"checkerboard" poems
I was a shirt filed with straw and rags.
Pants that hang loose. Jeans cuffed pinned uncomfortably.
Nothing to think of; a hat filled with straw.
The inability to walk. Pinned to a board.
Hickory oak.
Chest disproportionate to a small waist.
Sleeves flung in the wind.
Left standing still; a face motionless.
Pinned to hickory oak.
A shadow left in an empty field, the boundaries of a checkerboard shirt.
The insecurity of straw hands.
Pickett fences to the feet of crows,
Still she'd visit often.
Distance cut short by dark heavy wings.
She'd caw in my silence,
Not knowing the ability to smile I stood against purpose.
She refused to run, poking fun at my hat.
The clothes that hung loosely in the wind, scurf tied tightly around my neck.
Feeling her ***** the strings of my chest.
Strands of straw filled by her need to find a home.
Was there anything there at all before that moment.
Becoming shelter to the way she pried.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
No one is here and I feel at ease;
I feel the recesses of my imagination
spring forward as ideas are at the
forefront of my mind,
yet I cannot put them down on paper.
I feel the neon pinks and blues and greens
that I know strongly resonate with me,
but to my dismay,
nothing ever comes to fruition
as much as I hope.
That cliché phrase of, “The sky is the limit,”
drowns me as I realize
parameters and prompts are what guide me
to what I truly want;
the idea of freedom gives me anxiety,
as I am a clueless ant on this plane.
As I look at a solitary trashcan
of impossible black,
this idea of suffocation
truly
encompasses
my mind, inescapable, unreachable, and unattainable.
Yet at the same time,
limits **** darlings.
With this seeming paradox
of open-endedness and limitation,
I set forth on my prompt,
however mundane it may seem now.
This task seemed at first simple,
but it proved difficult at times,
like most mundane looking venues.
My mind is not unlike
a checkerboard stone table:
cold and calculating;
I feel my imagination dies
when my fingers touch keys,
when pen hits paper.
“The sky is the limit,”
drowns me over
and over
and over again.
I look out of my peripherals
and glance at the red building signs,
wishing there was something
as obvious as that for a sense
of direction in my life.
My imagination truly hates me,
my imagination truly loves me;
it is an indecisive companion.
I wish I was alone, but my mind
wishes otherwise.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
《☆ Ode to Miller Spring ☆》
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road since
first I came to be here.
This journey was
my awakening to the
new existence I would step into.
Foreign to me
the illustrious homes.
Dripping willows, old oaks, poplars...
Perfectly kept grounds.
Checkerboard patterns carved
into lush grass.
This road is winding.
One needs to go slowly.
Families, children, animals,
all enjoy this path.
The winds blow at this highest point,
up above the Glacial Basin
that forms the river below.
Before farmland,
home to
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring
The deep Spring of Healing
Ancient, pouring forth
from the center of the Earth.
This road, brought me to a
place of solitude...
An open space.
Land of possibilities.
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road
since first I came to be here.
This road has led me to the new existence
I have stepped into.
Perfectly kept grounds
checkerboard patterns carved
in lush grass.
The wind blows at this
highest point,
up above the Glacial Basin,
that forms the river below.
Before farmland,
home to
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring
The deep Spring of Healing.
Ancient, pouring forth from
the center of the Earth.
This Spring, that quenched
my family's thirst.
This Spring, that pulled my
people here,
so many years ago.
A road brought me to
this place of solitude.
An open space.
A land of Dreams.
I wonder,
what Dreams,
this land
will hold for me?
☆●⊙●☆●⊙●☆●⊙●☆
~July 2014~May 2015~
2nd Edition
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
"Miller Spring" is a pure crystalline-rock aquifer that has been revered by all peoples blessed to live within it's reach. The tribes of the Ojibwe and Lakota shared the spring. It was called the "Sweet Spring of Healing Waters" This spring was also shared with Settlers as they arrived. When the land was owned, the spring has always been made accessible, to All People. It should be noted that this spring water is exceptionally clear,
crisp and has a sweet bright taste
It is delicious!
To this day Miller Spring is available to all.
It's icy cold waters gush forth 24/7~365
days a year out of a well by the side
of the road, down about a mile
from my home.
I actually live in a modest house
on two original acres of this
beautiful land, which is now
bordered by five "illustrious" homes.
We moved here from the
City in the year 2000
Living in the suburbs was the
"New Existence" I had stepped into...
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
Custody,
first a checkerboard of red and white squares
trapped between thick black bars.
Days of the week,
prisons,
and I was wrongly convicted.
My fingers reach for help through my metal cage,
yet only receive paper cuts
on the corners of divorce letters.
Letters drowned in blood bleed off the page
and stain my Saturdays and Sundays.
Custody,
now neatly separated into red and white columns,
walls dividing weeks and weekends.
National borders barricade one house from the other.
Two countries clash in a
war waged with
two atomic blasts burning
my culture into ash
white as paper.
Custody,
the absence of red and
the erasure of my father
from the calendar taped to
my mother’s refrigerator,
and I’m frozen in place.
Custody,
a vast snow-white plane:
One step forward,
nothing in my future.
One step backward,
blizzards in my past.
Custody,
ground made of paper so thin,
with every step,
life crumples under my feet.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
She scooted along the checkerboard floor
collecting ***** plates
& refilling sweet teas.
I placed a double-order of fish tacos
& sat right next to the buffet of hot sauces
just to watch her toss her brown hair about
from under her pink pussycat hat
& lithe body covered
in delicious ink
& piercings.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road since first,
I came to be here.
This journey was my awakening
as to the new existence
I would step into.
Foreign to me, the illustrious homes.
Huge dripping willows,
old oaks, and poplars...
Perfectly kept grounds.
Checkerboard patterns left behind
in lush green grass...
This road is winding.
One needs to go slowly.
Families, children, animals,
all enjoy this path.
The wind blows at this highest point,
up above the glacial basin
that forms the river below.
Once all farmland.
before...
home of
Ojibwa,
Lakota
The Spring.
The Deep Spring of Healing.
Ancient, pouring forth
from the center of the Earth.
This winding
windy road,
brought me to a place of solitude...
an open space.
Land of endless possibilities.
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road
since first
I came to be here.
This road was my awakening as to the
new existence I would step into.
Perfectly kept grounds.
Checkerboard patterns left behind
in lush green grass.
The wind blows at this highest Point,
up above the Glacial Basin,
that forms the river below
Once all farmland.
Before...
Home of
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring.
The Deep Spring of Healing.
Ancient, pouring forth from the center of the earth.
This spring, that has quenched my families thirst.
This spring, that brought my family here 14 years ago
This road
brought me to a place of solitude...
An open space.
A land of dreams.
And yet..I wonder,
what dreams
will this land hold for Me?
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
Sitting in a chair counting spots that passed before my eyes.
The insect smiled and said "hold still" i missed one.
They swirl this way and that.
dont move Please. be still.
Not an easy task
a fever of 104.2
could you. I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.
Sitting on my blanketed chest
The insect did his best to sing me a lullaby.
his breath was horrendous but he meant well.
He stroked my burning cheek and
changed the cool washcloth regularly
on my aching head.
Then turned my pillow to the cool side again.
There my friend.
He scuttled under with me and snuggled
his hairy legs were itchy and rough.
small price to pay.
eh wot.
Oh yes we have no bananas
We have no bananas today.
Captain if we keep pushing her like this
she's gonna blow.
We regret to inform you that
the price of tea in China is now
High as gas in California.
Chicken broth he brought
with a silver spoon to boot
The insect waited patiently
as I swallowed then spooned
the next load in.
"Here let me wipe you chin."
Ladies and gentlemen and all ships at see
The Hindenburg has landed
oh the humanity.
This is not the end
No not the beginning of the end.
But more, the end of the beginning.
Help me up Mr Checks. I think I gotta ***
Oops forgot to raise the lid.
Mr Checks. Can you have room service come up.
we need more Trowels. Uh towels.
Stop hogging the remote. Where's mom
Have you seen my Teddy with one eye missing.
To bed to bed
You sleepy head .
Tarry a while said slow.
Put the *** said greedy glut
Lets stuff before we go .
Mr Checks.
All hands on deck.
We dont have enough lifeboats sir.
The iceberg is sky blue and beautiful dont you agree.
What do you do with a drunken sailor
early in the morning.
Heave ** and up she rises
Early in the morning.
THIS FEVERISH DREAM TO BE CONTINUED.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
Random mortar shells in the afternoon.
Sparkling, steel jacketed rain drops,
Glinting rainbows of reflected sunlight.
Plastic explosive seat cushions upon which passers-by,
Rest their weary bones.
C-4 candy bars, nuclear toothpaste,
****** for dessert.
Orphanage flambe', hospital hash, blood pudding.
Human burgers sizzling on a smart bomb bar-b-que grill.
Finger food, toe jam, baby-back ribs.
Bureaucratic double talkers,
Sugar coated body counts,
Colateral stew.
Really deplorable, awfully sorry,
But it was their own faults trying to put on raincoats.
They declined our invitation to the cook-out.
Bad luck to open an umbrella in the house.
Remotely piloted funeral processions.
Radar guided hearses.
Televised in real time.
Precision, surgical,
neutralized, deterrent, disarmed,
Deactivated, stand down, eliminate.
Living pawns on a battlefield checkerboard.
Strategic, defensive,
Dominate, annihilate,
Acceptable loss, public opinion pole.
Listen to the tinkling of sabre blades,
Rattling windchimes,
In the warm breeze of the shockwave,
Accompanied by the drumbeat of detonation and concussion.
Rock...
...and heads will roll.
Holy, blessed,
Patriotic, brave,
Courageous, dedicated,
Heroic, dutiful,
Self sacrificing...
******
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
shattered dreams
American nightmare
ghoulishly stalking mankind
Bilderberg extremists
owl effigy looming
behind the all seeing
eye of rah –
multi-national tycoons
inspire blooming death
radiated waters flush with fluoride
filter through sippy-cups
washing away the taste
of vaccinations
and GMO soy –
mutated masses mumble monotonously
meager motor skills
meandering through melted meadows
masochistic in the macabre –
moonless morning breaks
trails checkerboard the sky
cubism
from air force fly-boys
under orders to implement agenda 21
disguised as protection
from solar radiation
old soil toils under the strain of oil based
pesticides
and molecularly altered
food crops
for profit
and to experience the long lost joy
associated with being a swashbuckling pirate –
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Just now, you've come to bed, 1:00AM,
Watching your fav Sunday night shows,
In our bed, been awaiting patiently,
You slip slide in, experienced, unclothed,
So there would be less friction,
Just a sensation of more warmth,
But waking me nonetheless.
Not upset, not at all...no mad men here...
Presenting me anew with an annual question..
*By annual I mean, a question posed
Every night of every year
Of the rest of our lives together...
Which is not the same as
nightly, perpetual or forever*
What is my favorite part?
My hand is drawn immediately to
The back of your neck, where hair wisps unruly,
Refuse to obey my gentle stroking and tidy up,
Joining all the rest which you have upswept for me.
Like every child crayon-armed,
Begin at the beginning and
Draw circles upon circles,
Caresses disguised as art,
All over your newly presented tableau,
But you know my truth,
Searching, searching for my favorite place again.
Pretend I've discovered a
Checkerboard where I seem to win
Every game I've ever played,
Practicing double and triple jumps
Turning all of my captured pieces into Kings.
A snuggling presentation, a white skin canvas,
Mine to draw upon, what's my vision ce soir?
My pointer, my paint brush asks for directions,
Who shall we be! Mondrian, Chagall, Raphael?
Tonight I am Michaelangelo, my finger shall be the
Finger of God and with it I shall anoint and draw
Our names on my favorite place.
Sighing, you message me multiples,
Let me sleep please, but don't stop yet...
Understood.
If you have a job to do,
Get to it man.
Because we both know long ago
Selected my location were my fingers five
Will end this charade, this pretense.
The inner space that curves serpentine,
Where your back meets your hips,
Your waist so delicate will be stroked
And stroked till I hear your heavy lidded breathing.
Signaling me the game is over,
We have both won.
1:55 AM
Every night
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Queue for a dance with
ink upon your wrist,
paper wrapped tight and
a waiting kiss.
Princes march to their kingdom come, on
their checkerboard, light board,
dance floor hum.
Princesses in timely masks
of nightmarish dreams
hide their real selves in
plain sight, with
handlebar hair
cut into wigs,
only hiding scalps of shame.
In head, in thought, I spoke 26 words,
7 points of punctuation and 6
saintly verbs:
*You left.
a dance too short,
touch of the ***
another ***** for the group,
feel of the ***
smile and forget,
forget she ever asked.*
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
Look at my body. See my body.
Do you see all the scars?
The ones from when I was a little girl
and fell off my bike,
when I picked at my chicken pox,
when I walked through home depot just a little wrong.
The ones from when I was a grown up little girl
and fell down when running in the woods,
when I picked at my pimples and scabs,
when I walked and ran into the door just a little wrong.
The ones from when I was a grown up hurt, little girl
and carved a heart into my arm,
drew a checkerboard on my thigh,
wrote words into my stomach.
Every single scar on my body tells a story.
Some are happy and playful about a little girl who liked to wear dresses.
While others are sad and depressing about a grown up girl who
felt too much pain.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
.
Looking on
this expanse that encircles me,
closing in during open hours,
unlocking doors I can’t seem to walk through
Stairways of rotted, termite eaten steps
each with my name painted on them,
creaking underfoot,
losing to the weight of
long lines at self serve counters
wrapping around as if
nothing is free but here
for some reason it is
And I stand right in the middle
alone in this ocean of faces,
polo shirts and penny loafers
staring at cell phone screens,
calling someone,
talking with their hands,
hands free?
Paying it forward,
coffee for the next guy in line,
but not me
For I am just here, anywhere,
somewhere like this,
a thing plopped down,
fallen from the sky,
splattering on the earth,
consumed by the soil,
muddied footprints and all
trudging through the wilderness,
carving a path of existence
breaking branches and
scattering bread crumbs
Still I am me,
standing tall among the taller,
enjoying the shade,
sipping lemonade and eating apple dumplings,
pushing, not pulling forward,
dreaming, (of course)
regardless of tire tracks and scars
or pointed fingers,
Pounding the pavement,
laying a foundation,
driven beyond
Parking lot base,
asphalt themed destinations,
a checkerboard of last rites and dead batteries,
yellow lines on the horizon,
handicapped up front
Looking out over the valley,
watching the world go by,
admiring the beauty,
loving life,
rejoicing in the fact
that it is all so immensely
vast . . .
as am I
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
Despair in the sanitarium!
All lies escape the insane are awake
Beyond the locked doors the echoes bounce across the checkerboard floors
Sigh-lence, day dreaming, stay screaming
Slay on words, motion madness
In jest, cyanide suicide happy faces.
Hisses of those bearing bloodshot eyes, venomous guise
Bystanders walk by, cross the line
I stand firm above it, ne'er beyond the bonding
I'm bound to the ground crystal, looks back at me in the mirror.
Dec 2, 2009
Dec 2, 2009 at 11:16 AM UTC
Hot summer days & pop-up campers,
Dad with his chef hat
& Mum's lemonade.
We didn't even know it,
had it made in the shade.
Red checkerboard &
picnic chairs,
burgers & chips &
& big sister's
sweet oatmeal cookies.
Blow-up pool dragons
lay at our feet,
life was so idyllic,
& it ain't never coming back.
Makes me sick.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Feel the dull but sharp, pins and needles pain of new cuts.
The worst is on my hips, a new place for this ****** up girl.
I see the cuts on my arm, the checkerboard I’ve created out of skin.
Would you like to play chess with me?
The deep and wide cut created from needed control of the cutting.
I feel the words carved into my body, the new one on my stomach, ****
All the words are true.
All the words are true.
**All of these **** words are true.**
Cutting.
The release of emotions,
The control of emotions,
The object of emotions.
So many reasons and so many stories.
Carved into my body.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
from above the view is of
checkerboard lawns
sterile cement
indiscernible pawns
from below the surface is
swirling with parts- and when the
buddha farts
an angel yawns
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 6:16 PM UTC
checkerboard flooring, red rose walls
the large caterpillar's snoring, lets count humpty-dumpty's falls
excessively strong tea, smiles that drive the crowds crazy
a snakeskin hat just for me, something in the tea made the world a little wavy
find me that hare, i want a scone
the white roses are still there, i want a jabberwocky of my own
please give me a design, i'll sew it up for you
NO THAT ONE'S MINE, i'll make tea for two
i want to save the world, then again it really doesn't matter
'cause you won't understand a word, i'm mad as a hatter
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:04 PM UTC
No way for her to ascertain
the ashen carpets of erasure
randomly assigned to the tapestry of garish
hope's circumstantial hopscotch squares
with a body already incommodiously perched
upon legs submissive to the here and now's
drunken mercury
Alone she has been left to sweep up
the gravity that hobbles optimism
in the hops of faith around the ambivalence
of horizontal authenticity
Left alone to weep on twitching roots
and theorize a rally bloom in spite
of severance in tune with sparks of closure
The shadow of her sunken chin emits
embroiled tributaries of respawning yesterdays
Queen of checkerboard embodiment
her rhythmic rule entails zephyrs of endurance
in the vacuum of fulfilling prophecies
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
parse and praise the phrase,
checkerboard fraction,
appréhendé immédiatement,
a poem title!
put aside to marinate,
stamped "will not expire,"
doing the research legwork,
**** it is a real thing!
toujours,
where the best words and titles come from,
if one listens well
romantic notions swell the chest,
all the love affairs over so many decades,
all checkerboard games
with Kings a-crowning and Queens a-moaning,
poet, no way, never planned ahead,
always lost by a fractious split,
more than a fractional loss,
losing
most triumphantly!
each lover took and left a fraction behind,
a numerator, a denominator, never a whole number,
for then there would be no poetry need
you want,
have need for
une idée fixe
whom I should be, but i could be a
multiple choice answer
a three scoop ice cream treat,
or perhaps, a mix of forty favorered flavors
a new one,
chaque coup,
why not?
our first disagreement
both of us wish to nominate the other to be the nominator
the denominator is a definition of what is the whole
because i am gracious,
foolish and less than whole
already
I concede cause I am in already in retreat,
conceding comes supernaturally nowadays,
so move me forward on the checkerboard
and triple jump me, and any way
I am pas de nom
we close today with an American
yay...
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
You'll wish you were dead, you shouldn't play with fire,
Now I am in your head, your underneath my tire,
Please rest your soul on the bed, bounded down to my game,
Heed the words I have said, I'll make you go insane.
It's like a crazy wonderland,
Nothing looks weird to me,
Of course, It's mad to the sane,
But that's what you may see,
Like I am a Cheshire cat,
Smiling ear-to-ear,
A prey as small as a rat,
You will only feel fear...
Let's change the vibe, ѕнαℓℓ ωє...
Black and white, a checkerboard,
Your battlefield for my playground,
A cat, a mouse, four claws then squeaks,
You will never ever be found,
Don't think I pursued you, My҉ d҉ear҉,
I can't summon any demons,
You did, however, summon me,
Your act will be judged as treason....
:)
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
Smoke scintillated by ***** lights
Scent of cheap beer and cigarettes
Arms and legs and heads and butts
mashed
mangled
mingling
In a space ejecting bravado
responding to the auricular bludgeons
plucking veins and boiling blood
arms and legs flailing like spiders
hammered by raindrops
Calloused voices scream through feedback
eking out of anguished amplifiers
while jungle drums synchronize hearts
to their frantic pulse
New friends old friends celebration
in sweaty embraces chanting screaming
stumbling outside the gates of eternity
sidewalk where we gathered round the sordid soapbox
and cast beleaguering gargantuan buildings
and endless cataclysmal streets
into abeyance
to prance along these old sidewalk cracks
stumbling along cigarette butts and beer cans
efflorescing under amative neon lights whose bombinate glow
tingles our skin and dazzles our eyeballs
rolling back into our skulls in the wake of ecstasy
billowing over our ambulant bodies
Friday nights
Saturday nights
Sunday nights
skipping school on a week day
braving city night life to find us in the nooks
they forgot to sweep out
where trash collects and pretends
to be unwavering and implacable
for a moment
Til it's back on the streets we spill out upon like puke
like the beer sticking to checkerboard floors
and we float home on the feedback high singing in our ears to sleep
dreaming of these ecstasies as something perennial
in punk lover's dreams
Pure when we're filthy.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
And I saw spectres sway
in smoke and smog,
hazy gray, secretive fog.
And from the wings
of the checkerboard dance floor,
I stood, saw and adored.
And in fine finesse, finish and form,
you tore me up from the dance floor depth
and whispered odes I shall never forget.
*And what fools we were for not saying yes.
I am sorry.*
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
Amid the ***** wrinkled scales
of cracked and weary bark
a scraggly old line leads down
bereft of any aim,
leads past the mottled brown and gray
where mold becomes a skin,
and winds a canyon’s ****** crag
which tapers towards its end.
Illuminated buds display
the flowers half in bloom,
just sparse enough to show the scar
like shrapnel-wound ingrained.
This spring, the tree bursts white and pink
like many springs before;
the patient scar still growing wider,
softening its edge—
a green-white-pink-brown checkerboard
obscures the many lost
small buds, with dead deep-green tinged shells,
who wobble on their stems
and fall, some landing in the ****
to linger and decay.
Unperturbed traffic marches down
the pleasant four-lane road
as ever, crushing scattered blooms
like victory parades—
the tree remains a safe, clean gap
away, a ten foot spread
on either side between the street
and tree…between the new
facades just built to look ornate
and scar-bedecked old tree.
Yet in the full of summer’s heat
the tree is vibrant green;
the flowers long-since fallen
and in the scar become dirt.
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
If I met her today
would I be ready?
Would we walk past that fence
chain-linked where I first saw her
checkerboard shadows on her face?
Would we go to the cornfields
and play hide-and-go-seek
chirping like lab rats?
Would she rub her nose against mine
and kiss me, feeling my stubble
sharp like quills on a hedgehog?
Would she hug me at a funeral
church bells swaying slowly
like a Foucault pendulum?
Would I rub her back, listening
the river in her voice sighing,
"My personal therapy man"
Would I whisper of her beauty
holding her as I feel her life
pulsing like a symphony orchestra?
Have I imagined it?
Does she even exist?
Would we even be possible?
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC