"decorators" poems
Shaky hands like my fathers
we will never be surgeons or cake decorators
we can never draw a straight line
all we can do is bond over our imperfections,
and sigh at our shaky hands
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
She closed the door
On what could have been
Wiped the floor
Of what should have been
Cleared the shelves of our memories
Washing her hands
Of the eternity
That we had both promised.
She painted the walls, and decked the halls
With her new lovers pen
Changed the locks
So I couldn't see her again.
She wrote away our history
On a little post it note
And sent it in an envelope of
Divorce papers
She called in the painters and decorators
And started anew
Put to bed
All that we'd been through
And left me dangling
By a thread
Waiting for the phone to call
For any sign at all
That this wasn't true.
Waiting for the I love yous
That had warmed even the coldest of mornings
Better than any cup of coffee ever could
Waiting for the reassuring cuddles and kisses
That had made me feel so, so good.
Waiting
For
The one person who had always caught me, to catch me
As I fell
Head first into an abyss
Of late nights and stiff drinks
That she'd spent years, pouring down sinks.
But since she's been gone
I've picked up the bottle again
And it's began to throttle the pain.
So I drink down the past and remains in whiskey drops
Until the floor lures me
I lose sight of the clocks
And hit the decks.
If I was a pirate,
I'd make a mighty good ship mate
But as it is
I'm not and I'm late for work
And wearing odd socks
A shadow of the man I used to be.
And even my shadow doesn't recognise me.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
She closed the door
On what could have been
Wiped the floor
Of what should have been
Cleared the shelves of our memories
Washing her hands
Of the eternity
That we had both promised.
She painted the walls, and decked the halls
With her new lovers pen
Changed the locks
So I couldn't see her again.
She wrote away our history
On a little post it note
And sent it in an envelope of
Divorce papers
She called in the painters and decorators
And started anew
Put to bed
All that we'd been through
And left me dangling
By a thread
Waiting for the phone to call
For any sign at all
That this wasn't true.
Waiting for the I love yous
That had warmed even the coldest of mornings
Better than any cup of coffee ever could
Waiting for the reassuring cuddles and kisses
That had made me feel so, so good.
Waiting
For
The one person who had always caught me, to catch me
As I fell
Head first into an abyss
Of late nights and stiff drinks
That she'd spent years, pouring down sinks.
But since she's been gone
I've picked up the bottle again
And it's began to throttle the pain.
So I drink down the past and remains in whiskey drops
Until the floor lures me
I lose sight of the clocks
And hit the decks.
If I was a pirate,
I'd make a mighty good ship mate
But as it is
I'm not and I'm late for work
And wearing odd socks
A shadow of the man I used to be.
And even my shadow doesn't recognise me.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
I stepped into
a book store
with you
and saw the hanging
words
up to the
ceiling,
overhead
gazing down at
me, the
oddity in
a bookshop
and to the back
of the place you
wondered.
to the
dusty corner
of a shadow where
you finally
called my
name.
Then as I peered around the
shelves of a
thousand pages,
my eyes
found your hand
outreaching,
pointing,
to the end of a
corridor
where a
broken
golden frame
of butterflies
sat uncared for
in its lonesome.
and against
the glass, I saw
myself, my face,
my reflection in
a coffin holding
the decorators of
the sky and then
the shopkeep in his
boredom choked
"she's found
the dead
butterflies..."
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
Hands
the first thing I noticed.
A Smith, with the hands of a painter.
Striking me first as someone who would prefer a ball to a pen,
A phone to a book.
But his hands suggest a delicate part of his life.
A part maybe less troubled than mine,
and a little more appreciative than mine.
Dark soft eyes,
a warm entrance into the mind,
but often he looks away from me,
so that I cannot quite fit into that entrance.
The persona, the mask, the cataract,
He hung an old sheet on the window,
a few slits,
maybe a few have even gotten past it.
Sporty Smith on the outside,
He matches no season,
and forgets to decorate himself in life.
A grey cubicle but in the corner I see a blues guitar.
A white picket fence who is secretly a rock climber,
A wife and two kids who likes to drag race.
There is a bulk of normality in him,
and a hint of adventure.
A helicopter movie at the bachelor party.
What a trustworthy guy!
Decent grades, decent life, embarrassed, and mature.
And his words suggest a vocabulary of a well read college student.
His portrayal of himself is confusing.
Like a hipster vegan Lion.
He doesn't make sense.
And yet he is a whole person.
When he spoke to me his words crystallized in his mouth,
his shoulders slump forward,
as if he were dragging through an unfortunate thought,
his tone understanding and enthusiastic.
A decent bedtime I assume,
and the possibility of insomnia is present.
A few friends, and no musical preference.
And once he smiled when we spoke,
and his teeth as white as his words,
The image of a good dentist’s hand
and a smoker's dream.
He moves his head when he talks,
n’ twirling in his chair,
like a blonde girl and a string of her hair,
he twists back and forth.
He does not move his hands when he talks.
His Hands.
Softer hands than mine.
Soft as the new velvet record album cover.
His hands own my attention.
The hands of glove owners, velveteers, cake decorators,
and clearly,
the hands of a writer.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC