#wishbone - Hello Poetry

I need a wishbone or a loophole sick of you and this old soup bowl I thought this plague would fade away I thought your chest was my favourite place tarot cards led me astray, I guess I try to never compress, I try to focus on my dress a ring that makes me smile or a vibrant hue anything to forget about you how about when you made butterflies erupt in my stomach how about when you made me think I knew what love is floating on the shipwreck waiting to be brought to shore these moments allowed me to process and plan for my next project, my next attack you thought you could beat me down think again

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Apr 15, 2022

Apr 15, 2022 at 5:15 PM UTC

munybee

think again

I need a wishbone or a loophole sick of you and this old soup bowl I thought this plague would fade away I thought your chest was my favourite place tarot cards led me astray, I guess I try to never compress, I try to focus on my dress a ring that makes me smile or a vibrant hue anything to forget about you how about when you made butterflies erupt in my stomach how about when you made me think I knew what love is floating on the shipwreck waiting to be brought to shore these moments allowed me to process and plan for my next project, my next attack you thought you could beat me down think again

15

it let the bird fly, learn, grow, change. but when the bird falls, stays the same, decays, a thrill climbs up our bones as the crack of the wishbone echoes in our expectant ears like a loud, resounding gong - as our supposed fate awaits.

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Apr 15, 2021

Apr 15, 2021 at 1:02 AM UTC

soulmusings

wishbone.

it let the bird fly, learn, grow, change. but when the bird falls, stays the same, decays, a thrill climbs up our bones as the crack of the wishbone echoes in our expectant ears like a loud, resounding gong - as our supposed fate awaits.

9

A broken wishbone For a broken wish. A folded crisp Found in a dish. The first raindrop, A twinkling star, A sunken penny, In a land afar. A single eyelash To blow away. A dandelion, Let come what may.

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Jan 30, 2018

Jan 30, 2018 at 6:04 AM UTC

apvrd

The Wish

A broken wishbone For a broken wish. A folded crisp Found in a dish. The first raindrop, A twinkling star, A sunken penny, In a land afar. A single eyelash To blow away. A dandelion, Let come what may.

12

The nakedness of winter lies heavy upon the tolling Sunday quietude Shed leaves perish into yesterday and the dream of another dawning someday wanes The sun ― lay low the drudging ashen skyline Barerd emerald moss scaffolds draw much more distantness to the pallid shadowed horizon The evergreens step forth, roots grasping sacred heart, soil and rock In the swelling aloneness you can feel the grain of the heartwood rooted in your soul There are no hard feelings but there's an enduring ache, like a tree with a rotting limb languishing within its blackened bark sacrifice It's not just the grinding time that slips away begrudgingly; more of the same takes a toll as if another unrung belfry hour in an empty bell tower without a song rang out in vain, peeling reflections of reluctant hours c r a w l by in the insensible apathy A so called holiday passes ― its footprint bears down hard and deep as if a paling winter rose grieves its own passing A dry wishbone unbroken lay bare the poignant truth it holds; it takes two to make this wish come true .

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Nov 26, 2017

Nov 26, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC

harlon-rivers

Dried Wishbone in an Empty Bell Tower ...

The nakedness of winter lies heavy upon the tolling Sunday quietude Shed leaves perish into yesterday and the dream of another dawning someday wanes The sun ― lay low the drudging ashen skyline Barerd emerald moss scaffolds draw much more distantness to the pallid shadowed horizon The evergreens step forth, roots grasping sacred heart, soil and rock In the swelling aloneness you can feel the grain of the heartwood rooted in your soul There are no hard feelings but there's an enduring ache, like a tree with a rotting limb languishing within its blackened bark sacrifice It's not just the grinding time that slips away begrudgingly; more of the same takes a toll as if another unrung belfry hour in an empty bell tower without a song rang out in vain, peeling reflections of reluctant hours c r a w l by in the insensible apathy A so called holiday passes ― its footprint bears down hard and deep as if a paling winter rose grieves its own passing A dry wishbone unbroken lay bare the poignant truth it holds; it takes two to make this wish come true .

42

You ask me what I'd wish for if I knew it would come true. I knew it was true: you left me to sleep out in the cold, dawn hours and half a globe away. If it meant I would receive frostbite, shiver uncontrollably and turn cyanotic, suffer hypothermia underneath the window with the blinds closed and you behind them shedding tears I cannot catch, I would suffer. I did. It reminded me of the Thanksgiving my uncle had me grab the prong of a wishbone, my best friend on the other side. We made a wish and the horseshoe of ivory cracked, and splintered into two pieces. He got the larger half. I still kept my wish hidden, hoping, that one day I'd meet you. I would suckle the sorrow from your fingers, wipe the tears and mascara with my cheek, and croon to you I will change. I can change. But, I must do that; and not for you. Our love is like that wishbone. Every time it breaks, we wish but do not work to see it through.

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Oct 7, 2016

Oct 7, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC

samuel-fox

I Break the Wishbone (to Discover there are no Miracles)

You ask me what I'd wish for if I knew it would come true. I knew it was true: you left me to sleep out in the cold, dawn hours and half a globe away. If it meant I would receive frostbite, shiver uncontrollably and turn cyanotic, suffer hypothermia underneath the window with the blinds closed and you behind them shedding tears I cannot catch, I would suffer. I did. It reminded me of the Thanksgiving my uncle had me grab the prong of a wishbone, my best friend on the other side. We made a wish and the horseshoe of ivory cracked, and splintered into two pieces. He got the larger half. I still kept my wish hidden, hoping, that one day I'd meet you. I would suckle the sorrow from your fingers, wipe the tears and mascara with my cheek, and croon to you I will change. I can change. But, I must do that; and not for you. Our love is like that wishbone. Every time it breaks, we wish but do not work to see it through.

24

Thursday night is game night but Hasbro has never had this one right. Operation is not a game for ages four and up–maybe four, multiplied by four, add four, and up. Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped, and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table: I like to start with the Adam's apple– carve away any trace of my origins and they will never figure out who I am because, like my mother used to say to me, who is Eve without a blameless man. Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar but they cannot be caught, only drowned. Naturally, the broken heart follows but the problem with pulling that out is the never-ending-silence, white-noise-science, black-hole-giant, You know, the absence that predates writer's block– writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the (best kept) secret IV of an author. Is that the price of filling up your bread basket, going to bed full on recognition and reward and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize? Be careful not to trip up on your own ego or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle and water on the knee. I still have to deal with the wishbone, the split-in-two-gravestone, the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone. And finally, I have the spare ribs but I just might leave those there because we see what happened when God bothered to remove those the last time.

0

Aug 1, 2016

Aug 1, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC

mollie-grant

Operation

Thursday night is game night but Hasbro has never had this one right. Operation is not a game for ages four and up–maybe four, multiplied by four, add four, and up. Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped, and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table: I like to start with the Adam's apple– carve away any trace of my origins and they will never figure out who I am because, like my mother used to say to me, who is Eve without a blameless man. Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar but they cannot be caught, only drowned. Naturally, the broken heart follows but the problem with pulling that out is the never-ending-silence, white-noise-science, black-hole-giant, You know, the absence that predates writer's block– writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the (best kept) secret IV of an author. Is that the price of filling up your bread basket, going to bed full on recognition and reward and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize? Be careful not to trip up on your own ego or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle and water on the knee. I still have to deal with the wishbone, the split-in-two-gravestone, the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone. And finally, I have the spare ribs but I just might leave those there because we see what happened when God bothered to remove those the last time.

34