Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Josh Mar 2021
we walk beneath the weight of the outside
birds sing in tune with the collective
& trees reveal their 50-year-old whispers

homes along the way glide above the sunshade
in-between blanketed shadows and sidewalks covered in gum

neighbors swim in the darkness behind blackout curtains
their beds balance on cups of bedside water
& a yellow candle glows above the city
Josh Feb 2013
I intend to love the air in my lungs —
as I wake.
Compelled to peer through coke bottle glasses of glitter.

I intend to be unseen.
A whispering ocean concealed beneath the piers of Santa Monica.
I have so much to say, so much to share
as I wake.

Here in my bed,
Frozen between planks of wood and placid sea.
I laugh in my sleep,
groan as I wake.

I fear the here the now
and encourage the dreams,
the sounds.
Josh Jul 2014
Hold me in place
from the ocean
nothing but
a face with legs,
small sandaled feet
I am heavy
with hopes and
water and bones
Josh Mar 2013
The stream
                        Runs rough

Beyond the towers of brick and mortar
A bridge of crumbling red concrete
Incased between the leaves, and rivers stone

I give
                       My trust

To the leather reins,
The horse that clops the uneasy terrain,
The decaying stones threatening to give way

I pour
                       My Mind

Into the rivers blue,
As if to feed the salmon,
Gorge the trout.

I slosh
                      My Eyes

To the rivers shore,
The edge of sludge and scale,
The currents of clay.
This is my attempt at an imagist poem! How did I do??
Josh Aug 2014
"You need not worry about the silence." He used to say. Though most nights I lay awake hoping I'll never end up a rose or a daisy.

morbidly brittle
with their lack
of water and
attentiveness

whatever
hope I ever had of
forever youth
drains through my soil

petals of swaying
promises
overexposed
wishful colors
depicting temporarily
as happiness in death
Josh Nov 2017


Absorbing dust and Golden heat,
living more openly than I do,
he shimmies to Billie Holiday

The year is not 1957, though
he lives in a San Francisco fog
longing to play the piano

The time in not 11:57pm, though
he orders a ***** martini & swims
in the fishbowl bay

Escaping to Telegraph Hill
to drink moonlight jazz & vermouth
he pretends to live

Way back when

*
I haven't wrote a poem in 2 years!
Josh Aug 2018
Bamboo spine
bones and all,
stand tall

Soak up the
sour & the sweet

Remove yourself from
soil so dry

Plant your body
& your soul
in self-loving hands

Sway with the wind
but remember to
create your own someday

Nurture your warmth
don't let it die  

You are free to grow
in this landscape.

Remind your mind's eye.
This is your time.
Josh Jul 2014
Don't give me that
Smack me with a brick
before you flash that
Colgate smile
Take your eager flight
to your far off place
and leave me to
my sugar coated
shards of glass.

                             {Flight Departing At: 9:30AM}

Remember when we would sing
to the radio
                        and laugh because
                                                                ­                     we didn't
know
                                             the lyrics?

                 {baggage}    
                                               or the time
{security}
              {Take off shoes. Remove Belt}
                you cried   
                                                              ­                   in  my bed?

                          {How many bags are you checking in today?}

we both got so
sunburned   once
you had the imprint of your
                                                            ­                           tank-top
on your back and
I thought my
                                         nose
would fall off

                                              {Flight Itinerary}  
{Drivers License}
                   we rushed through
sushi
and I accidentally ate
                                                      too much wasabi
                                                          ­                          {Is anyone sitting there?}
                                            awkwardly held on to each other
on top of that concrete sculpture of a
                                                                ­              cat
or was it a
                               pig?
                   {Airplane Mode}
            ran to the          
   beach and climbed that         really uncomfortable rock?
                      {sleep}          
     I was so
                                                                ­                                      content
next to

                                         you
                                      {Silence}

            ­                   {Fasten seat belts}

{Baggage claim}
                                        there was a time when we made each other                             
       happy.

                              
you had to                                                           move.
All the way to                                        good Ol' North Carolina.

It was a
                             chance                        we took.

What we had was only               temporary

                                A               looming                     date.

At some point
@ some                         airport           in               San Francisco
you would leave                                                            ­        


                                                      ­               me


at 9:30AM.



{gone with the clouds}
Josh Aug 2011
The blood flowing through my heart tickles as I lay in bed.
I have one wish: to protect me from my head, swimming with scaly goldfish.
I think, I thought, I remember.
All of this happens as I lay and ponder.
As I lay and rest, with this tiny goldfish tickle in my chest.
Josh Sep 2014
Underwater we became
something in space,
a whisper unheard,
heavy with
love & doubts.
Josh Feb 2013
I dreamt of bridges as I slept,
So far from where I wept.
Metallic rust, uneven spokes
So far from where I slept.
Key
Josh Aug 2014
Key
Give me damage
hand me the key
to my misplaced love, my grinding teeth tangle your fingers in
                                                                            mine take what
you                                                                      want          then
                                                                            
leave

damage my soul set me free.
Josh Sep 2014
A coy fish in a pond with nowhere to swim nor splash. The clear water allowed him to see in all four directions, though there was nothing to catch the eye but four concrete walls and bunches of lily pads.

A tiny spectator circled the grass surrounding the pond. She looked as though she were only 5 years old. A second later she was hastily ripping a lily pad from its roots. Upon discovering no magic beneath its belly, she dropped it and began on her way.

The lifeless plant rested at the ponds edge for weeks before the wind carried it back to its place. It was somehow different now, wrinkled and stretched at the stem, though it floated uniform among the rest. The coy hid in the shadows created by the walls, and watched.
Josh Sep 2014
I have fallen
I won't be there
to break the waves,
to dust the dirt
with bare skin
off your face.

You either
wither and die
or dance with
the coral.

Catch the sun
with your eyes
break the surface
while your body
sings.

Swim with
the kelp beds
or tangle beneath
the hooks &
the strings.
Josh Jul 2014
Lucid eyelid
whispers
awoke the silk
in his skin,
the fingers
in their heart

The teeth
in his eyes
pierced their bones
with sweet,
painless mosquito
kisses
Close your **** window or get eaten alive by mosquito's.
Josh Jul 2014
pull me near
   and embrace
      my palpitations,
         the spiders
            in my throat,
               my caffeinated blood,
                  my weakly ghosts
Josh Aug 2014
Encased in metal, their bodies careened towards the city. The grinding, the metal on metal screeching, quieted their thoughts.

Head against glass, crowded and foggy, the mother in grey plots her scheme to the nearest bottle of liquor. The man with guilt in his eyes, clutches her hand and wonders when he can get away.

They coast past creeks of muck and cigarette butts. Two bodies on their way to the next hour.

The small girl sleeps on her mothers chest breathing foul ash from the air. Her father smokes with his hand behind a book and exhales sour remorse from his worn lungs.

The mother with heavy eyes, avoids wishful thinking. She has never relied
on luck, so she sits, encased in metal ignoring faces and avoiding eyes.
Josh Mar 2013
She reveled above the film
of Central Park sun-rays

Angel of granite,
seductress
of seagulls

Perched above her iconic
feathered fingers

Angel of granite,
enchanter of flocks

of well traveled bodies
flecked with salty sea crystals

Angel of granite,
fountain May

Cascades dancing diamonds
from her feet

Posing for pictures,
frozen in heat
of
Summertime sailboat
breeze

Angel of granite, goddess of
brittle bird bones

wading in
chlorine puddles of tears
Ekphrasis poem based off of Bethesda Fountain in NY:
http://ephemeralnewyork.files.wordpress.com/2009/05/bethesdafountain.jpg
Josh Sep 2019
dad grills carne asada as he always has since the beginning
his golden retriever gazes out beyond space and time
the sky forgets to turn blue, the Sun takes a breath
all the stars begin to look the same.

every summer a piñata swings from the pepper tree
as dust and ice pirouettes around Saturn and the party
a streetlight flickers on K avenue, a shower of silver
crescent moons igniting California smog.
Josh Sep 2014
In these moments she shatters her past like glass. Today she is miles from her visions of grandeur and grandmas home cooking. But, beneath the shade of her plastic sun, she chars her soul with self-doubt. Some would say she is more honest now, truer than she ever was before.
Josh Jul 2014
I lull the salt
and the rain
with the company of
sour visitors
perpetual silence
stabbing me in
my palms
I strung it together
with thin white exhales
In the morning
I become tangled
apologetic veins
a rib cage and
a buoy, white endless
silence
tangled at the root.
Josh Nov 2017
"Dreams are foreign and uncomfortable. The common dreamworld never quite mimics life in its truest form."

I flew over snowy mountain peaks on my way to Amsterdam, dreaming of existing in my truest form. My layover in Reykjavik was only three hours long, & I was traveling alone. Three hours is just enough time to worry about getting lost & I pondered what it would be like to let go.

My trip would take me to Amsterdam, then London. I would find myself in Amsterdam again by day 10. I chose to ignore the loneliness by drinking a pint of Belgian beer in a bar that was much too small and enveloped in tobacco smoke.

On my way to the bathroom I spotted a cat prowling the floor like he was hunting for a bird. He was out of place, yet here he was in his truest form. Forever hunting for a bird that was nowhere to be found.
Josh Nov 2017
Neatly coating the floor in thin white trails, woven into floorboards like cotton twine, sunbeams snake their way across hardwood.

Books scream to be read & my yellowed pages ache to detail my experience as a widowed reader of time.

Magazines pile, while my simple hands grow a day older.

Heat on my neck.

The driver of time exhales grandiose,
tells me to travel while I'm young,
visit regions on this globe that grow green with age,
listen to honest trumpets before I gray,
wade in pools of clear urgency.

He said:

"Find a walking stick out beyond the ether
laugh with veracity, poking fun at Saturn & the Stars."
What will the future hold? Only Time will tell.
Josh Nov 2017
As a baby, he'd eat watermelon like it was his last supper.
Mom always said he'd eat a whole watermelon if she'd let him.

He was a happy baby, she'd say. Always had a smile on his face like he knew the answer to happiness.
Josh Jul 2014
A storefront window
A wax figure
that shed its oily fingers one
by one to feel closer to its
yellow core. Moving meant
melting, and melting meant
a puddle of desperate,
flesh colored wax
separated from the summer
encased behind a pane of glass
melting was not an option
so motionless it remained
with an elastic smile
and immaculate hair
greeting guest, upon guest
with false love and
glazed marble eyes
gleaming like cubic zirconia

— The End —