C E Ford

C E Ford Jan 2014

Soiled

I need someone who feels
with wildflowers,
and speaks
in the tongues of streams.

I need their cheeks
to sprout dandelions,
and let them grow,
even though others say they're weeds.

I need their mouth
to taste of earth,
and their soul
to hold the heat of the earth's core.

I need their ribcages
to contain mountain ranges
that can puncture my diaphragm,
and remind my lungs
how much they like the like the taste of air.

C E Ford Jan 2014

The Peacock

Whispers hello as the first streams of sunlight
inch their way in through their black chiffon veil,
gleaming on our garden of stale breath,
and down feathers.

Whispers goodnight as his proud freckles
become the constellations outside my window,
and the moon stretches her arms
for another night's work.

Whispers sorry after his words became feather-lances
jousting through my arguments until my armor
was askew and torn
at its paper seams.

Whispers tales of tomorrows and fortnights
to come under illusions of rich greens, blues, and yellows
he will finger paint on my forehead
like a warrior.

Whispers goodbyes, sweet and forlorn,
as he realizes promises and paints will not keep the morning
from snatching his prized possession from his cotton laced roost,
leaving him alone with just the rays of the sun
to admire his tail.

C E Ford Jan 2014

Is About

Writing is about class.
Class is about sitting in plastic,
in the chill of morning
and having to write down notes notes notes.

Notes are about pens kissing paper,
and peppering the page
with inklings of half-baked thoughts
and thought out truths
on the stark white below.

Thoughts and truths are about consciousness.
Consciousness is about writing down
notes notes notes
on people who’s intricate names escape you,
as the ink scratches dark caverns and rivers
on the stark white below,
so professors and professionals
know we are consciously writing their
thoughts, truths, and words

Words are about tongue and confusion.
Love, ***, hate, love, meaning, working, feeling,
biting, tearing, kicking, screaming, breathing, writing.
Writing it all down, writing more.
More tongue-in-cheek, more cheeks brushing, fingertips touching,
and scribbling notes notes notes
on the back of your hand in lust
so you’ll never forget.

Stream of consciousness poem written for my poetry class. I was given five minutes to just write, and this was the result.

C E Ford Dec 2013

Let's Give Them Something to Talk About

Let's run away,
in a beaten up, old clunker,
with nothing but a box of Cheez-its,
and a collection of albums from The Beatles.

Let's take every face we meet,
and paint them onto every street corner,
stealing sweet peaches ,and juicy oranges
from each vendor along the way.

Let's take the ash
others have put in our mouths,
and dip our fingers in the black,
streaking lines on our faces like warpaint.

Let's live
this crazy, beautiful life,
that you and I have spun
out of frowns and false eyelashes,
and have turned into something worthwhile,

Because we'll be the ones
they write about in novels on best seller's lists
We'll be the ones who create their own world,
because they were too good for the one already in place,

And you and I will be the ones
to look back on our lives, even
with blood-stained palms touching,
and laugh how none of them mattered

C E Ford Dec 2013

Morning Glory

You've become the vine
that creeps
up
the side
of my brick encased dwelling,
breaching every
crack
and
imperfection
you've stumbled across,
managed to conceal them,
and make them presentable.

You've overtaken an entire wall;
teal
and lavender
petals,
like crayon shavings,
scattered
against their dark background,
bringing with them
the color
my house
so desperately needed.

Now,
when friends and onlookers
pass by,
they see this great green and brick
marvel,
covered in leaves,
and petals,
and vines
that stretch from every awning,
down to the cement blocks
of the basement.
We have all the neighbors
whispering about
how your greens
compliment my reds
and how bright your flowers
bloom,
even on the grayest
of mornings,
so that everyone
is in envy
of what they see.

C E Ford Dec 2013

Eighteen

We wake up
in bitter cold,
and candied "good mornings"
to have the moon
be the milk for our coffee,
and the sun,
honey for our tea.

From there,
we get dressed,
wearing each other's laugher
as sweaters,
and long conversations
as the seams for our trousers,
pulling each yawn
over our feet
before we head out the door.

I take notes with
locks of your hair,
and write them down
on the porcelain bits
of your hands,
all the while you sit,
and paint with my eyelashes,
crafting the fire,
that lights each iris.

And this is our life;
warmly drunk on
promises,
and the way our hands clasp
when we walk,
a sweet slumber
from which we will never be awoken,
because people see things,
and they understand,
that
like vines,
we're intertwined.

C E Ford Dec 2013

I Like Your

Body.
muscles and electrons,
infusing into mine,
your spine
synthesizing
with my ribcage.

I like the
whys,
hows,
and maybes
in your brain
as your synapses
fire

from each fingertip
and kiss
here ,
there,
and back,
again, again,
and again.

I crave your
voice,
the way
your vibrato
sends shivers
up
my spine,
and carries
its potence

to
my chest,
residing in my lungs,
becoming the
atmosphere
in which I thrive.