"blankie" poems
Why is hellopoetry.com black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so viveamus per camenam nostram.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
How I adore your nerve
when you kissed me in your closet upon sheets made of legos
and all of your childhood dreams.
How easy I am for you to draw when you play on stage the song that you wrote me,
The one that feels like rock climbing by the river,
Like naps in the summer when I drool on your chest and you don't mind,
Like kissing you until the very last minute of my curfew,
only to break it for the miracle that is your lips.
How alluring is your breath on my neck,
Your voice in my ear when you told me that you loved me
and you didn't stop smiling,
even as the years went by and I did.
How I craved, longed, begged for time to be still
the time you took me to the highest hill you could drive to,
You called it my mountain.
"At first, you look at it and it's so small,
but once you notice it, it's all you can see," you said.
How my stomach floods with waves of nostalgia and a taste
of everything I've ever had to live without,
With complete and utter spell-binded devotion at the simple familiarity
of your smell.
How addicted I am to your laugh when you're happy and
the mastered impression you do of your mom.
How weak I am to your intellect and your appreciation of literature
and real music,
Your enthusiasm for art and the "name that note" game you force upon me
as you stumble onto the classical radio station.
How in love I am with your romance that is as childish as my attachment
to my baby blankie and my mother's childhood walrus that you never ceased to insult.
Our pajama day that we decided over our prom,
When we turned on John Mayer and slow danced in your room.
Your idea of a date consisted of fake wine and me.
How incredibly warm are the coldest of nights,
On the side of your dirt road as we lie in the snow that is too cold for comfort,
yet holds us there with the fear that one day will not look the same as this one
and I would bear any amount of cold winter to keep one more moment of yours.
How I cherish the way you latch my pinky with yours when we walk
And the face you don't know you make when you play guitar.
The rooftop where you kissed me for the very first time and the string rings
we wore to remind each other we were still there.
How incredibly and unfortunately devout I am to all that I remember of you.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
awh, Little, you’re so sweet
waiting for daddy by the door
lavishing him with love and kisses
awh, Little, you’re so sweet
you want to play
daddy will
after he sits on the couch
and rests for a bit
awh, Little, you’re so sweet
turning on Disney
getting me sweet tea
and a plate of cookies
awh, Little, you’re so sweet
covering me with a blankie
cuddling up with daddy
and watching tv
awh, Little, you’re so sweet
i am so lucky
to have you
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 8:55 PM UTC
The wobbly love bits
woke up when the morning is
still fogged by cold purple-hued
freshness
She covers her face
but reveals those baby eyes
to follow you with
mirthful wonder
and she flails her wobbly fingers
and wobbly arms
with playful waves
and her mother
takes away her blankie
And she is dressed in
blue, and that sort of
beauty all crammed inside
that little brand new human being
can be quite
overwhelming
Her few feather hairs
and happiness-crinkling eyes
and mouth in a laughing sort of circle
and her invisible neck
and super puff-loved
cheeks
And love-hearts
fill the air
and spread joy
though your bones
and nerves
like warm sunshine
that melts
yesterday's despair
and dissipates
all the tiny
agonies
within
her radius.
-To Alice
Jan 7, 2016
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
*To Nick, Love *****
Don’t grow old.
Don’t leave behind your
skinned knees,
chubby cheeks,
and toothless
chocolatey grin.
Don’t grow old.
Don’t forget that nothing is too big
to fit inside your pocket
and to forget about for awhile
(like your crayons.)
Don’t grow old.
Make time to pretend
the floor is covered in lava
and the only way to be saved
are the throw pillows from your couch.
Don’t grow old.
Remember playtime,
and naptime,
and snack time.
Retain your sense of wonder,
feel free to proudly display blankie,
and keep that childlike beauty you wear so well.
At least on the inside,
don’t grow old.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
I’m old enough to know but
too young to know better
the state says I’m an adult as of May
but I still don’t know what I want to be
when I grow up,
except for still carrying around my Blankie.
Teddy Bear holds up the pipe to my lips
I can’t do it on my own, I’m not so good at this,
he says breathe deep Baby, I’ve got you.
The fuzz on his face is rough when he kisses the top of my head.
Taj and Tibby walk in holding hands
“Baby!” he smiles and leans down to kiss me
“Hey little one” she says and hugs me tight.
Lauren and Luke come out of their room and
give me big smiles.
Everyone is glad I am home and I exhale
grey smoke because I am glad too.
I am the baby, but I am also the best cook.
While I clang pots in the kitchen my man pours
champagne and turns on the new speakers.
Chicken Piccatta for dinner, because when
you feed people, it’s the best way to tell them
you love them.
The flimsy laminate floors are sticky,
the practically cardboard walls are dusty,
the room like a cave is dark even with the blinds cracked open
but Taj makes us laugh and we dance to the music.
Kitchen table cleared of drug paraphernalia
becomes the flimsy garage-sale/side-of-the-road version
of the dinner table I grew up with.
The people crowded onto its edges
a kind of family.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
In two months it will be two years since i saw you last
It's not fair, it's killing me
You deserve better than to grow up without me
I look out the window and watch the rain
These days without you cause me so much pain
I wanna run away from it all
Only thing i do now is sit by the phone and pray that you call
You were so little when I first met you
You deserve better than to go through this too
Five years old and still had a blankie
Without it you would get so cranky
Now your what, 10? you grew up so fast
All I do now is suffer through the days that go past
We would fight, but thats what bonded us together
Remember when you found me that beautiful white feather
I have so many memories with you
I wish i could make some that are new
Now the days go by
As our memories drop like flys
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 11:16 AM UTC
It must be the silence.
riddles on the other line-
rise of breath, slow muted sighs
raw red ripples
what are your rhythms
to me
I whispered for bravery into swollen knots of a weeping willow
sweeping scarred strength rough on my pulse
revealing to the roots my daily face to face with
not knowing
and the belief that I can wait
as a coo soothes a napping field
rocking, deep in care free slumber-
I feel you too
will someday brush across my cheek, careful
sending troubles with a hush
quiet as the day shy's it's gaze to the night
There will always be a pause
escalating expectations, suspended seconds
when the door heaves closed
and I'm tugged into innocence
clutching the air for a blankie, holding close
the possibility everything will be alright
I keep a wilting daisy on the floor beside my bed
dampened by the shadows, colored by my eyes
it will dry completely, defeated on the carpet
yet there will be more
and I will always fill the vase with water
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
The west wind blows
white with snow
pushing the new mom
with her new babe
in a new pram
I looked over
and all I could see
was a blue hat
and a blue blankie
with a pink nose
in the middle
snorkeling up
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
You tell me all the great things about me
And you text out all the wonderful things we will do together
But I am not the one for you.
You are simply lonely and lost because you are so detached from others.
You are in a cold tundra of confusion
And I looked like a warm security blanket to grab onto.
I am a manifestation of what you want:
Something that is warm
Wraps you up to shield off chills
Soft
Brightly colored like my cheeks in the winter
But I am not what you need.
What you need is someone to brush the snow out of your hair
Someone to treat your frostbitten fingers
Someone to nurse you back to health
Someone to cradle you in their arms...
And a security blanket cannot do that.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:00 AM UTC
The Buzz of a mosquito
Is the sound of something trying to be quiet ,
With a motive ...
to **** your blood
.
It's Impossible to sleep now,
so I Turn on every light .
This poem could go on --
About bugs being attracted to light,
Especially bugs that I don't like.
The slow reach for the tee shirt to roll up-
The satisfying snap, with a primal yell-
Blood on the wall
Lingering guilt after it all,
After a breath,
I click the lamp off,
and tuck into my warm covers,
My blankie's so soft!
expecting to enjoy such a peaceful rest,
But sensing weight,
Sitting on my chest...
The mosquito thirsty for my blood,
Somehow had took my best..
it's tiny buzz of life nowhere
Within this newfound silence!
One can hardly sleep
Amidst the saddening absence.
-Hayleo Liz
Immediately shopping for mosquito net
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 2:58 AM UTC
My little piece of security,
hiding me
from the monsters under my bed.
Every single thread
with love have has been fed
as every night we cuddle.
When my head is in a muddle
or the storms make me huddle,
my blanket is by my side.
There's been so many tears it's dried.
In my best dreams, it was the guide.
It is wonderfully soft and soothing.
On rainy days it's uplifting.
When my world's ending , it's encouraging.
That's why I'll always love my blankie!
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 3:22 AM UTC
No matter
the weather
Rain
Or shine
With a blankie
Its better
With a blankie
It's fine
You rarely
Find Riley
At a tea party
With out
the security
Of her snuggly
blankie
This blankie
is special
Introduction
Necessity
Hello Riley
"My blankie"
Morning
To night
Never
Out of sight
Riley
loves her blankie
Always
holds it tight
Someday
She'll grow up
And forget
What it was
But we'll always know
It was something
she loved
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
bruised knees and bandaids
your mom is no longer your best friend, she'll scream words that burn your ears
she won't read you fairy tales before you fall asleep at night
CD's and ballet
school buses, new folders and the boy next door named Tyler
he'll want you for your body, he'll spread rumors throughout the school
you'll only want it to go away
girls you share laughter with and teachers you idolize
everything becomes different
the only thing you'll share with those girls is a pack of cigarettes and the stories you hear in the hallway
gummy bears and juice boxes have turned into prescription medicine and shots of *****
just wishing for one good day
your special blankie and your favorite hair bow
hidden in a closet behind the new skirt your dad doesn't like you wearing
disney movies, popcorn made on the stove and your whole family smooshed onto one couch on a friday night
those friday nights turn into another day of choking back cheap alcohol and ignoring your grandmother's emails
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
Sticks and stones break bones.
The whole world rushes over
To sign your cast - okay..
So if the mind cracks,
But no one cares to listen..
Does it make a sound?
If we go to war
With ourselves regularly,
Who's the terrorist?
I would say being
Mentally sick's more about
Being sane than calm.
Day One - It All Starts.
The sunshine dims, with daylight
Dwindling to dark.
Day Two - It sets in.
Scars and wounds are kept freshly
Scarlet red. It hurts.
Day Three - It Doesn't.
Sadly, it all becomes moot.
Now, it's your routine.
Day Four - Friends Notice.
That's why they stopped trying to
Convince you to live.
Day Five - Mom Worries.
She loses sleep, sort of like
How you have. Scary.
Day Six - You Give In.
Staring at the ceiling is
All you can manage.
Day Seven - You Choose.
You've had enough. **** it all.
You plan it all out.
Waking up at 4
In the morning, trying to
Drown in your own blood.
Taking the doctor's
Pills and shoving them all down
Your throat with no voice.
To secure things, you
Get your childhood blankie
And tighten a knot.
All your tears cascade
Upon the floor. you're thinking,
"What else do I have?"
You sum up your guts,
Step on the stool, and look out
The window. Goodbye.
Just as you jump off,
You catch yourself. Still in bed.
Profusely sweating.
It was all a dream.
You cry until dry heaving
Saps your energy.
You last one more night;
Amen. Warriors like you
Deserve to fight on.
You are stronger than
Sticks, stones, words, pills, razors, life -
Keep going. I beg.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
Ritual is not specific to any race, ethnicity, culture, way of life or person.
Tradition, if not engrained and present, is despair.
I remember moments in youth:
pungent, exultant,
bike riding sand castle building,
good old fashioned fun.
I remember some moments of ten to fifteen years ago, I remember moments from 6 to 7 months ago.
I've forgotten some.
I opened, read, and placed the money aside
from graduation cards. I was surprised when I opened a card
received from campus ministry leader with no money, only a sweet note.
I counted the money happily, twenty dollar bills, fifty dollar bills, seventy-five dollar checks.
I checked my text messages, every seventy-five seconds
and heart skipped, slipped a beat when my mother calls and says
she's driving to Canada, she's got to get a way.
Really she's locked herself up at the Econo Lodge behind Big Boy's
only, approximately, eight minutes away.
And we drive up, and she presses her face to the motel window, door locked secure, and I press my hand up to the window.
But she won't let me in.
She consumes, she consumed.
But she wouldn't let me in.
When I come home from my first year of school
I will tell her
I am an actress, too.
I know some folks.
They sink down.
Sinking dirt into the ground,
landslide and erosion.
Buildings, structures depressed and falling in.
Make yourself bigger, I advise.
Open your eyes, blink quickly between the palms of your hands,
face a window, if it helps.
See the light.
Did you see the light? I did.
Repression,
hold.
Hold.
Keep holding,
hold on tight to your bike handlebars.
Hold on to the straps of your book-bag until
your elbows cramp up stiff.
Hold on to your blankie,
rub it all over your body.
Inhale,
do not suffocate.
Exhale,
and feel good and bright.
You've done something good for yourself.
Feel good about that.
You've just brightened up your whole house.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Some nights, my Blankie covers me up tight
And whispers filthy secrets to my bones:
“I’ll love you ‘til the warmth calms down your fright,
I’ll be here guarding you from dark Unknowns.”
He feeds me dreams that fill me up with hope—
So sweet like sin!—they never were to last.
By morning light I wake up, left to cope
With sandy eyes: the salt of good dreams passed.
But some nights—dark and dreary nights—when all
The world and stars are vexed under Selene,
He leaves (my ****** body bare)—His wall
Is never there to truly keep me clean.
He’ll never touch my skin again, for I
Will sleep with clothes that love me ‘til I die.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
Raindrops on wood floors,
sly, creaking doors.
Bumps in the night,
screaming with fright.
Your blankie, grasped tight,
eyes, searching for light.
Shouting and fighting,
bawling and hiding.
You run, you cry,
but you can't deny.
He's here again,
"Come, so we can begin."
No, please stay away,
I promise, I promise I won't disobey.
You kick, you scream,
you bite, you dream.
But another night lost,
you sleep from exhaust.
Tomorrows a new day,
maybe this time he'll stay away.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
audrey rarely got the mean reds
but when she did, the answer was never to stay in bed
she would grab a cup of joe
peer out the window
nibbling on her breakfast treat
while sparkling jewels radiated so neat
the sight would replenish her mind and warm her heart
after tiffany's, ms. hepburn's day would happily start
this was HER solution- here is mine.
the mean reds are affecting me as i type
my method of distraction always gets me out of this hype
simply put- i need a steaming cup of gypsy green tea
a warm blankie and dimly lit room help the thoughts start to flee
then all it takes is a song to set me in the mood
typically "find it" can configure a less shaken attitude
then i drift away and think of all my blessings
the mean reds are gone and my life is less distressing
thank you audrey.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
I kept it.
It's safe even after all this time.
I bet you never thought
It would still be around almost thirty years later.
But it is!
And I still run my fingers across its seams
While thinking how you must have felt
As the needle and thread guided by your fingers
Made every stitch
Knowing you'd be giving it to me.
You loved me and made it for me,
And I wasn't even born yet!
It's not in pristine condition,
I'll admit.
But it's intact and as whole as I still am.
We both have our holes:
Our badge of honor to bear in this world.
But we're here,
And I now intend to keep it that way.
And one day,
One day you're going to see me
From whatever corner of the universe
Your soul now calls home,
You're going to see me,
And you're going to be proud
To say I was once your granddaughter.
I wasn't your favorite or even the best,
But I was yours
And that's all that matters to me.
Kind of like this Blankie you made just for me
Is mine.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
Sad and sunken, sloppy
Reclining in their paperback seats
Heads lolling forward like they are made of
The rags they are clothed in.
Rags they sleep with. Clutched like a child's
Blankie to hold them down on the
Concrete bed made from their cold and hard
Voice,
But soft words, that built their bones
And concaved skulls, empty but
Open like a bowl to be filled,
Like their stomachs will remain unfilled,
Like their stomachs
Decaying,
Un-used and un-taught.
Soft, sloping, shoulders,
Slick but slump tongue,
Too heavy at the base of their throats
To speak and sigh,
They sway in their hollow frames
And sink lower in the cold.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 2:07 AM UTC
From the pages of Peanuts came Linus
Neurotic but here to align us
From his blankie one learns
About coming to terms
Lest our character flaws should define us
Oct 19, 2024
Oct 19, 2024 at 3:56 AM UTC