"cherrywood" poems
At first,
Words were literal.
Hearts were broken,
I mean literal.
You were a brother,
Never meant to get mixed up.
Between a million lies,
We got mixed up.
They see you as a child,
Yet I see more.
I wanted to see the rage
You had stored.
Like a tornado,
Things got out of control.
Like a crescendo,
The damage took it's toll.
See,
I want to show you worlds,
Universes,
Where imagination is real.
Hours are but golden candles,
On a cherrywood wheel.
But we lost our faces,
And fingers were pointed.
Caught in mazes,
We were the unholy anointed.
My apology.
I write it in blood.
My reasoning?
Was a broken love.
A bond,
Shattered by blind hate
Until even holy water became taint.
What happened between us and Her,
That's old.
A hatchet lost forever,
Shattered in the cold.
We were labeled,
Yet I don't see you as a child.
With skills like yours,
It was fun to be wild.
You called out names,
Of course we obliged.
Naturally with these games,
We piled the fire high.
But,
Perspective was lost.
Or was it?
I don't care.
Bury the hatchet, Arcassin.
Lets clear the air.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 5:20 AM UTC
I can smell your laughter on my skin for days
And your smile lights my room long after you've gone
And I've been homesick every where
Since I turned seventeen
But I don't have that yearning lately,
You are lavender walls
And cherrywood floors
You are warm vanilla cuddles
And ruby red grapefruit kisses
And I am warm in the dead of winter,
And I am home inside of myself
And I've been trying to find the
Words to tell you,
That my heart skips rocks
Over the lake you've laid down
And I'm jumping in puddles
When you start to rain
I'm admitting things I've kept
A secret
From myself
With your soft hands
gently wrapped
Around my throat
I count my blessings
When the sunlight swallows my bedroom
I'm not a zombie
Rising from a coffin
I'm a kid
Excited to begin
Every day
I'm excited to begin
Please don't leave
I drop you off in your gravel driveway
And I feel whole the whole way home
Please don't leave
I touch your jawbone
And my teeth are
No longer daggers
Inside my gums
The letters that fall
From my tongue
Are rose petals,
Sugar,
Tea leafs,
Where they once were
Dust
And dirt
And blood
Please don't leave me
Spitting up charcoal again
I cough cocoa powder
I am getting younger every day
I cry maple syrup
I am getting safer every day
I bleed pomegranate
I am getting stronger every day
Please stay
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 7:01 AM UTC
the laddering of my ribs creak
like water-stained cherrywood stairs;
tread lightly, lest you
stir the dust and the ghosts
that dwell underfoot,
‘neath the cracked floorboards
of my skin.
i have but a simple request:
rid yourself of your lungs
and fill up the empty spaces
with used coffee filters,
crinkled wrapping paper, and
forlorn hope. do
cast aside
the shroud of indecision?, for
that winding sheet will only
hold you down between
your shoulderblades, like
framed butterflies pinned on paper
with needles of stone and salt.
stay with me tonight.
we will be taxidermy birds
on marionette strings
with crumbled concrete
between our talons,
the afterimages
of neon diner signs
stamped into our inner eyelids
oscillating, phantasmic.
we'll sing elegies in spring
rock sugar on our tongues—
there are staves of music
written in the lining of your mouth
and in the webbing of your hands
––as Sappho might say:
girls, sweetvoiced.
oh! but to think
that the starfire in your eyes
could be extinguished
by the tears you shed;
i’ll return my heart to the constellations
for you
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
sparrows, three
now four, sit
chirking,
on the cherrywood
branch....
if i were a fanciful poet,
i would suggest they gossip,
but i think it is more, base
than that.....
it appears that three, vie
for the attentions of one...
it is then, a matter of courtship...
as they bounce
and fly and sing.....
and me a ******
...marveling.
at the ardour of the dusty fluffs of feathers
....and the uncanny joy,
their antics bring....
must be the romance,
fluttering in the air....
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
upstairs and downstairs, like a frazzled owl character in my third-grade reader
in the doorway of my 200-level on sub-Sahara where we talk only of Nigeria
holding the elevator for my superior in the lobby of a too-tall edifice to man
a college student.
an ABD.
intern.
backstage at your high school graduation ceremony, your mortarboard won't stay on your head
in a food court where your mother doesn't get it when you say you can't wear pants anymore, or get your bimonthly haircut
when you're skirting the poverty line after your family business was sued but your FAFSA says parent #1 earns six figures
initiate.
neophyte.
not-quite-other.
the female body as a threshold between worlds, channel betwixt boundaries
Schrodinger's cat simultaneously in separation and marginal phases according to van Gennep
divorce papers signed but not sent, enclosed in manila at the bottom of a cherrywood desk
continuum.
spectrum.
a line without points.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
Playing piano at the group home,
Le Grande Staircase
I've composed a piece for recovery,
next to the glass-room
with cherrywood
(She was talking on the phone to her lover),
I have small hands.
But I manage to hit the high keys,
despite their objection.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
oh, won't you build me
a pair of cabinets?
build them sturdy,
made of cherrywood
use your hands,
your strong, beautiful hands
that know all
and can see
you'll keep one
and i'll have the other
and when we are lonely
in we will climb
through the coats
full of dust
and over caps
with moth bitten holes
out we will stumble
and land with a thud
at the feet of one another
we'll stand up
brush ourselves off
and go on with our days
but no longer will we be alone
in the company of you and i
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 3:39 PM UTC
hey Dad
there really were some good times way back in the beginning ........
weren't there ?
before things got so ******* up
yeah
I know you really meant well
didn't you
but you just couldn't
stay outta trouble
could you
you did a whole lotta
bad things Dad
it really made us all so
sad
still I remember you
taking us to the lake
to feed the ducks
and those trippy old musty
antique shops in downtown
San Francisco ......
you taught me many things
Dad ........ even though you
turned out to be so bad
I think I must have been
the only 9 year old girl
who knew how to load bullets
and was a regular
at the rifle range
discern the grain of walnut
from that of cherrywood
or birch
the only 9 year old who new
how to drive an old army jeep
you taught me to appreciate
music and made me laugh when
you played your trumpet
to your big band era 78's
and had us dance along ........
so today Dad
I remember you
for the first time
in a very long time
and I stop
to give you credit
for trying ........
there was a time
I thought you were
the smartest most lovable
and down to earth man
in the world Dad
all those years ago .........
Happy Father's Day
BCA
06/15/14
All Rights Reserved
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
the cherry wood box
sits on the mantle
it is a reminder
of his love
handmade, upon a lathe
from a burl of an old sweet cherry
it is smooth as silk to touch
of a deep yellow redish hue
carved to look like the rounded back
of a cat curled in on itself, asleep
the rings once present in the tree
give the box the look of a tabby cat
inside the love notes we share
it has over time become a letterdrop
today....his note...invites me to
a night of gentle but thorough love
my note....says...yes....please
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC