"armrest" poems
prom itself is just an overglorified dance
the after party is where the real fun begins
sitting at the kitchen table of my best friend's house
sipping strawberry margaritas her mom made
then progressing to shots of tequila
and playing shots uno, steadily getting more and more dizzy
until i'm trying to twerk on a wall
and calling my friends to tell them i love them
pretending to be a koala on an armrest
updating my snapchat story so people at other gatherings can be jealous
forgetting how to pull my pants back up in the bathroom
talking to my ex boyfriend for an hour on the phone, telling him
exactly why i didn't dance with him at prom
and that i fingered myself for a boy
and i wanted to tell him and everyone, for that matter, about her
but i didn't because rejection and rumors are my worst enemies
he stays quiet and the only sound left is
my frantic whispering that i hope i stay this happy in the morning
because sober me lays in the deep end of the spectrum of sadness
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
You round up because what difference is a quarter of a inch
Heels, depending on the size, will make you the average height
Leggings and sweats will bunch at your ankles
Shirts become dresses, but only for you
Dress hems hit the floor, but only for you
**** skirts become **** dresses
Having to hem every single pair of jeans
Sleeves. Sleeves are far too long
"Petite" clothing doesn't fit either
Step stools are your best friend
Jumping for something that's just out of reach works too
Constantly being mistaken for a 16 year old
(Even if you are turning 20 this year)
Being used as an armrest by someone who thinks they're funny
Stuck in the front for every group photo
There's that awkward height difference between you and everyone
Standing on tiptoes and having the guy lean down for a kiss
You hate sports that require tall people, like volleyball and basketball
And yet, you wouldn't change your height for the world
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
The armrest between us
feels dangerous.
Here I sit
separate
in my chair
safe
on my own.
The tension is thick
like the rim of your glasses
thick
like the lump in my throat.
I focus on not touching you
so much so, that I forget
about the no-man's land that is
the armrest.
Our fingers touch briefly.
It's an accident.
It's electric.
And our hands do a dance,
delicate and graceful.
A ballet of avoidance.
Ceasing movement,
content in our solitude,
A sigh of relief.
Of disappointment.
Then, a sudden attack.
You lace your fingers between my own
and gently squeeze my hand.
You don't look at me.
And I am grateful.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
The trip complete there’s nothing left
Save for the souvineirs.
It was a blast, a welcome rest
I’ll think of it for years.
But here I am at LAX
No dream, no cardigan.
I’ll have to wait a hundred years
Just to lift off again.
Don’t get me wrong the airport’s nice,
The smell is odorless?
The chairs, the chairs, Oh god, the chairs:
The source of my unrest.
I’ll sit and sit and try and sleep
but always: no avail.
The strangers stare, don’t offer help
They watch me as I flail.
The pillow doesn’t offer rest
The armrest pokes me, merciless
My mind white-hot and furious
Just calm down.
Relax your self.
It will all be over soon.
LAYOVER
Denied: my only boon.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
She sings and I break.
Flood of unwanted memories.
Waves crashing down.
Here it is—the song—those notes—
Hand clenching the armrest.
Fingers white; knuckles clenched; rings bulging off my fingers,
Squeezing, gripping, relying on that armrest to be rooted in the Earth
so that I am not taken away.
He hums and I squirm.
So nonchalant. Casual. Like it’s nothing.
Like it’s just a song.
It’s NOT just a song.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
Caribbean waters wrench my gut
with an instinct to sail too far
into the blue plunge
of shark-finned waters
and sharp, yellow coral structures.
Those nature beasts rip wetsuit,
my sleek, stone shade wall from internal chill.
I am, feel, like a tanned fish
on these tire-weathered, cement streets.
Towering above are the heavy looks
down
from windows of sunned glass castles
of plastic and sweat.
They're calling,
pied pipers, to what is steel-stable
and rooted, in unforgiving fashion,
to the death of primal sense.
The urge to rip apart is tied back
around collared neck.
My boat is ashore
as I sea-dream-see of horizons unseen
while clenching an ill-fated
armrest desk of destiny
unexplored.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
Intense ****** desire or appetite. A piece of furniture for seating from two to four people, typically in the form of a bench with a back, sometimes having an armrest at one or each end, and partly or wholly upholstered and often fitted with springs, tailored cushions, skirts, etc.; sofa. arousing or satisfying ****** desire: an ****** dance. Subject to or marked by strong ****** desire. Of, relating to, or treating of ****** love; amatory:
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
We flew endlessly, miles above the surface, engines humming.
I looked down through a hole in the clouds; saw emerald fields
and a dirt road seldom traversed. I found myself wondering if
someone looking up could see that hole I was looking through.
our eyes would meet in a nod of existential brotherhood, and
we would become eternally bonded as fellow humans.
I doubted it, though, for a slate of gray clouds loomed above yet.
Mother Nature saw it right to hide us in her own natural camouflage.
So we hung in limbo, between the layers of fog, neither here nor there.
I hate to fly, and my mind wandered to the worst-case scenario;
we'd fall down through the hole to smash upon the crops in a fiery heap.
Probably catastrophic engine failure. Or perhaps swatted out of mid-air
by a petulant giant swinging a smoked turkey leg. You know,
like the one's you can find at the county fair. I gripped my wife's hand,
noticing how painfully sweaty mine was, wishing to be anywhere else.
But, in spite of a few bumps and the useless rise in my blood pressure,
the plane narrowly escaped catastrophic engine failure in that brief
moment. I became excited for our impending arrival in Nassau.
The shining sun, blended drinks, fish fries; still assuming we got there
in one piece. Drum beats from the Junkanoo tattooed through
my fingers quietly on the armrest. We would dance deep into night,
then retire to the beach to laugh at old stories with new friends.
I'm sure if we were spotted from down below by all
the hard working humans, our freedom would be envied,
possibly even hated. I became a young Marine Corporal once again,
standing guard on a frozen winter's night to protect the secrets
of that quiet hole in the clouds, my fellow passengers,
and even the mean old giant with turkey grease glistening on his lips.
It was my somber duty.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
My mom tried to sweep
clean the cigarette burns on the armrest,
and turned the plastic-cracked
lampshade away from rare houseguests.
The arrow-shaped gap melted
at the middle and leaked down
the shade like a stopped-
up gutter. Climbing out her bedroom
window, she knelt on the rotten
mint shingles and tossed matted
maple leaves as indiscriminately
as rock salt onto the glassy sidewalk
drinking in the overhead halo
of Penelec Electric and pine needles.
Needles—
The red biohazard suitcase
in the dining room is packed
full for distribution
in a Philadelphian switchyard.
City of Brotherly Burning Barrels
and railroad-tie benches—
but not for dressing up suburban
meditation gardens, or housing
yellow jackets and half-melted
Army men. For sitting, sleeping,
and supplying calf splinters
for small talk along the Schuylkill
River, watching the cell lights
of Eastern State get swallowed
whole by the systematic tall grass,
one by one, thanking some blessed
something for their freedom
in the boxcars, their *** and Lucifer
matches, and each other.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
I keep a list of words that remind me of you.
*Buoyant, Renegade, Circumnavigate
Alexithymia, Insatiable.
No.*
I have this dream,
Of living on Mars, surviving without oxygen.
Leaving everything in the world behind
But never you.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
I wear my cloak of crows
With a sly eye to the door
Hanging on the thought
Of leaving because
I've never really stayed
The black feathers flock to the window
Beady eyes survey my inaction
As the pitter patter of raindrops
Hum along the glass
I'm comforted for a moment
By my new ****** of friends
Gazing into my past
And the uncertain future
The rapid beat of my heart
Regains my attention
To the clutch on the armrest
My eyes have since shifted
Back to the door...
Like I'm there once again
Such a persistent memory
The one where it is too late
When regrets manifest
Into demons we carry
Through the mud, these burdens
Never letting you forget that instant
So I sit in this chair
In this room focused
On the door ready to run
At the end of the day
All the convincing in the world
Cannot change true nature
Not when it counts
Not when it matters
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
Bartender,
I ask for a full glass of the elixir I asked you for before.
Something inside me cries, more then it did before.
Or ever actually
Weeks, and days, turn to hours, minutes, seconds, but still ripple of moments.
Moments that find me back here lusting for the poison that becoming, so becoming.
Maybe im here cause my father craved this chair.
Maybe im here cause he’s seeing my day become D-day, and not just today but everyday, all day and probably tomorrow too.
13 years old, crying for help,
a little boy appeared at his meadow of wisdom,
and all he says is “have a drink with me”
So I drink, I drink some more, and I drink enough that now the foot of my bed
has become this wooden armrest where I meet a new neighbor by the hour,
My bed pillows have become this poison,
the only feeling that lays my head to rest, battles caged and blurred in routine, battles with the child inside me,
the man now, and everything in-between.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
I haven’t come to rest
on your porch just to
be accused and then
arrested. I just need
a rest from the world.
As for the rest of you,
I don’t suppose you’ve
stirred from the comfort
of the armrest, though
some have surely suffered—
cardiac arrest and all.
Here’s where life’s
symphony rests—
a pause between notes—
not because it wants to,
but this measure calls
for it, two beats.
I haven’t come to your porch
to rest, but I feel the sleep
tickling the edges of my
eyes with the lack of inertia
that plagues the subject
at rest.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
With your bottom resting on me
you roam the world of poetry
display spectrum of your poetic mood
ever bothered about this piece of wood?
I hold your frame over day and night
weight of your spirit soaring to height
your struggle to find in all only good
ever bothered about this piece of wood?
I rest your arms on my armrest
for your comfort I do my best
see you don't fall when in deep brood
ever bothered about this piece of wood?
For years my touch has kept you at peace
carried you safe seated with ease
when empty yawns the space I stood
is it then you would realize worth of my wood?
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
Something as simple as going to a movie alone.
It can be the best adventure.
It's nice to have wiggle room to just... go.
You don't have to worry about waiting for someone to tag along.
Don't have to worry that you won't get to sit here you want.
Don't have to worry about them stealing your popcorn.
Don't have to deal with their laughing at scenes that aren't really that funny.
And you get the armrest all to yourself.
Yes, it's nice to have that freedom of entertaining yourself.
But then sometimes...
After going to see your tenth movie alone.
You start to feel like you have too much time just staring at the lighting before the movie starts.
You've sat just about everywhere in the theater by then.
You wish there was someone there to turn to when something is funny enough to share.
And the armrest sits there mockingly, like it's caging in your loneliness.
And you realize... you never really do finish all you popcorn.
©NDHK
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
"Your words, linger, for about a second. They then, falter, dropping. They do not resound into space. I can't see them echoing from my window; they cast no great entrance, no chance looks from the masses, no media news coverage.
Thoughts, however, thoughts, and some rare words, spoken in the exact tone, pitch, and with precise volume, with sincerity, resound forever. Thoughts, ideas, intangible bits of matter, resounding forever and ever and ever, audible to the trained ear. Imagine! Imagine the chaos, no-- imagine the beauty, that would follow."
The man turned away then, lost in thought. She could see his wrinkled arm on the armrest of his cozy chair. She could see the dust building on his slippers. He had been in this chair, thinking this concept through, for quite some time.
She offered him a fourth cup of coffee, and he politely declined, reasoning that he didn't trust the coffee beans these days. She exhaled, trying to remember why she'd come.
"This man could be the future. He could be the breakthrough we've been looking for. Imagine the furtherment of psychology this man could bring about. The furtherment of literature, of movies, books, conversation, nothing would be the same! Of course-- he is probably just a scam. But, these things have been right before. And if there is anything this man has to say or teach us about, we will be the first to discover him."
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:24 PM UTC
It is a Thursday
And for the first time she knows right where her heart is,
The exact spot it is in her chest as she feels each heavy thump it makes
Her brother collapses right in front of her
One minute he is talking, the next he is not
Precipitously
Her heart literally starts pushing its way outta her chest as she makes her way to him
He had just asked her about an episode of the Graham Norton show
No way is she prepared for the next thing she sees,
He descends to the ground in a "tripping over a stone" fashion,
Hitting his big head on the armrest cushioning his way down to the cold tiled floor
He is getting up........OMG he is not!!!
He is still, as still as a log and not the sleeping beauty kind
Her Mum,
By her side in split seconds calling his name, pulling him up in a sitting position,
At the same time screamingly beckoning her dad
Her Dad,
with every bit of calmness he could conjure
Joins his wife to pull him up from the ground,
Asking that water be poured on him
She,
Charging from the bathroom like a firefighter with a bucket,
Baths him with water,
He is coming to!!
Answering the calls of his name as his mum leaves it on REPEAT mode,
Seconds had passed and he had missed it,
Seconds which would have gone by unnoticed like a fly on a wall,
Now will be a memory they will never forget.
©Belema S. Ekine
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
it's a game of cat and mouse we play without any reservation at all
we always had nothing more than the space between us, so small
our shared breath on the frigid air spoke dreams we'll take to the grave
i so desperately wish i could for once be even a little brave
when i glanced your way i could see your disappointment in me
the armrest we shared that morning was a battlefront only we could see
i sailed a beautiful sea of blue for months in fear of freezing to death
but your arms kept me safe and every time I held my breath
take a deep breath and swallow the lump that's found home in my throat
and eventually i'll probably come to peace with the words I wrote
all those years ago
what do I do with all these memories?
one day i'll be able to set them free
oh won't you come swim away with me
for you it's way too easy
the night i chased you down forbidden corridors is burned inside
with all the rooms they should of locked where we tried to hide
i still remember the way you fell asleep in the backseat
it was just you and i, and the lights reflected on concrete
everything just feels so melancholy tonight
especially the reminder of you in my life
take a deep breath and swallow the lump that's found home in my throat
and eventually i'll probably come to peace with the words I wrote
all those years ago
what do I do with all these memories?
one day i'll be able to set them free
oh won't you come swim away with me
for you it's way too easy
there was once a crooked smile that kept me alive
and i used to adore two shining blue eyes
it was never to be
you wouldn't float away with me
what do I do with all these memories?
one day i'll be able to set them free
oh won't you come swim away with me
for you it's way too easy
i will gladly give you every word I wrote
all those years ago.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
Every day he sat in his chair,
His ratty, tuna-colored, reclining marshmallow .
And every day, his happy little girl jumped up
and sink next to the armrest.
He kissed her hair and then she grinned.
He put his arm around her and she nuzzled his side.
“Where will Daddy always be?”
“Right here with me.”
The days meandered while the years pounced upon him.
His little girl traded her dresses for suits.
She blossomed and flourished,
Through the schooling and the moving vans,
and just as she foretold,
he was right there with her.
Until they day the doctor found it.
The lump, the break, the bubble, it wasn’t important what.
He knew the time had been floating around him, waiting to pounce,
but it knocked him down farther than he knew it could.
Now every day she sits in his chair.
His ratty, tuna-colored, reclining marshmallow.
And every day, his happy little girl stands at his side
Then sits firmly atop the wooden chair next to the armrest.
He points to his IV and she adjusts his line.
He puts his arm out and she leans forward.
“Where will Dad always be?”
No answer.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Like her husband, Claire's wineglass
left rings on the table. Her coarse
hair stuck to her thin, oxblood lips.
She found time to breathe in between
sips and dry coughs brought on by her friend,
John, smoking on the couch. He put his Pall Malls
out on the armrest like Dalmatians. Her sister
lay in a red wine carpet stain counting
the pennies behind John's feet.
Claire hid behind a fruit bowl;
oranges with skin far tighter than hers.
*Oranges her husband would've been glad to ****
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
That’s my old chair
The one I used to doze in
While Mr Parker droned on ‘bout maths & that
I was gonna sit down front near Kerry Keener
But in the end I thought, nah, better not, so here I sat
You see, just here, my keychain scraped the plastic
As I ragged around to try & find a comfy spot
& that bit there got scuffed
The more my trainers rubbed it
I never could sit sensible
So they said
That armrest there snapped clean off when Matty Parker
Went arsefirst backward over it, farting on,
We laughed our backs off that time, Matty too like
It’s a few years now that Matt’s been dead & gone
& round the back there
Do you clock the “I heart Lisa”
Jason compass-scrawled once before class, the cheeky ****
He knew I had a soft spot for that Lisa
I made ****** sure that Jase was out of luck
I haven’t seen that Lisa in a fair while
Jason neither like, funny how life goes
Still, you close one door, another waits ajar like
Sit still too long you won’t go far like, I suppose
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 8:03 PM UTC
Poem a day, day 10
Why can't I write poetry
About things that matter to me?
Or am I really that shallow that all I care about
Is my own feelings of love, passion and loss
Or how tired/busy I am.
I haven't written a single poem about
Feminism, ecology or politics
Or even Star Trek or Doctor Who.
No Red Dwarf, cats or Cat from Red Dwarf.
Heaven knows I've thought about it.
I've thought "there's more to my life than that"
"There's more to me"
"I should write abut such-and-such"
And then sit there
completely blank.
My cat looks at me, sniffing the air
"How could you possibly not write about me?"
And walks off.
His brother lying on the armrest
The world revolves around him in a different way.
Well be more inspiring boys!
Help me out here!
Okay can't blame you
If even Star Trek and Doctor Who aren't doing it.
Plenty of ideas, so few poems
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
today they've surrounded my chair in the bookstore
with trash
used tissue for snot
and selfish sized candy wraps
someone's been tearing from a spiral notebook
here where I sit with Johnny Cash
long polyester threads
was she teasing her
********** one stitch in time
is this where she comes to unwind
nowhere in here can you find the decimal system
if they ever fix the armrest I'm never coming back
they say inspiration is for amateurs
the rest of us get to work
hours at a whack
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 12:58 PM UTC
I ******* HATE PLANES
I ******* HATE PLANES
EVERY TIME I FLY
IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME
SIXTEEN HOURS
OF INESCAPABLE PAIN
SITTING IN A CABIN
WITH MORE BABIES THAN BRAINS
IF IT'S TOO ANNOYING
THE WINDOW SEAT IS GREAT
I CAN JUMP THE **** OUT
AND ESCAPE MY ****** FATE
HOW IS THIS EDIBLE?!!
IT LOOKS LIKE THE HAIR OF A CHEST
WHAT WOULD BE MORE TASTEFUL
IS THE ******* ARMREST
ITS' COLD, IT'S DRY,
I WANT TO CRY
BUT THEN I'D DISTURB THE PEOPLE NEARBY
BUT AT LAST, IT STOPS
EMERGENCY LANDING
A CORPSE LIES THERE
IN SEAT 32B
IT'S ME!
IT'S ME!
THE CORPSE IS ME
I DIED
LIKE FIVE TIMES
OR AT LEAST DEAD IS WHAT I'D RATHER BE
FLYING IS A CURSE
THAT DRIVES ME INSANE
BECAUSE I ******* HATE PLANES
I ******* HATE PLANES
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC