"belted" poems
Small hands holding tight
To strings of laughter
On ends of floating
Bubbles of wonder
Sand filled toes in shoes
On quick feet, dancing
Through my greatest dreams
Of who she will be
Soft kisses from lips
Formed from my own heart
Melting into a
Stream to her future.
Sweet songs of her love
Belted with fervor
From within the small
Light flowered sun-dress
Mischiv'us smiles with
Doll filled hands playing
Games to fill the day
With her glow of joy
Bright eyes signaling
A future brilliant
As the twinkle of
the stars they've stolen
Trusting complete love
Holding tight to life
As it floats away
On bubbles of wonder
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
Bluto, the world’s strongest man, could tear bread loaf-sized pieces off a steel-belted tractor tire with his bare hands.
But he could not lift a single smithereen of his sensitive Piscean heart when Lily, the luscious, leggy Leo trapeze artist, left him for steely-eyed Arien Karl, the literate and literary lion tamer.
Horoscopic Circus, Act II
She was a Cancer Dragon. Like catnip to the Piscean Tiger, whose feline DNA was his Achilles heel. Especially when she wore heels. And nylons. The end is nylon, he thought. I love you she said. I love you more he affirmed. And firm he soon became. Then being the ringmaster, she opened her mouth and incinerated him -- as only dragons can….
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
we smoked our cigarettes
and belted out car duets
never listened to any advice
figured trial and error would suffice
we ate past when we were full
and felt life's strange alluring pull
but we learned it was never enough
to sit back and relax and love
you can't repeat the past, Gatsby
I wish someone would have told me
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
So I turned 32 today.
Penniless birthday,
almost.
Howling rains
woke me up
and I fell back asleep.
And the cat respected my
birthday.
Did not claw my lips like
my usual feline alarm.
The birthday flowers
in the morning
were vivid.
My mother bought them,
deep red and
deep yellow.
I requested
for birthday lunch
my mother’s
home-cooked burgers
and fries sprinkled with
iodized salt.
And I filled myself up
with them hot and crispy
fries
and didn’t care if they
stayed inside my guts
until 2014.
I never really liked cake.
Opted for a dozen original glazed.
Heavenly donuts.
Two of them tumbled down
the escalators.
The first birthday flaw.
Like a bleep in the
grand scheme of
birthday things.
I brought them to a Greek
restaurant.
My mom and dad
and two sisters.
Not really hungry.
Just hungry
for a different taste.
The salad had candied
walnuts among the greens
and the reds.
Progressive Greece.
Then a classic lamb dish.
Classic Greece.
And the waiters
in stuffy white
bellowed a birthday
greeting, dropping the “h”
from my name.
Belted out a non-Grecian
birthday song.
No Grecian dance.
But they gave me
an ice cream treat.
Lighted a solitary
blue candle, which
balanced on the semi-liquid
hills of vanilla, caramel and
walnuts.
The small ice cream hills
illuminated by
the dancing
birthday light.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
I want a relationship
That's anything but typical
One that defies cliches
And the definition of spontaneous
I want to be so in tune with another
To the point where it feels
As though a piece of me
Has crawled its way into him
Permanently
I want a relationship
That takes a detour from anything
Stereotypical
Such as dinner and a movie for a first date
To thrift store shopping
In the streets of Seattle
At dusk
While ending the night
At a warm cozy cafe
Situated on a quiet corner
In the shadows of the city
Where poetry is either
Softly spoken
Or bitterly belted out
From within one's own soul
On a rugged beaten-up stage
With nothing but a spotlight
Mic
And wooden stool
All while we sip on tea
(Because I don't like coffee)
And reminisce on the moments
Worth remembering
That were made that day together
In between fits of laughter
While secretly dreaming
About the future ones to be made
In the comfort of our minds
As we tightly grasp our warm mugs
In front of our lips
To hide the shy smiles
That dare to make an appearance
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
I was young when I learned to sing
to the rhythm of fists
flying through the air
like birds too angry
with the season to call.
I was young when I thought a tune
could drown the sounds
of my mother’s sobs
crashing through hallways
in tidal waves and monsoon misery.
I was young when I carved
songs in the wallpaper
and into my delicate skin.
I turned bruises into syncopated beats
and scars into major scales.
My stepfather hated music
but I was an ornery child,
and I sang of joyous things
just to see if his soul could dance,
but instead,
I got two left feet in swift kicks.
When I was was young I was afraid of sticks
because I thought my body was a drum
to be beaten and battered
to a punishing rhythm.
I was young when I learned
that the taste of blood on my lip
was merely the flicker before the intermission;
the finale would be a grand display
of pomp, punch, and unlucky circumstance.
My mother was a tone-deaf drunk
who never learned to sing.
She belted begging in B flat octaves
like it was the only note she knew.
She wept an ocean of sorrow
as I sang my S.O.S.
“God, save our sinking ship.”
“God, save our sinking souls.”
“God, save our sorry stepfather from himself.”
And when I thought to cry,
I sang my little heart out instead.
I sang of devil's meeting end,
and I sang of daughter's finding love,
and I sang of mother's finding
strength enough to leave,
and I sang to the happy families
that only existed in sitcoms,
because my stepfather hated music
but I hated him far more.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
O
The Who
belted out adolescent
stress
through edgy
guitar riffs
like they still had
pimples
long after they
became
famous.
And me
I
I
often forget
that
I'm
I'm
supposed to be
becoming
a
Man
or something
like that.
My hands are bleeding surely:
my guitar pick isn't my fingers
but soon I'll write these nonsensicals
in blood. But nobody should scream
out for that. Nobody should buy
my words like rock-albums.
Nobody should ask Who
is he and Who
am I because
me
I
I
often forget
that
I'm
I'm
supposed to be
becoming
a
Man
or something
like that.
While
The Who
O
The Who
belt out
out adolescent
stress
through edgy
guitar riffs
like they still have
pimples
long after
becoming
famous
like Who?
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
He refuses to offer a piece of his heart
'Cause he can't trust it'll be kept unbroken
He keeps his feelings belted smart
Chances for new emotions left untouched and unspoken
He offers his rut, fresh and mastered
Decides it's the best and most he wants for now
The heart that's growing a case on him is being plastered
At the mere longing to exchange a loyalty vow
There is hope he will change and offer more
With no guarantee of his final choice for a future;
There is hope, at the depth of a bruised heart still sore
Longing to hold him close upon his merciful role as a suture.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
to a friend
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her--strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
3k
Celia looked at her reflection
In the back of the spoon;
Her face was blown outward
As if captured on some balloon.
It almost made her laugh;
The memory of it;
How she and her sister Sassy
Would do that as kids,
Before the dark days,
Before her death in a bath.
That drowning, that sad death.
Sassy’s husband had beaten her
Black and blue and green
And she’d hide herself away
So as not to be seen.
But she’d seen her,
Seen the bruises
Like smudged tattoos,
The closed eyes,
The swollen lips,
The hardly able to talk words
Pushing through the mouth
To say: he says he loves me still.
Celia stared at her reflection,
The way her own mouth was distorted,
Her lips blown up, her eyes enlarged,
Out of proportion.
She almost laughed,
But something about Sassy’s sad death
Made her stifle any guffaw
That may have broken free
From her distorted reflected jaw.
There was the time she’d seen her
********** for bed when she stayed
Because Sassy’s husband (the weird freak)
Was off on business, some big deal,
Needing to be pulled off,
And she saw the black and blueness
With tinges of green
Along her naked flesh,
The buttocks welted
Where he had belted.
Sassy had said nothing,
Had not noticed Celia looking,
Had not thought it unusual
To be unclothed as such
Away from other’s peering eyes.
Now Sassy was dead;
Found in the bath;
Drugged out, wrists slit,
Having drowned recorded.
But he had driven her over the edge;
He had bullied and beaten
Like some spoilt cruel child
An unwanted toy.
Celia turned the spoon over
And put it down.
No more desire to laugh,
Just fond memories of Sassy
Before her death in the bath.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hings his head, an’ a’ that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Our toils obscure, an’ a’ that;
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp;
The man’s the gowd for a’ that,
What tho’ on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin-gray, an’ a’ that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their tinsel show an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that:
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His riband, star, an’ a’ that,
The man o’ independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities, an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s coming yet, for a’ that,
That man to man, the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.
2.6k
THEY have taken the ball of earth
and made it a little thing.
They were held to the land and horses;
they were held to the little seas.
They have changed and shaped and welded;
they have broken the old tools and made
new ones; they are ranging the white
scarves of cloudland; they are bumping
the sunken bells of the Carthaginians
and Phœnicians:
they are handling
the strongest sea
as a thing to be handled.
The earth was a call that mocked;
it is belted with wires and meshed with
steel; from Pittsburg to Vladivostok is
an iron ride on a moving house; from
Jerusalem to Tokyo is a reckoned span;
and they talk at night in the storm and
salt, the wind and the war.
They have counted the miles to the Sun
and Canopus; they have weighed a small
blue star that comes in the southeast
corner of the sky on a foretold errand.
We shall search the sea again.
We shall search the stars again.
There are no bars across the way.
There is no end to the plan and the clue,
the hunt and the thirst.
The motors are drumming, the leather leggings
and the leather coats wait:
Under the sea
and out to the stars
we go.
2.3k
138
Pigmy seraphs—gone astray—
Velvet people from Vevay—
Balles from some lost summer day—
Bees exclusive Coterie—
Paris could not lay the fold
Belted down with Emerald—
Venice could not show a check
Of a tint so lustrous meek—
Never such an Ambuscade
As of briar and leaf displayed
For my little damask maid—
I had rather wear her grace
Than an Earl’s distinguished face—
I had rather dwell like her
Than be “Duke of Exeter”—
Royalty enough for me
To subdue the Bumblebee.
2.2k
Cam ye o'er frae France? Cam ye down by London?
Saw ye Geordie Whelps and his bonny woman?
Were ye at the place called the Kittle Housie?
Saw ye Geordie's grace riding on a goosie?
Geordie, he's a man there is little doubt
He does all he can, who would do without?
Down there came a blade linkin' like a lordie;
He would drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie.
Though the plaid were bad, blythly did we niffer;
Gin we get a wab, it makes little differ.
We have tint our plaid, bonnet, belt and swordie,
Halls and mailings braid—but we have our Geordie!
Jocky's gane to France and Montgomery's lady;
There they'll learn to dance: Madam, are ye ready?
They'll be back belive, belted, brisk and lordly;
Brawly may they thrive to dance a jig wi' Geordie!
Hey for Sandy Don! Hey for Cockolorum!
Hey for Bobbing John and his Highland Quorum!
Many a sword and lance swings a Highland hurdie;
How they'll skip and dance o'er the *** o' Geordie!
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
I shed tears
You shed humanity
I dread and fear
Your unstable insanity
You loosen your compassion
Like it's your belt
For it's in your fashion
To inflict welts
On the ground I knelt
Doubled over in pain
From a punishing rain
My eyes welled up and my vision got blurry
I was unable to break your encryption of fury
My mind was in constant examination
Of your gift of violent contamination
Lines were crossed on my back
Living life on your torture rack
You become my God
You never spare the rod
My brother may be able
But I'm on *******
I turned the tables
By torching my brain
On the ****** train
I invented a game
Out of ruining your creation
My veins experienced deflation
Until I saw the error of my ways
Adopting your negative craze
You wanted me to get used to pain
But I'd rather get used to change
The effects of corporal punishment are felt
When society hits us with a conveyor belt
Convincing us if something worked it must continue to
Our childhood experience this is imprinted through
We figure our children must be belted
After our minds have been smelted
Forged in fire
Our hearts retired
As we grew colder
The beaten grew older
And reproduced
And re-introduced
A punishing perception of the world
They beat the clam that holds the pearl
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 6:06 AM UTC
Natures dilapidated rhythms
Carves itself into the trunks
Leaving only an omen
To be enchanted by a passer by
This fellow lone traveler
walking into ceilings of emerald delusions
The saintly stones and the creaks of trowlbrooks
He can not help but to gasp even to deafened ears
Lulled into complacency by decades of broken legends
The anointed ones and their fractured promises
Still somehow a harmony of one lonely leaf called out to him
Echoes from an apocalyptic cavernous wasteland
All the worlds suffering adjoined in one single note
With the agony and punishment
of all the dehydrated souls
The traveler was resurrected by the choice to live in a world of sensation
Rather then some brick containment
He chose to let suffering be fall his confessions
With a symphony in one hand
And a chain saw in the other
He belted the incarnation of freedom
They all tumbled for the rocks
he , the saw and the beauty
The clashing cascade
A blessed rapture and necessary harmonic sacrifice
all to the gods of that ensure we never have silence
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:10 AM UTC
A Stirring biomass, a grim river
Garrotted by mud and each rusted carcass
Dumped over the slow years -
'And we saw the metal of a woman,
A frothy corruption, naked and open,
we prised her from the mire, and saw the city
through the eyes of the sewer,'
The Lady from sludge,
your toady skin broke
as you flopped, nymph-like on board
Caved-in by the tumbling sky,
And air like leather. Dry in the throat.
The sweating walls spun his head,
And the cogs whirred to fast
To bite back. Space and time-blind,
He turns to the sepia city.
Like new life,
ready for the fall of man.
Through the river of time elapsed,
Churning up memory.
And there's the glitz, the cracking lips.
that bet on goodness.
'I remember being a girl - and my mother -
smiling but never sad -
I waited for her every morning'.
The forgotten root scratches out life
Underneath vast and forgotten hangers.
The lungs of the city shed their skin
To keep pace with the smog.
See what we all don't know.
And live where we all can't see.
He led her to a room with broken windows
and one swinging bulb,
She wasn't scared.
Dank Amazon.
the roots are wires,
sprawling for grip for the sulking trees
In the great ape eco-system
'I'm a cruel joke, don't you see?'
As her eyes slowly rolled.
'I'm sorry'
As her fists unclenched
'Im Sorry'
As her knees went limp
'I'm Sorry'
Belted by un-silent night
And below gridlocks of light
An I.C.1 male is being chased
By screaming vans, run rabbit
Down the hole and off you go.
And the hiss of 'one eight seven,
one eight seven' from the radio,
is scoring his run - as the pools on the floor,
neon-flashed burst open
in a booted shatter.
'And the time went by,
And I looked at your form
And I looked at your cuts
And you are the river
And one of its secrets, un-watered'.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
She was 9.
Several steps to the right, she discovered the bolddboldepth of her constant sadness.
Those plastboldiboldc stars on the ceiling fought it out, using the plaster as a battlefield.
Shifting, every few seconds, blending cries and screams with glowing shapes.
Their pointed fiboldvboldes click-clacked as she gazed in awe.
Greenish-yellow geometry soaking up the tears.
Words she couldn't understand belted boldoboldut.
The anger was astonishingly real.
There was feaboldrbold, but also strange curiosity.
As she pondered, she drifted back to sleep.
"We must solve this puzzle before the sun finds us, this is our last boldcboldhance for hope"
And with that they disappeared.
From the skyline above her bed.
From the windows.
From hboldeboldr memory.
She was 9.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
His old mare cantered into to town
The covered wagon followed
A boy's first trip to town alone
He took it in, and swallowed
Penny candy dreams last night
And sarsparilla floats
The ladies' parasol fineries
The men in pinstriped coats
Perhaps a whiskey, what the hell
Today he was a man!
But first the livery stable for Brownie
For oats and a water can.
The .30-30 saddle gun would come with him, of course.
He also grabbed the belted Colt from the pommel of his horse.
The warped board sidewalks led past stores
His worn boots clopped along
He strapped on the .36 Navy Colt revolver
And fastened down the thong
He clopped down to the first saloon
Laid his rifle on the bar
A sporting girl sat next to him
With the unlikely name of "Star"
"A milk for the lady.
Myself as well,
Barkeep, if you please!"
A cowhand howled out raucous laughter,
Flipping up Ms. Star's dress, to well above her knees
"That little pup, he wants some milk
So Star, give him yer ****
I'll bend him over, spank his ***
And then give YOU a treat!"
The young man's vision doubled, trebled,
The shame clear on his face
As tears welled up in big blue eyes
A witness in every soul in the place
"Aw, the little ***** is bawling! WAH!"
The cowhand bellowed out
And all false mirth left his expression
And he gave the boy a clout
The boy just sat and sobbed and watched
As Ms. Star joined in the joke
But cowhand was already 3 bottles in,
In a flash, her nose was broke
Cowhand reached across the boy
To grab that sweet, sleeved rifle
The boy grabbed cowhand's wrist just then
And twisted it just a trifle
A yelp and howl from cowhand's mouth,
"YOU BROKE MY ****** WRIST!
NOW you're ****** you little sprat"
He took a swing, and missed.
Red faced, clumsy, humiliated
He drew leather on the boy
Dead to rights, he had the kid,
He realized, with grim joy
An explosion, a thump, on warped pine floor
Blue smoke curling in the air
Utter, vapid, vacuum silence
Patrons cemented to their chair
The tears were gone from those blue eyes
Blue steel as his gaze fixed
A hole had grown in cowhand's head
The size was .36
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Sometimes I wish I could escape
I could be free from a restriting cage
All I want is to run from my agape
I try to talk but you do not engage
What are you but a deprived dragon?
Your soul eating what I have to offer
I pull my sorrow in a dark wagon
Though love should be in an ornate coffer
No matter, my sad love will not prevail
Your heart's ice will never be melted
Love will never answer my last exhale
From now I will keep my love belted
Because I must chase the clouds and dreams
For you will never know a heart's schemes
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 9:18 PM UTC
No saintly tears for this belted
asteroid 208 .
A rock headed into
insignificance , as it twirls
around some son/sun of long
forgotten already tomorrows .
Life's long road ,
crushed rock , hopes , and dreams ,
are tarred into
submission ;
driven madly over in derision .
Yet you dare crave more
than time , and space , and memories .
When we know that tears from heaven
saintly flow forever .
And will wash all traces away .
Like the riders of the storm
that deluge the three rivers charged
with pain , forgotten love , and time's
indifference .
Hush now , the last flickers of light dim ,
thy song was beauteous , but there are never encores granted
by the Angel that never cries .
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:36 AM UTC
Ross was a fullblooded
bronze-skinned buddy
from the Navajo Nation.
He was a diehard Okie,
and a machine gunner,
carried the M-sixty
with twenty pounds
of extra belted-ammo.
He was a big guy,
had brown deep-set eyes,
high cheeks and
not a single hair
on his burly body,
but some high and tight
pitch bristles on his head.
He had a weakness.
Pure Straight Whiskey.
Whenever he had too much,
he was an F5 tornado,
a wild Tasmanian devil,
to be reckoned with.
I remember when he had
his front top teeth knocked out
by some civilian bouncers
at a local drinking establishment.
He kicked the **** out of
three huge muscle guys.
It was him versus them.
A regular melee.
Ross won.
Once on a Saturday night,
drunk as skunks,
we made an illegal turn
on the Interstate south of Denver.
We ended up flying down the highway
with four hundred feet of wire
attached to wooden poles,
sent sparks flying everywhere.
I never saw a guy laugh
so hard in all my life.
He ****** himself hysterically.
We gave Ross his first Native American name.
We were out in the field,
just hanging out
in battle gear,
shooting the ****
around our APC.
We called him Prancing Moose,
Moose for short.
He loved it when
we called him that,
gave us a toothless grin.
He was a warrior to us.
In another time and place,
he might have been a Chief.
He was courageous,
fearless and
a good friend
to have in your side.
From time to time,
I think about him,
and pray he's okay,
still alive.
He was our blood brother.
We were in hell together.
I miss him, too.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
He didn’t love her for her body.
He loved her for the way she belted out the wrong lyrics while blasting music driving down the highway.
He loved her for the way her eyes brightened like stars on a cloudless night when she saw him.
He loved her for the way she twirled around in her pretty blue dress, barefoot on the soft grass.
He loved her for the way she fumbled over the piano keys, creating a barely recognizable melody.
He loved her for the way she woke up on an early morning, all grumpy and confused, wrapped up tight in a blanket.
He loved her for the way she splashes around in the ocean, kicking the water at him and motioning for him to join her.
He loved her for the way she loved him.
He didn’t love her for her body.
He loved her for her careless, sloppy soul.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
The ugly poetess
Over the housetops,
Above the dry blades of the sugar cane husks
I have known fear, I have known hunger
I felt the pain of a nail wound deep in my foot
I belted out the blues like Nina Simone
An era of reform: the moments of truth,
On top of the hill, lies a village in Barbados
Acid rain, rooftop leaks on to my bed
It was a rough year:
only food sources were rice and breadfruits
We lived through it all:
It was my destiny:
To love and to hate them:
those old fruit loops
Through the eyes of a uprising poet
The curving of his pen,
Somehow, he made amends, he purge
the smoky air,
the disgusting sight of the pig pens
out of his mind
lack of personal dental hygiene,
the elders lost their teeth
Grinding down on sugarcane, while they
awaits the big meal of the day
Supper!
With innocent eyes and achy feet
I read so many books for inner peace
My stomach was empty,
but my mind was at ease
To dream big while aiming high
Marlene, Delores, and Linda
Known as the vanishing three
Migrated to North America
Where a Barefooted child
like me wasn’t supposed to be
Eventually, I know I would have followed
I have woven my feathers,
while looking upwards,
In my little corner under the old rusty galvanizes
.
At the old country shop the vanishing three mothers
told me that I wasn’t pretty enough to leave the island
Words of hatred, mere words of discomfort
I felt my wings tighten against my rib cage,
My tongue, glued against my jaws
From that day forward the poet smile against stupidity
And spitefulness, she too had come to
Eat her words, the old shopkeeper
The poetess enter another line from that era
Uncaring beauty without brains
Where are they now?
I walked with confident down that street
The misty air moist my skin
The poetess return to the Island of Barbados
Without the sugar in her blood..
.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
As we picked up the sticks and stones we used to break each others' bones,
our bodies tensed in the claustrophobic silence.
Never forgetting elephant in the room, she wouldn't go unnoticed.
Over-sized, heavy mammoth, pregnant with disclosure
Yet she couldn't give life to her word's desires.
Stillborn.
But the waters were far from it.
They escaped from my eyes, down my face
running wild and free, sweeping away everything in its path as my heart wished it could.
On your face, they roared like waves travelling at great speeds,
crashing onto the shores of an island neither of us felt welcomed in.
We cried.
We belted our sorrows to the skies while rainstorms consumed our eyes.
& there we were.
Picking love's splinters from our hands.
Asking questions that would never leave our mouths.
Giving answers to questions trapped in our dreams.
You, my love, had the upper hand.
I gave you the bigger piece of the wish bone.
I placed the ball in your court & you just kept bouncing it to yourself.
Up and Down.
Not much flight.
No direction - Like a bird with vertigo.
It broke my heart to stare at the silhouette my private parts know so well
but still unable to see the soul that played bodyguard to my private thoughts & dreams
that sometimes I couldn't even admit to myself,
but somehow you just knew.
You've changed.
You're not the angel I once knew.
Bright eyed, optimistic and sure of yourself.
A smile so bright it blinded the sun
and a laugh like poetry in motion.
A heart sliced from the breast of an angel
and a love deeper and richer than a saltan's pockets.
No need to tell me now we're through.
It's all over now.
You've Changed.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC