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TMReed Dec 2019
There’s one train in Cherrywood
a heaving, hooving hound
limping down its wild tracks
hacking blackened clouds

There’s one train in Cherrywood
the only in, the only out
a traveler of lands and time
wrought with smoky lungs and gout

There’s one train in Cherrywood
stuffed with heavy-headed spirits
sleeping off a dozen generations
of hiding from their dreams

There’s one train in Cherrywood
somewhere I have a ticket
buried in these crowded pockets
lost but farthest from forgotten
Douglas Scheurn Oct 2014
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.
Let's end this...
Morgan Jan 2017
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
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Father's Way: Tell me a story, Dad

What power we possess,
when the innocent demand,
at the time of cozy bed and sandman,
"Tell me a story,"

To gentle the monsters
in the closet of their heads,
grant them a peace naive that's lost after
they learn the D words, disappointment, death,
Till then, promises unfettered, the best yet to come.

The story, you, grantor, they, grantees,
Scent their dreams,
perfume their dreams,
sprinkle their safety net, blanky, rag doll:
- scent with mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
musk, balsam, gasoline and body odor

- scent with cherrywood falsehoods to caress,
till morning's burnished glory ascends,
thru window, tenderize the cheeks of my babes,
prep them for the truths to be learned that day.

In tones most imploring,
glances fawning,
tis us, they do deceive,    
for adult arrogance demands
in God we Trust, that they,
will believe our words,
will indeed, make them rest
till new day's slow and subtle dawning

Tis the same tomfoolery that leads us
to drink repeatedly from the trough of
best laid plans and self-deception

You believed your own narrative
will be the one he scripted,
while standing day-dreaming,
sweating on subway platform,
admiring beaches and beauties
from station walls lifted,
waiting for the train
that only eventually comes,

that train, that station, whose smell reminds you
of mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
musk, balsam and motor oil, and body odor,
a ******* reminder of dreams yet uncrystallized,
and stories your father told, unrealized,
tho train has come, they have not

Write me a narrative, Dad,
and please advise
if tinker or tailor will be my trade,
fix my details, dear pater, par example,
pick my institution of higher learning,
my future alma mater, on my day of birth,
promise me gentility, no harm no foul, mirth,
All the days of my life.

Please advise if I shall be a
wife abuser, communist, or a ****
****** poet/user,
word rich and pocket poor,
stealing ideas from everyone,
red blooded or blue~green,
a true believer, a born again,
an agnostic, my own truths, to disabuse

tell me father, will I die warmed,
surrounded by generations of my progeny
or in pauper's grave, a life long ward of
one true mate, in loco parentis all of my days,
a child, a dependent, of noster paternal state?

Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...


June 11, 2011
Updated on Father's Day 2013
Many notes but the only one my father told me was about the white and black horses and their misadventures, a half a century passed, and I can feel his mustache, his goatee, tickling my senses.
qi May 2017
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
posting content??? in MY account?????? it's more likely than you think
betterdays Dec 2014
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....
betterdays Nov 2017
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
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
June 11, 2011
Updated on Father's Day 2013


Father's Way: Tell me a story, Dad

what power we possess,
when the innocent demand,
at the time of cozy bed and
sandman,
"Tell me a story,"

to gentle the monsters
in the closet of their heads,
grant them a peace naive that's lost after
they learn the words that start with D,
(disappointment, death),
till then,
promises unfettered,
the best yet to come.

the story,
you, grantor,
they, grantees.

scent their dreams,
perfume their dreams,
sprinkle their safety net, blanky, rag doll:
- scent with mom's hairspray and
dad's special smell,
musk, balsam, gasoline and body odor

- scent with cherrywood falsehoods to caress,
till morning's burnished glory ascends,
thru window, tenderize the cheeks of my babes,
prep them for the truths
to be learned that day.

in tones most imploring,
glances fawning,
t'is us, we,
them do deceive,    
for adult arrogance demands
in God we Trust,
that they,
will believe our words,
will indeed,
make them rest
till new day's slow and subtle dawning

t'is the same tomfoolery that leads us
to drink repeatedly
from the trough of
best laid plans and self-deception

you believed your own narrative
would be the one he,
your dad scripted,
while standing day-dreaming,
sweating on subway platform,
admiring beaches and beauties,
from station walls lifted,
waiting for the train
that only eventually comes

that train, that station,
whose smell reminds you
of mom's hairspray and dad's special smell,
(musk, balsam and motor oil, and body odor),
a ******* reminder of dreams yet uncrystallized,
and stories your father told,
unrealized,
tho train has come,
they have not

write me a narrative, Dad,
and please advise
if tinker or tailor will be my trade,
fix my details, dear pater,
par example,
pick my institution of higher learning,
my future alma mater,
on my day of birth,
promise me gentility,
no harm no foul,  and mirth,
all the days of my life.

please advise
if I shall be a
wife abuser, communist, or
a **** vanilla
****** poet/user

word rich and pocket poor,
stealing ideas from everyone,
red blooded or blue~green,
a true believer, a born again,
an agnostic, my own truths,
to disabuse

tell me father,

will I die warmed,
surrounded by generations of my progeny
or in pauper's grave,
a life long ward of
a one true mate,
it,
in loco parentis all of my days,
making me a child, a dependent,
of casa noster paternal state?

Please Pop,
pick wise,
the life and lies,
the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to
achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would
love my stories,
my poems,
someday...
Reposting - first posted here 366 days ago...
bobby burns Mar 2016
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.
on liminality
Alysha L Scott Aug 2012
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.
Quinn Feb 2011
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
©erinquinn2011
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
carnations drip from between her teeth.
black velvet adorns her rose petal skin,
gazing at her tortoiseshell dreams.
stars bloom from the dip of her collarbone
as silk knots wedge themselves between the holes in her earlobes.
she's got a mind of marble and a spirit of stone.
flowers and haikus echo throughout her soul.
her hair is filled with lavender dust,
her fingertips covered in charcoal.
when you hold your breath and dim your fairy lights,
she dances in the dark after 11 pm
in the cosmic alleyways of a saturated twilight.

my sister fixes me when i shatter,
and i hear angels seep
from the gleam of her laughter.
a contagious joy overflows
from her sock monkey mug
as her citrus bubbles pop
and the scent of mandarins fill my lungs.
when my mind is lost in space, she shakes me and calls my name
but through the hardships i've given her, she still loves me the same.
my sister takes my hand as we jump off swings
into pools of elysian dimensions
and streams of dopamine rush through my veins as she sings.
screams of our relief lay halfway through the woods
as i told her all the things i couldn't do,
and though she understood,
killed my poisonous doubts and showed me i could.
my sister lifts me and carries me through my tragedies,
putting me at ease as she jokes in dreams and rhapsodies.
i know that if my world were to fall,
my sister would come running to my little haven in the bathroom stall
and bring me to the comfort of the rainbows on her wall.
calm the midnight ivy pandemonium
and listen to the silence that follows
her melodies behind the cherrywood podium.
should i ever feel useless, or hopeless, or little,
leave me in the middle
of her cherry blossom giggles.
my sister shields me, and when i break, loves me in restitution;
should anyone mess with her
would be the start of a revolution.

we twirl batons beneath a patchwork canopy,
whisper goat noises into the depths of the sea,
ceasing our ocean tears with tea and poetry.
two hawaiian sisters living in a playful paradise,
reciting shakespeare and telling stories of kubla khan,
singing in the rain and drawing anime eyes.
we hide under window trees with branches like limbs,
cut our luminescent hair with blades of grass
only to fall in love with a horse prince.
we admire axolotls and jump with jellyfish,
our constellations colliding with a cappella chimes
as we laugh in harmony at makeshift mops and pretzel sticks.
we sleep in a bed of letters and fake lovers
under blankets of satisfaction, opera masks covering our faces
as we share warm embraces like that of a daughter and her mother.
we seek light in the darkness of japanese lamentations
while neptune's recovery leaves us knee-deep in great sensations.

we were young lights in the universe when we first collided,
but now we are celestial atoms that can't be divided.
a poem for twelve caesuras.
mahal kita.
Afloat Nov 2019
Flaming lips, smoky wine, and cherrywood fire;
Carnal whiffs, gasping breath and unbridled attire.
Fingers fondling abstraction,
Touches kindling contraction.
Dwindling rules, nibbling every inch of desire.

Cease Fire! Ceasefire!...
Devon Lane Feb 2022
I had a dream about her last night.

We were different but the same. Gray hairs, gray eyes, New scars, Old memories.

Weaving through a foreign castle, crumbling. Rollerskating on cobblestone floors. Rough surfaces yet smooth sailing.

She was wearing cherrywood lipstick.
Every single tattoo, concealed and forgotten. When she smiled the gap was bridged. Requiem for flaws that never existed.

An orange friend with white pants and golden eyes hovering. Laughing together, smiling together, making trouble. How it used to be.

Yes.

She was there too.
She wasn’t me.
I was okay with that.

I saw how they slow danced.
How they cared and loved.
A perfect human in my eyes had changed in someone else’s arms. I didn’t mind.

Yet, I couldn’t tell you if she was happy.
I want her to be. Did she know happiness with me? Is it a game of following the leader?

I won the race, and I still got the **** beaten out of me. Too fast, too slow, just right? **** prize money, I just want peace.

Poreless skin hitting stone harder than cayendo and I was not the one coming to the rescue. Standing by nevertheless.

Watching new lovers roll around in the grass from a window in a tower. Sill cracking yet intact. Being strong on my own despite the pain.

Making love to other women, and not loving other women. Moving at the pace of the sun. Emotions stitched into the moon.

Are we deceiving each other? Am I deceiving her? When the foundation caved the walls stood tall. Sturdy and ruined. Holding both, destruction and tolerance.

A playground for the curious, hopeless, and romantic. I’ll dance here for a while. This is still my home. Diminuendo into the darkness. I’ll rise again tomorrow.
sandra wyllie Aug 2019
are like autumn leaves
once colorful
fall
and crackle
under the soles
of a very trodden foot
like ships
fill up with water
and sink
if it isn’t
then it ain’t
what was
doesn’t hold
anymore
like a cut flower
droops
untouched cherrywood
collects dust
simply by sitting by itself
why does
everything
lose its shine?
I want it back
to the way it was
when it was young
full of promise
when the wrapping
was holding it together
did the novelty
make it prettier?
did less of it
impress?
in age
it regressed
was love
the spackle
that filled in
the cracks?
how do we
get it back?

— The End —