"airiness" poems
My eyelids are so sleepy,
my soul is dreamy; bubbling effervescently.
Little pops of airiness,
those little gasps and slow breaths
fill the empty gaps
between
upturned lips.
And his fingertips kisses yours,
your wrists
&
then the tip of your nose,
as if he is saying
"Yes, mine too."
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
on a nudist beach
there was a man wearing shorts
they were yellow shorts
and a jaunty hat
which despite their cheerful airiness
the chipper summer colour,
he felt alone, down and shunned.
the mere thought of those dear shorts
invited des amigos and an invitation for tacos
a sombrero night he thought as he picked them out in the store.
but now
alone on the beach
he caught disdainful glares directed
at the winsome shorts
he had arrived at the beach so vivacious and jolly
but walking along,
the rough, hot sand blistering his feet,
he was
morose
forlorn
sorrowful
and wistful for those dreams
those empty shells.......
.............
............
............
sombrero
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Tight embraces in dimly lit buses,
night skies oppressive in the dormant freedom
of brightly glowing stars,
and through it all my mind shatters,
crystal upon stark tile floors;
go ahead, try to sweep it up.
We all know you'll find pieces
hidden in corners forevermore.
Reserve me, conserve me,
trap me in conversations that are real
in their own plasticky way.
Convention, protection,
radioactive never-ending hunger,
all is fearless until the time for courage arrives,
and then you are still,
trapped inside your own tobacco stained mouth,
empty and aching with only a
theoretical formula for satisfaction.
Satiate my needs (as I covet yours)
and enter my mind
through gaps in my body,
my hands are dry, my fingertips numb,
the taste of them salty upon the cracks in my lips.
Retract, retrospect,
retro clothing and high heeled leather boots,
walk the night through a fog of shame
and search out a gleam of hope,
but wait-
that's just light pollution.
The ground is dry but the sky is crying,
where in space lies the disconnect?
I'm spinning, I'm screaming,
I'm waiting for an end
but every day begins anew,
the sky grotesque in its airiness
and empty fullness
and the moon waiting only long enough
to greet the sun,
bowing its silvery crowned head.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
Her breath flutters softly across his skin,
with the light airiness of sweet innocence.
Like a butterfly’s textured wings flutter,
as it drinks the nectar of the flowers.
Touching her inexperienced lips to his lightly,
her tongue exploringly tastes of his kiss.
Burning with a flaming desire for this man,
yet terrified of the fire within herself.
She can hear his whispered words of love,
just as she can feel it in his every touch.
Longing to let him still the raging tides,
that are rushing to the surface of her mind.
Desperately she pushes him away,
while an inner voice begs him to stay.
He gazes at the tears, the agony of indecision
in her eyes, knowing she will go, his heart aches.
As she runs from him across the grassy slopes,
he staunchly watches as she tries to escape
two hearts destined amongst the stars to be joined.
He cries out “ We shall never again be free!”
She pauses, stilled by the raw pain in her lover’s voice.
Throughout eternity his touch she shall feel.
As she turns and disappears, he feels the flutter
against his lips of a butterfly’s kiss.
Kathleen Kohl/Levinski
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
I almost had my first kiss once.
Almost.
It was on a cold December night and thick pure snowflakes were falling.
Falling to be caught on my golden hair, or in his, slightly darker.
I stepped back into the shelter of my front porch
but not into my warm house, oh no. I was a prisoner.
Locked out and befriended by the cold winter.
But it was fine, because I was with him, but not perfect because we were both alone.
He, shooting hoops and me, waiting patiently and admirably.
So admirably.
In my eyes, everything he did was wonderful and exciting.
Worry filled me n the fact that something was off and something was on his mind.
Was it me? couldn't be. Maybe.
The frozen basketball rolled smoothly, almost practiced, off his hand.
and in his stiff voice he mouthed the need to come inside.
I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed and waited only 30 seconds... 45 seconds...a minute longer.
But, like most people, I fear the airiness of awkwardness
and the moments that you stand before a person and draw a blank and have not a word to say.
I feared it and I turned my back.
It could have been perfect. It would have been perfect.
had I just opened my eyes and seen, because I didn't see.
Looking back now, I see.
My first kiss was close.
So close.
So painfully close it taunts me.
It taunts me when I'm siting alone, pondering.
When I'm alone with him and we talk about things.
When my friend bring up their magical first kisses.
When I remember the fact that I still love him, after all these years.
When his hand lightly touches mine or accidentally brushes my back and I realize, it could've been so much more.
But mostly, it taunts me on cold winter nights
when the heavy white snow is lightly falling, catching in my golden hair or landing on his, slightly darker.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Effortlessness is what empties a room- a mind also being a room- and extends a willowy collection of bones that you hope you can touch in your attempt to communicate the context of the rooms, so that the enigmatic hand might grasp at least a flicker of recognition that the moment has passed, and now She must be going, receding ever sublimely into the airiness of a nascent week’s end- how contradictory- and so am I, begging for peace and quiet and crawling instead into the raucous night, like a blind centipede that is expected to scare away the house, making the true Resident Rodents their rightful place at the throne- the bejeweled Rat Regent rules the underworld, but She has ignored the portal and it has vanished- perhaps never there in the first place- perhaps She and the Rat King both made of smoke. A vestige of a vapor. A room within a room- windowless, wall-less, and wafting in and out of seeming existence like a flame- could it have been the same flame as was before? Could ever a flame be reborn, revived, said to have previously existed? Can one say this flame could not have already been? And is this room, this space, new or old? Perhaps recycled? Is it a fluctuation, regeneration, or is it a continuation- like infinite space? And when considering infinity, what to make of repetition? Pattern, even? What is to be said about consistencies? What can the ants see that we cannot? What is this perspective that we are given? And by whom? And our language- where does it bring us? To the next essentially empty room? Or do you feel the life pulsing right under your very nose, in the hidden eye of the void- do you sense the deaf-dumb omniscience of consciousness? And is it growing or dying? Is an ice-age approaching, or truly, is this a momentary lapse of reason- a period of time where reason (matter and the mind) take shape in the disembodied womb of consciousness? And how can one ever measure a moment?
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
A safety fallen away
just when I turned 27
One so intrinsic - sometimes
even without me kenning it
growing up in a funny family
full of people
close at a distance
The things I cannot do alone
unapparently while I am so
sweet with arms folded
even maybe wish to be
Travelling to fight not flight
intuition a funny concept
because I do know I do
feel
The city affords an input
you yourself cannot again
looking for it while living with
so
that I can be mistaken
wrong turns are human
in that one person
or more for the distance
in that closed circle is -
by whom actually?
Hold maintain
Choose see explain
Value treasures take
A serious airiness airy solemnity
Choose was it - again?
I got ill
just when I turned 17
Complicated in words and body
Keep peace emotions
outside sun
My sense of water is
the max unclouded
intuition I own
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 7:16 AM UTC
joni wasn't sure what compelled him
to run on this particular night
maybe it was the fragmented sky
caught between the airiness of dusk
and the heavy stormclouds weighing it down
all he knew was that
it felt like the closest he'd been to real life in a while
and it had been a while
maybe it was that he'd always known
the heavy clouds so intimately
but deep down what rang true
was that he would never really know at all
nothing; except the gentle patter of his feet against the pavement
and the brave truth that
they may continue to carry him
even when the sky finally threatened to collapse
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 9:17 PM UTC