Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
sweet child of the stars-
never forget these bright lights
and pages of gold

blaze of fireflies-
momentarily trapped in
mason jars; glass-hewn

a saturday evening in july of 1987, pottstown, pennsylvania. the moon peaks over the horizon, craning its neck at the carcasses of lost dreamers littered across the landscape. denim jacket, stone wash; unintentionally half-popped collar. a glass of cinzano bianco in one hand and store-bought iced tea in the other. eight wicker chairs on the deck; chittering and smiling and shuffling and laughing. an evening soirée illuminated solely by stars and citronella candles.  sticky, humid night. grill roars heat as yet another batch of burgers are flipped. step down into the murky dark.

fireworks ignite-
brilliance across nightsky
eyes gaze in wonder

new-age americana at its finest—

we are here and we are now. the product of every moment leading up to now. smoldering remnants of infinite reactions, extraordinary in their own right. what are you cultivating within? what will stay and what will go? what will take hold and manifest? what legacy, what footprint do you dare to leave on the sands of time? in this sublime psalm of life, we can only dream.
never done one of these before! apologies, ik i didn't adhere to form...a creative liberty if you will. ty for stopping by. haibun: haiku poetry and prose.

^don’t ask how i know what cinzano bianco is lol^

part of the last little paragraph thingy was taken from henry wadsworth longfellow’s ‘a psalm of life’.
“He’s just trying
To
Get in
Your pants.”

“He’s just going to use you.”

“He’s only your friend
Because
He’s going to try and have *** with
You.”

“He’s a bad influence.”

“He’s got no redeeming qualities.”

But he,
He is the one sitting with me tonight.
He was the one to hug me tight
And dry my tears.
Not any of you.
a small
millennium house
much younger than it looks

a worn brick frame
skirted by a quaint, welcoming
red mulch garden

lace and fine gilt bone china
tucked away in
innumerable glass-fronted
cherry cabinets
bathed in the peachy florida light
streaming in through
clustered windows
framed by luscious,
flowing cloth drapery

pears soap,
soft, satin water,
and ceramic figurines
of angels and saints,
hares and doves

biblical verse, hung on the walls
and photos of relatives
i’ve never met

cushy, paisley-patterned sofas,
always something on the stove

flower arrangements on the mantle
aside a baldwin upright

no, this is not home.
but regardless, i know that here,
i will
always be welcome
a quick bus-ride write... not my best but i still think it’s something ;)
My vision was blurry
From the water falling onto my face,
His hands pulling me close to him
A soft
Absent minded kiss on the neck.

Sometimes we’re more capable of a deeper love
For one person
In only a month
Than we are for another in two years.

Beer can in hand,
I walked up behind him and folded my arms
Around his waist
Letting the aroma of his cooking engulf me,
I pressed my face into his back
And smelled that busy kitchen smell
In his work clothes.

I’d never been with someone
Who’s fire matched mine.
Someone who encouraged me
To be emotional,
Instead of being afraid of me.
Who held me in dark moments,
But knew when to let go.
In three years Seth didn’t know.
Two years, and Dillon didn’t understand.
But in three and a half weeks
Rob could always tell
When I needed him,
When I needed space,
What was on my mind,
And whether or not
I was lying.

Driving around
In his car after midnight,
Smoking an illegal herb,
And talking about
What keeps us up at night,
And what helps us sleep.
His hand
On my leg,
His fingers locking with mine,
I played with his hair
And we sang along
To old songs
That sad teenagers listen to.

But we aren’t always
Supposed
To end up with someone
Who fits so perfectly into our souls.
Somehow we fit a lifetime of love
In a matter of weeks
And it was complete.

I woke up
To his perfect touches.
It wasn’t that he was gentle,
Or rough,
But perfect.
He knew when to be firm,
And when to be soft,
And I never had to tell him.
Making love in the morning,
And holding each other,
Playing with his hair
As if I’d done so for years,
And he kissed the top of my head
Every few minutes.

We don’t always end up
With our soul mates,
Because we aren’t always their soul mates.

Laughing in the car,
Watching TV,
Getting dinner,
Making dinner,
Him pressing the back of my hand
To his lips.

It can be so perfect,
And burn out
So fast.
I’m winding
The idea
Of loneliness
Around my fingers

Weaving it
In and out
Between my knuckles

I knit my brow
My fingers
And my legs together

Leave my future
To the future,
And content myself
In
Myself.
 Sep 2019 b e mccomb
Lydia
I’m procrastinating on death
My mother tells me that grandma can barely breathe
I don’t believe her
I still call her on Sundays and just do all the talking

I’m grieving for someone who is still alive
When my mother tells me I can’t see her,
I nearly hang up the phone
She can tell I’m crying before I make a sound
In the moment I’m choking on my own vocal chords,
She knows I cannot hear her anymore

Death cannot make me a better person
I tell my mom that I wish I had been a more loving child
I’ve wasted time
I’ll waste the whole night washing the stages of grief off my bedroom floor
I will not find her in the bubbles

Death is not here
He is laughing at me with a timer I cannot see
He is waltzing around my grandmother’s home,
Some days he has a weapon,
Some days he is unarmed
Grandma tells mom that time is up
She tells me she is fine
I tell her about my day

I think about going to church
Then, I remember that asking for forgiveness is the most spiteful thing I could possibly grapple with
Forgiveness would be grieving for my own soul
And that is not why I am throwing away dead flowers
I save one, maybe it has some color left
Maybe I’m just seeing things
I press it in a book on a shelf packed too tightly
So I can forgive life for leaving its petals
And her skin

Maybe this is a prayer
Maybe it’s an epitaph
Maybe it’s my whole body trembling in little keystrokes and maybe they can hold onto her for me because I am not with her. I am alone in my bedroom wishing for a ghost to tell me instead of my mother.
When she’s gone-

My mother asks if I will want anything from her house. I tell her I want the sailboat pillow I held to my chest while throwing temper tantrums as a child. I’m stomping my feet alone in my apartment and Death says that he’ll wait for me to stop. I text her after we hang up to say that I just want my grandmother.
Next page