#inhaling - Hello Poetry

the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children, shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing, jumping in and out of a fountain pool of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building, the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls the untimely end of the babies of last year, lost to wanderlust on York Avenue, cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering, but new spring is the season of new birth the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts unusual pink flowers well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree, a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree, we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed, in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover will bring us a winter fin finale the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide, the youngers are skipping the interregnum season, going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings, voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket, decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed, all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out, a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale, guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity, the children desert happily their wintery confinement, by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead, their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays, more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of ********** of staying warm, staving off winter ******* and winter planting for spring harvesting children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal, so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of sporting ***** as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8? all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets, vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished, to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds, letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms, naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward into the party of life by inhaling nature’s nature.

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May 3, 2019

May 3, 2019 at 6:11 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

in with the old, out with the new (Manhattan Spring Vignettes 2019)

the spring mantra arrives with distinctive citified sparkles a family of ducklings splash, mimicking young children, shaking, spraying, squeaking, babies bath bathing, jumping in and out of a fountain pool of a tall-storied Manhattan apartment building, the mother-leader attends them well for she recalls the untimely end of the babies of last year, lost to wanderlust on York Avenue, cars and taxis as instruments of mass murdering, but new spring is the season of new birth the Cercis Siliquastrum tree trunk (!) oddly sprouts unusual pink flowers well before it’s branches grow up into a fully blossoming tree, a signed spring time ritual, but since it is a/k/a, the Judas Tree, we wonder if spring hints of Cerci Lannister’s fate betrayed, in this, her final May dance, oh, which Judas brother/lover will bring us a winter fin finale the temperature control dial busted, the variability too wide, the youngers are skipping the interregnum season, going direct to elect shorts and T-shirt, while those who no longer bloom in the semi-warm, recall the wet chill of past evenings, voting to dress defensively, wearing their aging skepticism aware that all changes are exact crossing line-defined, wrapped in medium weight coats, concealing embarrassing gloves in pocket, decorative silk scarfs for non-decorative purposed, all betting the under/over the spring is here all-in not yet sighted the streets are busy, the momentary pleasantries of warm sky and sun push the apartment dwellers out, a magnetic force pulls us to the outside to exhale, in order to inhale, guises manufactured excuses appear, a loaf of bread, a latte necessity, the children desert happily their wintery confinement, by pushing their own carriages, containing in their stead, their lilting accented nannies, excited by their version of spring break Me? toy shopping for this month brings rashers of birthdays, more May galorey, singing come Dancer and Prancer, Ian and Isabel, Alex and not-a-baby anymore Wendy, and because the weather so pleasant, cautions ignored, the credit card swiped repeatedly, frequently and joyously, xmas reimagined, another May time ritual, rooted in the September month of ********** of staying warm, staving off winter ******* and winter planting for spring harvesting children score grand-multiplicities for god made in his place grand parental substitutes, each with two hands each equal, so both must be filled with maypole ribbon, brightly colored toy bags, presents wrapped in paper unicorns and all manner of sporting ***** as we turn 2 and 6, 7 and who ate 8? all that my eyes did see when we surfed strolled the streets, vignettes fell like the spring rains, they, now, from daytime banished, to after-midnight to do their breast feeding of tulips and weeds, letting little children grow up snuggling in still over-heated rooms, naked legs kicking off winter blankety snow remnants while dreaming of springing onwards and forward into the party of life by inhaling nature’s nature.

46

seated at the backseat with our song on repeat she reached for a stick inside the back pocket of her faded denim jeans i heard a familiar flick sound only to see a lighter on her hand silence fell upon us not knowing what to say, i glanced around trying to find an excuse not to continue to blatantly stare at her still, she is all i see through my peripheral vision savoring the smoke, letting it all fill her lungs puffing, inhaling yes, a stick could **** sooner or later if no one dares to stop her but what if she's already dying inside? or what if she's just doing this to fight the demon who made its way inside her soul? chained her heart, no plan of letting it go i may have seen her burned her throat countless times already yet, it still feels like the first time her thin lips pressed against the filter how i wish it was my lips, instead...

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Oct 18, 2018

Oct 18, 2018 at 6:16 AM UTC

littletragedies

lipstick stained.

seated at the backseat with our song on repeat she reached for a stick inside the back pocket of her faded denim jeans i heard a familiar flick sound only to see a lighter on her hand silence fell upon us not knowing what to say, i glanced around trying to find an excuse not to continue to blatantly stare at her still, she is all i see through my peripheral vision savoring the smoke, letting it all fill her lungs puffing, inhaling yes, a stick could **** sooner or later if no one dares to stop her but what if she's already dying inside? or what if she's just doing this to fight the demon who made its way inside her soul? chained her heart, no plan of letting it go i may have seen her burned her throat countless times already yet, it still feels like the first time her thin lips pressed against the filter how i wish it was my lips, instead...

20

Inhaling clouds of smoke each day My head feeling ****** up Wondering why I always see ***** When I look inside my half-empty cup Want more than bottles and grams Than band-aids, pills, and glue I'm searching for peace; a permanent fix That heals, not covers up, pain in me and you.

0

Jun 15, 2018

Jun 15, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC

AmandaKayBurke

A Permanent Fix

Inhaling clouds of smoke each day My head feeling ****** up Wondering why I always see ***** When I look inside my half-empty cup Want more than bottles and grams Than band-aids, pills, and glue I'm searching for peace; a permanent fix That heals, not covers up, pain in me and you.

8

Mother, The epitome of love. A star made of combustion Of crimson and wild blue. Her smile like a cresent shining bright from an afar Galaxy. Mother, Vibrant as sun rays, And soft like the moonlight. Tremendous as lightning, enlightning the dark sky with a spark. Mother, The paintbrush that paints vibrancy on the dullest of days. Mother, A soul that burns with ferocity, Whos hands are always busy scrubbing, moulding, cooking But her touch always caressing with love. Mother, Who's voice can be the ocean Calming and soothing Or as loud as the seas Roaring and crashing in a storm bursting away personal confinement. But she rows Even through the sea of troubles. Nothing is too heavy She marches on. Mother, Who sacrifices and compromises To deepen skies and hand stars to hold. Mother, Who's love I cannot comprehend and stomach For she grows flowers from pain, Inhaling O2 And Exhaling O3 Transfiguring weeds into garden for us to play. She is the incarnation of love.

0

May 13, 2018

May 13, 2018 at 2:39 PM UTC

SabilaSiddiqui

Happy Mother's Day

Mother, The epitome of love. A star made of combustion Of crimson and wild blue. Her smile like a cresent shining bright from an afar Galaxy. Mother, Vibrant as sun rays, And soft like the moonlight. Tremendous as lightning, enlightning the dark sky with a spark. Mother, The paintbrush that paints vibrancy on the dullest of days. Mother, A soul that burns with ferocity, Whos hands are always busy scrubbing, moulding, cooking But her touch always caressing with love. Mother, Who's voice can be the ocean Calming and soothing Or as loud as the seas Roaring and crashing in a storm bursting away personal confinement. But she rows Even through the sea of troubles. Nothing is too heavy She marches on. Mother, Who sacrifices and compromises To deepen skies and hand stars to hold. Mother, Who's love I cannot comprehend and stomach For she grows flowers from pain, Inhaling O2 And Exhaling O3 Transfiguring weeds into garden for us to play. She is the incarnation of love.

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