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Powers May 2013
“Palm trees do exist”
And like that I’m speechless
Because palm trees are the definition of serenity
And she can’t find that serendipity
because in Idaho we have pine trees
And fathers who are like attics
Attics have ladders to climb so you can reach their expectations
And sometimes his are too high
If I had an attic I would cut every rung to its ladder and build my own
Because I know where I’m going
It might not be as high as you’d like
But let me assure you I’m headed toward palm trees
sushma madappa Jan 2016
The memories fade
The hurt abate
The scars so deep;
The flecks of red
on walls so white.
Sole testimony to the time.

The knowing smiles
The intoxicated wiles
Lie abandoned in the
dustiest attics of our minds
While here I stand
Outside  myself
Done and dusted
Weaving tales of a distant time
x
judy smith Apr 2017
So you know you’re looking at two very different styles of dress, here. But precisely what decades? When did that waistline move back down? What details are the defining touches of their era? How long were women actually walking around with bustles on their backsides?

Lydia Edwards’s How to Read a Dress is a detailed, practical, and totally beautiful guide to the history of this particular form of clothing from the 16th to the 20th centuries. It tracks the small changes that pile up over time, gradually ******* until your great-grandmother’s closet looks wildly different than your own. As always, fashion makes for a compelling angle on history—paging through you can see the shifting fortunes of women in the Western world as reflected in the way they got dressed every morning.

Of course, it’ll also ensure that the next lackadaisically costumed period piece you watch gives you agita, but all knowledge has a price.

I spoke to Edwards about how exactly we go about resurrecting the history of an item that’s was typically worn until it fell apart and then recycled for scraps; our conversation has been lightly trimmed and edited for clarity.

The title of the book is How to Read a Dress. What do you mean by “reading” a dress?

Basically what I mean is, when you are looking at a dress in an exhibition or a TV show, reading it in terms of working out where the inspirations or where certain design choices come from. Being able to look at it and recognize key elements. Being able to look at the bodice and say, Oh, the shape of that is 1850s, and the design relates to this part of history, and the patterning comes from here. It’s looking at the dress as an object from the top down and being able to recognize different elements—different historical elements, different design elements, different artistic elements. “Read” is probably the best word to use for that kind of approach, if that makes sense.

It must send you around the bend a little bit, watching costume adaptations where they’re a bit slapdash. The one I think of is the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice, which I actually really enjoy, but I know that one’s supposed to have all over the place costuming-wise.

Yeah, it does. I mean, I love the BBC Pride and Prejudice one, because they kept very specifically to a particular era. But I can see what they did with the Keira Knightley one—they were trying to keep it 1790s, when the book was written, as opposed to when it was published. But they’ve got a lot of kind of modern influences in there and they’ve got a lot of influences from 30, 40 years previously, which is interesting to an audience and gives an audience I suppose more frames of reference, more areas to think about and look at. So I can see why they did that. But it does make it more difficult if you’re trying to accurately decode a garment. It’s harder when you’ve got lots of different eras going on there, but it makes it beautiful and interesting for an audience.

The guide spans the 16th to the 20th century. Why start with the 16th century?

Well, partly because it’s where my own interest starts, in terms of my research and the areas I’ve looked at. But more importantly in terms of audience interest, we get a lot of TV shows, a lot of films in recent years—things like The Tudors—that type of era seems to be something that people are interested in. That time is very colorful and very interesting to people.

And also because in terms of thinking about the dress as garment, obviously people wore dresses in medieval times, but in terms of it being something that specifically women wore, distinct from men’s clothes, I really think we start to see that more in the 15th, 16th century onwards.

Where do you go to get the historical information to put together a book like this? What do you use as your source material? Because obviously the thing about clothing is that it has to stand up to a lot of wear and tear and a lot of it doesn’t survive.

This is the other thing about the 16th century stuff—there’s so little surviving. That’s why that chapter was a lot shorter and also that’s why I used a lot of artworks rather than surviving garments, just because they don’t exist in their entirety.

But wherever possible, you go to the garments themselves in museum collections. And then if that’s proving to be difficult, you go to artworks or images, but always bearing in mind the artist will have had their own agenda, so they won’t necessarily be accurate of what people were actually wearing. So then you have to go and look up written source material from the time—say, diaries. I like using letters that people have written to each other over the centuries, describing dress and what they were wearing on a daily basis. Novels can be good, as well.

Also the scholarship that has come before, the secondary sources, works by people like Janet Arnold, Aileen Ribeiro. Really well researched scholarly books where people have used primary sources themselves and put their own interpretation on it can be really, really helpful. Although you take some of it with a pinch of salt, and you put your own interpretation on there, as well.

But always to the dress itself wherever possible.

What are some of the challenges you face, or the constraints on our ability to learn about the history of fashion?

Well, the very practical issue of trying to see garments—some of them I did see here in Australia, but a lot of them were in the States, in Canada, in New Zealand, so it’s hard to physically get there to see them. And often, even when you can get to the museum, garments are out on loan to other exhibitions or other museums. That’s a practical consideration.

But also, especially when I’m talking about using artworks and things, which can be really helpful when you’re researching, but as I’ve said they do come from a place where there’s more interpretations and more agendas. So if someone’s done a portrait and there’s a beautiful 1880s dress in it, that could have been down to the whims of the person who was wearing it, or the artist could have changed significantly the color or style to suit his own taste. Then you have to do extra research on top of that, to make sure that what you are seeing is representative.

It’s a fascinating area. There’s a lot of challenges, but for me, that’s what makes it really exciting as well. But it’s really that question of being able to trust sources and knowing what to use and what not to use in order to make things clear for the audience.

Obviously many of these dresses were very expensive and took a lot of labor and it wasn’t fast fashion—people didn’t just give it away or toss it when it fell out of season. A lot of times, you did was you remade it. When you’re looking at a dress that’s been remade, how do you extract the information that you need as a historian out of it?

I love it when something like that comes up. I’ve got a couple of examples in the book.

Well, it can be quite challenging, because often when you’re first looking at a piece it’s not obvious that it’s been remade. But if you’re lucky enough to look inside it and actually hold it and turn it round different angles, there’ll be things like the placement of a seam, or you’ll see that the waist has been moved up or down according to the fashion. And that’s often obvious when you’re looking inside. You can see the way the skirt’s been attached. Often you can tell if a skirt’s been taken off and then reattached using different pleats, different gatherings; that can give you a hint that it’s then been remade to fit in with a different fashionable ideal.

One of the key ways is fabric. You can often see, especially in early 19th century dresses when they’ve been made of these beautiful 18th century silks and brocades. That’s nice because it’s the first obvious clue that something’s been remade or that an old dress has been completely taken apart and it’s just the fabric that’s been used. I find it particularly interesting when the waist has been moved or the seams have been taken off or re-sewn in a different shape or something like that. It can be subtle but once your knowledge base grows, that’s one of the most fascinating areas that you can look at.

You page through the book and you watch these trends unfold and there are occasional sea changes will happen fairly quickly, like when the Regency style arises. But how much change year-to-year would a woman have seen? How long would it take, just as a woman getting dressed in the morning, to see styles just radically alter? Would you even notice?

Well, this is the thing—I think it’s very easy, when we’re looking back, to imagine that in 1810 you’d be wearing this dress and then all the frills and the frouf would have started to come in the late 1810s and the 1820s, and suddenly you would have had a whole new wardrobe. But obviously, unless you were the very wealthiest women and you had access to dressmakers who had the absolute newest patterns and newest fabrics then no, you wouldn’t have seen a massive change. You wouldn’t have afforded to be able to have the newest things as they came in. You would have maybe remade dresses to make them maybe slightly more in line with a fashion plate that you might have seen, but you wouldn’t have had access to new information and new fashion plates as soon as they came. To be realistic, there would have been very little change on a day to day level.

But I think also, for us now—it’s hard to see it without hindsight, but we feel like we’re fairly fluid in wearing the same kind of styles, but obviously when we look back in 20 years, we’ll look at pictures of us and see greater changes than we’re now aware. Because it happens on a slow pace and it happens on such a subconscious level in some ways.

But actually, yeah, it’s to do with economics, it’s to do with availability. People living in towns where they couldn’t easily get to cities—if you were living in a country town a hundred miles away from London, there’s no way that you would have the resources to see the most recent fashion plates, the most recent ideas that were developing in high society. So it was a very slow process in reality.

If you have a lot of money you can change out your wardrobe quicker and wear the latest styles. And so the wealthiest people, their clothes were what in a lot of case stood the best chance of surviving and being in modern collections. So how do we know what working women would have worn or what middle class women would have worn?

Yeah, this is hard. I do have some more middle class examples, because we’re lucky in that we do have quite a few that have survived, especially in smaller museums and historical collections, where people have had clothes sitting in their attics for years and have donated them, just from normal families over the years.

But, working women, that’s much more difficult. We’re lucky from the 19th century because we have photographic evidence. But really a lot of it will come down to written descriptions, mainly letters, diaries, not necessarily that the people themselves would have kept, but there’s examples of people that worked in cotton mills, for instance, and people that ran the mills and their families and wives and friends who had written accounts of what the women there were wearing. Also newspaper accounts, particularly of people who would go and do charity work and help the poor. They often wrote quite detailed descriptions of the people that they were helping.

But in terms of actual garments, yeah, it’s very difficult. Certainly 18th century and before, it’s really, really hard to get hold of anything that gives you a really good idea of what they wore. But in the 18th century—it’s quite interesting, because then we get examples of separate pieces of clothing worn by the upper classes, like a skirt with a jacket, which was actually a lower middle class style initially and then it became appropriated by the upper classes. And then it became much fancier and trimmed and made in silks and things. So then, we can see the inspiration of the working classes on the upper classes. That’s another way of looking at it, although of course that’s much more problematic.

It’s interesting how in several cases you can see broader historical context, or other stories happening through clothes. Like you point out that the rise of the one-piece dresses is due to the rise of mantua makers, who were women who were less formally trained who were suddenly making clothing. Are there any other interesting stories like that, that you noticed and thought were really fascinating?

There’s a dress in the book that a woman made for her wedding. I think she was living on her own, or she was living with a servant and her mother or something. She made the dress and then turned up to her wedding and traveled quite a long way to get there, and when she arrived, the groom and all the guests weren’t there. There was nobody. So she went away and came back again a week later, and everyone was there. And the reason that no one was there before was that a river had flooded in the direction that they were all coming from. She had obviously no way of finding out about this until after the fact, and we have this beautiful dress that she spent ages making and had obviously gone to a lot of effort to try and work out what the latest styles were, to incorporate it into her wedding dress.

Things like that, I find really interesting, because they talk so much about human and social history as well as fashion history, and the garment is the main way we have of keeping these stories alive and remembering them and looking into the kind of life and world these people lived, who made these garments.

Over the centuries, how does technology affect fashion? Obviously, we think of the industrial revolution as really speeding up the pace of fashion. But are there other moments in the history of fashion where technology shapes what women end up wearing?

One example is where I talk about the Balenciaga dress from the early 1950s—with a bubble hem and a hat and she would have worn these beautiful pump shoes with it—with the introduction of the zipper. Which just made such a huge difference, because it suddenly meant you’d have ease and speed of dressing. It meant that you didn’t have to worry about more complicated ways of fastening a garment. I think the zipper made a massive change and also in terms of dressmaking at home, it was a really quick and simple way that people had of being able to create quite fashionable styles on a budget and with ease and speed at home.

Also, of course, once women’s dress started to become simpler and they did away with the corset and underwear became a lot less complicated, that made dressing a lot easier, that made the introduction of the bias cut and things that sit very closely to the natural body much more widely used and much more fashionable.

I would say the introduction of machine-made lace as well, particularly from the late 19th, early 20th century onwards where it was so fashionable on summer dresses and wedding dresses. It just meant that you could so much more easily add this decadent touch to a garment, because lace would have been so much more expensive before then and so time-consuming to make. I think that made a huge difference in ordinary women being able to attain a kind of luxury in their everyday dress.

That actually makes me think of something else I wanted to ask you, which is you point out in your intro the way we casually use this word “vintage.” I think about that with lace. Lace is described as being a “vintage” touch but it’s very much this question of when, where, who, why—it’s a funny term when you think about it, the way we use it so casually to describe so much.

Oh, yes. It’s crazy. I used to work in a wedding dress shop and I used to make historically inspired wedding dresses and things. And brides used to come in and say, “Oh, I want something vintage.” But they didn’t really know what they meant. Usually what they meant is they wanted something with a bit of lace on it, or with some sort of pearls or beading. I think it’s really inspired by whatever is trending at the time. So, you know, Downton Abbey became vintage. I think ‘50s has always been kind of synonymous with the word vintage. But what it means is huge,
emma jane Jul 2016
“Have you written about me yet?”  you asked.
“I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.

But even as you made me sad,
Even as my heart started to crumble.
I never could write about you.

I am a poet I string stars into constellations
And weave words into stanzas.
I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors
And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully
That I can make my magic with a pencil.

I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you.
How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something
Too beautiful to call mine.
But you are not a poem.

Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue,
And your arms are strong.
I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting,
An inspiration for someone else’s art.
But not mine.

You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces
could fit in a cardboard box.
That's what attics are for, to hide ugly things.
You're beauty was skin deep.
And thats how you wanted me.
I didn't want to be empty.

“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.
This is not my best but I have been in massive writer's block and this is kind of an explanation why.
L T Winter Aug 2015
Younger now--
Winking-wards-back-
-Never feeding satchels
With broken thumbs.

Slightly sniffing-
Sorrows in--
Decrepit hand-bags,

The silence is short.

And supposing day-beings
Are breaking evenings,
For nights that always come.

We know attics; see-how
Detached I am.
That boldness of single
Salmon-sand.
Francie Lynch Nov 2015
Be sure you get a house
With an attic.
Basements can be dug up,
But attics burn down.
Dusk!

With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!

Bats!

Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,

These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*

Fibrous wings furred like a moth,

Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.

Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,

Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.

Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.

No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.

Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;

Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.

Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;

Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.

They live in darkness, centipedes do too,

Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.

Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,

Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.

Wind turbines endanger bats,

Like fans endanger lightning bugs.

Only one percent of bats are vampiric,

Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.

Dawn!

With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!

Bats!

Bats are bugs, aren’t they?
*Adapted from a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip by Bill Watterson
You can see it already: chalks and ochers;
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery;
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape;
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse);
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds
Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it
A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;
Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes,
They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow
Is rusting; and before me lies the vast
Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue;
***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse
Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics,
Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker;
The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes
Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;
All day the country tempts me to go strolling;
The little village urchins, book in hand,
Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging),
As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant
Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you!
Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:
Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed
My days, and think of you, my lady fair!
I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times,
Sailing across the high seas in its pride,
Over the gables of the tranquil village,
Some winged ship which is traveling far away,
Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:
No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives,
Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,
Nor importunity of sinister birds.
A Mareship Jul 2014
A bee with innards spilling
A lost tabby,
A blimp caught up in trees,
Tintern Abbey.

The gravestone of a lover,
A drowning ship,
An NHS delivery of
Fortisip.

A girl with alopecia and
Fungail nails,
A one legged pigeon,
Exploding whales.

Ivy choked churches,
Merlot tongues,
Parrots plucking feathers,
Marlboro lungs.

Girls locked up in attics,
*** toys.
Boys punching girls
And punching boys.

Babies crowning
Fussed about like kings.
Darlings,
You shall see such pretty things.
Unused Quill Nov 2012
We are the genuine men
We are the fulfilled men
Standing together
Headpiece filled with ideas. Huzzah!
Our powerful voices, when
We cheer together
Are loud and meaningful
As wind in wet grass
Or dancing feet over wooden floors
In our damp attics

Shape with form, shade with colour,
Dynamic force, motion without gesture;

Those who have crossed
With indirect eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Forget  us—if at all—not as found
Peaceful souls, but only
As the genuine men
The fulfilled men.

Eyes I dare meet in nightmares
In death’s dream kingdom
These do  appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a whole column
There, is a tree standing
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More close and more bashful
Than a newly formed star.

Let me be closer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me not wear
Such obvious disguises
Silk shirt, snakeskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
Closer—

That first meeting
In the twilight kingdom

This is the living land
This is fruitful land
Here the cloudy images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a living man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a newly formed star.

It is like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking together
At the minute when we are
Shaking with excitement
Lips that would kiss
Form praise to no stone.

The eyes are here
There are eyes here
In this valley of living stars
In this flowing valley
This whole jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this first of meeting places
We ***** alone
And invite speech
Gathered on this beach of the free river

Vision, unless
The eyes disappear
As the periodic star
Monofoliate daisy
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of whole men.

Here we go round the mulberry bush
Mulberry bush mulberry bush
Here we go round the mulberry bush
At five o’clock in the morning.


Between the thought
And the implementation
Between the movement
And the deed
Rises the Light
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the inception
And the construction
Between the feeling
And the reaction
Rises the Light
                                Life is very short

Between the need
And the want
Between the potential
And the substance
Between the ingredients
And the ascent
Rises the Light
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world begins
This is the way the world begins
This is the way the world begins
Not with a whimper but a bang.
pat Aug 2014
banana skin salad in
artificial lemonade
peacocks salivating
mushy rooms belly aching

Oreos are okie dokie
ocean breezes open up me
analyzing any eyes
evaluating coffee grinds
a manifesting apple in me
apple in the Snapple leaking

sticky salamander fingers
static on a broken speaker
attics over broken theaters
salmon eating taco teachers
teaching choco taco preachers
preaching at Chicago creatures

opal rings and oval things
are focusing on yodeling
a social need for opening
in total global offerings

and in a soup or telephonic
happiness in playing sonic
gently speaking thick Ebonics
sickly tonic
Let's be honest,  boys
Paul d'Aubin Dec 2015
Les mansardes de Luchon

C'était un peu comme la proue du vaisseau amiral,
et ses petits fanaux clignant de l'œil, la nuit,
luisant sur la maison comme des lumignons
Et son toit bleu d’ardoises en était embelli
et mieux, nous étions hauts, aussi hauts que la vie.
Ces «Mansardes» nous y dormions durant les saisons des curistes,
y montant doucement, respectant les consignes,
de traiter dignement les précieux locataires.
Pour Régis et pour moi, c'étaient douces manies
que nous nous gardions, de contrarier en vain.
Dans la chambrette blanche austère ou je dormais
les livres me tombaient des yeux bien après la lumière
et j'écoutais aussi, les pas sur les trottoirs
des passants noctambules qui passaient en riant
et je scrutais aussi les fenêtres d'en face.
Grand-Mère ronflait parfois dans la chambre à côté
Avec son poudrier et son eau de Cologne
exhalant des senteurs de rose et de vanille.
Dans la chambre à côte était Régis, mon frère
Qui me passait parfois la B.D, «Blé le roc».
Oh, comme je les aimais, ces modestes mansardes,
Nous étions jeunes alors, et tout était diamant :
Filles des locataires aux cheveux dénoués
ou bien nos jeux guerriers et nos arcs et nos lances
et ces folles lectures menées jusqu'au petit matin.

Paul Arrighi
Alex Apples Mar 2010
Stained glass coffins
Crystalline mosquitoes
Death that masquerades
In silken flags and floras
Languorous beauties
Graffiti of red and violet light
Sirens kiss the bullets
As they scatter them
To burn holes in sepia dreams
Watercolor ghosts
Casting out wildflower candy
Attics that hide under
Strawberry dust and lemons
That melts into mildew
As they pass down the gullet
Layers of ashes in the belly
“But you told us to swallow!”
Masses of children howl
The pretty ghouls hiss back
“Cannot you tell a lie by now,
By the sweetness of its taste?”
You're the kid that asks how the cotton candy skies got that color
except now it's all blood red

"I guess God killed all the angels" he said

and I think:
baby my wrists are rags, ripped up rags,
and needles give you bad memories,
and my minds a black, empty, hole but it's still so ******* heavy
just a weight that no matter how much you want to say you can, you just cannot carry

and you need to stay alive
because there's no spots for angels anymore when they die
but I just can't bring myself to say it

and he knows people only remember things about me
like the fact that I like whiskey, and my suicidal tendencies

a lining of  lightbulbs
infused on the wire in my brain

he says Jesus was like any other psychopath ,
just a normal schizophrenic
and if there's a God
we pray for him to fix the problem he's created

what if heavens just like hell in the form of a maze
golden maps leading you to places you aren't any happier

acid trips into abandon attics,
blonde babes with ******* hair
and yellow teeth
cracked out, veins

complaining that the life they hated ever changed

he says I ruined the calm after the storm that no one lives to see
the ending of the bible
that no one has enough attention in them to read
Here's a poem I wrote after a conversation with my brother in which he told me that Jesus was just a mentally ill man and that Christianity would've never been spread if Constantine didn't become a Christian, which got me into thinking about my own mental illness and believes on religion. The first line came from my English teacher using the term blood orange to get us to vividly imagine something.
Kristaps Nov 2018
Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;

divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.

Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,

to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.

One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for

these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself



And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow  the
evenly laid out,  sorrow yellow street lamps

and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,

where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems

to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they

wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived

in a previous life.
"Say, whus tha good wurd, Mista Mornin Bird?"
"Ahh, ya know just chillin here singin these here tunes waitin fah Mista Worm."
"Ahh dat Mista Worm - he alwayz be runnin late."
"True dat!”
”Yo! peep this...
Last night he took his ol girl out on a date."
''A date? Really? Mistah Worm?”
"Yup.
But it getz betta tho.
It wuz dare anniversary. Ol fool went to tha chapel an got married."
"MARRIED!!??"
"mmhmm."
"Where dey get married?"
"At dare special spot in tha apple orchard.
Mistah worm told me he and hiz girl are movin to the Big Apple.”
“Big Apple? Fah what?”
“He gunna work fah tha East New York Farms.  I guess hiz uncle Jim
got him in.”
“…Mista Worm…”

"Say, howz Mista Skunk doin?  He evah get clean?"
"I dont see much of him theez dayz.  Heard heez down on his luck. Evah since tha paper mill closed he aint been tha same.  Heez so stressed out he got mo white hairz than a polar bear.”
“Dammmnnn!!!”
”Sumone told me that heez a nasty lil ol drunk wit a funky attitude and a quick tempa!
No wunda hiz wife leftem.
My understandin iz he still outta work - rummigin through peoples junk - collectin cans, tryin to make a buck.
Itz a **** shame, aint it?"
"Uh huh."

"Howz Mista Rabbit?"
"Miiiista Rabbit! Oohh dat Mista Rabbit he dunn got himself a nasty habbit."
"Whys dat?"
"He be stealin outta Mizz Jonsens garden again.
Otha day Mizz Jonsen shooed him away chasin him down tha block wit a pair of ol rusty scissors in her hand."
"Scissors!!??"
"Yup. She told him next time he wont be so lucky wit out hiz foot."
"WHUT!!??  Whus dat suppose da mean?"
"I dunno.”
"Dat Mizz Jonsen gone crazy!!
She dunn lost her mind in her ol age.
She crazier than a ******* rat!
Man, when Mista Rabbit gunna learn?”
"I guess when he haz no foot."

"Say, you talk to Mista Squirrel at all?"
“Itz been sum time.”
“How wuz he doin?”
"Man, you know Mistah Squirrel.  He wuz all ova da place, or at least he wuz.  He alwayz be jumpin from one tree to tha next, alllllwayz tryin to get a nut or two.  Last I heard he got deported and now lives in anotha county.”
“Why iz dat?”
“He dunn got locked up fah breakin in a few too many attics. They finally caught him....Stoopid fool."
''****…”

"Nuff about tha neighbahood.  How you been?  Havent seen you inna while."
"Im still doin my thang, ya know.
Roamin from town ta town, chasin down tail."
"Yous still chillin in dem alleys too?"
"Fa sho!"
"Man, aint a **** thang changed wit chu.
Yous alwayz been a cool cat...”
Nico Julleza Jun 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Loneliness is the name we gain
Abandoned in attics of despaired shame
We might not know who our maker is
Nor even how we're birthed without a single kiss

Sailing shore to shore of no causing way
We fly, we glide, we slip away

Each day is our rite without rights
Pondered those colors from black to white
And out our interluding charades
Oh, how we are judge by senseless mocking jays

Enraptured by our capacities we can engage
Still we leered showing a zealous face

From dust, A man was oddly fabricated
A tapestry of wonders to show its vivacity
He's so different from our Avant name
And has a thought that could seize a luring day

But if he never saw how wide the narrow he'd take
From dust a man shall die ever the same
#Dust #Man #Fly #Glide #SlipAway

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Brad Lambert Jan 2014
I wrap my arms about my torso and brush my thoughts 'gainst you,
crying.

Rainwater best cures a torn-soul
when boiled in a *** atop
a burner left burning all night.


Crying,
the sky giveth us wonders and taketh the wonders away.

O' the water's down a'boilin'.
Ye' it all boils down to you.
To you and how you go.
Ye' when you go, you go.
O' where you a'goin' too?

See that go-getter go-gettin' his girl–
Good for him. Good for him.

Send some good for the man with a will when he wills his will to be.
And good for the fingers who first feel a fortune 'fore the fortune is seen.
And good for the addicts relapsing in attics with kisses of dopamine.
And good for the thoughts of you that brush against my skin,
that for days on will hold–

Eighteen! Eighteen! I say eighteen years is the bridge,
the forest fires will forever forget to burn!


I say give it a year and call him on that telephone and
he will answer on that telephone and
you will beg his heart come home, beggin' a'bargainin'–

Eighteen! Eighteen! I have missed you for some time,
bent-to-bet a century's pass'd since we last kissed.


One match done been lit in the county matchbook.
Such is the click-click of a gas stove igniting,
I call that rip-exciting, torn-enticing, fates be a'dicing–

*Eighteen! Eighteen! It was another day–
It was another life.
A complete mess of a poem, but I'm done. It needed to be written and now it is writ.
William A Poppen Nov 2012
There are walls waiting,

crumbling

as pockmarks of decay

beside sidewalks

along motor cities’ streets.

There are terminal

and forsaken structures

colonized

with ungrateful squirrels

that abandon

attics for creaking kitchens

with corroded sinks.

Un-shoveled snow melts

slow on walkways

unfamiliar with worn heels

or rubber soles.

There are forlorn relics

patient and waiting

for us to join them.
Gary Gibbens Mar 2012
I am haunted by iguanas
Crawling though the attics of my dreams
And lately my front teeth
Are growing some kind of orange fur

I worry that ring tailed lemurs
Have stolen my remote control
I'm ridiculed by spider monkeys
Holding my underwear for ransom

My faithful cat ignores my worries
Unless her dish is empty
Now ants seem vaguely threatening
And magpies watch me in the morning

Late at night, I wonder what advice
Kafka or maybe Aristotle could offer
But they've never friended me or twittered.
The attic attacks me, won't back
me up in fights with my heart.
Dust will conclude how long I've
been afraid, cleaned for the
dusk; I don't know my name.
Wading in rivers for its own trade,
confront the buyer at higher
stakes than the owner, lower I fall.
"Tone down the pain" mediocre
control over what I am and
what I will become, my thumbs
pricked for another accusation.
I'll discuss my problems only the
world can understand, privated
and classified; I am just a man.
I am just a boy, and these passages
aren't used to show how much
better I've gotten, only if I say I do.
These words and all the strings
of things I can collect, are something
much more deep than you'll ever comprehend.
you believe I am recovering,
because that's all you're allowed to see.
Can't you sense the great dispense
that one day I'll look up from your feet?
All feedback is welcome and appreciated
John Oct 2012
Back in the '40's
My great-grandma used to sing
On the bus

Everyday
Never the same song
Never to anyone in particular

She just used to get on
Walk down the isle
Sit down and start to sing

After my grandfather was born
They put my great-grandma
In the hospital

The loony bin
The cackle barn
The mental institution

In there she got really sick
They said her liver was failing
She liked wine

And soon
She died
They said it was cirhossis

But to this day
That woman haunts
Me

Was she crazy?
Was she just a drunk?
Was she crazy and decided to self-medicate with the alcohol?

I've tried to find records of her
On the internet
And in attics and basements

But nothing ever seems to
Come up
Nothing wants to be found

At least not yet
In the meantime, I'm stuck here
Wondering
W Taylor Feb 2013
I climbed to search my attic yesterday
my brother my father came to humbly help
I told myself I would never fall in
insulation if I tread lightly enough

I climbed to find fruit once
in an apple tree we found
I told myself there was just one
I want and I only need it

There was a man who asked me for change
on the streets of New Orleans
he once told me
about his mom, Melody

She climbed each day
to put 37 years of storms
that looked like sunsets
behind her

Maybe we dodge change
to brighten up
our own attics and caskets
he said

Well I told myself
I want my eulogy to mean
more than the sound
of day to day traffic
the flicker of train lights
or the cleaning
of attics
Medusa Oct 2018
You matter to me,
You art the ghost in coffee
Clouds whistle around you

Too much energy scares
Hoi Poilloi but we rule these streets
Call us out by righteous name

Love is all you have in the Swamp
I imagine it in the hot night
Running from New Orlins

Tide tryin to eat you
Water mixed with kerosene
There is suddenly no god

My three year old daughter
Left in that miserable
Water, and nobody did a thing

9/11 was a kind of blackened day
But when the Levees Break
Nobody gets out alive

Without money to roll
It’s time to yell truth of my city
Marie Laveau in all her forms

She cried with me
She held my hands and said:
Do not lament forever
Sorrow has its place & tyme

Marie Laveau comes to me now:
Saying Rise Up and Save This  City
Something so still, so solemn

Guards the city of the yellow moon

I feel it
Almost reaching it
Hands touch my eyes and
I know them

I dream of Big Chief
Who flew from Heaven
Bringing the saving of the 9th ward

Nothing can save the 9th
But Marie Laveau, both a dem Ave Maria’s
No god no Saints came marching
Saving my role on freeway overpasses

Left there to be displayed, to die of thirst
Where were you, oh God?
We loved you even as we died of thirst
In a country that could pf delivered rations to Iraq
In less than six hours.

We have been sacrificed to low cause
No happiness shall come from this
True badlands, had Saints, and Faith

Nature took but once
Government took it all &
Left us standing
Or dying in attics
Screaming

Save Our Souls
Sean Critchfield Feb 2014
Sometimes we are made aware of beacons in the rest of the dark.
Like stars littered across the attics we trap ourselves in.
Sometimes we chase rainbows with beggars eyes and wishes like children.

Some people are like soup soaked bread crumbs and wool mittens with the fingers cut out.
The rest of us are chimney soot.
And they are ‘chim chim cheree‘.

They are song filling every corner of the antique shop.
Silver under tarnish and weights and measures
balancing on the hands of the scale
suspended from the spear of a woman in white robes
with blue eyes that match the sky when we stare at it
and it usurps the corners of our eyes
and we are made aware of how small we are
as we get lost in how complete it is when it is with out clouds
with silver linings that never seem to follow through to rain.

And some of us?

Some of us are rain.

And thunder that shakes your soul.
And images of gods in black and white that burn themselves onto our minds
for us to study with our eyes closed.
And some of us are doing the best we can.
And some of us are not us.
But are the others.
And we would be lost without them
to point beyond red sails on sundown ocean horizons,
just before the world turns blue.
And some are the pops and cracks between the notes of Coltrane on Vinyl.

And you.
You smell of confessional walls and a nursery.
You smell of camp fire blankets and bruised roses.
You move like corner of the eye shadows
and windshield wipers with no chance of beating the rain.

You write like stone tablets and feathers.
Blown bubbles and spun webs.
And you feel like chance.
And love.
And strength.

You change like ropes on ship decks and tarot meanings from gypsy to gypsy.

And you are beautiful.
And beautiful.
And beautiful.

And everything.
And everything.
And everything.

Strong like ropes on yard arms of old ships in ancient seas.
And you go and you take us there.
And we go, because we want to see too.
And we want to be full on wild flowers and raspberries.

And we want you to show us the line on our palm
that separates the dark from the light.
And we want bed time stories and lullabies.
And with my eyes.
And with your own too.
And more importantly.

You.

You are the place where there is hardly no day time and hardly night. Things half in shadow and things half in light. On the roof tops of forever. Coo. What a sight…
This was an exercise. I enjoyed writing it. Sometimes it feels a little too obvious. Forgive me.
Katy Laurel Jan 2014
Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts
in old attics reeking with romance.
That eternal prayer
found in complete silence,
begs sinners to break purity.

Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips,
creating poetry in sacred space.
The momentary awareness of another,
who craves the absorption of your soul.

**** me into your lungs darling.
I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom
stirring in the temple of my bones.

These truths begin a home
in our late night dialogues
circling around dangerous pasts,
all those golden, fatal blades.

As we make our way back to the red light of sleep,
the attic leans in to touch our skulls.
We respond with agony and laughter.

I slide into sleep,
forgetting all I need to find in your mind.
Accepting the fingerprints
as you press my identity upon your tongue.
The restless goddess within my nature
swallows the mortality
in tonight's poetry.

But this never lasts.
Love is a distraction,
an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency,
a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror
and blames the lack of other.

Learn to leave the fear behind.
You alone are whole.
There is poetry sewn into your veins.
Underneath that sacred silence
there is an original symphony
waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.
Listen Here -> https://soundcloud.com/mcvegh/itch

I  got an itch and I never scratch it.
I wish I could attack it with hatchets
have at it like addicts, -get higher than attics
smother it like asthmatics.
***** out its flame.
Cause the itch lays the tracks for train in my brain
just a scratch and I know that I'd go insane,
so the itch just remains. 
Simple and plain.
But the itch won't control me
cause scratchin it won't console me
the comfort it brings is phony
even when I feel lonely.
I used scratch without noticing
in an itchless-ness bliss,
until I scratched my self raw
a fact that I somehow missed.
that's when you know that you're trapped,
all that you can do is scratch
cause if you don't then you'll crash
a striked match turned to ash.
you've gone and burned out all your midnight oil
nothing left from feasting spoiled
the itch makes your blood boil.
who knew that the pleasure that came from this friction
would turn against you so fast and create an addiction
there's no predictions for scratching
but for the scratching itself
except scratching always leaves you lonely
cause you just scratch yourself
and I wish I could shut these problems off with a switch,
but I got ninety-nine problems and the itch is the *****.
Klaus Baumgarten Jun 2014
finite rapture
well defined. organized
organelles squirming. spurning
unnecessary imposition. repitition
severing me further.
it's still a bright fixture on the horizon
viewed at the far end of winding tunnel of mirrors.

captured in a jar. admired ideas
appreciated from afar.
trembling extended hand retracted.
strong stiches binding. scabs still crusty.
musty attics, shuffling feet.
melting.
swelltering in the possibility
of a potential interpreted properly.

I work better as an idea
than a human.
compose the tune and I'll be the words.
transpose your soul, I'll be the vibrations.
speak between the lines.  I will be blinded.
Beyond thought.
we are aware that we're unaware.

Crystalize.  Mezmerize.
It could be so simple.
To notice the cheeks, but not the dimples.
Four perfect points of light  linger in the shadows
two by two
Ideals. a concrete truth.
Glaciers slowly crack foundations.
Pounding. Pouding.
Resounding. Cannot be ignored
before I am the boomerang
that cracks you on the head.
Blood pooling at the base of my skull
control watered down.
Concrete giving into stress
and a flower has room to bloom/
Joseph S C Pope Mar 2013
I

Crested by the infamous gown
during a tribute                            to all digestible,
                                                     ­  sentient,
                                           grown strips of light
            playing splatter off the sockets
                                                         ­      of fishermen birds,
                                     who can no longer ignore all
                                     the puppy dogs and kitty cats canned
                                                          ­               in squeeze tubes.

Now every corner of this landscape--a puzzle-piece room
                                           designed to think in shades
                                           and seasonal plume dances.

The usual beautiful* late evening
has become clotted with hip hop Down's Syndrome
mixed with jazz Dual-Personality Disorder.

                                                   Vampire Hades' skull evacuated of ****** power,
                                                          ­      a scene of literal watercolor
                                                    wh­ere moods collage with paper rings

                   on their stubby tongues. An unfixed saturation,
                                                     ­         clean oils
                                                            ­   split
                                                           ­    like the parting of hair

                        Alice's pirate boy, her beauty is parched of tomorrow,
                                                       ­ a wolf for a blood-red moon
                 that works like a farmer
                          to      
                                                              th­e                       water.

                            Let us all that are wild
              quote the stormy truth that                          shifts the particles in space
                                             "It is all in the direction a flower grows,
                     educating a sea of doubtful faces--to the cruelty of nature
                                      Close the brutal mind,
                                                           ­       unless your eyes are flame-proof, Alice."

--It is yours to consume
but it is relatively us that belongs to the consequences--

                                                 ­  Churning coffee water,
                                            reenacting romantic bloodshed
                                    to addicts in attics
                                                          ­  --jostling war heroes
                                               back to this side of the looking glass.
--coming back to their tempest
                          of cremated breaths--a den with no one
                                                             ­   to sing with.
        Sad Alice,
   always sad Alice--mud on her face from             the Dead Sea's end
      of immortality           because Death is albino.


II

  
The top of the day,
                                                            ­              negative space
  has a dying voice        as it lies under the boot
                                       of the night sky  
                                                           ­      watching stars.
                                              "Simply tomorrow is right there
                                                above the mortals," Sweet Alice
                                                speaks, "To the many heavens
                                                      its­ overpopulating the fields."

       The earth needs its cotton blankets.
   Fresh air accents symptoms --dancing on slick gravel
  at 10:18 at night with a pale, pompous view of someone else's Paris.

Crocodile roads spit up by patterned archipelago drags,
updating the scream, "think more about going off the edge of hair and the last number
after twenty shots                         of anesthesia." The culture of Spanish sun denial devolves
         the fig tree
     novel delights.
99% of the fear that saturates the throats of people is a blonde tumor.
1% of the love is too passionate to contain the fires of field cotton.


III

         end of immortality
accepts her                 trying to escape her pirate boy
              but tones of nostalgia prevents the revival--a war with God, herself,

                                                       ­                 trying to escape looping Paradiso,
factory vents malfunctioning forth
                   the guts of Inferno.                     Purgartorio  plots on
                                                              ­          erased continents
                                                      ­   rolled down lamp shades/ everything is useful,
             waste nothing.

Republics spawned in damp pits stamp bargains on trust
     ringing each solo anthem as one: I saved you,
                                                            ­  feeble beast.
                                                          ­    I saved you,
                                                            ­  dear lonely and you didn't care.
                                                           ­    I reserved us both
                                                            ­  and you cast me back
                                                            ­  into Dante's imagination.
                                                    ­          I saved you,
                                                            ­  you feeble child
                                                           ­   and you burned
                                                              me­ with your
                                                              wo­rld.

     Weaving Alice, calm Alice lies in a dingy on the river Styx,
                                  cobwebs fit to her feet like rank shoes
           she gave her children when they were born malnourished
                                        ---starved of insurance money, mouths agape
for the silk heart of their father--an image of a moth in the shape of a human pelvis
                                                      with­ alligator mouths on the wing tips. They shared
                                      --Alice and him--those wings like scribbles tied together on chalkboards
                                                     ­                                 
                               ­                                       --places to venture--

Your Wonderlandia, she spells, a wasp's nest
                                  of combs
                                          in a hive locked
                              in with the others--concave atlas skies.

            Alice smiles with inebriated
   country boys
                          tossing comrades in the natural flow.
             Richly blonde Alice, admires the impression
                        of the night
                  once charred dreams,
                                               now volcanic forests.
              She glides on a dingy
              across the luscious joy
                             --lubricated veins in atheist's beliefs
                                 don't get lost here, just new places to venture.

Beneath malicious eternity, on the River Styx
                                                            ­        
               the boy she adores
                                    all of a sudden, she steals his hat,
looks into his double-barrel eyes,
                                       sees how sad
             she makes herself                  --like a mother tired of brushing
                                                                ­ her daughter's hair, looming tears
                                                           ­                                         extend beyond widows
                                                          ­                                          to the water.

                      The pirate boy says
            his friend isn't far up the river--she cries through her hand.

                               Hopeful Alice prays, smiling, hoping everyone goes to Wonderlandia.
                                             The pirate boy never finds his friend
                                              but keeps his promise
             and takes her away from Euphoria
                                                        ­       --the cranium loss still fresh.
Akemi Jun 2014
I was kinetic
Tired, frenetic
Wasting alone in my room

Three years gone
You hooked my attention
I braced for affection
Flooded the halls

I was so blind to the care in your voice
All I could see was your hair and your throat
Gripping to sever my lack
I bit as deep as I could

I wanted your blood
Because it glowed with warmth
I just didn’t care anymore

Hope is an addict
Roaming the attics
Of memories long gone

Love is relentless
Lust is wreckless
I’m selfish to the core
9:30pm, June 10th 2014

Care does not equate to love. I hurt everyone I touch.
Deep Thought May 2018
"Things don't need to last forever to be perfect." - Daydream Nation

Can you recall when your innocence was lost?
Maybe it had to do with all the alcohol you've drunk?
Without knowing how to cope, resulting in night terrors.
Impenetrable, irreplaceable, imcombustable, irrevocable memories.

Trying to relive, revive past memories, experiences, pictures, and videos framed for all to see.
Memories etched into our brains like an etch-a-sketch board.

Do you remember the innocence you had as a child?
Whether coming home to a pre-cooked meal or riding your bike around aimlessly.

Storing memories in the attics of the mind.
A dark & dusty room filled with cobwebs,
Perhaps you'll find those packs of cigarettes you lost.

Similar to the stories in books or movies on Netflix.
Trapped between delusion & fictional fantasy.

We are the retrospective light - angelic humans.
Think it's time to let go...
What do you think?
Akemi Apr 2013
You gather all this worth
Hoard it underneath
A thinning stretch of pale landscape
Sinking with every birth, retreat

No one visits, no one inhabits

Perpetual grey, another day
The blur between blinding white and black
That frightens all the children away
To upstair attics, ageless rests
Amongst damp death, worn life

What a monumental memory
Keepsakes we cannot relive (relieve)
What a monumental tragedy
Keepsakes we cannot forgive (forget)

We will all shrink
Head or heart or soul
Skin and frail bone
To earth, alone
We will all shrink
Head or heart or soul
Skin and frail bone
To earth, alone

No one visits, no one inhabits
Your memories

What is your memento?
What is your vice?
What keeps you stolen from the sleep at night?
What is your remembrance?
A better, worse time?
What keeps your heart set aside from life?

I know mine, I know mine
Her dead living eyes
11:45pm,  April 10th 2013

Memories, opinions; actions and conscience.

Empty visits to long gone places.

Motivations lost.

I can't be the only one.
Dwelling on mistakes.
Long closed doors.
Rather than those open.
In the here.
The now.

Why am I so gone?
A L Davies Mar 2012
the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.

the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poetry
    along my spine.

the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.

the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ...          crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.

the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.

the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered  
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.
product of reading dylan thomas overmuchly
Sabila Siddiqui Jul 2019
I sat there like a museum of moments,
a mosaic of emotions
as she dissected my personas
and did an autopsy of my past.

Memories climbed my spine
from the forgotten attics in my heart
with every question, she asked.

But my tongue was a drought
and my voice box was a rust box,
as the child in me
was bullied into quietude.

My edgy, messy and raw memories
molded my perception,
rewrote my interpretation
and deepened my experience.

There was underlying vengeance
as the layers of fabricated scabs were scrapped
to disclose the deeply entrenched, tender emotional scars.

As the present, struck a cord
my limbs would turn into cement
as the echo would bring me back
to the endless street of time
and I would be dragged
through open wounds within me.

The pain would seep in the nooks
and crannies of my soul.
At every jibe and remark
one more part of my flesh
would be chiseled away.

The sky would join in my sorrow
as the clouds gathered like sheep
summoned by a shepherd
and then we would begin to weep
our unresolved issues
onto tissues.

I revisited the bathrooms
that became sanctuary in high school
with its gossip soaked walls
and tear-stained countertops.

I dream of the people
that have lost their way in my memory;
a fabrication of nostalgia.
But the tranquility of waves,
can’t even erase the memories of their wrongdoings.

My past engraved itself
into my muscle memory
ingrained its teachings
and matured my sensibility.

The dim shadows that would creep
And the blues that I would pour
are becoming budding flowers in my chest.

Weaving from the same web
I was entangled in
building from the same sorrows
I was drowning in.

I began connecting,
understanding its stem
stitching my memories.

I write for my younger self
who felt silenced and erased by the world.

I shape all the tainted pieces of memories
into art and paint shades of my past
as each is soaked in a memory.

I craft subconscious relief,
breathing memories
into 6 alphabets
that were strung into paragraphs,
beginnings and end.

I reached out to corners
to bring out
sunrises and sunsets
and reignite dying embers
as I de-spell the damage that silently reverterbrates through generation.

I find home in my skin
and love myself, whole;
Shadows, crevice and all.
My Dear Poet Jan 2022
Don’t cry tears
cry seeds for roses
who found no place in Eden

Don’t grow guns
Fight for the flowers
that bloom in shadows hour
waiting for the sun

Like crawling moss
inside cellars
where wine is stored
from twisted vine
Guard your heart
and mind

Or ivy in attics
where memories are hoard
away from eyes and light
Guard your sight

Tears fall like pellets
scattered shells of bullets
buried in dirt, like seeds
that shoot up into hurt

But if you’re wounded
by life
plant a garden
in every light of your love
Keep your head up high
wait for the sky
to shower you from above
Sespoquet Jul 2012
What is there to do
with time you are wasting away?
Sit transfixed to a seat
uncomfortable from wear,
picking scabs of today's work.
Todays that have turned into
years.
Years of wishing for
tomorrows.
Tomorrow's bell ringing your ears.
Wetting your eyes.
Friction between lung and bone.

What are you doing
wasting your time not staring at stars?
Feeling terribly small
and just as large while holding a child's hand.
Writing stories about the dead
while your lovers live in attics.
Trip though snow and
fall into water's embrace.
Tell your mother you love her and
kiss the forehead of your father.
Run through airports to
fly through trees.
You must sing through fog.
Sing while naked in the fog.

What are you doing
passing the truth as fiction?
Winking and crossing fingers
while standing in intersection.
You must catch yourself on fire
to be humble enough to love.
Jump off building to test your faith.
Sleep on the roof and embrace fear's power.

What is there to do with
all the time I am wasting away?

— The End —