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Nathan Wischropp Jun 2016
Let's write a poem together. One that's cute. About the sky and why it's blue. A new kind of poem. Remember that time we split that cone? I still can't believe you dropped yours.
Maybe I should just give up on this site. I love reading other people's poems just, I can't write my own.
Vamika Sinha Sep 2015
And the wind whips the unsteady fingers
of rain
like the swirls and whirls
of ice-cream in cones -

melting on my unsteady fingers,
on a sun-stricken holiday
belonging to a place
in which I don't belong -

until the rain and I meet
in recognition
and open fingers
September 30th is Independence Day in Botswana.
It's an arid place so people were thrilled that we were blessed with rain today.
Al Aug 2015
i take my first bite,
smile because
i am about to
mar something whole.
it sits against my tongue,
hard palate freezing,
ice cream melting,
strawberry crushed to pulp.
cream goes down my throat.

i take a second bite,
wait like the first time,
get impatient, chew—
seeds get stuck in my teeth.
a third bite, a fourth,
fifth, pause—
hover and hesitate.
the air is cold
against my lips.

i bite—strawberry,
cream, seeds, ice, oh—
i hit wood.
what do you mean, it's lewd? that wasn't my intention, i was just eating ice cream, i promise! (lol)
Francie Lynch Mar 2015
I chose ice-cream
Over yogurt;
Strawberry, vanilla or chocolate.
Each equally without prejudice
The fifteen year old server
Was kinda short;
The vanilla tub had about three scoops
Stacked hidden like frozen snow-*****
As in war games.
His task would have been daunting
And embarassing,
And I, a humanitarian
From higher education,
An altruist from St. Joseph's,
Could not allow it.

The chocolate tub
Was yet covered,
And the sobbing child's cries
Were hardening in my ears
As Dad tried to allay
His chocolate tears,
Applying the five second rule.
I am an empath
By nature and poetry,
So, turning from chocolate,
Left me strawberrry.
Triple scoop too.
I believe
You thought through
Your choices
Like flavors of ice-cream.
Being imaginative,
I do.
rebecca hunter Oct 2014
Summer heat, cool relief

Clucking sounds, juice dripping down

Sticky dirt, no more thirst

Put the wrapper in the bin, wipe the sticky off your skin

Merry walking down the beach, paddling back in the foamy sea

Chilly wind, sun going down

Time to get a cardi on

To the car, set off home

Lovely soak, wash off sticky and foam!
xoK May 2014
there are rocks in my hands
and only tight clenched fists
can keep them from smashing
the mirror world below
into delicate shards of broken promises.
i long to float among the clouds -
one with the stratosphere -
but the rocks weigh me down
so that i cannot touch them.
but never reached.

people in glass houses
aren't supposed to throw stones.
so i am sure to keep locked
my loaded palms
hiding in plain sight.

only your lips
with homemade ice-cream touches
can coerce my stagnant fingers
to melt back into warm flesh.
skin bones knuckles joints.
i release the stones over a waterfall cliff -
rushing rolling rambling -
and they ripple in the water
and sink to the soil of the riverbed
making a home for fragile fish
in search of shelter.
LDR life.

— The End —