"barrette" poems
In the fields of fragrant flowers,
I see Mother’s supple silhouette
shimmering with the soft sunlight.
Her hair tied with peony barrette;
Sweet smiles radiate at sight.
The sentimental scents of myrrh
Wafts from her body; my eyes gleam;
I run towards and embrace her.
Is this a dream? Is this a dream?
In the fields of fragrant flowers,
This time and space is of great blest-
I wish there was no tomorrow.
For months I have been left bereft.
I tell mother of my sorrow;
I wish to be with her and roam
Away from life’s chaos and gloom.
Return to the land of our home,
And see orchid blossoms bloom.
I ask mother if I could stay;
Thousand tears cloud her gentle eyes;
She kisses me like rainy day;
It is time to awake and part!
My heart weeps with the wintry wind.
Her spirit; many miles apart.
I am alone and left behind
To face this world’s reality.
Must this be my sad destiny?
All that is left
Is scents of fragrant flowers.
(c) 2018 Joanne Chang
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
I woke up wanting your arms around me.
I put my contacts in,
brushed my teeth,
and looked into the mirror
wanting to catch your loving glance.
I poured coffee in a souvenir mug,
mixed vanilla cream and sugar,
and forgot I hated coffee
wanting you to kiss me as you took the mug.
I placed clothes on my tired body,
a barrette in my curled hair,
and blush on my cheeks
wanting to feel them get warmer when you smiled.
I drove to work,
hit every red light,
and listened to the radio
wanting to hear you sing the words wrong.
I waited for your call at 8:10,
for you to tell me you love me,
for our Wednesday lunch date
wanting for this to just be a nightmare.
I walked into an empty house,
your jacket hung on the staircase railing,
a ***** sock without a match in the laundry basket,
and the bed unmade
wanting to find you under the comforter.
I go to bed wanting your arms around me.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
12/9/09 ·
Addictive like a Cigarette
More beautiful than the evening sky
So painful like a needle directly to my eye
I try to keep it together like barrette
but my feelings is a pitcher who throws it to the outside
Ur sweet
I wish I can stick to you like a fruit fly
I want to let u know how I feel
but if nerves can **** I'm already dead
Emotions all in pieces like a puzzle
I wish this can be said
I feel like a dog ready to bark
but my mind is my own muzzle
Your joy is what makes me happy
Still I have no joy
Head spinning like I just finished doing the El Roy
Never will I take u 4 granted
but not being able to speak
I'm slowly turning into a manic
In which it's a blissful form of depression
Cornered like a boxer
I'm ready to throw this bout
but seeing you in my corner
keeps me from going that route
I may have lost by the judges
Yet I still feel like a champ
cuz I know ur 1 of my cuts-men
Apart of my training camp
As magnificent as you are
I will not take the risk
I will remain silent
and
Let it blow away with this mist
So it can scatter around and never end
I'm happy but not satisfied
I want you as my Mrs.
but since this will never come
I'm happy to still see u as my friend
Not really to the end
but
Ongoing 4ever
V.v.V. Ds
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Garbled voices through
walls thick, yammers and whoops
make themselves known. Intermittent
laughing adds to clues
of celebration next door. She
checks under doormat and
deep in mailbox, as she sees more
guests arriving with big trays
of film wrapped fruit
and crudités. Her invitation isn't
in sight. Venetian blinds keep
blinking peeks, all night, as others
come and go.
Cinder block fence separates.
She combs her gray greasy hair,
puts in rhinestone barrette,
wishes upon a star.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
I feel most beautiful when my hair is haphazardly thrown into a French barrette, my pajamas are loose, and my scented lotion on.
I couldn't tell how much of my usual actions tonight of quickly twisting my hair, or picking which scent to wear, were influenced by my love for me or you.
I gently pulled the frontmost curls from the barrette and clasped on a delicate necklace in my vanity mirror. I selected the small, expensive bottle from my collection to melt into my hands, wrists, and clavicles.
I would never leave the house without this evening routine, and even though we're only crossing the street, I indulge in my reflection. It's the most I've loved myself all week.
I don't look to see if the lashes are perfectly parted, if the hair is tamed, if anything. I just take in my sights and scents,
and I secretly hope you do too.
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 8:39 PM UTC
The back of a pearl earring, a maroon scrunchy a bowl. Filled with jewelry silver necklaces twisted tangled. BIRDS OF A FEATHER blue nail polish. Crinkled bed spread white curtains ball point pen, scattered push pins. Black boots in the corner, one laced one undone. Half of a lit cigarette ashed on the window sill an imprint on the mattress, purple index cards splayed over a white desk its paint chipped. Glass mason jar filled with coins a barrette collecting dust underneath the bed. A guitar missing two strings a grey green flannel. Grey rug. Ray bands a phone charger a porcelain bowl, prescription bottle. Tie died lighter bear with a missing eye and bowtie. The dog chewed it off.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
Nobody could possibly remember
That awful horrible thing of the past
But I can recall last year's September
A new girl who dreadfully outcast
She stood way out far away from the crowd
No one around to even speak to her
She would never mutter a word aloud
So her years here went by as such a blurr
I can no longer speak on her behalf
It is her very own story to share
But here I can show you this photograph
Of her and her beautiful golden hair
But I am sure you will not forget
The time she gave you her blue barrette
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
Her eyes resemble
a fading filmstrip
left in the bottom drawer of our wardrobe
next to a lilac dress I’ve outgrown
and the rest of unrecognizable memories.
Her bones poke
like a yellow flower barrette on my scalp,
a sharp pencil on a tender wound,
a hand of a neglected child burying
anguish on the skin of another.
Her mouth has grown
poems too soft for my hands to hold;
i try to lie with them, a blister beneath her tongue
where your name now resides
and washes away
the sweet perils of a love like ours,
her chest, now its graveyard
that she no longer visits.
It has turned into a museum
of the things she’s built with you.
Limbs, hands, fingers —
All delicate things I wish I had — was
instead repel finality
in ways ugly,
in ways desperate,
in ways this poem can never soften.
But some things are made for ending,
Some bodies, for leaving,
Some hearts, for breaking
Some grief, for feeling in all the other places
and in all the other parts
where she once laid her kisses:
now just quiet, empty skin
aching, under the colder half
of October’s distant breath.
10/01
My anatomy still learns to forget
about the love it swore to remember.
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 3:25 AM UTC
That night
when I found
Another girl's
Hair barrette
in Your bed
And I pretended to believe you
When you said that it wasn't someone else's
How could it be?
You're being crazy.
Who else's would it be?
Was the night that I thought
I would never look back
And here I am
Just like that
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:32 PM UTC
12 am
My brother called me
He told me he was bleeding out
Those where his last words
Still my tears don't fall
So let the liquor keep Pouring down
Keep that barrette playing
Its feels like home to me
Lost so many Homies to the game
I dont know when I lost my soul
Im trying to change my ways
Its getting hard every day
Never felt in so much pain
Half my pomes
My tears don't falls
Just writing this
my tears just pour
Im trying my best
But half I not
Where am I posted to go
If im lost
in the back of skull
I got a pack full of thoughts
That I can't control
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC