"commenting" poems
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”
I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“
<•>
*both of you shush!
there is no “better” in poetry
mine yours theirs, alive or not,
just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail
tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse
good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come
they get it
how we get there unimportant
get there
GET THERE
get there
that is the poetic
mission critical
no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace*
the common place
*where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,
a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive
call my poems,
blessedly common!
that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better*
for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered
8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
Tonight I missed a shot with nostalgia because of myself.
I've become such a slave to my phone that the flashing colours in the sky could not,
would not bother me.
Everything except for the device shining in my palms was blocked out like a voice I didn't want to hear in the first place,
Except I DID want to hear it.
I want know about everything that is happening around me without burying my face so deeply into Google to find the answers I'm searching for.
Nothing ever happens to me because I'm too busy in the comfort of my own home,
upon my own couch,
on my own phone worrying about the next Facebook status
and whether or not it will be entertaining
or in need of a dose of an opinion that is my own.
I recognize that I have my own personal "cell"-mate that will follow me wherever I go as long as I don't forget it on my kitchen counter.
I am shackled to my cellphone.
It takes me in handcuffs daily,
arresting me at my own free will.
A policemen of such small character,
yet so many brains.
And I already know my rights.
I already know my rights because I've researched them enough times with my mobile text book to have them memorized.
You have the right to post a status, anything you say can and will be taken out of context.
You have a right to an opinion, if you do not have an opinion one will be appointed to you by your desire to impress those whom share a friendship with you.
I am a servant to technology.
It's as though it is a part of my anatomy.
If it's not one item of electronics it's another and it has my full undivided attention.
As connected as we are, we have all become disconnected.
No one talks anymore.
Word of mouth has become word of texting.
Important pieces of information are shared via the internet because it's easier to get it out there all at once instead of saying it multiple times.
I sadly succumb to every chime I am beckoned with as it demands I answer whomever has interupted the surfing
and scrolling
and sharing
and liking
and commenting
and posting...
I put my phone down in disbelief.
Now tell me, "What's on your mind?"
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
the angel amongst us
~for Alexander, master splasher~
*flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns
~•~
the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both
two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression
the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?
this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!
little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future
the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer
the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing
but he measures the degree of difference at this
intersection
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity
“time to go”
the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,
as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics
"no go now,
now go later^"
though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs
one sees an angle,
the angel sees time
eternally folding in on itself*
that is the angle amongst us
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
I binge eat on all possible junk food,
It inexplicably elevates my mood,
Now trapped by people ceaselessly commenting on my increasing weight,
Does anyone else feel like they are putting food in a body they now absolutely hate?
I can’t stop.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 2:47 PM UTC
at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a
little surprise.
most of the men seemed
between 30 and 55,
going to fat,
many of them in walking
shorts,
they had gone stale in
life,
flattened out....
in fact, **** it, they
aren't even worth writing
about!
why am I doing
this?
these don't even
deserve a death bed,
these little walking
whales,
only there are so
many of
them,
in the urinals,
in the food lines,
they have managed to
survive
in a most limited
sense
but when you see
so many of them
like that,
there and not there,
breathing, farting,
commenting,
waiting for a thunder
that will not arrive,
waiting for the charging
white horse of
Glory,
waiting for the lovely
female that is not
there,
waiting to WIN,
waiting for the great
dream to
engulf them
but they do nothing,
they clomp in their
sandals,
gnaw at hot dogs
dog style,
gulping at the
meat,
they complain about
losing,
blame the jocks,
drink green
beer,
the parking lot is
jammed with their
unpaid for
cars,
the jocks mount
again for another
race,
the men press
toward the betting
windows
mesmerized,
fathers and non-fathers
Monday is waiting
for them,
this is the last
big lark.
and the horses are
totally
beautiful.
it is shocking how
beautiful they
are
at that time,
at that place,
their life shines
through;
miracles happen,
even in
hell.
I decide to stay for
one more
race.
from Transit magazine, 1994
6.9k
to be the kind of person
who will glimpse
the cherry blossom tree
beautifully delicate
in its early bloom
fluttering the palest pink
against a fragile white
desperate against even
the gentlest of breeze
but only observe
the black and the white
of what the premature
might mean for later
commenting how soon
these branches will lose
their graceful lustre
no longer to inspire
those hopeful wanderers
only to appear barren
and lifeless once again
Feb 22, 2024
Feb 22, 2024 at 1:08 PM UTC
when i was 4 i was ashamed of feminity
when i was 5 i started comparing myself to other girls
when i was 7 i weighed myself on a daily basis
when i was 8 i thought that if i wasnt skinny i wasnt beautiful
when i was 10 i learned the word ****
when i was 12 i hurt myself because i didnt think i was good enough
when i was 13 i wore a shirt that showed my shoulders in school. i was told i was asking for it
when i was 14 i had to go to a psychologist because my self esteem was so low i wanted to die
i still cant wear a skirt without someone commenting on its length
i still cant speak my mind and have a man take me seriously
i still cant mutter the word "feminism" without a boy looking at me like i'm ****
i still look in the mirror and hate myself
i still wonder if im asking for it
i still worry about walking the streets alone and my brother never did
i still get asked why i need feminism
because being called a girl is an insult
because men STILL think its all about men
because im more worried about being ***** than how my grades are
because no matter how smart i am, a boy is somehow better
because girls still die everyday as feminism is disregarded
because feminism is "a joke"
because "why isnt it called equalism?"
because i feel that we are worth it
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
Where is the patriotism?
Nowadays everyone is diving in the ocean of imagination
Regardless of what is happening to the nation
The majority of educated people who never stood in poll lines to give votes
Can now be seen in Bank and ATM lines collecting pink notes
Everyone tries to show patriotism in their famous poem and notations
But when it comes to reality everyone they are pretending that they had just went into depression
On the night of 8 November the poor felt that they had become wealthier than the rich
But now the politicians have started commenting that their situation is not less than the homeless *****
On the same night all the corrupt started rifling their old currency notes
Few were found in the pillow covers and few in the Tommy's dusty coats
The next morning the scrap of old notes were found some in the dustbin, some on the river Ganges and even on the boats...
Now I have just a simple question, is this the patriotism they had all the time showed?
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:39 PM UTC
Sitting there yesterday at the football game,
Watching my son tackling the quarterback,
Feeling the warm sun and watching him earn respect,
From his teammates, made my heart proud.
Looking around, I saw the cheerleaders, 11 yrs old, too.
Yelling and flipping and shouting.
Then from nowhere, "My glitter is sweating off!"
Makes me laugh outloud.
Little kids running everywhere,
Parents watching their kids, visiting,
It was a great scene!
Until I looked down in this sneezing little boys face,
And watched him scoop up some boogers
and have a snack.
Looking back I suppose it is only to be expected
as part of the scenery, and I can laugh now.
Just as watching the cheerleaders commenting,
And the poor kid who pulled a groin muscle,
Hobble off the field, is part of the scene.
All in all, a beautiful day, fun, family, and reality all at once.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 3:56 AM UTC
just another face in the crowd
just another classmate
we spoke occasionally, commenting on each other's work
Then it happened.
A random visit to my slumbering thoughts
made cloudy confusion blow away with the dark storm
I awoke with a smile on my face
hope wrapped around me
with a misty twinge of impatience for Tuesday rolling through
i'm not ready
i can't be ready
it's too soon...
isn't it?
it doesn't matter, he's not interested anyways
i don't want a rebound
i can't get hurt again
silence swept in behind you
calmly, coolly, quietly
setting things down beside me
playful jibes,
attentive conversations,
shy glances,
soft smiles,
ending with long walks in the darkening sky bright with city lights
heart pounding in my breast,
breath slipping past my lips in bursts,
butterflies fluttering in my stomach
things I had not felt for a long time
rose to the front of my mind
blooming in my heart
stirring with every class spent together
The fairytale I longed for may not exist,
but you may be the man to help me find something better
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
I feel most lonely when sitting at my computer.
There is the promise of knowledge, creativity, friends, love, companionship, shared ideals and inspiration.
But the reality of constant connectivity is quite different.
Bullying goes on outside of school.
Oppressive people find each other and a platform to taunt and torment their victims.
Idiots band together and spread stupidity like a modern black plague.
Intelligent ideas are challenged and the people who thought them up as stupid.
Creativity is put down and judged.
People are separated instead of united.
And love? Love seems to be non existent as the ignorant people who turn on their computers to put down good and promote evil don't even realise that there is a real person on the other side of that screen, and even then some do.
My news feed is full of bad news.
Full of sexism, **** inequality, torment, animal abuse, war, ignorance, stupidity oppression, child abuse and ultimately hate.
I realise the collective imagination is dying when I can't even remember what it is I did before this accursed computer came into my life and took over.
My rewards are nothing but imagined friends and fake conversations over text, we're communicating but not connecting, something in me longs to be back when if I didn't meet my friends regularly we lost touch because that is how real relationships are supposed to work.
With care, effort, meet ups and real conversation.
Emotion instead of emoticons.
Care instead of clicks.
Laughter instead of likes.
When photographs were precious personal memories rather than a trophy of 'look where I am' 'look how pretty I am' 'look at how much fun we're having' and sharing them meant a coffee or a few beers and a trip down memory lane flipping through dusty photo albums and laughing at your awful clothes, make up, hair and the state you were in rather than scrolling back through your online albums alone and commenting on how horrendous your photoshop jobs on some of them are.
When people were living their life for themselves rather than living to try and impress others.
When it was face to face rather than facebook to facebook.
I feel most lonely when sitting at my computer.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
Better natured today than yesterday,
smelling less like cigarettes and more
like laundry detergent, you sit across
from your therapist at the bar and
ask for one more boilermaker.
You say, How do you desire what you already possess?
And your therapist says, Don't go down that drunk.
That's a bad drunk.
You're in a floral print A-line dress, one
you bought from your sister-in-law.
She's doing one of those multilevel marketing things
and though her Facebook posts make you want
to suicide yourself, she's happy and independent
and at home with her kids. Despite these lukewarm
feelings, you harbor some resentment as you finger
and thumb a seam that's already coming undone.
Sloane. Your husband keeps mentioning a woman
at the office named Sloane. You're at the bar,
almost alone, and promised yourself
you wouldn't think about Sloane. But here you are.
Sloane in a pencil skirt and stockings. Sloane
with a fresh ****** energy, the kind you can't
seem to summon, and you wonder why ***
is such an important thing. It's so brief,
forgettable, full of abject compromise.
*** is an inherently violent act, don't you think?
You say to the therapist.
If your therapist hears you, he doesn't respond.
You don't repeat the question.
You watch yourself broadcast on the TV above the bar.
They're commenting on your hair and your arms
and going on and on about your likability.
Your therapist changes the mood. It's 6:30.
He gives the place a nighttime feel.
He kills a row of lights and turns on the
colored bulbs, the blues and greens.
The TV is turned down. The music is turned up.
This is what you've been waiting for, the lights, the music.
There's an hour before anyone really shows up. You can
close your eyes and drift.
Two or three drinks pass. A couple walks in.
You have your therapist put in for an Uber.
Maybe I've been asking the question the wrong way, you say.
Oh yeah? the therapist says.
Yeah. Maybe the question should be reversed.
Maybe the question should be
how do you remain desirable to the objects you possess?
That seems like a lot of work. Seems like you'd have no
sense of self. You'd always be bending.
I've been a plus one for a long time.
You say bending. But I wouldn't be
doing anything new. I already do all these things.
But I see them as a compromise. I'm just trying
to reframe, you know?
Why? your therapist asks.
You open your mouth and find no words. You smile. You say you've had too much. You're rambling. You're sorry. You better go.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
If you’re gonna
Die in the apocalypse
Drop out of school
Dump yourself into that little
Ditch you made that was stemmed from
Decades of anxiety and
Depression
You might as well look good doing it.
If your mascara runs in the eternal
Race to your dripping baby chin
It might as well be mixed with the glitziest
Eyeshadow you can afford
(Mine is hand-me-down from my mom,
Who has been called a drag queen too many times
For her to count but somehow
That makes me, her little genderless clown,
Feel connected in some cosmic way
To her ****** again).
Save your pennies so you can
Splurge at the thrift store on
Sweaters that go down to your knees to hide
Vaginas and **** bits
That maybe you wanna be coy about today,
So all the people spitting in your eye can at least
Trip on your pronouns and your triumphant
**** YOU
Can scrape the heavens.
You’re allowed to buy that tie, I mean
Easing the pain in your wrists and your heart and your stomach
Is done best in floral print,
In pop culture t-shirts,
In femme/butch/femme/hard/soft
**** culture, *** tantrums,
If you’re gonna get called by the wrong ******* name all day
At least look your best when you resist the urge
To send fists sailing into their face.
And it’s not just us but anyone,
If you’re ******* angry that someone keeps commenting on the size of your
Thighs the lush of your
Lips and some ******** keeps
Trailing you on his bike
Shake your studded gloved fist at him and tell him
THIS IS NOT FOR YOU, LORD OF THE *****
LORD OF THE NORM, I PICKED THESE
FIVE DOLLAR SHOES FROM THE RACK OF GOOD WILL,
SHONE THEM UP LIKE I SHINE MYSELF
FOR MYSELF
WITH MYSELF
I AM MYSELF.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 4:14 AM UTC
baby,
your hip bones aren't supposed to be sticking out
your ribs aren't supposed to either
they pump you full of pictures
of skeleton girls in cute bikinis
and weight loss tips
and though you always think "don't let it get to you, they're wrong"
it gets in your head.
because all the boys commenting on the photos say they'd totally ride her
long and hard
and all the comments on the girl who's slightly overweight
involves comparisons to cows
and you're so soaked in social media
that you can't help but see it
and all the girls commenting on how that's all they
want
but if all you want from life is to be "slightly sick"
to eat things and then puke them up
or not eat at all
you will never be satisfied
because you are feeding a hunger that does not go away
you lose the ability to judge how skinny
is too skinny
how pretty
is too pretty
after all, they are
the same
thing...
baby,
stop looking at those pictures.
stop reading those comments.
stop letting a pornographic generation of boys
tell you that ****** appeal is all you're worth.
start saying to yourself
i am not on the same level as a pornstar
because that is unrealistic
because **** is make believe
with plastic barbie dolls
to set the scene....
baby,
pretty isn't skinny
like pretty isn't fat
WE KNOW WHAT PRETTY REALLY IS
....we just ignore that fact.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 3:41 AM UTC
I'm tired of all the ****** idiots
on Facebook who call ****** addiction
a disease.
I'm sick of all the thirsty creeps commenting on single girl's statuses and then watching that girl play along.
Get some self respect.
All the dog face snapchat photos that hoes post,
oh can't forget the duck face that needs to die.
The racist Trump supporters saying some ******** about Obama.
I don't know why all of this affects me the way it does, but I wish it didn't.
Social media is ridiculous.
Some days I want to delete it all, but then I'd just be staring at the walls.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 4:08 AM UTC
Don't hate upon the elderly soul that see segregation as a good thing.
When they reflect with only good views.
Don't hate upon the suffering soul that proclaims to them that a place they shouldn't go.
World of different views.
Remember, they saw the shacks.
And those various colored only signs.
So in modern times, they will see thing differently.
Sure , those that only saw things as pleasant would still see it that way.
So, when you mention segregation to them.
You pointing out their shame.
Which the others suffered the infliction from.
Notice ways we all try to afford commenting on it.
Like slavery, we all try to run from that past.
Word of two different views.
Those in the South really get upset.
When you point and address their wicked mess.
Those in the North isn't so innocent either.
World of different views.
Which today is still bothering a few.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
My voice, at times, is quiet.
As quiet as late-night rain which you don't even realize fell until traces of raindrops fall from an overhanging tree and softly caress your face.
My voice, at times, is loud.
As loud and unceasing as a heartbeat, always heard in the corner of your mind.
My voice, at times, is silent.
As silent as the streets late at night when you feel most invincible with just the moon and the stars by your side.
Somehow my silence is loudest out of all I've said.
My voice and words are always looked past yet my silence is the only thing worth commenting on.
"Are you angry?"
Does it even matter much?
Do you even care?
I just want to drown in my emotions why can't I be left alone?
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Into the virtual world
I get ******
Staring into the pseudo-reality
Liking stuff,
Commenting words
Whether it makes sense to others?
I often wonder
Into the virtual world
I get drawn
The bunds of rationality
Do not seem to hold on
Staring at happy faces
Thinking on updates
Do I seem to remember?
What around me is at stake?
Calling for immediate attention?
Into the virtual world
I often loose
Some vital perspective
Floating into thoughtful nothingness
Until I stumble
On the platform of hard earth
And when I rub my eyes
I see the dire need to resolve
What is real and unreal!
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 6:02 AM UTC
To the Poets of Hello, Hello!*
We write, we share.
We hope there’s someone there
To read
Perhaps need
Poetry,
Precisely as we
Say it,
Hoping that they see it
As we do.
(They seldom do, but
It’s the memo
Of the heart,
Our smattering of art
That matters.)
Hello, Hello,
My fellow poets.
Ego-less
I come to you,
Admiring, commenting,
Caring for the things you dare to share.
Over simplified, naïve maybe,
Never diva we,
The weavers of profundity.
Hello, Hello to poets and to poetry,
Its crystal-gifted company
And you who take in what you see
Here.
To The Poets Of Hello, Hello! 7.4.2016
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
*Hello Poetry; a site encouraging one and all to submit & share their oeuvre.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
When poets thought I was dead
When my ashes were scattered
When I was running
and my heart was stuck on a barbed wire
When I am too old to create rhymes
couldn't pull heartstrings with my ink
or color a beautiful city with crayons
When my words were plagiarized
and I fell victim to the inevitable
When the tsunami tides were approaching
and you sent me a rhythmic piece
to keep me company
When I could barely form words,
that would impress my shadow
When you lighten up my bolt
by commenting a sacred criticism and love for my pieces
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 12:28 PM UTC
The way the clock ticks
Smooth away
Spirits dry
Slightly tender ears
Become another breath
A breath a sigh a mess to deal with
A test of zeal
& a box of papers
strewn left
& right
torn & strung about to conceal
the floor
the door
the walls
& the ceiling
naked peach & sweating
standing still like a post, but turning around slowly internally
putting on graces & smiling, sniffing the glass
before frowning & commenting on the values of waiting,
or diving right into the chasm of debt,
he looks handsome
& brutish
like a man best used for feeding
himself, feeding someone else
mere feed
he was food
a cow in a pasture
devouring to continue the feeding
for some dollars each day increasing
‘no worries mate’
a gesture to continue moving
there’s less to do
ensuing deadlines
wave beside the days arrive
sequentially,
enduring through them dutifully
like you must
red stars of sparks string off his limbs
& burn holes in the papers
brown cigarette burns widen & envelop
the papers that are small, the bigger
ones catch alight & fall to the
floor & it spreads
to the door
the walls
& the ceiling
now naked & blue & burning
the red & yellow flame rises high
a candle stands spinning
screaming & fighting & running from foe
who will eat him,
or **** him
he sleeps shivering under stars burning brighter than his own
& the papers are gone
so few left to feed the fire
he collapses
in a heap of soot & ash
he lies naked & black & steaming
panting & huffing like a kid on a balloon
on hands & knees observes the wreck
& sighs to clean the mess before
he becomes accustomed
or bored
he swings a broom around
and a dust pan handily collects the
soot & the wreck doesn’t seem so bad
it still stands & he stays there
in a darken pit, a hole of charred plaster
& carpet,
it seems OK so he stays there
all along the street the candles are snuffed out
they still stand so they stay there
in a row
toe to toe
all together
in compartments
of a box
of matches
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
I was in a car accident in September.
I suffered a severe concussion.
Though my body is rattled and
bruised, I believe will heal fine.
I am getting extensive therapy
and treatment.
My brain on the other hand is having
a bit more difficulty pulling it together.
Words don't line up, thoughts are
confused jumbles of messy patterns
that don't make sense sometimes.
This is very scary to me.
As I write everything on my tablet
or my android phone, looking at the
screen hurts my eyes and my brain.
I am very sad as of late. Have been
crying (more than usual). Head
hurts all the time. Getting lost a lot,
like when I drive etc etc etc. Writing
backwards. Everything written,
looks like it is at a slant (yuck).
And I have developed a Very significant,
interesting stutter. Fascinating really...
All I want to do is sleep...
(which I have become very good at)
and to be held...
(just isn't in the mix right now).
I may try reposting some of my
old work at this time, until I'm better.
I will do my best to check in on the Dailies.
I need to stay away from reading and
commenting. : (( : (( : (( At least for now.
I am Sure, I Will Get Better!!!
☆●♡♢♡●☆
I need you all to know how much
I've come to Love and Appreciate my HP Family.
One of the best gifts I have given
Myself. Also, I am trying to join
Kalypso and Gang with Our collection
of Poems on Sound Cloud.
If I can ever figure it out
♡ Peace and Love ♡
▪○●☆♡♢♡☆●○▪
Christi~ MoonFlower~ Fluer de Luna
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Leave the inner world
for the world outside the walls,
procure supplies,
then, return again.
That's the plan, Stan.
Feet meet cement block.
You remember the last time
we took this walk?
As well as I do.
Insert a line I've used before,
commenting on the violet hues
of parting suns, painting the
skies above us as we go for bread.
Instead of hidden knives,
I pull a hand and offer it
as we cross the overpass.
If you're scared in day,
you're terrified at night.
Without a pause, you're reaching out,
grasping for a comfort, now.
Easy, is it? I'll bet it is.
If life has taught me anything,
the most important change
is that I learn to zip my mouth.
Joy equates to nothing more
than what others see in store,
and go on to demand of me.
Lamb's Bread from The CDC
replaces intensity
I've lost to love, with smoke.
Light it up, and let it go.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 10:58 AM UTC
The aged wood of the boardwalk echos hollowly, but has a damp undertone from the left behind wet footprints of the day.
We thud forward in silence, commenting trivially on the nights happenings when my attention is slowly stolen.
Silently, the night wind picks up the lost sand on the boards and sprinkles it across my feet, desperate to take my attention.
Uncaught by anyone but me, a waver in her voice in the prime of her retelling of her day,
Did she notice my distraction?
In a final attempt at shallow conversation we turn to talking about the weather.
But, the wind is greedy.
It whips the sea oats until they shiver and sigh, an eerie sound.
Silence.
Our final few steps on the board walk crunch. Crunch until. . .
Finally, our eager toes lick the sand, cooled by the wind and stars.
Naturally, unknowingly our toes dig and burrow in joy,
reminiscing to the innocent barefooted days in the sand-box.
The wind, eager again for my attention, breathes down my spine.
We quicken our pace.
As we drawn nearer to the ocean, the mist scares the cowardly wind away.
Sprinklings of salt, water, and sand speckle upon our sun kissed skin.
Laughter.
We lay down in the sand, each lost in our own worlds and look to the deep heavens above.
Reflections of depth and light, moon to sun, space to sea.
The peace found only in the bare nakedness of a bed of sand and friends.
Open.
Sheltered.
Free.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC