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Mar 2020 · 80
the last supper
Ashlyn Rimsky Mar 2020
he swallows her.

slowly, then all at once.
presses his lips to her cheeks to
watch the color bleed across her face,
like an ink blot in water
but reversed.
her creator amends his mind
and draws the color from her skin.

she was so lovely.
he imagined what could be
with colors as beauteous as these
and though she begs him not to,
he proceeds.

she screams,
and he is pleased.
he gulps them down in kisses.
drinks her last breaths down
like the finest Cabernet
that ran dry on her birthday.
her nails scratch prophecies in his back,
possess him until becomes a wolf
in the moon-like whites of her glossy eyes.
he is wild. he breaks bread and
***** the marrow from her bones.
a sweet slaughter, splendid sacrifice.
her colors dripping down his face
a perfect masterpiece.
Mar 2020 · 104
grey
Ashlyn Rimsky Mar 2020
sometimes grey is really yellow.
he is sunshine on a summer day,
giggling at knock-knock jokes
with punchlines like the wind.

and sometimes grey is really brown.
coated in the mud of puddles
that he was told not to touch
but leapt into anyways.

and sometimes grey is really green.
when he is, he asks questions
as tall as his dandelion legs
that grow taller with each day.

and sometimes grey is really red.
like the day he came into the world
screaming and all-of-the-sudden
with his middle fingers in the air.

and sometimes i am really blue.
when i look at grey, and yellow,
and brown, and green, and red
wondering how he might paint

wondering if the world will see his colors
until grey cups my tears in his hands
throws them into the air
and makes a rainbow.
Feb 2020 · 165
poets anonymous
Ashlyn Rimsky Feb 2020
i live in a constant state
of ignoring deadlines
and instead taking my due dates
with poetry

every excursion leaves me thinking
what a day, what a night
what a thought, what a line
what a moment.

what if i use this or that rhyme?
i find it sublime, i have lost track
of time, but found me in spaces
carved out between lines
the moments between thought
of whats next in my mind
what word would be one of a sort?
i assort them -

they advance. i am weak,
they assemble. these words a worthy match for me
win me over - i rage no war
just wave my flag, surrender once more
we have done this before, a repeat, i am familiar
i know better, but i am a word *****.
self control is out the door
and i let him walk. i hope he runs far away
so my words and i can stew a bit longer.
i don't want it to end. i am tired of talking in numbers.
i am tired of making sense. i just want to play.
lets have a word day. or two, or three, or five.
i can multiply words if you give me the chance
professor, accept my submittance. my poems provide
no wrong answers. no prompt, sit and listen.
maybe its your turn.
i can't stop writing, and i am a little concerned.
Feb 2020 · 225
a poet's porn
Ashlyn Rimsky Feb 2020
you've been on my mind all day
i am out, wandering thoughts of you on my brain
what is it you'll have to say?
i'm running through rain, out here it is grey
but soon ill be home, i'll be drenched

these puddles have me thinking
if i open your mouth
what might come out?
but i dont want to do the talking
just put your lips on mine
lets work this out

when i get home, i can't wait to let it all go
soon i'll undress, open you up and get inside of you
follow your lead, do whatever you suggest
reading between those **** lines
in the glow of the lamplight
we'll close the door, leave the world behind

find the place where there is no telling
where i end and you begin
rediscovering what is ours over and over again
a new slant rhyme? yes baby
each stroke feels like the first time
your curves ever evolving in my fingers
i scratch deep lines. no self control,
never knowing where you will take me next
what shape might you make
where your lines will blur and break
..is this ***?
its a language only we can speak
whats happening here no one needs to know,
unless we want them to.
right now its just me and you
my eyes follow your every move
we press in sync, perfect harmony ensues
i can't deny myself
i put my all into you
yup, you read that right.
Ashlyn Rimsky Feb 2020
A reading from the book of Ashlyn, daughter of Mark.

In the name of my Father
(Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name):
Ritual calls a lighter to a cigarette
It pulls the calloused flesh of its thumb over the metal striker
Igniting the air it breathes, exciting a dull glow
A puff of recognition lays down on the exhale
Soon there will be ashes. It settles like smoke.

When the smoke settles
The Room is void.
The walls move in and
Swallow him holy, moving in
Relentless rythmic contraction
A chorus of prayer, annointing the sick
Let us paint crosses in the ashtray.

"Ahhhhh-men."

coughing

In the name of the daughter:
He tries to avoid the ritual,
But the chants persist
He is a sinner.
Only blood can cleanse him
He partakes

May the Spirit be with you.
"And also with you."
We lift our glasses to the Lord.
"It is right to give Him thanks and praise."

The room goes silent.
Observation of prayer.


In the name of the Holy Spirit:
The blood of Christ compels a drink
The spirit makes my father new
He is no longer man.
Now, he is exorcised by the spirit.
Praise be to God in his slurred speech
And peace to this person on earth
His sunken eyes. His swollen belly.
God, is he your Mary?
Is this your beautiful creation? Your masterful plan?
God, am I your son? I think so.
I stretched my arms out to you.
It seems you left me hanging.
You, the only father who has ever forsaken me. Why?
To clarify, my biological father was the best thing that ever happened to me. He was so full of love and light in ways that were not showcased in this poem. Unfortunately, addiction claimed his life in 2014 and I lost my best friend in the whole world. This poem is not aimed to portray him as a bad dad (he was not), but is aimed to draw attention to the horrors of addiction and explore my rejection of relgion after losing him. Addiction is an ugly disease that takes people slowly and painfully and in very ugly ways. My dad was the last person that deserved to suffer addiction and this is my call to God, if there is one, to express my pain and ask him "Why this?" I know the language is ****** and graphic -  it hurts me to write it. Unfortunately, this is what addiction looks like and I felt the need to be honest.

Thank you for reading and for the support as I share a vunerable subject publicly. If you or anyone else out there that you know is struggling with addiction, please get help. I am happy to talk with you and provide you with some resources. I am sending lots of love, stay strong.

"I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be you."
Jan 2020 · 171
ode to sunny days
Ashlyn Rimsky Jan 2020
Thunder rolls in on a Thursday afternoon
Sometimes against the odds, Sometimes with warning
The pale patter of precipitation a plausible preamble of
Swelling streams and soaked soil. Soon,
He falls from his cloud. a raging storm, rolling thunder
Cracking across the sky, a chaotic chorus
Creating what makes this
Colliding with what he may
Striking with confidence, a blaze of fury
A blink of light in sky, until:
The last raindrop spills into creek
He cries a final croak.
maybe humans and thunder have more in common than once thought..
Jan 2020 · 84
im in love with the wind
Ashlyn Rimsky Jan 2020
you are always gone
as soon as you come

you are breath
the first and the last

in and out
rise and fall

try as i may
i cannot hold you

so i learn to love you
as you are
i actually wrote this a month ago and found it in my notes.. i dont remember what the context was, but i kind of love that. its cool to forget a piece and be able to read it as an outsider. its funny because i feel like it applies to a lot of very different aspects of my life.
Jan 2020 · 48
the birdleneck
Ashlyn Rimsky Jan 2020
when i tell my mom
"i have a date tonight"
she has one comment:
"whatever you do,
DON'T wear THAT
old sweater
with the geese all over
or THOSE
brown horse hoove shoes
CLANGING like the kentucky derby
with each step
those ones that the bottoms fell out of"
i sigh, wrap the phone cord around my neck
HANG it up, on the shelf
my hope, dignity, cares, whatever
LOOK, a chest
masked by geese flock
feet turned to hooves
a MATING DISPLAY
that only ever works
the lady in the mirror
when she looks
she sees the tips of mountain tops
etched in leather
is taken back to times
where the only sound
was the clank of boots on ground
        the scrape of rocks
        sun on face
where the only sound
was geese on the water
        no where else to be
        but right here, right now
where the only sound
was the ooh and aahs
         of my best friend
         with a big pearly smile
         when i dug it out
         of the giant blue bin
         at the pay-by-the-pound
         laughing while we spun
         theories of eldery ladies
         of its PAST
she mouths to me
"i like your birdleneck"
i mouth to her
"i like you"
and walk out the door
Dec 2019 · 227
fading
Ashlyn Rimsky Dec 2019
"Sometimes I think I have felt everything I'm ever gonna feel. And from here on out, I'm not gonna feel anything new. Just lesser versions of what I've already felt." - Theodore Twombly, Her
not a poem that i wrote but i quote that i found really profound and worth sharing. what do you think about it?
Dec 2019 · 2.2k
duck thru
Ashlyn Rimsky Dec 2019
no idea where i am and
no idea where i am going
just a tank full of gas
and the patter of rain
just me and time and space
no plans, no destination
Dec 2019 · 1.4k
i hope this poem finds you
Ashlyn Rimsky Dec 2019
i dont know you yet
not even your name
but i whisper sweet
nothings to the wind
hoping you are listening
hoping you are too
waiting for the wind
to carry you home
Dec 2019 · 1.6k
wanna ride bikes?
Ashlyn Rimsky Dec 2019
it is sixty degrees
the sun on your skin

you have nowhere to be
and everywhere to go

not a cloud in the sky,
not a bump in the road

just this moment
just this sliver of heaven

just your feet on the pedals
your eyes on the horizon

unspoken joy, an effortless smile
wheels turning forward motion
Dec 2019 · 516
6:15 AM
Ashlyn Rimsky Dec 2019
Sleepy Stupor,
Please stay a while
If you're the only one.
I lay here, still, and smile
At dreams of someone

Sleepy Stupor,
Please stay a while
Please don't let me come to
But folded sheets talk so loud
And him to I so few
Dec 2019 · 496
wake up
Ashlyn Rimsky Dec 2019
you lay in your bed
regardless of whether or
not you make it first
a little coffee shop thought i had today. id love to polish it up and make it into a nicer short poem/not a haiku, but the concept really resonated with me.
Nov 2019 · 303
how (not) to fall
Ashlyn Rimsky Nov 2019
i open my arms to the wind
and find it uncomfortably still

there is something eerie
about the way you
can be submerged
in something
(or someone)
but feel nothing

i wave my hands
back and forth
like a cab-call
to feel it on my skin

the first time
a boy kissed me
i asked him
not to.
he held me tight
while no one was around
told me he would not
let go until i did.
i called it love.

now i write poems.
and maybe i shouldn't write poems
for men that i have only looked at from across a room
and maybe i shouldn't tattoo his name
in hearts on my arms
and go on honeymoons before the wedding

but if i'm being honest
i have so much to give
that the fantasy of you and me
makes me think that maybe
up is down and down is up
and that for once, maybe
falling might not be so bad

when you teach me parkour
you tell me there are softer ways to land
tuck, roll, spin out, land gently on your toes
falling is not the worst thing if you do it right
but it takes time to learn
and if i am honest
i am writing love poems before
i've learned to rhyme or reason
recite to you my flat lines
trying to turn the snaps into
a CPR jumpstart for love
plug into you
a broken battery,
just trying to recharge
all of my rusty parts
that I, lay before you
as if getting *******
would fix the gaping
hole in my chest
thats been out of
commission for years now

when you tell me i am _
and introduce me to your best friends
i feel the walls fall down
like piles of clothing around us
like makeup washing down a drain
like scrubbing rust off an old pan
i stand here raw and real, and still
you tell me i can stay over
for the first time in a long time
i say "id like that"
press two lips to a forehead
and two hands to a chest
take a moment to take in
the man that is
lying so beautifully next to me
lying so beautifully next to me
lying so beautifully to me
my body hits pavement
i would really appreciate any honest feedback on this poem. what is your take on what the message is? what confused you? what parts sounded awkward? are there any lines you loved?

thanks so much!
Nov 2019 · 381
a study of one
Ashlyn Rimsky Nov 2019
my psyc professor once told me:
"chocolate induces the same feelings as ***"
10 chocolate bars later, i still feel pretty **** lonely.
Nov 2019 · 265
vinyasas
Ashlyn Rimsky Nov 2019
on mornings
when the sun
bundles in blankets

she paints poems
with brushes
that flow
from sky to earth

a salutation
to the sun
a display of
intention: to

find solace
in ocean sounds
and dogs playing
in every direction

plant trees
of every season
with swaying branches
and flower tops

right now
the only rush
is the sound
of breath

what matters
is the light
in me
in you
the connection between
and the intention
that today..
namaste.
Nov 2019 · 694
groom's side
Ashlyn Rimsky Nov 2019
to the groom's side:

I am sorry
I never had

the words to say
I love you
one last time.

the truth is..

I don't know how

we got here
or where

I'm going
wrong

but
I do

know

I have
to go.
Nov 2019 · 1.1k
Sail
Ashlyn Rimsky Nov 2019
In the night
When eyes do not shut
She rides ships
That no longer sail
Explores waters
Unknown or Forgotten
Remembers that the moon
Is a reflection of the Sun
Rises oceans
Always waving
Goodbye
Nov 2019 · 161
hourglass
Ashlyn Rimsky Nov 2019
be kind to yourself.

even on days
when life seems like
an hourglass
there is always time
to find solace
in your inner peace
Nov 2019 · 325
me
Ashlyn Rimsky Nov 2019
me
she moves her body
from couch to bed
undresses
shirt to chin to floor
knows every scar
and freckle constellation
and the square on her left arm
she got from a bandaid
dances
naked in her underwear
to blood-flown beats
that only she can hear
builds fires
from yesterdays news
climbs trees
like its her day job
makes climbing trees her day job
she is cool
as a ******* cucumber
writes poems
to a lover
she found in a mirror
tucks herself in
like she always has
and always will
and always will be
me.

— The End —