"armful" poems
When those red berries come in springtime,
Flushing on your southland branches,
Take home an armful, for my sake,
As a symbol of our love.
8.2k
A delicious little bakery
is only down our street
the smell of baking bread
well.. it really is a treat
It is run by Mrs ******
she is just so very charming
but she is a little clumsy
it's really quite alarming
You see,
she does her best to make the cakes
and bake such tasty bread
but the currants just go everywhere
and in the pies instead
And in the Cornish pasties
there is very often nuts
and in the fruit pie filling
bacon and beef cuts
But she seems to be quite fancy
well there has been many rumours
of her and the deliveryman
well... she flashes him her bloomers
But she really is so charming
poor soul.. she has the worst mishaps
like when she inadvertently
displayed her finest baps
And no one will forget
when in came a group of nuns
all asking some tea cakes
but out popped her Chelsea buns
But she really is a riot
you can't help but love her so
she give you all you ask for
in a bargain box 'to go'
And she takes care of her customers
and gives out treats to sample
you'll never go home hungry
you'll end up with quite a armful
So if you get a moment
take a stroll just down our street
to Mrs Dingle's bakery
she really is a treat.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
For every parcel I stoop down to seize
I lose some other off my arms and knees,
And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns—
Extremes too hard to comprehend at once,
Yet nothing I should care to leave behind.
With all I have to hold with hand and mind
And heart, if need be, I will do my best
To keep their building balanced at my breast.
I crouch down to prevent them as they fall;
Then sit down in the middle of them all.
I had to drop the armful in the road
And try to stack them in a better load.
2.9k
Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We take the tasteless by the armful.
With greedy hands that grasp,
we take the shapeless mass.
Just the dust and just the mold.
Dust to dust and mold to mold,
Just loved by arms that enfold.
A warm embrace,
from a lovely face.
Eventually to dust and then to mold.
Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We shrink before we grow bold.
Grow strong in time,
just to diminish in size.
Just to dust and just to mold.
Dust to dust and mold to mold,
A lovely day for life on the world.
On a bountiful globe,
We develop and grow.
Just to turn to dust, and then to mold.
Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We heal as just as we return to our home.
Lie down in our bed,
As we begin mend.
Just to dust and just to mold.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
I was walking along the shoreline
On a warm afternoon in July when
I noticed a piece of polished wood
Bobbing helplessly in the shallow water,
So I pulled it from the salty sea and
Admired the intricate carvings and
Detailed line work across the face.
Just as I was running my thumb
Over the still smooth edges, I
Noticed another piece floating
Just a few feet away from me.
Within the hour, I had gathered
An entire armful of wood, and
Within the week, I had an entire
Table full of mismatched pieces.
So I began working unceasingly
At putting the pieces back together.
I started with the inside, the
Smooth heart shaped piece with
The slight cracks and divots,
Followed by a circular piece
That resembled the brain
With the deep crevices.
I then pieced together
The smooth fingertips
And the rugged feet,
And connected every
Limb and joint together
Until a boy of about
Six feet was standing
In front of me.
I snapped on the
Final piece and watched
As he came alive before me.
His eyes as deep as the mahogany
Looked into mine and smiled, as
Though thanking me.
And he turned his
Back to me and
Walked away.
It wasn't until
That moment that
I realized I had poured
Every ounce of myself into
Piecing back together that boy,
So now every ounce of myself
Was walking out my front
Door with a real boy
Who didn't need
Me anymore.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
On my way up the stairs
carrying a cardboard box
of old books, bad poems
and overdue bills heavy
in my hands, not thinking
between steps, moving,
on my way up the stairs
remembering slowly, not thinking
that on my way up the stairs
i carry coat hangers, cockroaches,
an ex-wife, a hot plate, werewolves,
toys and old landladies.
three years now
on my way up the stairs
eight or nine rooms in
three years
one month in a closet
three weeks
in a '49 Plymouth and
god, nothing in here is so
immediate as what pain is.
there's much less to move
than remember.
on my way up the stairs
is the same as now
is 19 ways to forget
this is climbing and could
have come two rooms back in time.
on my way up the stairs
carrying a few letters, two pair of shoes,
an armful of clothes and what happens
is swift, irrevocable, between
steps, not thinking, in suddenly
like a snapshot falling
from the pages of a book,
a memory, i see it
on my way up the stairs,
the brilliance of finding
on my way up the stairs
a thing lost, a memory flashing
and fading and fading
is a picture of a picture of
my daughter forgotten in a closet ago
on my way up the stairs
i keep falling from these pages
captured and posing, in this
yellow faded place
on my way up, etc.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
washing out the solitude of grace
there's nothing left but the value of your face
a wandering subject of mere confusion
forget all these holds, become an illusion
hot hot fears
i am riddled with your tears
a manipulation of the finest sort
you have ****** me in, cut my breath short
i must agree
you have handled me tenderly
when shit's been rough
you stood tall, stayed tough
but hunny you are harmful
and i've been carrying an armful
step off my merry-go-round
and find yourself some solid ground
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
I kissed someone's wife today.
It felt better than I wanted it to.
In my tiny bedroom,
the walls looked more beige than usual.
Martha laid beside me -- her idea.
Frames.
I didn't have frames on a couple posters.
Martha rested her head on my shoulder -- her idea.
Instead of putting up my clean laundry,
an **** of boxers, button-downs, and jeans took place on the floor.
Martha told me she liked her hair played with -- I didn't ask.
I left my cigarettes in plain sight
on top of a face down picture frame.
She slid my arm under her neck -- I couldn't be rude.
While she spoke of her husband watching cartoons,
I noticed **** (used during last week's *** with an ex) lying behind a couple beer bottles.
I put my right leg between her legs -- I can't help it if I'm a curious man.
When Martha pulled the blanket over our heads,
I hoped she couldn't smell my ex's perfume.
She let me run my fingers along her waistline -- she didn't tell me to stop until the fourth kiss.
Tributaries of mascara ran down her face.
Rivers of regret rushed out of her mouth.
I played out what would have happened -- had I not grabbed her, pressed my lips harder on the fourth.
"I'm not this kind of girl."
I told her things would be better with her husband.
Handing her a clean rag off the floor, she said -- "My life wasn't supposed to turn out this way."
I broke up the **** of clothes, grabbed an armful; made a beeline for the closet.
With a beautiful sound, a beer bottle broke as I passed by.
Martha's teary eyes saw the **** -- "What the hell were you planning to do?"
She slammed the door.
One of my unframed posters peeled itself off the wall and feathered to the ground.
Most of me felt cloudy, but I knew one thing -- she's got a good 50 years of marriage to go to spite me.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC
He’s not like the others,
he’s not even a wholly likable child.
I mean, he has the cute face
high squeaky voice
chipmunk cheeks.
It’s his personality,
his attitude,
it’s the fact that he’s only 7 years old
and already hates the majority of what he’s seen of this wide world.
It’s the fact that he manipulates everyone’s words
until he’s made the collage that meets his ideal visage.
He’s more than a handful.
He’s even more than a whole village’s armful.
And though I know a part of its’ the diagnosis
it’s hard to keep that in mind
all the time.
(It’s hard to forgive an unlikable child)
Even harder as he swings insults your way,
as you have to take off running after him for the nth time this week.
It’s hard keeping a straight face,
keeping the unflappable demeanor
through every offense.
It’s hard not to scream,
curse,
cry,
to remain the calm island in the face of the raging tempest.
But you have to.
(Even though he’s not the most likable child)
He is still a child.
And you’re loving compassion is stronger than his self destruction.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
girl goes to bed with makeup on, wakes up with sore muscles
girl goes to bed without locking the front door, wakes up in the driveway
girl goes to bed without saying goodnight, wakes up to brother shaking her shoulders
girl goes to bed with the phone off the hook, wakes up with mouthful of *****
girl goes to bed in the bathtub, wakes up with an armful of black thread
girl goes to bed in brother's room, wakes up with the tv still on
girl goes to bed next to boy, wakes up before he does
girl goes to bed without sleeping, wakes up the same time as always
girl goes to bed with a candle burning, wakes up to the sound of herself choking
girl goes to bed early, wakes up to obituary
girl goes to bed with her hand in the cabinet, decides not to wake up this time
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
That beautiful sir keeps watchful eye over the land. He carries an armful of lilacs, he says nothing but walks, his black plumage glinting in the near-spring light. He swings something along his side. Too afraid to ask. Why does he hide it? That's because the trees have eyes.
Roasting, dripping pig flesh and sweet dough, cooking ever so slow. A warning whisper is sent through the woods. How do trees know? They have eyes.
One lilac drops on the floor above the decaying bird carcasses. There are bird carcasses. Is this one of the beautiful sir's kind? That cannot be. But it is because the trees have eyes. They don't say much, trees, but they send a whisper up the woods and warn the fleshed pork eaters of coming lights. Snap! Fire out. Don't make a sound. Can they hear?
And suddenly the trees whisper as loudly as trees can:
"RUN"
For the beautiful sir is hardly man. There swinging at his side is nothing but a human head hanging on some golden thread. There is a stench of death that could never be described as anything other than fear. The beautiful sir with his black plumage is death.
His head jerks and he looks the fleshéd in the eye
they know they are the next to die.
But, how did the trees know?
"That's because the trees have eyes."
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
What's with this phrase, 'come at me bro'
What does that really mean?
People use it to provoke, but why?
There's nothing particularly threatening about it,
And it's not even very grammatically correct
One could just as easily say
'Get thee away from me, ye dark angel of hell'
And it would be equally offensive
Or more so, if a bit befuddling.
But why not say 'come at me bro'
As a request for affection?
I know I would much rather say this
And receive, instead of a flurry of blows,
An armful of sweet affection
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
Gusto affairs spiraled to marooned stairs!!
Amphibious angel,
Where art thou own wings?
Apparent your sanctioning is,
Appointee of marital status!!!
Anthropologist of creations new madness,
Armful arousist!!
Arrogant aspirant!!!!
We are all baggage carriers of used goods,
Bestowed to thy own selves thou ******** of crud!!!!!
Very few bonuses this time around,
For the metropolis hath gone broke and choked!!!
For oil runneth this deliveranth!!!
Bind thy own,
You biggot of brigaded quarters!!!
None to coincide with ,
No cognac love to filleth me with cocoa nestled swifts!!!
Engrossment of shufflers, greasers to seventies sneakers,
Esteemed of high retailer goods!!!
Distinction between euphemisms blame!!!
Highed tops to spindle games,
Atrocious calibrations!!!!
Such tiredness flees the crime felt page,
Who's enraged?
Refute novelties of javahouse breaks,
Wherein assemblers are all members of cafe corner states!!!!
Paxilheads to axlehead drinkers,
Some material like,
Some medicinal thinkers!!!
How much shalt one taketh before his psyche leaves reclusiveness all behind the robust tower!!!!
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
I scoop up the last armful of clothes from my drawer,
Look at my uncle sitting at my computer
my eyes screaming,"I'm done, that's it"
he nods his head, listening to my aunt on the other end of the phone
and playing with the settings of the security camera dad bought to spy on us.
I carry them into the hallway,
kick grandmas already half open door
drop them on the bed
and sort them out;
a pair of pants,
I lift the shirts from the Mexican midnight takeout box
insert the pants,
put the shirts back down
add another pile of shirts
and fit the socks and underwear along the side.
this is the third box
and it's done.
three boxes, a clothes basket, a backpack and a computer
and I feel like a hoarder, like I have far more than I need.
as I turn around I feel him wrap his arms around my neck
and ease his tear filled eyes onto my shoulder.
"I love you, Bubba"
he says, in a voice deeper than it should be
"I can deal with him,
but living without either of my brothers scares me"
I start crying, I can't hold back the tears
all the pain and suffering of eighteen long years
finally **** near over
and I almost start grabbing clothes and stuffing them back into the drawers.
I almost say
"I can wait six years for a life"
but I look into his eyes
and see that he's telling me not to stay
that his heart will be torn up
but he can make it through
he always has.
twelve years old and the strongest person I know.
we stand there embraced for a quarter hour
crying until we have no more tears
until we have let out all the anger and fear of the last nine years.
we stumble into the dark hallway
eyes red, swollen, and damp.
Nobody asks any questions
and we continue on with our day,
my entire life piled up on the far side of grandma's bed
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
Welcome to this world
my world...
where dreams co exist
on the same level
as illusions
and mirages
Welcome to this world
where your feet
tread transitory sands
where...
smiles are nothing
but fistfuls of oblivion sands
Want an armful of rainbow hues?
Just chase that mirage
down the vaccum's undisturbed path
and embrace it to your hollowed heart
Welcome to this world...
...my world...
built on the foundations
of illusive dreams
where gleaming mirages
are nothing but smiles...
...your smiles...
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 5:52 AM UTC
October's--First Fire
The dark comes early now
...comes in on the wind
with defeated day
Old Jacket
goes out for an armful
the fire wood again
for firewood, firewood
the firewood again
This comfortable routine
like well-worn ***
Scraping ash into pan
Wetting and rubbing the window clean
Nesting the kindling
Setting the smaller
and the waiting logs
Striking a match
to the tinder
to tender the flame
Settling back
flushed
with the warmth of wine
purring cat on lap and
...the firewood...the firewood
the firewood again
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
A truth derived
out of the last armful of days:
“the heart just don’t quit.”
Despite the whole of it,
I stop dreaming each morning
to the beat of my own—
a soft, rhythmic reminder
that I’m still here;
still here
with breath to waste
if I wish.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 9:43 AM UTC
I haven't written anything in a while because
my shaky muse is just
a rogue gunshot from a pair of very uncertain hands
and I'm trying hard to swallow the barrel
but my stomach is sapped and struggles and quivers to hold
anything substantial down. My body is just a side-effect
of something so painfully small and
I'm learning that my obsession with
heart palpitations through smoke and stubbornness
makes me recoil in the daylight.
My eyes are growing old and decrepit
when I stop seeing things as stories to unfold,
and instead view them as a very dull reflections of my surroundings.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
Love is itching on me tonight.
The caring and the joy seem so bright.
I can't help but want it, it’s too hard to resist!
But sadly my path is covered in mist.
Life is hard, and I'm one to talk.
But don't give up; just take a walk.
Wishes can be made, and promises can be kept.
But hurting someone is hard to accept.
The world isn't bad, just full of evol.
And making everyone happy is more than an armful!
Yet love is creeping on me again.
Will it ever surpass my world back when?
It seems as though I'm enchanted by a spell.
But don't ask why; I have nothing to tell.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 2:33 AM UTC
Around an armful of
pillows and blue blanket
you offered a parting hug.
I stepped into an embrace
that was lint speckled polyester
and the width of your hand spread
open at the small of my back.
We were infatuated children
pecking kisses innocently on cheeks
to express sincere emotion
rather than as a prelude
to the symphony of stirring sheets.
We were lopsided in structure.
Me with my right arm scraping
the outcrop of your shoulder.
My left tucked under your armpit
snagging the loose folds in your shirt;
while your forearms cradled
blue softness and half my ribs.
One one-thousand, two one-thousand
counted before we pulled apart gently
disentangling your fabric from mine.
And with a foot of concrete between
our feet we grew up once more.
Re-learning the warm colors of
violence and ***
The cool colors of
drinking and drugs.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
I view the future with much equanimity
And try not to rely on consanguinity.
My loss of blood to NHS phlebotomists
Whose hides are thicker than hippopotomists
Or, if you prefer it, hippopotami
Exacerbates a lot of my
Concerns with the diminution of supply,
Reminiscent of Hancock and his cry:
A pint of blood! You must be mad!
That’s almost an armful. It’s really bad
If I do not have enough
Left to fill the smallest coffee cup.
But do not grieve excessively,
I’ve left a glorious legacy.
A double pocketful of books
Into which no one ever looks;
As well as countless music scores
That it seems everyone abhors,
Regarded by equal abhorrence
As evidenced by non-performance.
But one we greet with jubilation
Refrigerated Transportation
Beloved by transport chiefs galore,
Who hide it in their frozen store.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
i used to think trust appeared
with the right words, it would
b l i n k out of the universe the
way new stars are born- - -not
and then a l l at o n c e .
but you cross into the concept
that trust is built, as with wires
beams and panels, love, faith
and identity---
I trust him to do this, to not
do that, trust that he won't go
there and will come here, but
i've realized that trust has been
misconstrued with worry, with the
innate desire to control any and
all things that pass by me in their
states.
lately, though, trust had been been
a release, a slack line, a whole box
of blackberries, celery and raisins
pink knuckles, deep breaths and
sky blue nails
i have an armful of things I cannot
let go but they slide out one by one
without my knowledge, trust is a
blind thing, not like hope, because
hope is hoping and trust is trusting
with so much more vigor, less of a
spectacle and more of a private
ceremony, a quiet wedding
appropriated in smiles and
the brush of duchess satin
to and fro, to and fro
to and fro.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
A generous amount of ferocious wind , a ladle of roaring thunder and a cup or two of 'nerve racking hail ..'
A handful of blue lightning with a pressure cooker full of rain ,
an armful of 'nasty charcoal nimbus' and 'puppy dog- puffy cumulus' stirred into a heaping bowl of 'humid Georgia sunshine ..'
Turn the Old rooster weathervane to the East , hurry up and gather the last pile of leaves ..
Get the turkey chicks in the barn , shut down the smokehouse ..
Tie the scarecrow off , call the family together and head for the storm cellar !
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
are you hungry?
no,
I lie
I sit alone on the floor of my bedroom
shame running through my veins
I am forced to punish myself
and I will do it
to the full extent of my power
no more diet coke
they said
and I made it four days
before I was sneaking them
at restaurants
two weeks
before I had them at school
just days after
before I stole them by the armful
from the limited supply
holed up in my parent’s
room
this is a confession
a begging for forgiveness
I shall lay the whippings upon my own back
and
I shall be the one who recommended the whippings
are you hungry?
they ask
and I stare
blinking silently
lacking the ability to answer
no
I might say
if I was more of a
coward
but for now I am a criminal awaiting trail
and not a single soul doubts I am my
best judge
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC
Wait, I hear you tipping through the long grass
A trumpet of flowers and an armful of love
My heart is a crystal of raindrops fair
And you are my fairies who fly through the air.
Love Mary , Mum , Grandma x
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:23 AM UTC