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sparklysnowflake Apr 2018
You know those
long days—
not the easy fleeting ones
that drift by more smoothly
than swift pencil dashes
marking
the path of a waxy crayon butterfly—

Not even the ones that chug
slowly
along the creaking moaning train tracks
burnt red with gravel and rust—

No––
They are the ones
you have wrap tightly with
heavy chains
sizzling from lying out in the grueling sun
to drag them along
yourself—
the hard metal digging divots
into your back
as you
P
U
S
H
onward
teeth clenched
sweat oozing from underneath your hair

but still
you
stake
your tiny
inconsequential
dusty sneaker
into the
ground
again
and
PULL

HARDER
Trying out those Emily Dickinson dashes!
What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?
sparklysnowflake Apr 2018
every part of her
is in
          flames
even the tiny beads of sweat
glistening on her forehead
          emanate pure
                    pulsating
                    passion
it­ is an entity
          tightens around the muscles
in her wrist
her delicately fierce fingers
          weave scarlet stories
                    in the stuffy air that
          SNAP shut
stiffer than the wood of her stage
          sharper than blades

the fire escapes
          in sparks
          through the bottoms of her shoes
tapping
          clicking
          pounding
             ­       madly
the frills on her vibrant red dress
          trembling
          with every step
the colors fly
          golden scarves
          red and black lace
          dim green lights

the guitar throws his crimson and amber chords
                    into the air
they sparkle in flight
and land softly in her
          thick hair
like jet black
smoke
Read while listening to Flamenco Flames by In Sterio!
sparklysnowflake Feb 2018
my Poems are not about me
if I were sunshine
            my poetry shines brighter
if I were thunder
            my poetry rumbles louder
if I were rain
            my poetry weaves into thin films of gossamer
                        and glistens around my edges

my Poems are not about me
when I write
            I separate a sparkly heartstring
                        from the rest
            thread it carefully into my needle
and hurry to weave a story embroidered with colored confetti
            and shimmering sequins

before the glitter
            like snow
            drifts
and sticks
            to the remainder
of my dull
honest
heart.
in the words of my high school English teacher, "Don't mistake the poet for the speaker of his poem!"
sparklysnowflake Feb 2018
her deep breath flutters
            each quiver
                        a frantic
            flicker
            and            snap
     ­                   of a shivering sail
in the relentless
wind

her hands tremble
            pulse desperately
            echo the panicked heartbeat
                        of the splintering hull

I reach to hold her hands
            to settle the raging storm
and as my fingers close around them
            I feel the bloodcurdling shrieks
                        of the crew and passengers
            the wood creaking
            the swaying with each massive wave
            the heavy rain pummeling the deck
I look up
            to see storm clouds
                        in her irises
            casting shadows
over her eyes

there is nothing I can do
I cannot see where the skies
            brighten
I'm not sure if they do
but I will hold your hands
            grip the mast
and stay on board
until the pulse

stops

cold
sparklysnowflake Jan 2018
I decided one day
            as a child of no more than seven
that when I grow up
            and have children of my own
I will name my first daughter
            Celeste
☽      ☆      ☽      ☆      ☽      ☆      ☽
My baby girl Celeste...
            stardust shimmering in her black eyes
                        hair the color of red giants
            Saturn's rings on her delicate fingers
                        comets coursing through her veins
            constellations on her cheeks and collar bones
☽      ☆      ☽      ☆      ☽      ☆      ☽
She will daydream too much
            but her teachers will understand
                        that she does not belong in this world.
Her laugh will be as brilliant
            as glowing nebulae
                        flowing purple silk
                                    trillions of miles wide
                        floating in the void
            bursting with new life
If you make her angry
            she will turn you to ice
                        2.7 Kelvin
            crystallize your tears
            make your breath
                        freeze
☽      ☆      ☽      ☆      ☽      ☆      ☽
But if she loves you
                        like she will love me
            she'll never leave you
Because my Celeste loves you more
            than the Sun loves the Earth
            than black holes love the light
            than galaxies love their stairs
and she'll love you until
the universe itself
            stops
cold.
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