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aj heatherly Apr 2017
a tacky canvas that
pitcher-dribble reaped,
like an infant in the highchair,
no cherrios to eat.

mundane messes like
blood on your knee,
gravel in between;
bend, but grit your teeth.

white was so boring, though
color cannot be undone,
until a final draw ends,
and entropy starts to run.

watercolor, was it?
the dye won’t wash away.
don’t you see me,
****** by graffiti

like the coffee stains on
my tie, the ink at the
top of my naked sleeve;
leading edges that bleed.

if you shudder at the unholy
messes, the incongruent seams,
i took too much of your time
already, ask once, i’ll let you be.
aj heatherly Apr 2017
Birds Dont Sing and
i know you asked me why;
you said I never knew
the places that you do -

corner store with the
Corvette Cassette, or the
urbanite Chinatown,
Origins of your youth.

i may not know them but
i do know Lovely You and
Lovers Rock too, where we
spent an hour washing the

stone with tactile tips.
a Lilly of my day, as
at night, or, oh-no, Oh
Devil in disguise.

when i look with my eyes
i see So Many Details,
strings from Kites zigging
a bedroom span, zagging

back across, No Rules,
like the rivers or roots we grew by.
attempting to Think Feel
my way through the space -

no not forever, but yes
Everything Goes; like how
You Hear Colours while
i try to draw them out

of what i return to you.
like light, only of a kind
before the reflection, a reply,
now i'm Giving up that Feeling

i don't know how,
we broke something inside.
aj heatherly Apr 2017
my day’s first sight.
the chest lid opens
for a moment;
through my ungilded pane,
golden light.

covers not of cotton
hold me in a sleepy state;
alarming sounds outside,
mechanical monsters
speeding by - i should
charge a different rate.

washed and dressed,
the coffee steeped.
brown stains spatter
the porcelain platter;
a tacky canvas that
pitcher-dribble reaped.

your scent-leavened my room;
now i’m just citrus and oak.
(a lonesome, near empty glass,
speckled by dried bubbles)
like spindrift from waves,
hazy memories, smoke –

i return to the edge of my bed
rain filling the gutter,
sounding the roof
pans of metal, mossy
cakes softening the tap-tap- tap.
– lightheaded, I shudder

what were the last words
you wept? a final stinging truth.
filling the void of a clear-cut
heart is now overnight trick;
succession may give me roots,
like my hemlock and alder youth.
aj heatherly Mar 2017
tea-cream earth underoak
lying drenched in sun gleam
streams, a sky in between
the green sheets laid upon
and the beamyblues

breezes blew past
our post-modern monument,
and I shuddered like the towers,
as i was amply leafed.
strong winds knocked

branches loose, falling from
seventy-four inches up in the air.
a logjam tore a hole
inside my artesian mouth.
still, fresh spring water

found a way out,
taking a ride in a turnstile
cycling through
riffle and pool
all the way to its end.

clothes soaked, made holey,
by rain no righteous men know;
I tried my hand with a needle and thread
still trying to forgive,
a soft fabric to sow.
thanks for 5 years hellopoetry. this was the first place i felt safe sharing my work. an incubator.  so happy to be a part of it

see the photos:
copyright 2017 aj heatherly
aj heatherly Feb 2017
here is one possibility -
the adoration is rooted
in your fresh quality.
i've never met any one
quite like you before.
that novelty is inspired,
held internally; hopeful.
aj heatherly Feb 2017
it's the fire inside,
if what i read is truth.
constrained by
steeled sheets,
the chains wrap
clockwise around;
a shell to weather
the storm, inside.
thick skin,
leather shoes,
words that drive the loop -
if mary ever
left her room,
color would play a tune.
every item studied
makes us die; bite
the apple then
taste the lies.
living on the inside,
a hope in favor
of saferseas.
always playing
as if soaking in
truths might flood
tubs, never
setting me free.
copyright 2017 aj heatherly
aj heatherly Dec 2016
at season's ending
thank the sage man who inspires
not once; forever.
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