"busies" poems
The water is too cold to consider moving forward.
Gazing across the water for so long, the sky prepares for dusk.
And from the river bank or the water, it seems to be enough
That it is the same sunset. The warm colors make calls.
But those were the words bouncing in my inner skull walls.
And still, because this view always beats the other horizon.
Keeping both eyes faced forward.
The west busies my eyes then.
The spaces between me and the water is where the pain lies in.
And sometimes from deep in my core.
I think I might hear a call from the opposite shore.
I just glance over, my body's too weak to explore.
But that was just a bird call, from the top of a tree.
Nothing less, nothing more.
Wondering when the sounds will be calling for me.
I watch her swim, on a side farthest from where I can see.
There's no current, but the water looks as if it's moving her this and that way.
The wind hasn't picked up, and she's floating away.
I want to stand up and yell, but what would I say?
I can only know this is as close as I can be today.
I recall the times you swam so close I could touch you.
You lost a feather this morning.
Who knew what I'd get myself into.
Holding on tight to the grassy land
Reaching out to grab your lost feather with a careful hand.
Your feathers haven't changed. The same white, edges so smooth.
Following the middle's solid groove.
From the other side you look at me.
But neither of us move.
I want nothing more than to touch you, when you swim past me I stay thinking.
Knowing my boat might have a hole, and I can't have you see me sinking.
So there I am, left to contemplate linking--
My hope with your chances, to the stars that are twinkling.
My spot on the river bank is clearly love stained.
I don't think it will ever be gone.
No matter how much it may rain.
I stay looking west, imagining a rip in the horizon's thinner part.
Then the earth and the sky would be peeling apart.
Maybe leaving nothing but the two of us left.
Oh, man, but it seems like such a mess.
I know it is simple. The water is too cold for me to be.
I wish to leave.
But can't unless I can take you with me.
I imagine us finding our way through the stars.
Forgetting all about the planes and the cars.
But I can't start thinking about all this.
I look across the water; you're still much too far.
Both changing, as we gazed, each of us half of one desire,
"Maybe tomorrow," I hope, as I find where to lay.
Just out of arm's reach you settle in,
and whisper--
"I missed you today."
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 7:10 AM UTC
Dusk is busy with her daily bit of frenzied painting,
in the western horizon messed up by dark, fat, nimbus
with an intense wish to make it look strikingly different,
from that was in display yesterday and the day before.
The colors appear in fluorescent flashes and in the next
instance changed in to mixes of more ruddier hues
suggesting a separation, an invasion of black night long.
The beating blue waves of sea are all red with empathy
and the sun is pleased to come down for an ablution
in a sudden change of mind, swims to self immolation.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
-Elizabeth Bishop
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
He sits on the carousel wheel,
her lover neglectful-
looks over the night as the neon illuminates the shiny people.
He sits on the carousel wheel
and loves to get stuck at the top
so he may contemplate jumping,
so to contemplate swinging with madness
from one
cart
to
another
and then
safely
to the
cart that
holds her. Hero, him.
He looks over the crowd as they swish around him-
sway around him
moving by him as if they were dancing to a song in his head
but he is not dancing.
He's looking for her.
He pops several balloons with a fiery dart
walks away from the girl with the silken stockings held to her
thigh by violet bow...a violent blow to his lustful ways, he looks firmly down
to the dirt on his boots, kicks rocks, kicks air.
Stops at the man who swallows fire from a stick,
"answer me, answer me"-
the man spits ember lies.
He's looking for her in each clown
pulling their make up down with his finger
and it looks like they're crying
so he can't really know
if it is her he has found?
Oh neglectful lover.
He busies himself by winning a prize
for his beloved, his lost
A prize- his reward for believing in true love.
He busies himself, knocks down milk bottles-
and punches the punching bags
insults the slow and disgusted carnie hags,
He moves from gate to gate
and it feels more like Hades
inside
where he's lost her
so he's been lost.
When he's lost her he's scared
that she will not feel, lost but found.
And he will not feel found-
but destroyed.
Teacups to twirl around
the dance he will swirl her around to
the day that he marries her,
if he can find her,
nay- when he can find her...
he'll put her in the teacup ride and
never let the spinning stop.
He'll fill her life with lights and sounds
and cotton candy
and he'll marry her he will
right on the tiptop
of the ferris wheel
where he sits looking round.
sahn 10/19/14
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
A prolonged war with virus has worn her quite a bit
Back home though from hosp she is still far from fit
I don’t know how to cook can’t make a simple meal
She drained of strength has to gather all her will.
For she knows for all my rhymes I’m practically no good
Won’t budge from my ignorance to make for us some food
In the kitchen I tell her ‘show me how to make
A few basic dishes I’m tired of cornflake’.
She says ‘too late dear, know what I feel?
You lost thirty years to grow some culinary skill’
Then she busies herself while I get lost in rhyme
Her occupation is life saving, mine not worth a dime.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
Frequently I find myself covered in soot
Looking down I ***** shackles tied to each foot
Above I see bolts of boring bold steel
Limiting the stretch of what my feelings can feel
Within the private gift we all have been deemed
I am vested in crisscrossed layers uncleaned
Hammering my head are your ticks and your tocks
Recalling my labors for horrid have nots
I must amuse the begotten bejeweled
Robotically remain a chaotic fool
Most of us have been trained to forget
But avail awaits harvest like a reserve in the mess
Special they are that save and revive
Recognize the saviors that make you alive
Ahh…
Safely deep is the desire, a vision of retreat
Infectious is the perfect picture which I have begun to see
Fussing forgone, and put down with glee
I've found the buzz that busies me
That awakens my long since lazy feet
And ends the feast that which my fears eat
The world has given my soul a rhyme
To which I flow and from which I rise
I confused my curse; I'll refuse no more
Its decidedly a gift that has settled my war
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
since being found, father busies himself helping mother locate her copy of the report of missing person. if sister thinks hard enough about puberty she can pick a lock. she treats her fingers as if they’ve fallen into the wrong hands. paints her nails with white out.
I clean only at night. I scrub severely the bottoms of my feet in the event I start retracing my steps. any thought I have lasts as long as any thought god has
on volunteering. my one friend became my friend by feeling up the top half of a train tied mannequin I’ve come to believe has been falsifying evidence.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
gray skies blanket a green field where
gray uniforms throw and catch
throw and catch
throw and catch
gentle breezes pass by cap covered faces
gentle breezes float up and reach inside an
old brick building
third floor
where she busies herself with
case studies, course selections, chord charts
while sitting in her favored window seat
perfect view of the evergreen turf
occupied by number four and his teammates
while sitting in her favored window seat
perfect view of number four
as calming peace meets obligation
resulting in relaxation
unknown for quite some time
resulting in slight longing
unknown to her own heart
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
She's broken.
Her heart throbs at the losses she has obtained in her life.
She stresses over the future, the present, and the past.
She tries to hide away and snaps at people when they enter.
School has her preoccupied for hours until time to go to bed at 2am, only to be awaken by her thoughts and dark shadows.
Maybe she busies herself with school to get away from the reality.
May she busies herself because she is afraid of loosing the light that seeps within her.
There's a light inside the girl. So fragile and dull, once bright and shinning. What happened? She closed herself up. She hid away the light. It had once drawn so many people to her, making her feel pretty, happy, and something to someone. But her walls built up, sealing the light as everyone left her by death or by pure amusement. Leaving her the broken fragile being she is.
She misses being vibrant and strong, but how can she when she loses her faith? How can she when everything in her life seems to go wrong.
She depends upon doctors, counseling, pills, just so she can be happy again. Sometimes it works but after a while she realizes that it just masks everything, she tells the doctor and the pills change. There's never one happy pill, it just changes and changes until there is no more left to try.
She's forever ****** up in her own head. Her eyes growing darker, her soul growing duller as no one will brave the walls she built and the mountains of pills she takes to find her again.
If someone would just find her.. if someone would look for her through the darkness and shadow, to see that little sliver of light shinning through the seams. She wouldn't stress so much on school. She wouldn't be so worried of trying to get into a college. She wouldn't be so worried about her family and about love.
She wouldn't be afraid of losing the light. Of losing herself.
....
If someone had the courage to find her, she would be free.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Mismatched socks and baggy t-shirts
we bumble down the stairs.
We sit Indian style in our chairs.
Mother busies herself between
the table and the stove.
We're having pancakes
shaped like Mickey Mouse.
And we're talking.
She asks about our dreams.
Little brother is four
and he dreamt about race-cars.
She smiles and listens
"What did you dream Garrett?"
The sun shines bright into the kitchen,
he blushes at the attention.
"I can't remember I'm too sleepy."
He' so beautiful,
its all so beautiful.
Then its my turn.
I talk fast and with purpose
I dreamt about trampolines.
Everyone listens
and then we eat pancakes.
Just an average Saturday morning,
family breakfast.
Because we were a family.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
she walks in rain clouds
she walks in rain clouds
on bright crisp winter days
the night
and it’s terrors still haunting
the infantwomanchild
innocence a foreign term
ravaged by. that which cannot be.
u . t. t. e. r. e. d.
__________________________________
held captive
in the horrors of darkness that plague her
despite the rays that warm her face her hands are icicles
protruding from appendages
blue and veiny
nearly necro
in both body and soul
as neither dawn nor day
hold solace their strength sapped by the all too real battering
of the loathsome black hours that trap them
__________________________________
consumed
in the hangover
of fear and remembrance
she looses her way on a path she has trodden many many times
but never left a crumb trail
____________________________________
solitude frightens her
as does silence the demons that lie in wait there
terrify her
to her core she restlessly seeks out companionship
busies herself with distractions
futile attempts to vanquish
the memories that plague the stillness
___________________________________
she walks in rain clouds
on bright crisp winter days
tenaciously holding on to her umbrella
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
my heart yearns to write
my emotions yearn to be expressed
my thoughts yearn to be free.
i would give anything to satisfy these pleas
but alas, i cannot.
my pen won't write,
my keyboard busies itself with essays and research, and
my creativity has gone mute.
it feels like my soul is stuck, frozen in time,
trying to force out the pretty words that produced so easily before.
the more i try, the harder it gets
the more i lie, the number it gets
the more i cry, the easier it gets.
perhaps i need to come from a different approach, like i have today
just stop bullying my feelings, just stop wringing my mind,
and be content just letting it flow.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
The crowd
busies itself
selling lemons
and shoes,
but beneath
the sweeping
scrapes of wall,
a pyramid
of eyes
greeds for
a death.
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC
a non-person interacting with a baby I began. I am bright
but want to be distance.
inspiring kindness
busies
the kind.
the photo captures nothing
that is not
aftermath. you can keep
your
to god I tell my secrets.
to be my father
I fight his.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC