"crinkled" poems
I don't remember, any more,
The exact shape of your hands
As I held them in mine,
Caressed them,
Memorized the length of your fingers,
The depth of your calluses.
I don't remember, any more,
Exactly your height, how much
Taller than me
You were, where
My head rested on your chest
When you held me tightly close.
I don't remember, any more,
Your scent, when we lay together
Creating our own
Magic rhythm,
Matching our heartbeats as we
Touched the sky, together.
I don't remember, any more,
The sound of your voice, calling
My name as though
It were a song
Within itself, a precious treasure
You valued with all your being.
And I don't remember, any more,
The color of your eyes, the shape
Of your lips,
Only...
How your eyes crinkled at the corners
And your laugh, as you told me,
"I love you."
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
Sometimes a miraculous thing happens.
The body ages,
And the skin crinkles like an old plastic bag.
And even though the body fades, the soul still fights on.
And the soul comes through the eyes.
And the most crinkled, faded old people will have the deepest eyes. Sometimes deeper than any others. Their soul comes through their eyes and draws everything in.
They glow with a brilliance earned over many years,
And even though the body withers, the eyes stay bright.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
The burning flowers underline the sunset and
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.
Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.
Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.
In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.
Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely.
The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils
Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.
And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience
As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
I cannot wait for that someone,
those little sprinkles of moments where I can tell him about the scar on the bottom of my left foot.
The crinkled and creased edges of my heart gently tugged out,
finally he can see the dinky mark on my right knee.
Slowly, the blemish on my lower back can meet his eyes.
Sure, my cheeks will be crimson,
but,
hey, I found Brave hiding,
it is peek-a-booing at me,
now to
you,
sweets.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
i. the curly, green-haired
leo with the cry-baby tattoo
on her left calf; fish net stockings and
loud guitar playing and
menthol cigarettes. driving through
the park at 9 pm, ***** shots,
the white house with the a-frame roof,
hugs that made your heart feel as warm
as she did
crying as i left my room again to be
intertwined with a girl who did not love me, but i wanted to;
months pass, lonely car rides with
one-sided conversations and
seven years gone,
quiet disconnection
that made you feel as cold
as i did
ii. brown eyes, brown skin,
round glasses and chicago streetlights.
holding each other close on the subway
lakehouse parties in the beginning of spring and
pisces season and tarot readings and
soft kisses on the train.
holding hands at the aquarium,
sweet poetry and calm and
a sense of oneness that made you feel
important
hurt for the third time
a panic, a loss
i held their heart in my hands and
let it fall
harsh
unimportant
i still carry the guilt on my fingertips
iii. short hair. freckled cheeks, i
fell in love with the way the skin
crinkled around her eyes when she smiled.
an apartment, a home built
around our lips touching
wrapped in blankets on the couch,
dense smoke and her hand on my leg while she
drove. chinese food and
waking up against her chest and
laughing so hard
my ribs hurt
crashing. her anger withering away my
heartstrings; pain and
crying alone in the bathtub
moving away
drunk tears on the interstate
punching my thighs
in place of the way her
words made
me hurt
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
Beneath the gulmohar tree
In flamboyant love
A tale of our desires
Coloring each other
A bright vermillion
Under his crimson spread
Shaded in blissful haven.
Reaching for his branches
Clasping, holding
Climbing, swinging
Chasing, laughing
Under a bright shower of scarlet petals
Of hearts and heat, of love and life
Blooms of a scorching Indian summer.
In flames, his vibrant burning crown
His canopy, flaunting festive tangerine blossoms
Crinkled teasing petals
One upright
Of quaint innocence in white
Splashed with feisty passion's red
Celebrating and anticipating
In celebration of us, our love
Anticipating rain..
As his branches reach high for promising dark clouds.
Serenading with the music of the monsoons
Moist leaves of the gulmohar glisten
With wind and water, in gentle rhythm
Raindrops nestle for a moment
Before sliding, slipping
On damp, satiated earth
Strewn bright with scattered orange petals
Of the gulmohar
Drenched and soaked like us.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 9:00 AM UTC
starry eyes with a bold stare
the universe isn't frightening to you
admirable because you are the one percent
the one percent who lives life to the fullest, one hundred percent
curls that your head weeps down
that resemble the salty ocean waves
skin as pale as a snow flake
with sun kissed spots on your crinkled button nose
translucent personality
angelic intentions
a golden silhouette of a heart on your wrist
a kiss that takes and gives air
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
some are hidden
by long sleeves
and baggy sweatshirts,
behind bloodshot eyes
and stale breath
written in light graphite
on crinkled sheets
in shoeboxes,
therapy sessions
and 2am text messages
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
in the middle of nirvana, ashima wakes up
she doesn't know how she reached this sphere
full of silver lights and black silhouettes
everyone she knows seems to be present
greyly shimmering leaflets are floating
through the air, gently, like mist
and red fireflies are clapping their wings
the crowd of shadows is starting to sing:
"ashima, you have come a long way to us
we are the voices of nirvana, listen
nirvana is the deep core of your soul
the land of your most secret wishes
sometimes, in your dreams, you reach out
when you are waiting for a train and the
rays of the sun are reflecting your thoughts
you never find us but we know where you are
you may call us your wishes, we belong to you
as **** as branko and your mom do
are you the imitation of your dreams, ashima?
or do your dreams imitate you, our girl?
certainly, you will become the thing you dread
we know that you took revenge recently
when you were slashing the pedophile's throat
as his blood was slowly flowing into the sheets"
in the middle of her apartment, ashima wakes up
she becomes aware of a crinkled and dark leaflet
it is more than twenty years old, informing about
something that ashima can not read anymore
the letters on the leaflet have become dust
ashima is taking a deep breath and sighs
her pitbull branko is strolling towards her
his wet tongue, ashima thinks, feels cute
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC
i wasn’t feeling okay
so i put on my overalls and went
outside
to wander around my backyard,
trekking around in clunky rain boots
as i hummed and tried not to think
i like to write
little notes
on the leaves that are now
changing colors
and when i’m done
i let them
fall
so i can flatten them
beneath my heel
till the small words
are crinkled and no longer legible
amongst the dirt and grass
and so desperately,
i wish i could
let the thoughts in my head
fall
to the ground
so i could flatten
these
pitiful feelings
beneath my heel
until they were no longer legible
amongst the hurt and hopefulness
in my heart
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
skyscraper man on seattle time
looms in the corner of swan lake and fry
untouchable denim untouchable blueblack plaid jacket
he's put together with clothespins
he's put together with stipends
he's crammed between taxi cab book ends
skyscraper man on seattle time
stoic as the jet engines roar by
all his friends are magazines all his friends currentbrief
he's got a little future
he's got a few dimes
he's got no father to call out the lies
skyscraper man on seattle time
watches smog children kick ***** on concrete
vulnerable under trees writes his novels in purpleink
he's married once before
he's read crucifixion lore
he's returned his money to the store
skyscraper man on seattle time
looking through spectacles of ***** and brine
the rain falls hard the breeze sweet on the leaves
he's emptying the soul of modern rock n' roll
he's emptying the tray of ashed thought
he's emptying the bank account cold
skyscraper man on seattle time
sheds crinkled skinmemory like the cicada
a twin-sized deathbed deathbed in apt. 203
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
carbon copied and eternal as saltwater as rust
invisible and tapping at the runrain window
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
climbs himself to the cosmos lightheaded perfection
ethereal visions of fullbloom love and legacy with measure
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
eyes are
quite gelatine
mending bubbly detail
mocking up fact to suit user
/the ears ? crinkled dishes of pinkened veins
robbing blood to probe the gossip
/digits bud on the feed
in polyp growth
******
and ****** a
pepper mill from off the
coffee table/tongue leeches lips
retaining massaged notes from food oils past
/spatting nostrils puncture the air
punching out breath purling
inhale a stressed
report
Dec 3, 2022
Dec 3, 2022 at 9:49 PM UTC
You changed me.
You changed my life, with the touch of your hand.
You were different, patient and sweet.
You're stutter always got to me.
The way your face crinkled when you were having troubles getting the words out,
The way your eyes sparkled.
But why?
Why did you comever into my life, become a forbidden fruit?
One bite and I was addicted,
Another and you were gone.
You made me feel whole, you made me feel.
I can't get over the way you smelt,
I can't get over the way you held me.
I am trying to replace,
But no one can replace,
Replace the way you were do accepting,
Replace the way you held me, cared for me.
No one will replace you,
and I can't get you out of my head.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 6:27 PM UTC
a love poem, of new & old,
why I am the summer-man!^
summer is winding down,
sky’s multi blues freezer safe stored in ziplock see thru bags,
marked and named by hue, the where and the when,
so when the eyes finally fail, when the squinting don’t help,
when the good things those good blues aroused,
poems, lush and morning thanks for being alive come-not-at-all,
quite the opposite, these cold blues
may help, to recall why it was worth breathing
summer is winding down,
so am I, the synchrony no accident, time,
the Pharmacy kitchen calendar
claiming another victim, willing or not,
those cars and the blue eyed models,
are now but blurred wishes and hopes, even these words, spoken,
not finger scribed, for the keyboard a
jumbled jungle of alpha-numerical
of confusion hellish and
my sons don’t come to clean up my pathetic messes, sending
their little children, beloved concubines of my heart
the daytime watcher, spanglish her native lingo,
tho single words she’s pretty good at too, but that don’t help much;
the grands, toddlers to pre-teens, the eldest a womanly eight,
tries but soon frustration bored, slips away quiet like
replacing her with her two year old sister, who knows her alphabet
which ain’t an exactly a help, but her five pencils stored^ nearby,
tagged with her name, awaiting her poems, her one true legacy
try to imagine her as a grandmother, farseeing the day when she
occupied this too too hard to-get-out-of-by-myself “easy” chair,
making rhymes with her next-next generational descendants,
faint remembering the silliness sorcery that I secreted in her brain;
zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo,
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes, gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!
which she acts out with giggles galore,
adding a teacup embellishment,
a creme fraiche pearly teeth smile topping,
the day watcher agrees, verrry verrry funny,
but time to me *** and take a needed morning *****
no poppy! no poppy! no poppy!
no nap, no *** no *****
thinking the call out is for her,
stomping her feet in an alternating rhythm and rhymes
I, happy poppy, ecstatics drooling out,
foreseeing the rhyme is strong in her,
get wheeled away crinkled and crackling,
*zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!*
a new genre me of gibberish summertime love poems
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
I'll hold your hand through the wizened wrinkles; even if your beautiful mind will eventually crinkle.
Crinkled & crumpled into creases too deep for sunshine to peek through.
(My fingertips will still slowly but surely fix it.)
Even when the hair tickling my bare shoulders, collarbones & necks on lazy sunday morning is no longer quite the same.
I'll be right here.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
I love you.
For everything,
that you are,
that you were,
and the amazing person you are going to become.
We seem so perfect for each other
but so
distant.
Two missing puzzle pieces
that fit immaculately together,
lost.
We tried so hard to stay connected,
but our edges became worn
and images faded.
So you stripped me
of everything I was.
You took all my colors,
all my strength,
all of my will,
and left me as just
cardboard.
Soggy,
from the tears,
of a shredded heart,
streaming from within.
But over time,
my skin dried
and was stained and crinkled.
Showing a new picture.
A new me.
Stronger.
Happier.
And even more beautiful than before.
I love you.
For everything,
that you are,
that you were,
and the amazing person you are going to become.
It's just that you don't love me...
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the contents pour out like
spaghetti confetti.
Tommy, Elizabeth's boyfriend, rode his ocean blue Huffy, until the tread on his tires grew bald and until the grips were blanketed by dead skin. Looking for her, panoramic views of the horizon leapt beside him. Silhouettes of his legs, churned and kissed the orange and caramel dusk. With every tear in his hamstrings and calves, the **** in his sky grew and swallowed the memory of Elizabeth Mendenhall, Honor Student.
Margot, Elizabeth's twelve year-old sister, was an idealistic soul. Taking a Sharpie, she wrote on her sister's wall, "Liz, there is no death greater than the loss of self, and no life greater than one where we continuously search for what self is." Margot struggled with concentrating and frying eggs - but focused on the sunflower garden, dangerously and perfectly.
Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.
She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."
The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.
Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
Minimum wage at a sewing factory
the air thick with the smell of cheap dye
and the determination of making ends meet
raising three kids alone in a foreign country
where no one speaks your mother tongue
breaking down the wall of cultural restraints
so your daughter could pursue her dreams
giving her the freedom to soar
even if it meant caging yours
our favourite meals even after a long, hard day
the embracing aroma of spices as we enter the house
insisting you are not hungry
so we could have the last bite
falling asleep to the lullaby of your voice
reading through the crinkled pages of Urdu stories
your endless, fearless support as we grew up
if only we could see ourselves through your eyes
for what you have endured, words can’t express
your resilience, your courage, your love
-to the strongest woman I know
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 8:27 PM UTC
He crinkled the daily
paper and thought out
loud, "You're my
best friend."
She scuffed her
kitten heels, prodding
for more. Far inside she
told herself to take it lightly.
He knew she knew
that he knew it was
temporary. Acting as if
she made him happy.
She sunk deep in
the velvet green
couch. Cons and pros
of being the leaver or the left.
He stared past Valentine
cards and the spot on
the carpet, where they
laughed and spilled tomato soup.
Their faces drooped and became
that soup. Sodium and protein
soaking into the ground
every which-way.
She resided and sat
up out of their yard-sale
bought couch. She set her
mind on staying by his side.
He toppled over on
the yard tools he never
touched. Now next to his
side was the Earth's crust.
She was left in the air
and he laid in muck.
His voice played over in her
head, "You're my best friend."
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
Write these words on empty stomach
unasked, I spilled my guts.
You said, "My life's a joke
and every choice a punchline."
You just wrote my prologue and the afterword
is dangling off my lips, now;
on the tips of tongues.
Steel night skies thrum and echo
when the bells are struck.
Goose Creek pays tribute to the wide Missouri.
I can't offer much--
clenched hands and mouth clamped shut.
Fling some words at empty wall space
from corners, room warms up
My reddened face obscured
behind two frost-fogged lenses
Guess I penned the punchline. Now my line-worn face
is crinkled up and frozen didn't get the joke
Tried to make a map out of the
words we spoke.
These streams pay tribute to a sea of memories
Now you don't say much
"Good luck," and "Stay in touch."
Clenched hands and mouth clamped shut.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
the priest, whose tomato face looked like it might explode under collar tension,
gave the valedictory at the friday night execution
the yellow-toothed, combover'd serial killer buckled in electric chair
kept staring at the door, expecting an ally to crawl in late but not too late
the mother of one of the victims rattled on about
how she didn't care that the killer had an allergy to the anesthetic used
in lethal injection he's going to die either way what's it matter?
buzz of fly crack of rolled program against empty folding chair
(yes, there were programs, and whoever laid them out knew their typography)
buzz of fly raised upward, toward the black, magma-cooled ceiling
audience chin up, pupils circled fly as the priest droned on
about everlasting life like a Paul Simon song from his youth
like a catcher's mitt from his youth like a youth from his youth
the boyfriend of one of the mothers of one of the victims
said he was hungry pancakes sound good, don't they?
I love it when syrup gets on the bacon, you know? love that.
a pudgy guard with bleary eyes and 12 a.m. shadow
rolled his index finger lowered his brow, telling the
priest to wrap it up so the priest wrapped it up
by reading the names of the victims
Tara Barnes, 17, Rachel Lythe, 10, Julie McPherson, 13,
Serenity Strongman, 15, and Mary Beth Williamson, 13
the priest said something about judgement as
the boyfriend of the mother of one of the victims
took another swat at the fly missed
any last words? the priest asked
where's James? the killer asked, he was supposed to be here
did you guys give him the right time?
the guard nodded to a lab coat by a black box
then a hiss then a hum then an inhale
the first jolt of alternating current for
instantaneous brain death
hard to tell if they succeeded in that
for the second jolt came only a moment
later this shock's aim to fatally damage
the internal organs, overstimulate the heart
and the killer's face looked like a horse's leg
then an exhale then a hum then a hiss
and the killer's face looked like the crinkled
skinmemory of a cicada
it was late most of the best restaurants already closed
but we could go to that diner off 63rd, the boyfriend
of the mother
of one of the victims, said
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
wind's cool lips envelop and chill
protruding listeners, speckled stamps
on crinkled noses
or sun-bit, stacked vertebrae
dabbing each one, I count the
anatomical stars, fibers of you
glancing over with the brim of
my own beginning, parted just so
maps unwind, sighing deeply
but robustly seducing the depths
of our curiosity, condemning
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Harsh light falls on my fearful face
She stop thumped against my heart
Gliding night on crinkled tights
She worked and quirked her way in to me
Shoulders clinched as she spun her drift
She stomped trod on my soul
Set aloft in the ***** air
My eyes slopped their tears
Wet down her hair as she clenched
Lips dragged drug down my neck
Lamp lit light flung down and low
Fearful thoughts because I’ll crawl back
Fearsome thoughts as she works again.
cc1210
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 2:37 PM UTC
To: Sarah Joyce Crimson 8th July 1943
A man in a gray suit has captured my heart, mother
Along with the tie, of course
Surrounding plants would've died
At his gaze and grace
Armored charm and wide toothed smile
His last name could've might as well been poise
I don't know what it is about him, mother
But his gentle crinkled eyes certainly isn't
His voice is as flattering as the lullaby you once sang
The tone itself symbolizes warmth and stability
Undiscovered treasure in the midst of all volumes
It is home I feel closest to when I catch a glimpse of it in my ear
I don't know whether to feel astonished or quivered
By all means, that'd be deemed as eerie
But you once said when a man one day turned my cheeks bright pink
It sure could only mean one thing
It is unreliably evident not to notice me blush
It is even more apparent not to notice his blunt stare
Sending chilly shivers down my spinal cords
Activating fondness I'd never in a million years imagine I'd sense
If only you were here to see for yourself
How proud I'd make you, indeed
You said one day I'll be able to marry, mother
Well, this day isn't as far planned as it once seemed
From: Christine Louise Crimson
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC