jovialpup - Hello Poetry

What is your mileage? What distances have you carried yourself? Tell me of the roads. Of summer evenings spent gliding on smooth, black asphalt. Tell me about the sounds, harmonizing with the warm thrum of your heart. Tell me of the beaten paths. Of midday walks on cracked, uneven sidewalks teeming with life, giving way to budding blades of green, and dandelion dreams. Tell me how the sun stung your skin, how soft breezes whispered at the nape of your neck. Share with me the memory of winter mornings past. Of the biting chill kissing your cheeks as your feet trudged through soft white expanses. Of the cold that set in your bones as you waited for the bus, and the fat wet flakes that fell in flurries. Tell me all of it. About the freedom that spring brings, the buzz of bees and possibilities. The gorgeous lull at 10am and the swell of your soul. Tell me the way the falling leaves of autumn trees speak to you. How their crunch tickles your mind. Tell me how October skies dazzle you, while the stars shine, reflected in your eyes. Spend with me a moment of intimacy. Show me the things beyond the windows to the soul. Share with me what your odometer reads. Let me read the map of you.

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Jun 15, 2018

Jun 15, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC

Traveler

What is your mileage? What distances have you carried yourself? Tell me of the roads. Of summer evenings spent gliding on smooth, black asphalt. Tell me about the sounds, harmonizing with the warm thrum of your heart. Tell me of the beaten paths. Of midday walks on cracked, uneven sidewalks teeming with life, giving way to budding blades of green, and dandelion dreams. Tell me how the sun stung your skin, how soft breezes whispered at the nape of your neck. Share with me the memory of winter mornings past. Of the biting chill kissing your cheeks as your feet trudged through soft white expanses. Of the cold that set in your bones as you waited for the bus, and the fat wet flakes that fell in flurries. Tell me all of it. About the freedom that spring brings, the buzz of bees and possibilities. The gorgeous lull at 10am and the swell of your soul. Tell me the way the falling leaves of autumn trees speak to you. How their crunch tickles your mind. Tell me how October skies dazzle you, while the stars shine, reflected in your eyes. Spend with me a moment of intimacy. Show me the things beyond the windows to the soul. Share with me what your odometer reads. Let me read the map of you.

17

Denim and cotton, Rolling tides of fabric swaths They tumble softly

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Jun 5, 2018

Jun 5, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC

Laundry Day

Denim and cotton, Rolling tides of fabric swaths They tumble softly

3

It’s Wednesday. Some ungodly hour between 4:00 and 6:00. Maybe. I’m not sure. My mind is soft, unfocused, sleep-heavy. Dawn’s greeting is gentle, loving. A mother’s smile. A susurration, interrupted by David Wolfe promoting the NutriBullet on an LED screen. Avocado, kale, blueberries. Pseudo-science babble stems from wild, bright eyes, overflowing into bohemian curls. Overgrown and unruly. Enthusiasm and conviction have never been more entertaining. Billy Mays and his dynamic personality pitch. Stubborn stains shiver before the power of OxiClean. In a parallel world, I have bought out every kitchen appliance, every menial utensil that will revolutionize my quotidian life. Those ped eggs, the George Foreman grills, Shamwows. And I am content, as I sit on my throne of ShamWows, draped in an oversized Snuggie.

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May 28, 2018

May 28, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC

Ode to Infomercials

It’s Wednesday. Some ungodly hour between 4:00 and 6:00. Maybe. I’m not sure. My mind is soft, unfocused, sleep-heavy. Dawn’s greeting is gentle, loving. A mother’s smile. A susurration, interrupted by David Wolfe promoting the NutriBullet on an LED screen. Avocado, kale, blueberries. Pseudo-science babble stems from wild, bright eyes, overflowing into bohemian curls. Overgrown and unruly. Enthusiasm and conviction have never been more entertaining. Billy Mays and his dynamic personality pitch. Stubborn stains shiver before the power of OxiClean. In a parallel world, I have bought out every kitchen appliance, every menial utensil that will revolutionize my quotidian life. Those ped eggs, the George Foreman grills, Shamwows. And I am content, as I sit on my throne of ShamWows, draped in an oversized Snuggie.

22

When my father asked me what the basis of our relationship was, I couldn’t give him an answer. Now, as the aftertaste of it - that bitter tang of overripe mandarins - Sits heavy under my tongue and on my teeth, I can say, it’s because I love fruit. I saw you, faded and frail, in early winter. Had seen the promise of sweet giving, of tired roots aching for warmth, waiting. You had tried to cut yourself down, so I became your giving tree. I tended to you, gave you many of my firsts. In a way, so did you. At least that’s what you told me. You had promised me growth. That you would tend to me As I did you. That we would create our own harvest. Apple orchards, cherry blossoms, bountiful vineyards. I had taken your word to heart. It was sweet, cloying nectar. I let it smother me, sink into my skin. Let it seep into my veins. Let it ferment. I was drunk on your touch, worshipped the saccharine velvet of your skin, Like supple nectarines. You didn’t mind the gentle scrape of teeth or nails, of wandering lips, my curious hands teasing, testing. Tracing the ink outlines of sacred swirls and ancient patterns Adorning an ignorant and undeserving left arm. Nor did you mind the growing rift, the root rot festering, the mandarins that were left out on the counter on those hot nights, the fruit fly that fed on them. You could not be bothered to bat the fly away. Worst of all, you forgot to mention Orange never quite suited you.

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May 24, 2018

May 24, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC

Passionfruit

When my father asked me what the basis of our relationship was, I couldn’t give him an answer. Now, as the aftertaste of it - that bitter tang of overripe mandarins - Sits heavy under my tongue and on my teeth, I can say, it’s because I love fruit. I saw you, faded and frail, in early winter. Had seen the promise of sweet giving, of tired roots aching for warmth, waiting. You had tried to cut yourself down, so I became your giving tree. I tended to you, gave you many of my firsts. In a way, so did you. At least that’s what you told me. You had promised me growth. That you would tend to me As I did you. That we would create our own harvest. Apple orchards, cherry blossoms, bountiful vineyards. I had taken your word to heart. It was sweet, cloying nectar. I let it smother me, sink into my skin. Let it seep into my veins. Let it ferment. I was drunk on your touch, worshipped the saccharine velvet of your skin, Like supple nectarines. You didn’t mind the gentle scrape of teeth or nails, of wandering lips, my curious hands teasing, testing. Tracing the ink outlines of sacred swirls and ancient patterns Adorning an ignorant and undeserving left arm. Nor did you mind the growing rift, the root rot festering, the mandarins that were left out on the counter on those hot nights, the fruit fly that fed on them. You could not be bothered to bat the fly away. Worst of all, you forgot to mention Orange never quite suited you.

35

Dwarfed by concrete and steel, I struggle to catch, to grasp that which has been stolen by swift phantom hands and soft dying light who whisper, caress, remind. They draw my eye to the setting sun, the dying fire, the phoenix’s last embers burning out. The day’s enchantment will soon expire. Lips drawn down, brows furrowing in a pout. The same spectral breezes tug on my shirt, Pull me towards the tracks that lead me home. Night sweeps across the sky in silken skirts, richly colored, bejewelled with precious stones. I must hurry. Must leave promptly, before Night regresses into a ****** *****

0

May 24, 2018

May 24, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC

Englewood Sunset

Dwarfed by concrete and steel, I struggle to catch, to grasp that which has been stolen by swift phantom hands and soft dying light who whisper, caress, remind. They draw my eye to the setting sun, the dying fire, the phoenix’s last embers burning out. The day’s enchantment will soon expire. Lips drawn down, brows furrowing in a pout. The same spectral breezes tug on my shirt, Pull me towards the tracks that lead me home. Night sweeps across the sky in silken skirts, richly colored, bejewelled with precious stones. I must hurry. Must leave promptly, before Night regresses into a ****** *****

14