Grandma,
WHAT OF THE CORNER-- that you now no longer sit. the bed that you will no longer lay.
What of the pastels-- that you now no longer use. the soft tones of amber and pink. the pale blue shadow that silenced your eyes.
What of the lily pads-- on the surface ripples. of the pond you once watched us play in. the chair that rocked until it cracked. splintered right down the middle.
What of the poppies-- that you placed in my hair. that you helped me blow 'dream wishes' into. the poppies that tickled me. What of grandpa, poppy?
LIKE GREEN when it turns to brown. like pastel powder on an envelope,
you fade with time.
You left this place with nothing more than what you came here with, a presence. an empty room,
now, misplaced.
New milk and cookies, hide the old, mellow yellow, kitchen countertops. fresh cut poppies, are now six ninety-nine.
The old barn, that I once slept in, because of that hard summer day's humid warmth, was torn down last spring, and a new house, with a new family, got put in its place.
YES... like green when it turns to brown. like the powder from your old pastels that would stick on to my fingertips like there was no lettin' go. like yellow frostin on cake. i remember you. or at least, i try to keep that one happy image that is left of you:
In the barn--
when you awoke me from my sleep.
In the fields--
where you would sit and watch me play.
In the corner--
of that old house where you once sat.
In the lily pads--
where the bullfrogs still sing.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
The earth looked too self absorbed
for me not to
jump.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Coldness lulls my
head
for an eternal
nights slumber. The arrhythmic
thumping of
my chest
dele-
teri
ous
l
y
shortens.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Oh, that I were a wish
Whose well be barren.
This life’s unyielding pain,
Would have fared itself far greater than, Spring--
That blooms in December. A waterfall,
Whose stream never thickens. A bird,
Whose chirping be dated.
Oh yes! That I were a wishing well,
Whose penny be centless. A man,
Whose made-for match, never be fated.
A father.
A mother.
A fallen leaf.
An earthly womb,
unconsumed.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 3:49 PM UTC
Break your neck,
Snap your fingers to the tune.
Crack open the air pockets
That lie in between,
Your cold numb knuckles
And your heart that’s
Unseen.
Bend your wrist backwards
Until you hear the bone
Snap! Listen to the tune
Of your spineless back
Crack.
Let it rest.
Let it breathe.
Let the pain
Drape your weak-boned neck
All the way
Back.
Snap!
Feel the ****
Pour out
Your self-centered
Self-induced
Mr. “NO-TIME-TO-REFLECT.”
Beat your head to the ground
Stomp your feet
Pound Pound Pound.
**** me.
Touch me.
Kiss me.
Leave me.
Taste the salt
It’s bitter—
Leave it?
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC
With No Strings Attached—
I sit here
In what is left
Of our old
Silence.
I try to remember you
To find some sort of piece that
Could tie me back to you
In what is left
Of this old
Worn
1970’s
Guitar.
I try to imagine
What it would have been like
To have your hands
Hold me, the way you hold
This
1970’s
Guitar.
Guitar, Guitar.
Guitarra!
"Como seria se eu tivesse nacido como sua guitarra?"
Sera, Sera?
How it really is.
A barren women
With no joy left to give.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC