"countdowns" poems
It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon
and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon
the star checkout lane at my local supermarket
tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics
that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect
exceeding expectations bent into global orbit
My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt
a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent
taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons
almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions
helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy
made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity
She stroked parts of her radical laser station
to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination
and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines
urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines
a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities
gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity
With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy
as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality
with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged
handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag
no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons
my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Countdowns have always seemed bittersweet to me..
The steady ticking away of time
The trickle of sand through the hourglass.
The fading of connections not curated.
I’ve always been morbidly aware of my own doomsday clock,
Slowly beating, decreasing, releasing my
Seconds into the atmosphere around me,
As I wait, sometimes impatiently, for it to hit zero.
Some days, I hope for my hourglass to run dry,
And while I know that that isn’t a healthy mindset,
Some days it is all that I can do to not hurry it along.
Not to take that revolver in my dad’s lockbox,
Not to take those pills in the medicine cabinet,
Not to take that rope and the one wobbly stool
that has sat at our bar for the past five years…
Just beckoning me.
Just wanting me to take that final step
into sweet, sweet oblivion.
But.
If I do take that final step..
Who would be there to pick up the pieces for them?
To clean up the mess that this disgusting body left behind?
Who would be there to finish my paintings,
To sing my unsung list that is ever-expanding,
To write these words that have seemed so forced these past months?
Who would be there for them, when I could not be?
Someone, I am sure, but I have been told that I am irreplaceable,
And while I may not believe that,
I am scared of leaving a mess behind
That my mother cannot bring herself to clean up.
I am scared of leaving behind a mess that would irrevocably break my father,
A mess that would torment my brothers,
A mess that my sisters would never even remember.
And maybe..
Maybe I am scared of the call of oblivion..
Or scared of the unknowingness of it all, rather.
Or perhaps I am tired of thinking
of myself as a mess to be cleaned up,
Nothing more, and nothing less.
And maybe
That is all I need
To survive one more day.
Apr 18, 2023
Apr 18, 2023 at 11:32 PM UTC
Our brains run on the
Same frequency, a precise
Pitch. Subconsciously stumbling
Into a cranium-themed cohabitation.
With Bics in hand
We catch inconsistent and
Rapid glimpses of a
Contemporary "real" world.
Shape-shifting from one
Ideology to the next.
Using time as a distraction; it's
Human nature to pause for countdowns.
They're all painted over. Oceans and
Gulfs covering lava and intrapersonal
Insides. Scrape it all off and you'll find that
Without all of the adhesives they bruise
Easier.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Finding somebody who gets you entirely is rare. Sometimes that person is called your soulmate, I call her my best friend; and though the distinction is clear it aches to watch her drive away. Love, can be selfish or it can be kind. To me it is a pulling of the heart, removing it from my body out my throat. I want only the best for her and I hope she can hear the love coming off my tongue like a slip and slide. Watching her drive away reminds me that my utter adoration for her is not always best for her; though that doesn't make me feel better, that doesn't quiet the voice inside my head as it screams "stay!" "stay!" "stay!", closing the door and crying until my face is coated in mascara does not ease reality. Nothing can change my heart: it fights to escape, to be heard among the goodbyes and countdowns, to argue the facts, to simply whisper "take me with you". Because it knows she cannot stay, but also, that there's an emptiness without her. My heart knows the distinction between best friend and soulmate, and my heart knows she is as rare as they come. I know she is irreplaceable and one of the best parts of this life, and I know it's almost desperate how much I need her by my side. But where ever she goes, I pray she won't leave me behind. Even if I am only a book, please, take me with you.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
I caught a glance,
I thought you saw.
I know you from before,
you’re the boy my dreams draw.
Here I am down on earth,
there you are in the company of the moon.
You’re completely out of reach,
but I still dream to see you soon.
I’ve counted the nights
I’ve counted the stars
I’ll be catching fallen ones,
and put them in my jars.
Tired of wishing on shooting stars,
I’ll make it on my own.
Simply because, you’re my only dream
reality has ever known.
I’ll fly to the moon
with this star-made balloon.
And so here I am in the night sky
where my stars are city lights.
The farther I go,
the nearer I am to the risks I fright.
I kept going ‘til my stars lost flight
And so here I am,
halfway there
with you in sight.
I’ve got nothing to do
but wait here and stay,
while my mind countdowns ‘til the day.
I fell asleep with you in reach,
waiting for your rescue
because you’ve got my heart to teach.
This time I won’t leave.
This time I’d wait instead.
This time I’ll prove the promises
I haven’t even said.
Almost there,
but here I’ll stay.
Just wake me up,
when you’ve met me halfway.
a. gale
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
Mother tried to be a decent mother
in the weeks ahead of Christmas.
she’d fill the month with Advent calendars,
finger countdowns and splotchy
un-successful attempts to create a
joyful face with lipstick.
In hindsight maybe the weight
of her guilt was especially heavy during
the one month of the year that God
could not be ignored.
Its different now.
God is no longer privy to X-mas,
and guilt is not an appropriate emotion
to be taught to children.
I was more afraid
of mother during Christmas
than at any other time of the year,
all that fake smiling and brittle kindness,
her strings could snap at any moment,
and you knew they would
you just didn’t know when,
or how, or on who.
“It always snows at Christmas!”
mother said as she reached
out my bedroom window to
gather a handful of fresh powder.
She’d bring it in to show me
and I’d wince and cringe because
her movements were erratic
and unpredictable
like a puppet on strings, her
arms swinging wildly
from side to side,
knees jerking up and down
across the floor
she’d always end up
spilling snow on my bed.
I think the snow helped numb
what it was that she hid,
helped her hide behind
that painted wooden smile,
if only for a little while.
My memories of snow
are quite vivid.
I’d shovel snow into
tall piles, taller than I stood
then build tunnels
to the other side.
I jumped off of rooftops
into huge snowdrifts
and come up with
sleeves full of snow.
My friends and I would
latch onto bumpers of
slow moving cars
and “skeech” through
the neighborhood,
or careen down toboggan
runs on our feet,
face planting
at the bottom where
the ice gave way
to fresh snow.
When I turned 16
we’d hide Old Style Beer
in snow drifts,
build ice forts in the forest
and spin donuts in
St. Mary’s parking lot with
open beers in our laps
and never get caught.
As I see it now
all of these things
helped ease the
burden of confusion
with my mother’s
dis- interested
wooden puppet
smiling,
but her guilt ridden
attempts at
Christmas niceties
were never going
to be enough
to keep me from
becoming
dysfunctional.
You see its all about the snow.
A life embraced by snow.
snow cut into lines,
Encapsulated snow,
spoon melted snow,
any kind of snow
to numb the extremities
and freeze the nerve endings,
a temporary escape from
the Christmas gift
of mother’s guilt.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
That smile he hides behind
the one everyone believes means he is fine
His broken heart fighting to be heard
but he is left searching for words he can't find.
He is meant to be strong
To cope with everything
To laugh at the jokes
Despite the fact that in his heart its all gone wrong.
Yet he smiles on for now
He battles the tears
countdowns to the next breakdown
he knows he must continue somehow
He remembers his brothers last words to him
he holds them close
in the hope they will make him truly smile once more
in hope of an outlook that isn't as grim
That smile of his is fake,
it will live with him forever more.
But he prays one day someone sees through it,
he hopes one day he can finally break.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
You loved countdowns, because they always led to something great.
I thought nothing of them, but humoured you nonetheless.
On New Year's celebrations, we'd marvel at fireworks.
The explosions started to lose their spark.
Your words decreased, my pain ascended.
Each year, we grew apart.
The day finally came.
"This is it.
The end.
Goodbye."
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
I think I’m losing my poetry.
Not in some bleak, calamitous way,
Just – I don’t know how to start anymore.
Is that the problem?
That I’m caught up in my once-upon-a-times
And my dark-and-stormy-nights?
Maybe.
Or. I’m trapped in my metaphors.
Even – I’m tangled in my analogies.
Trying to tap the trees of every experience I’ve ever had and
Bleed them for all their meaning.
Picking up each imperfect seed of memory and desperately
Injecting their cores with GMO/Pesticide/Make this Matter/Juice.
This cyclical little life of mine is whirling too quickly,
My tail is tying knots in my intestines.
I can see the nape of my neck approaching in the distance,
Time taps her toes on my scaled sloping back and tsk-tsks not long now.
I keep on asking her what the countdown is for.
She checks her watch and smiles.
Nov 15, 2023
Nov 15, 2023 at 3:16 PM UTC
I fear:
I. the end of days
like some irreverent foot that with one mismotion
destroys an anthill,
and so the beauty of this world and
the beauty of you will be
lost
confined to a memory rife with inconsistency
II. that the tiny spark of hope
of faith
of desire to grow will
sputter in my palms
despite my cupping hands against the wind
and I will sink below the depths I am
III. that when I bare my soul, I expose my mind
and the utter nakedness of my intentions come to light and
I will be
known
IV. death and its cousin omniscience:
do those who loved me see me now?
Will I watch you love another when I leave?
V. knowledge, for knowing the truth invalidates inaction
VI. ascension, for I am unworthy on my own to rise, and
who will catch me in my meteoric fall?
VII. that we are all but endless and
eternity whispers to us in our
mortal state
reminding us in echoes that our heartbeats are merely
countdowns.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC
here's the broken hourglass
sand slipping through fingers
into open air
here's the crooked clock
ticking counterpoint to heartbeats
thumping off-tempo
here's the stopwatch, button jammed
digits melting into each other
a count-up to the end
out of sync
out of time
out of control
countdowns only last 'til you explode
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:58 AM UTC
Balloons and glitter in the air
sparkly dresses and countdowns
I don't know how I survived
I said after all these years
you would think the cold air would feel less harsh on my skin
but this time it lingers
letting itself in
and I'm so scared of what's to come
I guess all I can do is try and stay warm regardless of the red of my cheeks
and the trembling of my hands
and five years
goes by so fast
and so, so slowly
when you're waiting for your chest to unthaw
waiting for the summer to come
and the year to be new
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 12:21 AM UTC
I told myself not to feel
You came out of nowhere, i laughed at the irony of our collision into an awkward yet somehow
fitting setting
You drew me in on every word
every line oozing with sweet sticky promises
Promises that you almost give up on
No one knows
What I want
How I feel
How I view the world
What holds me back
But you…
You ******* got me
Unguarded
Unafraid
To say how I truly feel
Except; when it comes to us
I can still feel your hands on my face
Inky eyes locked with mine
Intertwined, bound, and tied to each other motionless
We could have stayed there
Forever
Yet, we didn’t
Weekends turned every other
Which then became maybes
My body no longer stamped by the passion you left behind
My heart no longer topped off by the hopes of seeing you
No more countdowns
Now I count how long it takes for the next one to break me down
Tearing through my heart like a giant Christmas present that no one ends up needing
Placed in the corner with the others to be regifted
Leaving behind filaments of gift wrap and fancy ribbon, used to hide the well intentioned gift
No one wants the gift of a heart these days
They want houses, cars, well oiled and machine-like bodies that crawl to them, and classy like a
sorority sister at a keg party (who went to Amherst)
The heart is overdone
The passion that at one time exhumed from our bodies was now beginning to fade into a pitch
black abyss
All that is left is a few memories of Saturdays well-spent
Conversations that went on for hours
And a heart that once again,
Has been drained and bled dry to stop the very beating that you caused
All that’s left is an empty shell
One that i’ll pick up, dust off, wash out and pour myself into again…
This one ******* hurts
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
random things start beeping in my home so every time i almost drift to sleep, i am reawakened by bomb countdowns and the thought that maybe I don't believe you and maybe that's okay
also my dog is laying next to me and staring up the stairs because he is too tired to walk up them
and tomorrow morning i will also be too tired to climb stairs but i will pretend i am strong
because i am expected to be
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
Posters
Of smiling kids
Fancy clocks
Cleaned floors
Visitors come and go
Thinking highly
Enjoying the atmosphere
It's all an
ILLUSION
Kids smile
But not with their eyes
Clocks are just countdowns
Until we leave this hell
Visitors are lied too
Atmosphere is dark
Air is heavy
Creativity is dying
The girl good at art
Was told to focus on math
The boy good at singing
Was told to do sports
The teacher with uniqueness
Was told to follow the books.
Because this is a
Grade A school
Come back again
We will **** your child
Mentally.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 8:06 PM UTC
Comparisons can be deadlier than a knife,
Cutting down your successes because you are drowning in your failures
Pinching at flesh
Scrubbing at teeth,
Pulling at hair.
Disappear.
Whiten.
Grow.
I am happy but not happy enough
I have money but not enough money
I have friends but not enough friends
Enough?
No
Never enough
Countdowns to dates you know are a waste of time
...Of energy
He will run out of conversations
You will run out of smiles
Moans to fill the silence
touches to fill the voids
Making love is close enough to love, right?
Smudged lipstick, clothes discarded, dignity no where to be seen.
At least someone held me.
That’s enough for now
I’ll be fine once I’m out of my twenties. My eighties will be better.
My Deathbed ruined by the flashbacks of the life i did not live.
My husband, my kids, my grandkids..
Here but...
they are not nearly as good as Carol’s or Debbie’s or Caitlyn’s.
Enough
No
Never Enough
Aug 15, 2020
Aug 15, 2020 at 3:16 PM UTC
The night that she died, she was in my arms. We were in the hospital bed. We both knew this was the end—all the months of pain, the endless treatments, the medication. Every hour I spent taking care of her was for the smallest chance that she might get to see another day.
That whole night, we stayed intertwined in that small, stiff hospital bed. She caressed my hair and whispered memories from when I was a child. She talked about how happy she was with the life she lived. In that moment, it felt like things were fine—like maybe, somehow, she could miraculously heal. But we both knew the truth.
I spent my part apologizing, begging, loving. I spent my part regretting. I kept looking at her, then the clock, back and forth, praying for just one more day. I begged her not to sleep, knowing that once she did, it would happen. She HAD to die, and I couldn’t understand why.
She held me as I cried against her chest, like a child, sobbing and pleading with the universe to trade our places. Then she went cold.
I looked at her. And I realized—this was it. She had left.
I was sixteen, lying in that cold, cramped hospital bed, holding my mother’s lifeless body, wishing for a different world.
The day of the funeral, I was surrounded by people offering their condolences. As sweet as they tried to be, I was bitter. I rejected their help. I wanted to be alone. The worst part was the strangers—people who didn’t even know her—standing up and speaking for her. Speaking about who she was, like they could ever understand.
I ran out of the church and kicked over a trash can. I fell to my knees, sobbing, screaming silently to the sky: “Mom, I wish things were different.” “Mom, I wish I’d shown you how much I loved you.” “Mom… you were everything.”
When they buried her, it felt like a seal. This was final. No countdowns, no approximations, no hovering uncertainty—just an undeniable fact. She was gone.
After everyone left, I stayed behind. I knelt in front of her grave, pressing my head against the cold tombstone, hugging it like I could somehow feel her warmth again. I clawed at the dirt, burying my hands in the grass like I could dig her out. I knew she wasn’t there, but I couldn’t accept that she was really gone.
She would never see me walk down the aisle to the song I’d told her about since I was a kid. She would never meet the people I promised to introduce her to in college. She would never see me graduate high school.
And I hated her for that.
Even though it wasn’t her fault, I hated it.
It was easier to point fingers, to be bitter, to blame the universe, God, or fate. Even if, deep down, I knew there was no one to blame.
Feb 20, 2025
Feb 20, 2025 at 11:40 PM UTC
Countdowns can be the end,
it's started,
nearing the beginning.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC