"calender" poems
There is nothing more unsettling
than a teenage Christmas.
The coming of age
when adults find their inner child again
and you have to try and get rid of yours.
11 is fine.
Part of you still believes Santa put the presents under tree.
12 is also okay,
just a little less pixie dust stirs in the stomach on Christmas Eve.
13, 14 and 15 are tricky.
You don't want to look babyish by getting too excited,
so you shrug it off and ask 'Santa' for a mobile phone,
a laptop,
a TV,
until by 15
you ask for the most 'grown up' present of all.
"I just want money."
The words burn your lips and tongue like acid,
a yearning for the sensation of a gift you can unwrap
tugging in your rib cage.
You can't buy that.
16, 17 and 18 are Christmases tinged with nostalgia.
Little ghosts of the younger you run down the stairs on Christmas morning,
feet clad in slippers and Power Rangers pjyamas askew,
whilst you follow in procession,
almost a funeral.
It's not that you don't like Christmas.
It's not that you don't love your family.
It's not that you don't feel a fire light in your belly when you bite into a mince pie,
it's not that the battered Christmas videos your family replay each year don't still make you smile,
it's not even that you've gotten too old for it all.
Have you?
Slippers and tiny fists batter against advent calender doors,
begging you to open them.
When you're 19 you do.
You let them out and let them rush to rip open their presents under the tree.
You let them eat their selection box first before dinner.
You let them cry when the Snowman melts
and you let them laugh and not mock heave when your father chases your mother with mistletoe.
You let the ghosts become holograms you can play in your mind like a projector and slides,
no longer a need to leave holly by their graves
but a chance to remember and smile.
You let them be happy.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
The calender reads 2016
But its feels more like 1984
Have you heard the crying
The American dream
Lying dying in the streets
While big brother
Is strapping blinders
On our heads
And shackles to
Our hands and feet
Were being lined up
By the rows
Willing prisoners
Of the slave power
Empire of minimum wage
Shuttling our children
Off to the animal farm
Market of big business
And big lies
***** water mixed
In with the rotting
Apples of the
New American pie
The sugar isn't sweet
To the starving
In the street
While trash cans
Over flow in the back lots
Of the super market
Super chains
Of the slave power
Empire of criminal rage
And its the cold dark waters
Of nuclear waste
Soaking the pages of the calender
That reads
2016
In these days that feel like
1984
No kindness or compassion
For hands shaking tin cups
Needing just a little change
Just a little shelter
From their sad weather lifes
Living on the cold ground
Below our overpass ways
No shelter and no change
No compassion and no kindness
In the fist and pockets
Of the slave power
Empire of ignorant ways
Bullets, bombs and hate
Harvesting fresh blood
For the ink
To print the pages of the calender
That reads
2016
As politicians write us back
Into the pages of the days of
1984
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
It’s a 5 day world out there,
followed by a 2 day scare
of baths and walks
and holiday forecast talks.
Planning goodbyes before you’ve left and gone
whilst sitting still on Subway platform one,
with stationary thoughts
like the stationary train,
wiped down and dried
by the city state rain.
It’s a 5 day world out there,
followed by a 2 day scare,
together another
7 day affair.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 11:31 AM UTC
The Slow Starter (1958) - poem by Louis Macneice.
A watched clock never moves, they said;
Leave it alone and you'll grow up.
Nor will the sulking holiday train
Start sooner if you stamp your feet.
He left the clock to go its way;
The whistle blew, the train went gay.
Do not press me so, she said;
Leave me alone and I will write
But not just yet, I am sure you know
The problem. Do not count the days.
He left the calender alone;
The postman knocked, no letter came.
O never force the pace, they said;
Leave it alone, you have lots of time,
Your kind of work is none the worse
For slow maturing. Do not rush.
He took their tip, he took his time,
And found his time and talent gone.
Oh you have had your chance, it said;
Left it alone and it was one.
Who said a watched clock never moves?
Look at it now. Your chance was I.
He turned and saw the accusing clock
Race like a torrent round a rock.
Louis Macneice
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
As I lie awake staring at the clock
flashing 2:04 am in florescent blue
and a calender gone untouched since
June 10, 2012 yet months have passed.
I remember...
Rain pounding down on the awful roof,
wind slamming into the already cracked window,
even all the blankets around did no good.
Your words- that one phone call replays
in my mind, so do my actions with each
of my sobs, our whispers, your laughs.
The weather now the same
the soft Valentine rabbit clutched tight.
One single answer
haunts me more than anything else
**** I miss you...
God, I hate myself...
I'm probably not going to sleep
cause I'm mesmerized by the
florescent blue flashes of 2:04 am
and all the whispers of June 10, 2012...
I wanted to say yes...
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
It was July and something inside of her began to thud. small and light as a pulse grew from a seed at the bottom of her belly, weaved and braided with veins, commandeered organs like ivy on headstones. washed up and sprouted from her chewed down fingernails, popped blood vessels in her eyes. she thought, 'if this isn't dying then it must be blooming.' this new presence was abashed by the absence of Arabic script and an African summer. it wept at dogs as they panted; they could let go so easily- a few deep heaves and they're back to pure. easy and breezy and not the sad, harsh tear of skin below shoulders, the bruises creeping over wrists and the shredded esophagus. the soiled heart and tar-heavy soul. it panicked more and more as the calender blew past. it sobbed as tomorrow became today and today became yesterday.
i lived a hazy summer. brown skin and hair that turned red at the crinkly ends as it baked. i walked through cornfields and slipped on husks. landed on my back and erupted in giggles at the snowglobe sky protecting me and caging me. incense and gin were as consistent as the advent sun. music blaring and bodies bumping and no release. no escape. my little book of plans was solid and secure. and then smashed. ripped. no poetry and braids. not dreamy just silly.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Life flows through the doors,
Dispersed by the ceiling fan,
A makeover for every patron,
The waitress serves a second chance.
Ex-husband but current parent,
Negotiating with a teenage daughter,
Two untouched lunch plates,
As the gap grows further and further.
Central focus being on a book cover,
Held by an E.R nurse still in her scrubs,
The waitress tries to decipher a meaning,
All while wiping leftovers from table tops.
The calender on the wall says Friday,
And in walks a sundress along with a button down,
Two steaks and a red rose,
Right up comes the waitress with a dinner to astound.
Beginnings and ends in motion,
The clock cues for the 40-something man,
In the far corner he sips his black coffee,
Forlorn eyes of a widow staring at a wedding band.
Wiping beads of sweat from her forehead,
Retying her hair into a secured knot,
Exhaustion slowly kicking in,
As she refills the coffee ***
The college girl strolling in with her book bag,
Smiles with pity at her as she gives her order,
She thinks of how her minimum wage must look,
But her love for her job makes her smile never falter.
Days are something treasured,
Every hour, a different movie plays,
She collects all those stories,
With the tip left after the customer pays.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
Calender Girls
Miss January, keeps me very warm,
make me glad, that I was born.
Miss February, covers me from snow,
oh man, can she really blow.
Miss March, knows her wrong from right,
never had a ***** so **** tight.
Miss April, is a famous **** star,
she likes to take things a bit to far.
Miss May, gives me an all day smile,
all month long, we walk the mile.
Miss June, looks good in Daisy Dukes,
I'm waiting on the line of Bo's and Luke's.
Miss July, blows me a birthday kiss,
she likes to hold it while I ****
Miss August, wears a bikini thong,
then we smoke a big fat ****
Miss September, wears a back to school skirt,
not sure if she even owns a shirt.
Miss October, likes to trick or treat,
her body tastes oh so sweet.
Miss November, lets me fill her turkey with stuffing,
at first I thought she might be bluffing.
Miss December, likes to sit on my lap,
her sweet *** I like to slap.
I love, I love, I love my calender girls,
triplets with the youngest one in curls.
I love my calender, that hangs on my wall,
it makes my ***** stand so tall.
Even though it's all my imagination,
my train always leaves the station.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
I sit on my **** by the fireside chair
and talk the mill talk to the calender man
but he doesn't care
he just watches his gauges and pressures
how precious he is
to the factory owner who allows him to live
on a pittance each week.
And while he clothes the World
in his mind he would seek
a botany bay
where his ancestors lay
and put roots in that ground.
The sound of the press, blocks the sound from the bell
just as well
because that ringing in his ears is not the bite from the future
but the teeth in the fears of his past
and another bolt of cloth has been passed by the foreman
and ticked off the list that he keeps in a book
to read to the crook who works in accounting
and pushed to the double entry
in another book amounting to
daylight robbery
but the snobbery of the age is another page set
in the mill town you get
****** all.
The fine hall's for the Master and all you survey
are the ruins that lie in the ruins of another day.
Get away
to get away and walk through a gateway into a better day
but the Devil you know is the Devil you pay and what would he say
if you jacked in the mill
and worked down the mines
better times indeed?
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
Outside the window
I see the snow
There's nothing I can do
It's as cold out there
As it is in my heart
Waiting here for you
Suffering through Christmas
Alone beside the tree
Remembering the day when it
Was only you and me
The world ices over
Before my eyes
The wind is blowing strong
Freezing me
Down to the bone
I thought you were the one
Awaiting for the Spring to come
All the ice to melt away
But even when the chill is gone
You won't be here to stay
Dreaming of all the flowers,
Happiness, and sun
Even when Spring does get here
In my heart there will be none
For every cycle has its end
Mine has come to pass
I should've known, just like the seasons
We could never last
So as the months go by
And the calender's seasons change
I'm stuck in this cold Winter
My season stays the same
Sitting at this window
Knowing what I see
Knowing I will never feel
What everyone else seems to be
All other people
Feel the light of Spring
Experience the heat of Summer
And all the happiness Fall brings
For me it's only Winter
Shorter days, even longer nights
By this window I spend my day
Searching for your light
The light you brought into
This dark heart of mine
When you left you put it out
Gone, without a sign
Here by this window
I search everyday
Waiting for your light to shine
And my Winter to fade away
But the sun never shines
Down on my face
Happiness I do not see
There never is a trace
Patiently I view the land
Empty and quiet everywhere
Your footsteps hidden under the snow
Like you were never there
The wind whispers through the cracks
In a sweet, soft tone
Almost creating a presence here
Where I am so alone
In this place of ice and cold
Where Christmas never appears
Excitement from the days of old
Is now replaced with tears
Someone move along this season
Winter, and all my fears
So I will have a reason again,
To smile when Spring is near
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
"Do you...?"
The elder asked in late September,
It wasn't difficult, I knew the answer,
But still I paused, briefly undisturbed
And every detail, I suddenly remembered:
Glancing look
Batting eye
Short of breath
Long sigh.
Chest pocket
Slightly pounds,
Deep breath...
"Nice to meet you"
Charming smile,
Class Monday,
First touch,
Dinner Friday?
Silent pause,
Checks calender
"That'll work!"
Phone number.
Sweating palms
Nerves swell
Deep breath...
Doorbell.
Dad's request,
Home at eight,
"Movie premier?"
Second date.
Hand in mine,
Afraid to miss,
Eyes close,
First kiss.
Throat tightens
Tears form
First fight
Cheeks warm.
Things I said,
Were never true,
You see... Because..
Well... "I love you."
Bended knee
Golden band
White box
Take my hand?
Five maids
Five men
White dress
Violin.
Chest pocket,
Slightly pounds.
Sweating palms,
Nerves swell.
Throat tightens,
Tears form;
"Do you..?"
The elder asked in late September,
It wasn't difficult, I knew the answer.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
i imagine you golden
sun always behind you
peaks of light through the curve
of your neck, the
outlines of your jaw
i imagine you found
like anchor shaped shoulders
swimming the pacific
draped with blonde ribbons
and confetti dusk
i imagine pages of calender
flipped and turned
never spoken in familiar tones
our names never heard
only a simple thought before the bus
how did we get here?
backs facing from opposite sides of the bench
a reflex to turn my head away when you look at me
like a buried sin, a mumbled confession
half smiling to salvation
the moon floating on indigo sky
the way I would rest on your chest
specs of childhood and uncertainty
shaping into dying stars and serenity
a volcano eruption of broken promises
and we rest, like we have already been turned
to stone
we rest, like we have died before and again
we rest, like we already met in our next lives
i imagine this is what nirvana feels like
but in this truth,
you are not here, empty in the marks of november
pages left blank in the corners i folded to remember
your name
it is not fair to call you a
stranger
but it is not fair to call you
anything more
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
1.) Ignore the days that stare right back when you look at the calender for they will soon slip away.
2.) Ignore the cosmic pulling that draws you to him for he too will soon slip away.
3.) Ignore the harsh words they both use to shred each others hearts for they will phase away.
Ignore and you will be spared the pain.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
I sit in a constant state of drunken stupor
Watching the celestial gloaming of blooming eternity
Haunting the dead with songs of the living
And I am neither nor,
I mourn for heart beats lost to clocks
There is no keeping up for me
Time evades
Still
And stolen
Dried flower blooms long ago gone grey and colourless
mark calender pages and birthdays never known~A
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 2:15 AM UTC
Skeleton trees,
stripped down to the bone,
live naked within the walls of winter
Icicle boughs,
and branches buried deep in white
Conical conifers draped with ****** snow,
a blanket of diamond dust
They now enter my frozen world,
like life would now exist
inside of a snow globe
The drifting slopes
add white dimension
to this winter world
Frost upon the windows,
designed like crystal upon the glass,
sends shivers down my spine
The mass exodus of flocks of birds,
migrating south
for their seasonal vacation,
have gone away
These are the images embedded in the hynotic halls of my mind
The aging calender
upon the sunless wall
will soon give way to another year
The polar atmosphere
will have to surrender
its icy grip
but it is in no hurry
once January rolls around
In wintertime
we become like
weary, winter warriors
as we are manned with
shovels and plows,
battling the barrage of shellfire
of continuous cold, snow and ice
Shielded with scarves and heavy apparel,
shoveling and scraping,
salting and sweeping,
we are at war with
the fierce elements
that make us slip and slide
The salt trucks look like
army tanks on the move
Playful adventurers laugh at the scorn
The mammoth artic tundra
is their playground,
the ultimate winter utopia
They shall master
the slippery landscape
on skis, sleds and skates
in their pleasure
to conquer the frozen land
Winter is truly a wonder,
but soon my
Spring and Summer dreams
lie captive
I find myself
a foreigner of this wintry wilderness
My fair, flowery fields are gone
Barren are those beautiful images,
for Spring, Summer and Fall,
fables to my wintry world,
have slumbered all too long
Soon I am pondering.....
If only I can thaw
these stone solid feelings,
as the land soon melts
into Spring tears,
and can light a lamp within,
defrosting the sub-zero
feelings inside of me,
I will fully embrace the dreams
of warmer times,
and I shall find myself once more
A woman who knows why
she endures such a season,
shoveling my way through
the stormy periods of life
to thrive amid
the firsts of Spring
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 8:17 AM UTC
I slowly and deliberately cross
off the date on the calender. One more day
doesn't seem like such a loss to me!
I imagine myself blowing away the flickering flame
of the birthday candles.
It's almost here!
The one day that is completely mine.
The one day that it feels like
the sun, the moon, and the stars
would obey me
if I told them to.
When I can have all the fun things I want to do.
I close my eyes and wish
A secret with
But don't ask me to tell
'cuz I won't.
And like the swish of a magic spell
fading away
My day leaves behind fine memories
and new gifts.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 11:55 PM UTC
She looked at the calender.
The day she decided it had to end.
Their special day.
He wasn't the same man.
He became better.
This was the man she wanted.
Her heart came back.
Could she give it a second chance,
after knowing what he had become?
She grew more lonely.
She pushed away all those who got too close.
Even the man that loved her.
She pondered if she could try again.
He had bettered himself.
It sweetened the urge to rekindle.
He finally became the man of her dreams.
Just not her man
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
The first snow
When it just starts to stick to the ground
Around nine o clock,
And the snow dances in the streetlights.
And the first thing you think of when you wake up
Is getting to walk in it's beauty.
That's her smile.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.
The first time a hug meant something.
You feel their arms,
Their shoulders,
Their warmth,
The tickle of their breath on the bottom of the left side of your neck,
And the last moment when they tighten around you
Into a solid, comforting fortress before they pull away.
That's the air she exhales.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.
The most devastating thunder storm.
When the rain is sad,
And not peaceful or light hearted,
And the echo of the cracks of thunder sting your ears.
And the lightening stops getting interesting,
The lightening looks worried.
It looks like suicidal tendencies.
That's what it's like to see her cry.
But she doesn't think it's beautiful.
Battle fields.
Soiled with distraught courage,
Limp hopes,
And dying bravery.
Yet somehow holding the promise of a victory
That will effect hundreds of nations.
Those are her scars.
Yet she doesn't think it's beautiful.
The most perfect day on the beach.
Sandwiches without the sand,
Waves that kiss your toes,
Sun that blankets you with the feeling of security,
And a sunset so perfect
That you wonder if it's real,
Or just a calender's picture for the month of August.
That's her.
But she doesn't think she's beautiful.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Your arms gave my demons a home since the afternoon of February 16th, and I knew your ocean eyes could drown them and free me from their grasp. Who knew those eyes would drown me entirely?
But eventually I could feel the darkness bite at the wires in your brain. They rearranged every night and I think you forgot who I was, because once August 24th rolled around, we had confused love and lust as we rolled around in between sheets, and that was the start of months of confusion.
You had changed the codes on every alarm starting September 13th, (or had our distance made me forget?)
By November 24th, I had lost the key and the spare was no longer under the mat. I still wonder how many had forgotten to wipe their feet while I was gone, so I gave up on praying that Venus would save us.
December 13th, my suspicions of your unscared touch every morning had been confirmed. I remember you begging for one more lustful grasp, and I wish I had said no, because when you told me you didn't love me I could barely stop my rageful fits on the bathroom rug.
Your walls came crumbiling down the following February 10th, when you begged me to come back home. But I knew your chest cavity was no longer warm and I felt no safety in the way you looked at me.
I loved you so much, but the calender is my only friend and this calender never lied, but you always will.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
What do I have left?
I have a ticket stub from our first date;
I have a scar on my thigh from the Sunday I met your family for the first time;
I have a whole lot of memories that tap on my window on the worst of possible evenings.
Evenings when I can feel the cool September wind on my shoulder,
seeing a whole lot of red
with a replay of how our summer fell apart in my head.
I have your name
and the hush tone apology you gave me in the dark still suffocating the blood in my veins;
I have sleepless nights
and my fair share of moments I wish that I could change;
I have pictures from the night you took my wasted mind home and tucked yourself into bed with me;
I have sad eyes that remember the look on your face when you kissed me goodbye for the last time;
and I have a calender that beats me down
trying to get it through to me that it's fall.
So don't bother asking me what day it is
because I'll still tell you that it's June 23rd
and your grandparents were absolutely darling tonight.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
There's times that seem
to fit and make it all more real.
Like the snapping of the
plastic seal on that
cheap bottle of
*****
Just as she slams the door
for that final time.
Frusciante on the radio
and you with a needle in
your hand.
The seagull who passed and
dropped his waste
upon your sunset.
There's images that swirl
inside your head and
leave behind deep grooves
within your memories
Impressions like her
sculpted face in candle light.
That strung out you in the mirror
that even you didn't recognize.
There's that love you
thought was dead
and those addictions
you swore you
left behind.
There's times and ways
that seem to fit.
And it's what lengthens
this life that are like the
pages of a calender.
One on top of the next
to be written over.
All to be lived
one page at a
time
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
To answer your question,
Yes.
It never left me.
It sits patiently at the sidelines on sunny days.
It doesn't fight formy attention.
It doesn't book off days in my calender.
It smiles when I smile.
It laughs when I laugh.
It knows that all It has to do
Is wait for the overcast.
A ceiling of clouds closing in on me.
Day after day, the raindrops won't come.
Each grey morning looks a little darker than the last.
Until, atlast:
The first tear hits the ground.
And It is there, immediately.
Offering escape.
At first, I'll refuse.
"Never again."
I meant what I said.
I will not break my promise.
But as the hours go by,
It becomes more obvious.
The rain does not want to let up.
And there It is,
Reminding me of Its offer of solution.
It promises that Its affections are just as strong as always.
I want to pull away,
But I can't deny the safeness that calls to me,
Awaiting beneath the umbrella.
The calmness I feel spreading from the burn where It grips my skin.
The storm passes,
Leaving nothing but a colourful mess to clean up.
I don't expect you to understand.
But then again,
I don't expect you to find out.
"Never again."
I'd meant what I said.
But it's so easy to think that It will never hurt you.
Not the way It hurts me when all I have is loneliness for company.
So, to answer your question,
Yes.
And if you ever bothered to check, you'd see.
It forever waits on my company.
It laughs when I laugh.
It cries when I cry.
But maybe It would give up and leave,
If you too never left my side.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 6:51 PM UTC
I.
You believe them. You tell them otherwise
II.
You write little post it notes, and catalog their promises
You make a calender and put your dates on it in red pen
You smile and expect to cross them out again
III.
You believe in their dreams, but you do not believe in their words
Even when you want to so badly that it hurts
IV.
You reason with yourself, and with them, and with your little red pen
That untruths are just as truthful as outright honesty,
Because honestly, deceit is pure
And who knows that they're lying when they're lying?
If they plan to follow through and say their lies as 'simple' truths
Or if they lie to you and then follow through
So is it really a lie? It's okay, you don't have to feel used
V.
You realize that you love them
Then you consider it more
And the more you think on it, the more that you're sure
VI.
Then days turn into a year, which is only seasons
And their promises become ever more few
Then the seasons break down into months, into days
Into hours
VII.
You're so lost in counting that you forget to fact check
VIII.
You believe them. Without the back of your mind screaming "justice!"
Without bothering to write it all down.
You hear them out, for the first time, and wonder if they ever lied at all
Or if you're just used to being lied to
IX.
And that's when your reality crumbles down
That's when you really love them but lose yourself
If the days you can't remember, and the time you can't forget
Coincide
Maybe there's some hope, a little, that everything was worth it
It's just a phase they went through
but you miss the lies
X.
Because when they tell you it's over
You realize it's the one thing you wish wasn't true.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
A
is the ache
You leave behind
when you leave
B
is the broken
Person I was
before I had you
C
is the carvings
on my wrist
that you kiss
D
is the sense of defeat
I often felt
when I was alone
E
is the elatedness
that fills me
when we speak to each other
F
is the friends
that I made
because you believed I had to give them
a chance
G
is the good
I can finally see
that's always been around me
H
is the hope
that you give me
that I'll see another day
I
is the imagination
that graces my mind
when I think of you
J
is the joy
that you give me
even when you're gone
K
is the kindness
you showed me
that fixed me
L
is the love
that I feel
because I have you
M
is the time I mourned
when you were gone
for good
N
is the newness
of the empty feeling I get
now that you left
O
is being ostracized
because I'm too depressing
to be around
P
is the pain
I feel when I see
Happy couples everywhere
Q
is the quiet
indifference I feel
towards every **** thing
R
is the refrain
it takes me
not to plunge that knife
into my throbbing heart
S
is the suffering
I feel to get through
every god **** day
T
is the torture
I put myself through
looking at our old photographs
U
is the underwhelming
need to live
dissipitating day by day
V
is the vows
you promised to make
but you didn't make it.
W
is the words
you used to say
to make the pain go away
X
is the mark
on the calender
of the anniversay we didn't have
Y
is the question
I ask everyday
since you died
Z
is the end
of this poem
of our love
forever
All these alphabets
mean something to me
no amount of morphine
Takes the pain away from me
You made me happy
and now that you're gone
I'm back to the ghost
I once was
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
there's such a strange feeling brought in by sunday mornings.
it's as if you can feel the calender resetting,
a groggy haze of transition between one row of boxes and numbers
and the next.
the dates themselves adding line-breaks on type-writers,
molding the ever-changing scripts of our lives.
the day gets claimed for resting and resetting -
we recharge with early beers and late lunches
followed by a hefty dose of sweat-pants.
at least 'round here,
"sunday's best" has never been anything classy.
it's paint-stained denim, muddy boots, and over sized thrift store sweaters.
we don't own church shoes or pressed slacks,
because we've never needed ornate buildings to silently give thanks in.
we need the wind,
and the wild,
and the dirt.
we set out with the intention of getting lost,
for the simple joy of the instant that we find ourselves resurfacing on the face of the map.
we give thanks any time that there's nothing between us and the sky
and our wind-chapped faces are covered in smiles and sun.
desert dwellers need the sun.
we greet her daily,
wildly and emphatically as the frozen layers of earth.
sundays are for defrosting.
we bake beneath grandma's home-made quilts,
and in the arms of good love;
thawing enough to ensure growth without cracking our foundations.
"sunday's best" is just a good place to be.
it's a refreshing state of mind in an augmented pace of time,
where we slow down,
and step back just enough to see what really matters
and what never has.
and when the alarm clock howls like a rabid beast come monday morning,
we'll rise reflective and refreshed;
strengthened up to continue driving forth towards the lives we're living for.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC