"appositive" poems - Hello Poetry

This town is famous for pretty faces, broken legs, and misplaced names-- A sentence penned, An Oxford comma dangling off the edge of pages, setting off appositive phrases, lighting fuses--accidental-- phasing out of view and staging tactical retreats The winds of February mark off intersections Dow & Broadway Midnight laughs echo off stratos then fall back-- snowstorms at midday. Caught in the rain on Sunday evening this place don't stay awake so late. Except, perhaps, for pretty faces, misplaced names, or broken legs-- But forget the Oxford comma retreating, drenched, off of the page.

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Mar 4, 2013

Mar 4, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC

kyle-kulseth

Faces, Legs, and Names

This town is famous for pretty faces, broken legs, and misplaced names-- A sentence penned, An Oxford comma dangling off the edge of pages, setting off appositive phrases, lighting fuses--accidental-- phasing out of view and staging tactical retreats The winds of February mark off intersections Dow & Broadway Midnight laughs echo off stratos then fall back-- snowstorms at midday. Caught in the rain on Sunday evening this place don't stay awake so late. Except, perhaps, for pretty faces, misplaced names, or broken legs-- But forget the Oxford comma retreating, drenched, off of the page.

23

If I was in love, with being loved, breaths that covet the tang of your own standing in stadiums, feeling alone (waxing poetic, Sappho for the straight girl) I would not love you, appositive. For I do not miss hearing, (I was always too close for believing) but the rhythmic lap of my own words (I love you, appositive) Effortless, slipping from my heart like a hollow ship on an airy sea to Ithaka (you) from Ilion (me).

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Oct 25, 2012

Oct 25, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC

allenastaples

(appositive)

If I was in love, with being loved, breaths that covet the tang of your own standing in stadiums, feeling alone (waxing poetic, Sappho for the straight girl) I would not love you, appositive. For I do not miss hearing, (I was always too close for believing) but the rhythmic lap of my own words (I love you, appositive) Effortless, slipping from my heart like a hollow ship on an airy sea to Ithaka (you) from Ilion (me).

13

13 years, so many jobs so many names you half forgot got caught and collected at the corner of your mouth. Outside, it's one more night, one more stitch in this rag doll year and you can still hear the way she'd try to talk while laughing any given Sunday night. Might be you half forgot. Might be the roaring years drowned out the hum of their names in your ears earned your stripes, now wear 'em well spell out your name in snow, then go lay down in the bed you made. Outside, it's lights and noise and visible breath footbeats on sidewalks, forgotten names with smokers' coughs all caught in the roaring tides of the time. But it's blood clots inside; a parenthesized appositive redefining what you lost. In the clot, one sunk to the silt, to the dregs. In here, your living room is outside the parenthesis, closed out of the open air. Spare change beneath the lamp strangely mocking outside lights, glinting bright, but silent. Inert. And, just outside, those city lights they flash for others; those with jobs and funds, with lovers, with smiles still left in the tank. Not fake ones constructed by nights getting ****** up or upended frowns painting clown faces all pasty-- you'll get out. You'll make it back; black clouds blow past and the tide runs out fast. And-- lastly?-- You're made of better stuff than that.

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Sep 29, 2014

Sep 29, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC

kyle-kulseth

Seams

13 years, so many jobs so many names you half forgot got caught and collected at the corner of your mouth. Outside, it's one more night, one more stitch in this rag doll year and you can still hear the way she'd try to talk while laughing any given Sunday night. Might be you half forgot. Might be the roaring years drowned out the hum of their names in your ears earned your stripes, now wear 'em well spell out your name in snow, then go lay down in the bed you made. Outside, it's lights and noise and visible breath footbeats on sidewalks, forgotten names with smokers' coughs all caught in the roaring tides of the time. But it's blood clots inside; a parenthesized appositive redefining what you lost. In the clot, one sunk to the silt, to the dregs. In here, your living room is outside the parenthesis, closed out of the open air. Spare change beneath the lamp strangely mocking outside lights, glinting bright, but silent. Inert. And, just outside, those city lights they flash for others; those with jobs and funds, with lovers, with smiles still left in the tank. Not fake ones constructed by nights getting ****** up or upended frowns painting clown faces all pasty-- you'll get out. You'll make it back; black clouds blow past and the tide runs out fast. And-- lastly?-- You're made of better stuff than that.

52