"artisanal" poems - Hello Poetry

How cool I was with undercut pretending then Mohawk playing rugby pretending brunching with fab hipsters pretending enjoying arcane debates about particle physics pretending and social justice pretending loving tall beautiful black boy pretending and playing Tetris til dawn or napping on the couch pretending in fashionable Old City coworking space pretending cuddled alone as rain struck clear panes windowed walls facade pretending that was my life once, author in a zine pretending, cheese day denizen pretending amid all that a sprawling vacuum of identity pretending and isolation pretending despite lunching with a priest I met pretending online or long, meandering walks to the park pretending with Mr. Wiggles and biking up Passyunk pretending through the market that smelled of live chickens and grease bemoaning my loneliness pretending at row-house holiday parties hosted by midlife fairies & queers pretending with dreams with drugs pretending alcohol *** and roof deck skyline views pretending pop up gardens live music filling midsummer streets pretending same streets filled with seasonal dirt artisanal water pretending bottle cap eyes cigarette **** nose garbage mouth snowman melting away pretending going the way of brotherly love. How cool I was inhabiting my urban life pretending I was there.

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Mar 29, 2018

Mar 29, 2018 at 6:16 AM UTC

rj-days

Pretending

How cool I was with undercut pretending then Mohawk playing rugby pretending brunching with fab hipsters pretending enjoying arcane debates about particle physics pretending and social justice pretending loving tall beautiful black boy pretending and playing Tetris til dawn or napping on the couch pretending in fashionable Old City coworking space pretending cuddled alone as rain struck clear panes windowed walls facade pretending that was my life once, author in a zine pretending, cheese day denizen pretending amid all that a sprawling vacuum of identity pretending and isolation pretending despite lunching with a priest I met pretending online or long, meandering walks to the park pretending with Mr. Wiggles and biking up Passyunk pretending through the market that smelled of live chickens and grease bemoaning my loneliness pretending at row-house holiday parties hosted by midlife fairies & queers pretending with dreams with drugs pretending alcohol *** and roof deck skyline views pretending pop up gardens live music filling midsummer streets pretending same streets filled with seasonal dirt artisanal water pretending bottle cap eyes cigarette **** nose garbage mouth snowman melting away pretending going the way of brotherly love. How cool I was inhabiting my urban life pretending I was there.

41

commonly in a brine may be pigs feet or beets whereas where she may be they are called gherkins bread and butter ploughman's lunch or caught between second and third if it but was a children's game, Take a hit with my pipe there might my predicament resolve how my pickle will ever reach all the way , I wonder my lips pursed, to the old country. It just might.

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Jun 18, 2015

Jun 18, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC

wordvango

Artisanal Pickles

commonly in a brine may be pigs feet or beets whereas where she may be they are called gherkins bread and butter ploughman's lunch or caught between second and third if it but was a children's game, Take a hit with my pipe there might my predicament resolve how my pickle will ever reach all the way , I wonder my lips pursed, to the old country. It just might.

17

I woke up contemplating bourbon and bitters. Pu-Erh, with local honey, has always been more sensible. It is warm and it heals a hoarse throat. After two bags and a little Marquez, I sat at my desk staring at a spider in the opposite corner of my office. I stared at it for a length of time that is too embarrassing to mention and never once had the inclination to smash it. Not that it did not deserve it, I simply lacked the motivation. It occurred to me that I would not trade a deep sleep under the sunlit blinds for a week's pay. How long can one get away with this? For as long as one's wit will float them is my guess. No one knows exactly how they want to be perceived when their ego barges into a room, but they know exactly how they do not want to be perceived. But If I had the power, I would perceive being wanted. To know I am here on purpose. What does that feel like? If Hell is my fate for my living sins, then let me die in the arms of the woman that lit the fire within! When I'm amongst the great race, brooding over my artisanal mug-of-joe, the constant chatter and open planning of the day becomes a spoken roar and I want to scream out, "Keep it down, I'm trying to plan my escape!" What do I associate with happiness? My dad pouring M&M;'s into my mouth before a football game. Of course, I won't play, but one must be prepared! The look on my mother's face when I sang well. Getting picked first in a game of pick-up. All the fellas whispering legends. Ah, to be wanted! Of late, the pain in my torso has become more persistent. I think of it and my imagination gives way to bouts of sheer panic. And even this is not an excuse for concern and a peaceful night. How about a kiss on my neck and chest for a change? Must I always make you hot? What if this is my last stand? What if this is it? In that final glimpse of consciousness, in my minds eye, all I make out is a faint light far above me and the brown soil and rock digging into my feet below. What walls did I allow to be built all around me?

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Jun 7, 2015

Jun 7, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC

christopher-dante

A Footnote on a Crisis

I woke up contemplating bourbon and bitters. Pu-Erh, with local honey, has always been more sensible. It is warm and it heals a hoarse throat. After two bags and a little Marquez, I sat at my desk staring at a spider in the opposite corner of my office. I stared at it for a length of time that is too embarrassing to mention and never once had the inclination to smash it. Not that it did not deserve it, I simply lacked the motivation. It occurred to me that I would not trade a deep sleep under the sunlit blinds for a week's pay. How long can one get away with this? For as long as one's wit will float them is my guess. No one knows exactly how they want to be perceived when their ego barges into a room, but they know exactly how they do not want to be perceived. But If I had the power, I would perceive being wanted. To know I am here on purpose. What does that feel like? If Hell is my fate for my living sins, then let me die in the arms of the woman that lit the fire within! When I'm amongst the great race, brooding over my artisanal mug-of-joe, the constant chatter and open planning of the day becomes a spoken roar and I want to scream out, "Keep it down, I'm trying to plan my escape!" What do I associate with happiness? My dad pouring M&M;'s into my mouth before a football game. Of course, I won't play, but one must be prepared! The look on my mother's face when I sang well. Getting picked first in a game of pick-up. All the fellas whispering legends. Ah, to be wanted! Of late, the pain in my torso has become more persistent. I think of it and my imagination gives way to bouts of sheer panic. And even this is not an excuse for concern and a peaceful night. How about a kiss on my neck and chest for a change? Must I always make you hot? What if this is my last stand? What if this is it? In that final glimpse of consciousness, in my minds eye, all I make out is a faint light far above me and the brown soil and rock digging into my feet below. What walls did I allow to be built all around me?

24

Those three words will never be enough To tell you how much I really feel Even if I could catch all the stars in the sky Of this ever-expanding universe And fit all of them in an artisanal bottle It would not suffice for half of the feeling My heart could jump out of my chest And sing the most beautiful ballad on earth For hours upon hours upon hours Until it shrivels up and dies And it still wouldn't do I could write you millions of poems That each have millions of stanzas And it would never be able To tell you how much I love you

0

Sep 14, 2016

Sep 14, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC

the-consonance-in-dissonance

i love you

Those three words will never be enough To tell you how much I really feel Even if I could catch all the stars in the sky Of this ever-expanding universe And fit all of them in an artisanal bottle It would not suffice for half of the feeling My heart could jump out of my chest And sing the most beautiful ballad on earth For hours upon hours upon hours Until it shrivels up and dies And it still wouldn't do I could write you millions of poems That each have millions of stanzas And it would never be able To tell you how much I love you

16

My body is a canvass Tinted are griefs Of reminiscent past My body is a wall-- A mural of every break, every fall My body is a plate Etched of anguish my mind berates I am a paint-- Deep, dark burgundy-- The shade of my soul's ignominy I am a brush-- Strokes of hate in the evening's hush I am a clay-- Molded in disappointment and dismay I am a charcoal-- Smudged by idiocy And ideas that are shoal My body is a sculpture-- Crafted with unsightliness and disgust I am an edifice-- A construction of mars, Founded by scars I am the thread of my clothes-- I wear to cover my bones-- I hide in the closet-- I deeply loathe I am a masterpiece-- Of repugnance and self-grudge; Of vexation, of lies-- Of hate! Of hate! Of hate! I am an art-- A sophisticated tragedy, An intricate catastrophe Perfection in all grotesquerie

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Jan 4, 2015

Jan 4, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC

gabtrrs

Artisanal Flaw

My body is a canvass Tinted are griefs Of reminiscent past My body is a wall-- A mural of every break, every fall My body is a plate Etched of anguish my mind berates I am a paint-- Deep, dark burgundy-- The shade of my soul's ignominy I am a brush-- Strokes of hate in the evening's hush I am a clay-- Molded in disappointment and dismay I am a charcoal-- Smudged by idiocy And ideas that are shoal My body is a sculpture-- Crafted with unsightliness and disgust I am an edifice-- A construction of mars, Founded by scars I am the thread of my clothes-- I wear to cover my bones-- I hide in the closet-- I deeply loathe I am a masterpiece-- Of repugnance and self-grudge; Of vexation, of lies-- Of hate! Of hate! Of hate! I am an art-- A sophisticated tragedy, An intricate catastrophe Perfection in all grotesquerie

34

so, we all, grand and great nieces and nephews, aunts and baby, fathers and mothers, nanas & poppys; pick your preferred identifier; gather round to worship him, but end of day, color us tired, and early to book & to bed long drive, long day, to get to our tiny slice of heaven on earth, a no-points-required destination, and the baby, with his roly~poly effervescent charms and delights; oh boy! he's going to be trouble for the ladies later in life; he's a sound sleeper; twice-a-day napper; great eater, and I inquire to the sky, can I? order half a dozen more on Amazon, exactly the same? is there any limit at all? but its 3:56 am, the new master is fast asleep, the funny smelling old man, tiptoes to the sunroom sanctuary, bursting with three, count-'em three, poem hooks in his convection invention mind and now that the artisanal dishwasher, that's him~too, is done, his two loads, yet he awakes to put the urgencies. to bed, write his thank you note poems to his fellow poets for gifting him insights and of fig tarts pies, that are invading his head, yet to to be, written, including this child's future, who he, will write by himself and this little ditty, though pretty, is just an appetizer, to a beautiful life ahead, and substantive poems yet to be written and hopefully read.... the baby cries out. a geschrei,^ but back to his dreams of strange houses, funny cribs, and senses going crazy with new sights and smells, and instantly back to sleep, my god that's some perfect baby! and the old writer, the would-be-poet, knows when not to belabor the point, and there's work to be done, good weather requested, ferries to ride, perhaps, even, brioche french toast for breakfast and of course, miles to go… nml 4:18am 9/12/25 Shelter Island Keep

0

Sep 12, 2025

Sep 12, 2025 at 4:33 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

For Colby: There's a baby in the house...

so, we all, grand and great nieces and nephews, aunts and baby, fathers and mothers, nanas & poppys; pick your preferred identifier; gather round to worship him, but end of day, color us tired, and early to book & to bed long drive, long day, to get to our tiny slice of heaven on earth, a no-points-required destination, and the baby, with his roly~poly effervescent charms and delights; oh boy! he's going to be trouble for the ladies later in life; he's a sound sleeper; twice-a-day napper; great eater, and I inquire to the sky, can I? order half a dozen more on Amazon, exactly the same? is there any limit at all? but its 3:56 am, the new master is fast asleep, the funny smelling old man, tiptoes to the sunroom sanctuary, bursting with three, count-'em three, poem hooks in his convection invention mind and now that the artisanal dishwasher, that's him~too, is done, his two loads, yet he awakes to put the urgencies. to bed, write his thank you note poems to his fellow poets for gifting him insights and of fig tarts pies, that are invading his head, yet to to be, written, including this child's future, who he, will write by himself and this little ditty, though pretty, is just an appetizer, to a beautiful life ahead, and substantive poems yet to be written and hopefully read.... the baby cries out. a geschrei,^ but back to his dreams of strange houses, funny cribs, and senses going crazy with new sights and smells, and instantly back to sleep, my god that's some perfect baby! and the old writer, the would-be-poet, knows when not to belabor the point, and there's work to be done, good weather requested, ferries to ride, perhaps, even, brioche french toast for breakfast and of course, miles to go… nml 4:18am 9/12/25 Shelter Island Keep

43

The day was clear, a touch too hot. Summer’s end was drawing near. Sidewalks vendors were making their pitches, selling their artisanal wares. That was when I saw my girl, a vision in a pale green dress. Blood red lips, a fair complexion and long black tresses framed her face. Where and when could it have been that I had seen her like before? Thought took me back to Hunter Mountain, late in the summer of Seventy four. Back then I saw one just like this, a beauty with a special grace With blood red lips and fair complexion and long dark hair that framed her face. She wore the tartan of her clan as she competed in the dance. Pipers played and tenors sang; it was the substance of romance. A rare beauty, ripe for taking, if one was brave enough to chance…. The memory was broken then, my daughter touched me on the arm. “There you are Dad, where have you been? I was sent to look for you by Mom.” We had lingered at the fair, wandering separately among the stalls. It’s Time now to sit down to our meal and share good wine as darkness falls.

0

Aug 31, 2015

Aug 31, 2015 at 7:52 AM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

The Girl at the fair

The day was clear, a touch too hot. Summer’s end was drawing near. Sidewalks vendors were making their pitches, selling their artisanal wares. That was when I saw my girl, a vision in a pale green dress. Blood red lips, a fair complexion and long black tresses framed her face. Where and when could it have been that I had seen her like before? Thought took me back to Hunter Mountain, late in the summer of Seventy four. Back then I saw one just like this, a beauty with a special grace With blood red lips and fair complexion and long dark hair that framed her face. She wore the tartan of her clan as she competed in the dance. Pipers played and tenors sang; it was the substance of romance. A rare beauty, ripe for taking, if one was brave enough to chance…. The memory was broken then, my daughter touched me on the arm. “There you are Dad, where have you been? I was sent to look for you by Mom.” We had lingered at the fair, wandering separately among the stalls. It’s Time now to sit down to our meal and share good wine as darkness falls.

15

Your hair, Lips, Eyes. Artisanal movements made, Hands entwined. Fragrance, spring blossom. Almost divine. Walking with another, Future unseen.

0

Jan 31, 2015

Jan 31, 2015 at 4:17 AM UTC

mkljay

A Memory

Your hair, Lips, Eyes. Artisanal movements made, Hands entwined. Fragrance, spring blossom. Almost divine. Walking with another, Future unseen.

9

You read my poem, sighed like a widowed cello, told me I was so brave. So sensitive. So real. I said thanks. You asked if I was free Friday. You wanted to know the man behind the wound. The author of ache. The architect of vibes. So I showed up. A little unwashed. A little twitchy. A patchwork of trauma in ill-fitting pants. You blinked. Twice. Like I’d just tracked in mud on the white carpet of your curated suffering. You wanted a candlelit meal with my metaphors. But I brought the cow. It shat on the floor. I tried to explain— the sadness isn’t a costume. The pain isn’t prose. The blood on the page was mine. You said, “I just thought you'd be more… together?” I said, “I thought you knew what empathy meant.” Turns out, what you really wanted was artisanal anguish with the trauma locally sourced but ethically removed. You can cry to the soundtrack— just don’t ask where the violins came from. Because— Nobody is amused with a stray cow. But most people enjoy a good hamburger.

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Apr 15, 2025

Apr 15, 2025 at 11:47 PM UTC

badwords

Free Milk

You read my poem, sighed like a widowed cello, told me I was so brave. So sensitive. So real. I said thanks. You asked if I was free Friday. You wanted to know the man behind the wound. The author of ache. The architect of vibes. So I showed up. A little unwashed. A little twitchy. A patchwork of trauma in ill-fitting pants. You blinked. Twice. Like I’d just tracked in mud on the white carpet of your curated suffering. You wanted a candlelit meal with my metaphors. But I brought the cow. It shat on the floor. I tried to explain— the sadness isn’t a costume. The pain isn’t prose. The blood on the page was mine. You said, “I just thought you'd be more… together?” I said, “I thought you knew what empathy meant.” Turns out, what you really wanted was artisanal anguish with the trauma locally sourced but ethically removed. You can cry to the soundtrack— just don’t ask where the violins came from. Because— Nobody is amused with a stray cow. But most people enjoy a good hamburger.

47

I wait for the ground to reclaim me organic tissue, clothing of cotton biodegradable, degraded metallic dirt with soot and wood blood spills from my mouth uncontrollable I am injured and waiting I gurgle through a deep reverie where the ground swallows me whole cold soil poured over flesh artisanal grave keepers bury me along the elms and oaks and I become strong enough to conquer my darkest self to dig out of the night and somehow, somewhere find you with my last breath in my final hour to say the words I mean-- it is you it has always been you the answer to the unasked question the vision late at night before my sweetest slumber the craving when I don't know what I want has always been you but I stare at the sky feel cold, sticky blood leave my body and wait for the ground to claim me

0

Sep 11, 2018

Sep 11, 2018 at 1:01 AM UTC

caduceus

Salvage

I wait for the ground to reclaim me organic tissue, clothing of cotton biodegradable, degraded metallic dirt with soot and wood blood spills from my mouth uncontrollable I am injured and waiting I gurgle through a deep reverie where the ground swallows me whole cold soil poured over flesh artisanal grave keepers bury me along the elms and oaks and I become strong enough to conquer my darkest self to dig out of the night and somehow, somewhere find you with my last breath in my final hour to say the words I mean-- it is you it has always been you the answer to the unasked question the vision late at night before my sweetest slumber the craving when I don't know what I want has always been you but I stare at the sky feel cold, sticky blood leave my body and wait for the ground to claim me

33

These days are for the daisies, accented with juniper and babies breath A gazebo beneath a tree like shade on a cloudy afternoon With our glasses more vertical than not; I drink you in and swear away the day She smiles, because I stare off for long periods of time Reasoning, that I don't want her to catch me gazing at what I have no right to love A gardener's guilt Plucking the ripe and ready It's the time of season for cessation The paradoxical harvest An event of sustenance and death A consumer has no sensation other than taste A carnivore only taste one flavor Your flesh on the vine A rare and coveted commodity Past vintages become quartets of meaningless digits, like discarded combinations on a constantly changing tumbler The fortuitous ones will eventually get their chance, but only after the horticulturist has gotten his fill For I have forced breath into you Developing your unique character With subtle augmentations to your composition; and experience above all else Only the most bitterly tortured fruit becomes wine of notoriety A sadistic vintner periodically sampling the evolution of his wares Very often the inflictions are bored by both master and slave I feel it in you It's the only time I do Feel Misery is contingent upon company A fool's philosopher With flawless adages and quips He is no different Eventually we all will be met with the contradictions of our exasperated convolutions Then where will you be? Why, you have been made golden! A hopewell beacon amongst the treacherous and ****** You are now nebulous and immaculate Like the figure encased with in the marble Does the sculpture recall the stripping sensation induced by the artisanal hands of the craftsman? Or is it's ears filled with the clamoring? Ingrates and dolts who only appreciate the product rather than the steadfast passions of it's means Amongst the gawking gazers I am indistinguishable; as you are now to me

0

Aug 2, 2018

Aug 2, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC

Fimfivver

Napa

These days are for the daisies, accented with juniper and babies breath A gazebo beneath a tree like shade on a cloudy afternoon With our glasses more vertical than not; I drink you in and swear away the day She smiles, because I stare off for long periods of time Reasoning, that I don't want her to catch me gazing at what I have no right to love A gardener's guilt Plucking the ripe and ready It's the time of season for cessation The paradoxical harvest An event of sustenance and death A consumer has no sensation other than taste A carnivore only taste one flavor Your flesh on the vine A rare and coveted commodity Past vintages become quartets of meaningless digits, like discarded combinations on a constantly changing tumbler The fortuitous ones will eventually get their chance, but only after the horticulturist has gotten his fill For I have forced breath into you Developing your unique character With subtle augmentations to your composition; and experience above all else Only the most bitterly tortured fruit becomes wine of notoriety A sadistic vintner periodically sampling the evolution of his wares Very often the inflictions are bored by both master and slave I feel it in you It's the only time I do Feel Misery is contingent upon company A fool's philosopher With flawless adages and quips He is no different Eventually we all will be met with the contradictions of our exasperated convolutions Then where will you be? Why, you have been made golden! A hopewell beacon amongst the treacherous and ****** You are now nebulous and immaculate Like the figure encased with in the marble Does the sculpture recall the stripping sensation induced by the artisanal hands of the craftsman? Or is it's ears filled with the clamoring? Ingrates and dolts who only appreciate the product rather than the steadfast passions of it's means Amongst the gawking gazers I am indistinguishable; as you are now to me

40

A glorious sight befell my eyes A pristine untouched bearer of supplies Made of wood, of steel, or anything buildable The Table Possessing an essence unlike anything else Hearkening to an unalterable purpose and tableness Providing unending sustenance on a platform that's stable The Table Though the lingering presence in this perceptual world is illusory The unchanging, uncleft presence is perfection conceptually Artisanal glyphs adorn its sides unmatchable The Table While strife and pandemonium reign in this material domain There remains a bastion of stability man cannot attain Indeed, this mystical countenance attains a fable The Table Weathered and wizened through inummerable epochs Joyous outpourings bestow praise not enough Remaining of unmatchable nature even with the made-in-China label The Table

0

May 29, 2020

May 29, 2020 at 1:05 PM UTC

Snekula

The Table

A glorious sight befell my eyes A pristine untouched bearer of supplies Made of wood, of steel, or anything buildable The Table Possessing an essence unlike anything else Hearkening to an unalterable purpose and tableness Providing unending sustenance on a platform that's stable The Table Though the lingering presence in this perceptual world is illusory The unchanging, uncleft presence is perfection conceptually Artisanal glyphs adorn its sides unmatchable The Table While strife and pandemonium reign in this material domain There remains a bastion of stability man cannot attain Indeed, this mystical countenance attains a fable The Table Weathered and wizened through inummerable epochs Joyous outpourings bestow praise not enough Remaining of unmatchable nature even with the made-in-China label The Table

20