December, So that even my fingers freeze in uncertainty: To bring the thoughts from mind to pen- impossible. I need to make up my mind, I’ve been told, I need to speak out loud, Show my heart, Wear my pride, Hide my silence- Once in a while, anyway. But I find it so hard, Searching for my voice in the middle of the winter, Like standing beneath a snowy tree, about to speak, But you see your breath and so you stop and watch- I just watch. I feel that coldness, the quiet, the reserve. When I’m boisterous, I regret it. Being loud is fun, until you’re quite again. I’ll speak tomorrow, I think, knowing I really won’t; Maybe the next day, but probably not. But tonight, Tonight I come with a deep stillness, And I revel in it. I have no shame. For deep stillness Is mystery, And mystery is intrigue, Intrigue leads to complexity, And complexity... Is me.

37

If you must, Then hold him tightly; If you must, Then pray 'til your heart's content; Whisper unto him your sweetest desires, Beside either Raging or dieing fires; Hold fast his irises in your memory: Brown as rolling rock, Green as that Last Homely House west of the Moutains... Adore the man, then, Purely, honestly, hotly, With every muscle and hair and bead of sweat Your body can bear; Love the man, If you absolutely must, And by all universal means, Sing to him a song as gentle As the very breath he breathes- Unless, of course, The man already belongs to me.

0

Dec 16, 2012

Dec 16, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC

If You Must

If you must, Then hold him tightly; If you must, Then pray 'til your heart's content; Whisper unto him your sweetest desires, Beside either Raging or dieing fires; Hold fast his irises in your memory: Brown as rolling rock, Green as that Last Homely House west of the Moutains... Adore the man, then, Purely, honestly, hotly, With every muscle and hair and bead of sweat Your body can bear; Love the man, If you absolutely must, And by all universal means, Sing to him a song as gentle As the very breath he breathes- Unless, of course, The man already belongs to me.

21

I come from a long line of make-or-breakers, and for that I am thankful. When strangers say hello to me, I greet them back, just as my mother taught me. When I try, I sometimes succeed, and I sometimes fail, but I breathe an innocent breath, Knowing that I did my best. I have a thousand stories to tell, stories you may not believe. I have standards. I have feelings. I have emotions. I have a heart. I can hurt. When I sleep at night, I dream of the real and fantasy. When I breathe, I do so thankfully. When I laugh, I do so joyously. I have a past. I have a future. I have beliefs. I have morals. I have opinions, and I have rights, and I understand that those two things are not always interchangeable. I am a proud, intelligent woman. I am a caring, understanding woman. I am a wise, hopeful woman. I know how to nurture, and how to be nurtured in return. I am honest, my heart is as pure as possible. I mean no harm. I will die someday and let my epitaph be such: that if I ever hurt a soul on Earth, it was done so unknowingly, for if I had known, I’d have rather died a much sooner death. I understand that love is the greatest universal power there is, and that is my religion.

0

Nov 18, 2012

Nov 18, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC

I Come from a Long Line of Make-or-Breakers

I come from a long line of make-or-breakers, and for that I am thankful. When strangers say hello to me, I greet them back, just as my mother taught me. When I try, I sometimes succeed, and I sometimes fail, but I breathe an innocent breath, Knowing that I did my best. I have a thousand stories to tell, stories you may not believe. I have standards. I have feelings. I have emotions. I have a heart. I can hurt. When I sleep at night, I dream of the real and fantasy. When I breathe, I do so thankfully. When I laugh, I do so joyously. I have a past. I have a future. I have beliefs. I have morals. I have opinions, and I have rights, and I understand that those two things are not always interchangeable. I am a proud, intelligent woman. I am a caring, understanding woman. I am a wise, hopeful woman. I know how to nurture, and how to be nurtured in return. I am honest, my heart is as pure as possible. I mean no harm. I will die someday and let my epitaph be such: that if I ever hurt a soul on Earth, it was done so unknowingly, for if I had known, I’d have rather died a much sooner death. I understand that love is the greatest universal power there is, and that is my religion.

24