"candycane" poems
This.
This is decorating my living room, and only my living room,
With every available piece of holiday cheer.
This is sitting by the fireside, drinking apple cider and listening to the woman who can recite Twas the Night Before Christmas by heart.
This is shortbread cookies.
You may ask if you can have one.
You may, but not the one who looks like a man.
His legs have been broken and icinged back on. He is special. .
This is not enough wrapping paper.
Too much wrapping paper.
My dad will never learn how to use wrapping paper.
This is managing not to fight with my sisters on the darkest days in winter.
This.
This is skating on black ice in winter boots,
Using icicles as lollipops,
This is mittens, hat, scarf, forgotten on the snow man.
This is the fort you couldn't knock over,
This is making lists.
Breaking lists.
Writing and rewriting.
This is advent calenders.
This is candycane addictions.
This is pleasant smiles from the grumpiest holiday shoppers.
This is the reason I love Christmas time more than Christmas day.
And this,
This is not a miracle.
This is a tradition that is older than I am.
This is the family I can always count on.
This, is home.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 9:20 AM UTC
Atomic state of plasma, I feel so refreshed.
Just out of the shower and still not dressed.
Driven by the urge to kiss your clavicles--
I hope this is going where I fantasize it will,
And, Honey, I did warn you; I'm not nice from the waist down.
I only exist once a year,
To avoid the sun, to avoid the tears.
I'll trade you adulation in exchange for souvenirs--
A few wise words, a few beers.
I'm a slave--
No, I'm a sovereign.
Take me back to when I didn't know pain.
It sounds crazy, but they need you to stay sane.
We'll celebrate this holiday with a spoiled candycane.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 3:46 AM UTC
Naps hit like a brick wall
At cement semi truck speeds
The collision re-envisions
Clay brick to ice cube
Shattering into my reality,
As I try and get up from
My prone position
My mind fills in the cracks,
Of my name, my place, my childhood,
With the melted mixing moments
It had just shown me before,
Mr. CandyCane visiting last minute,
With exes kissing every other tooth,
Grown bamboo out of a pupil,
Who sits attent in my dog's school,
Greeted by your smiling face at home,
But his face is reflected on my head in your eyes
Forehead lines are my only check at this point,
In dreams my face refuses to show up,
But awake I cannot escape acne wrath
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 4:20 AM UTC