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BCD, PH-YYZ, CA
"I write from my soul. This is the reason that critics don't hurt me, because it is me. If it was not me, if I …
Poems
Sarah Isma Nov 2017
like adele
Sarah Isma
Nov 2017
I've always loved adele,
her music, the tones and melodies,
the way the words in her lyrics work so well,
I was fifteen,
she was my soul,
until my family sat silent in the car,
and a tear goes down my mother's cheek,
and my father's hands gripped the steering wheel,
that's when adele came on,
and how fire was set to the rain,
i had never really understood the pain,
but i know one thing,
adele was singing about going away,
and my mother had her ticket ready for the next plane,
and in that moment i realized,
love, no matter in marriage,
love is just such a foolish game.
-i promised myself i won't let it blind me,
and for i will never be truly the same.
her music, the tones and melodies,
the way the words in her lyrics work so well,
I was fifteen,
she was my soul,
until my family sat silent in the car,
and a tear goes down my mother's cheek,
and my father's hands gripped the steering wheel,
that's when adele came on,
and how fire was set to the rain,
i had never really understood the pain,
but i know one thing,
adele was singing about going away,
and my mother had her ticket ready for the next plane,
and in that moment i realized,
love, no matter in marriage,
love is just such a foolish game.
-i promised myself i won't let it blind me,
and for i will never be truly the same.
"But there's a side to you
That I never knew, never knew
All the things you'd say
They were never true, never true
And the games you play
You would always win, always win" -set fire to the rain, adele
this much i knew how my parents are burning and how it left scars on all of us, and not just them.
That I never knew, never knew
All the things you'd say
They were never true, never true
And the games you play
You would always win, always win" -set fire to the rain, adele
this much i knew how my parents are burning and how it left scars on all of us, and not just them.
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty I
onlylovepoetry
Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty
theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty
the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes
aside:
helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,
hellooooooo
she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
betraying
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning
lips,
like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!
god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
stating
“what was she thinking!”
my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender
her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado
some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I
1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!
after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of
onlylovepoetry
9.21am Saturday
theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty
the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes
aside:
helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,
hellooooooo
she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
betraying
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning
lips,
like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!
god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
stating
“what was she thinking!”
my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender
her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado
some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I
1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!
after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of
onlylovepoetry
9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
olp
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
olp