"crinkly" poems
queasy
upset stomach
shaky knees
spill out of a packed van
with choking seatbelts.
feet that are tired of wearing shoes
and sitting
for houuuuuuurrrrs
hit the hot concrete...
foreign land:
gas station.
dad tells me to run around a bit
stretch my legs
mom sits in the car
pregnant
fanning herself
smiling
at me
out the open
window
i smile back.
i'm wearing the white shirt
with the blue trim
that mom made me
special
for our trip
it has a silly sun
with sunglasses and a crinkly smile
that she embroidered on it
it is
my favorite...
i smell the acrid gasoline
look around
the first time
i've been
anywhere
i am only eight
dad comes out of the store
his hands full
of funny little cardboard boats
me and my sister
run up to him
he hands me
a chili dog
with onions...
first bite....
burst of onion
spice of chili
sweetness of bread
orange
mouths
i look at my sister
she points to my shirt
shows me the chili stain
against the perfect white
i
cry
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Hello Poetry
Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.
And here you are.
Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.
The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.
So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------
Who's Who In Poetry
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)
Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
First, I spotted the gaggle sagging innocently enough,
One might say blissfully reflected in the laptop screen.
Then out of nowhere came the phrase, "whodunit?”
And from the hanging sag, a sly, silky, voice whispered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Clearly a few clues were left behind, wispy hair strands,
Scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles, posed upon a
Pale listless, crinkly, lightly pimpled, surface, and from a
Wrinkly, shallow crevasse a voice teased,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Totally hooked, curiosity piqued, southward I spied,
A once upon a time perky, treasure chest, half hidden,
Now two solemn, empty grain sacks laid east to west,
And close to death but not quite, lazily they muttered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
The final chapter, an ancient, untold mystery solved,
No crime, no villain, nothing stolen, only flesh alchemy,
Where a plateau of supple, touchable, skin once resided,
A lumpy, bumpy, flabby flesh pillow lolled, and it murmured,
“Ahhh, Boston cream pie, a quick nap, that's the ticket."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
*When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,*
because of poetry.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
Out on the path, I wait for her
my friend who’s just for me.
We play and sing and laugh a lot,
though no-one else can see.
You call her imaginary,
but she’s real and best of all,
she’s made a solemn promise
to be here when I call.
My mum says she’s not really there,
though the truth is mum don’t know
the fun me and my friend have had
or the places that we go.
We get lost in the forest
and fly up to the stars,
then sit upon the rooftops
throwing jelly beans at cars.
We’ve dug up buried treasure
and stared Blackbeard in the face.
And we’ve ridden Pegasus
to see the earth from space.
If you think I may be fibbing,
I’ll tell you it’s no lie -
to say we’ve seen most everything,
my secret friend and I.
But now the time is ticking,
she’s never usually late.
But here I am still waiting
sitting by the gate.
I feel the world revolving
as seasons come and go.
I never thought she wouldn’t come,
but perhaps I finally know.
That secret friends are mortal
and don’t last forever,
but I’m quite sure I won’t forget
the times we spent together.
I think I hear the clock indoors
chiming half past four.
The day has almost passed without her,
I’m not so little anymore.
But, just as I turn to go inside,
I hear the squeaking gate
“I’m so sorry,” my friend cries
“I didn’t mean to be this late”!
The world turns again to greet the moon
and my friend and I shall roam,
weaving in and out of dreams
making memories our own.
So, grown-ups if you’re finding,
modern life hard to survive,
wait a while, by the gate
you never know who may arrive.
Though you may not have seen them
for about a hundred years,
secret friends remain with us
and help allay our fears
that we all grow old and crinkly
and forget how to dance and laugh
just have a little patience
and pause there on the path.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
Oh freddled gruntbuggly
thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits
on a lurgid bee.
Groop I implore thee
my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts
with my blurglecruncheon,
see if I don't
Compliments of Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to Galaxy & Wiki
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts
With my blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
~~~
Vanilla Extract
under extreme duress,
word-boarding extreme,
she issues up reluctantly a true confess
her secret ingredient
in everything is
vanilla extract
*where do you source this
in quantities so ample,
keep it well hid,
for all I see
after cupboard investigatory
solitary tiny brown bottle
shelved alone, forlornly?*
wearing a vanilla smile,
that persists for quite the while,
she crinkly eyed laughs
“I extract vanilla
nearly everyday,
for when I awake to a
fresh poem from a poet
who loves me,
I draw all the vanilla out,
then feed it back to him
in the foods I supply,
so his poetry is for ever
sustainable”
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
It was July and something inside of her began to thud. small and light as a pulse grew from a seed at the bottom of her belly, weaved and braided with veins, commandeered organs like ivy on headstones. washed up and sprouted from her chewed down fingernails, popped blood vessels in her eyes. she thought, 'if this isn't dying then it must be blooming.' this new presence was abashed by the absence of Arabic script and an African summer. it wept at dogs as they panted; they could let go so easily- a few deep heaves and they're back to pure. easy and breezy and not the sad, harsh tear of skin below shoulders, the bruises creeping over wrists and the shredded esophagus. the soiled heart and tar-heavy soul. it panicked more and more as the calender blew past. it sobbed as tomorrow became today and today became yesterday.
i lived a hazy summer. brown skin and hair that turned red at the crinkly ends as it baked. i walked through cornfields and slipped on husks. landed on my back and erupted in giggles at the snowglobe sky protecting me and caging me. incense and gin were as consistent as the advent sun. music blaring and bodies bumping and no release. no escape. my little book of plans was solid and secure. and then smashed. ripped. no poetry and braids. not dreamy just silly.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Hello you say as
you saunter through my door to
flop onto the couch and
fluster me with a lazy grin.
got any food?
I am elbow deep in a bag of nachos
why?I ask suspiciously
and you smile wider.
Because I'm hungry, you say
and
kind of fried.
Of course you are
and you
laugh and grab the bag
your fingers brush mine amongst the
crinkly chips and
the artificial cheese dusting.
Who, you ask later between
crunches, is hotter. Gerard Butler or
Johnny Depp?
I nibble a chip in
consideration distracted
by your arm sneaking
around my waist.
It is obviously
Gerard I say because of
reasons I forget when you
start to kiss me.
The nachos suddenly lose
importance because
you taste like
smoke, cheese
and a friday afternoon.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
*"Be the harpooner of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers."*
l<>|
writ many years past, just another dusted off phrasing,
composed from life's lecture notes, collected by eyes tired
from the hazing,
eyes wearied by the addict-strong,
incessant observational needing,
of celebrating the loopy,
they who make this planet
capable of laughing at itself,
a helping habit for mutual survival...
*should you spot a man ungainly wrought,
weighted down by a harpoon cross
cursed 'pon his Cain-marked back,
you need not move to the other side,
'tis only a make-believe poet,
with his recording device,
seizing your rhapsodies to rhyme,
his collected artifacts, your crinkly smiles,
his meat, his metier, his chosen career,
a comfort caresser of your illusions into
a shapely sculpture of words for you to keep,
a token of your now examined worth,
a celebration for the keeping...*
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
I tried to write a lullaby
With a 70's theme of sorts
Kids drinking Sunny "D" in their jammies
Girls in Mindy, Boys in Mork
But that's as far as I could get
This dried up crinkly brain stays in a daze
So I picked up the phone, dialed up some friends
In hopes of a friendly Friday night game of charades
Of course Sylvester brought his Ouija board
He thinks with the other side he's in tune
I hate to break it to Houdini here
But I think he's inhaled to many fumes
My friends say that I'm just paranoid
Like a jester without a court
So I turn and apologize to Sylvester
Okay dude, pull out the board
We place our fingers on the Doohickey
Or is that the Thingamajig
Redrum, Redrum, Redrum, is all that it spells
As Sylvester has a fit
He knocks the game table over
And screams it's that movie, The Shining all over again
This is ****** spelled backwards people
As the smell of the dead blows in on the wind
In all of the dark spirit world excitement
I think I even pee'd myself
I suggest in a manly way with a wet spot on the front of my Bell Bottom jeans
That we put the Ouija board back up on the shelf
I really wasn't expecting an evening
Of doom and gloom and tombs and such
I think I'll go back to writing that 70's lullaby
If you don't mind...thank you very much
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
the man nearby on the train clacks his laptop offensively
like the annoyance of noisy writers in school exams
when I was stultified by writers block
I wonder what the black girl would taste like
passengers feed their fatness with crinkly cellephane food substitutes
did you have a good weekend?
conversation openers start to chorus
corporate cockwombles
talk in jargon tongues
as they sell their souls
to white shirt organisational ambition
common sense takes a back seat
in the street car of Progress
there's talk of profit and effiencies
from men who never made their wives moan
there's talk of scalability and security
from those who know nothing of flexibility and risk
there's talk of innovation
from those whose personal best
is a smart phone
have you seen the latest?
what do you think?
hey, that's what I think!
we must be brothers!
in a cozy co-ordinated mediocrity.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
I didn’t storm out
but there was thunder in my head.
I bought a pack of cigarettes,
that usually helps.
usually.
That’s why I started walking
to shoot straight
with these hungry pigeons.
There was this crinkly man
sitting against a Walgreens
who asked me for change,
said he hadn’t eaten in two days
so I shelled out a knuckle of quarters,
and gave him a fresh Turkish smoke.
I even lit it for him.
And as I was leaning over him,
tenderly holding the flame
to his shit-out-of-luck lips,
that’s when it hit me-
that’s when cliché materialized-
misery loves company.
Aug 23, 2011
Aug 23, 2011 at 3:33 AM UTC
I have been held between calloused fingers with
courage caked under the fingernails.
I've watched the tribe of white knuckled girls with the knobby knees
fall off the jungle gym.
Their mothers would sit on the park bench and smoke Virginia Slims.
Must be getting old, the way their skinny fingers combed the better half
of their crinkly silver hair.
They get carried away out there, how they invite themselves into strangers cars, fire up another cig and tell their stories to each other.
And the kids are wild and all footwork, thinned lips the color of roses, questioning whatever confuses them.
I am uncomfortable with their softness, mumbling syllables or whispering fairy tales.
They picked scabs until they bled and their mothers pretended not to notice as they soaked in late night stands and whiskey;
I want to say to the girls on the jungle gym, “you were born to a mother who wore pain like
trees wear their rings, as marks of bravery and battle cries.”
But because I am forever bonded to this earth, I will feed myself with their
feminine giggles carried by the wind
And for now, I will carve myself down to nothing more than water and remember that
observation really is a lonely science.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
I have this dog, a huge great pooch,
Just like the one, on Turner and *****
He really is a big orange lump,
Dare I say how much he dumps,
He shreds and ruins my favourite stuff,
Covering the floor, in loads of fluff,
TV remotes, he's chewed them up,
He costs a bomb, my naughty pup,
His snoring rattles the gates of hell,
And when he farts, my gawd, the smell!,
Don't let's forget, he loves his food,
Face in your cup, slurp slurp, how rude,
What's yours is his, he takes the ****
I dare you say the word, "biscuit"
He slobbers shoestrings, from his chops,
Each room has a rag, for him to mop,
But that aside, he has my heart,
His crinkly face, and stinky farts,
Rolling in fox mess on his daily stroll,
Sniffing crotches, of those who call,
I kiss his face off every day,
I could never love a man this way,
He has a face you want to snog,
I really, really love this dog :)
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
Several college students stood around
arguing about the meaning of God.
Nearby sat an old Indian woman.
They asked her what she thought.
With a wan smile
she took a small blue bowl
from a plastic shopping bag
laid the crinkly bag on her lap
and pointing to it she said
“This is the universe.”
Then she pointed inside the bag’s opening
and said,
“This is God.”
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
There is always a song
that fits—a blanket,
it hands us—
to disappear beneath.
But also, a
a warm breath, rising up
into a cloud—For us.
We make time to stare.
Sometimes melting,
burning, freezing—opening
honeycomb pores until
storybooks fall in and we’re
so full of everything that we stiffen
and burst with it all.
Often though, glassy goosebumps,
they raise—the ridges pull away,
stretching, until we peel and shed
crinkly skins and shells—
More naked than before,
and scared—enticed to
the flowers left by
coal horses.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:47 PM UTC
If you come to my funeral,
Come by train.
Even if inconvenient.
Take the time
To come slow.
Read my poems,
Read yours,
Mash them up,
So they become better
When joined at the hip.
So be ready,
Be Cub or Girl Scout prepared,
To laugh with crinkly eyes
At private memories,
Recalled stories.
Yes, one can cry and laugh simultaneously,
Perfectly sensible, when on,
Especially when on,
A slow, aglow, train ride,
On the way to a beloved's funeral.
*But this trip don't involve any travels
Its your heart that I am trying to reach
To touch it and fill it with a
Feeling so sweet
Where heartache and pain
Can no longer dwell
So your heart can smile
And only feel well
To find love
For every living thing
And for yourself
And of course for ME*
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
Are you even aware how staggeringly gorgeous you are?
I don't just mean the symmetry of your ****** features or the temperature of your deep blue eyes.
I mean all of you.
How beautiful you are when you run your fingers around the tops of your ears when you are in deep though.
How inspiring your gaze on something that ignites that passion in you.
How stunning the furrow in your brow when someone hurts your loved ones.
How magnificent your voice singing the language of souls.
Even the crinkly skin on your elbows makes me smile because it is you.
Do you know how beautiful you are?
How perfectly unique you are?
The world is a much better place with you in it, gracing us with your infinite radiance.
-t.s.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC
Under those far-reached specks
Of joyful glittering stars
Steps a thoughtful wanderer
Like a philosopher in a hazy road of night.
In his wrinkled long lived hands
He holds the book of his soul
Where every word is written
With precision, passion and vision.
The worn-out crinkly papers
Store the wise thoughts and feelings
Which get a complement fillings.
In an every new place of wonder.
For him the adventure and life
Is the most captivating matter
To discover the goodness of people
And write the wise words of jewel.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
I was born in the spirited sixties,
When t.v was there but, the channels were few,
The skirts were super short, the boots rather *****
made in crinkly wrinkly patent plastic,
The music was loud,
so my mother moaned,
as usual,
The quality was better,
The stones were ******
The Beatles were trippie,
My mother so serious,
was no freakin' hippy,
She fed us malt extracted from teaspoons,
Okay, from jars really,
I remember it tasted pretty vile,
But she'd smile,
nagging inconsiderately,
that we needed to take it,
it would do us good!
Yuk, I wonder if my brother felt the same,
I will never know!
(C) Livvi
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Your love is hard
like rocks
in my belly
in the morning;
like starting the countdown
to a three-day drunk
a week later,
at every turning point,
every shadow
of an angle,
I am taking roads
I have never
crossed,
I am watching
water run
in crystalline rivers
toward alleys
I've never known.
When they ask me
for money
or Marlboros,
I say yes,
please,
I would like those too.
I would like to eat
bagels
in the sun
with crinkly paper in my teeth
and sour cream cheese
sweetening in the liquor.
My landscaper's shoulders
and granite deltoids
are now green with lime
and lichens.
Girls like to run
their
hands over them;
but they are hungry
for your hands
and the lavishing footsteps
of your fingernails.
When I wake up
I put enough water in the
coffee-maker
for about
twenty cups,
and enough
***** in those
twenty cups
for a three-day drunk.
Your love is hard like ice-cold *****
and boiling coffee
that
mutilates tastebuds
and
makes my belly feel real good.
But not talking to you for awhile;
it's easier to warm up in the morning
so I can cool down at night,
and by the pink dawn
of darkness
I could get back to working my belly
with ***** rocks, and
Marlboros.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC