"defrosting" poems
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style
It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.
the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.
yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.
previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.
everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.
lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.
it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.
was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.
divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.
not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.
maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.
think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.
*"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".*
so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.
Thanksgiving
Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving
New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Alligator! Alligator! Alligator! Alligator!
Bite me whole and take me to space.
Staple my **** and spaz my face,
Plaice defrosting in the refrigerator.
These things all seem to come together,
Throw them far apart will be for the better.
I hate this ******* verse,
‘cos it all rhymed from Alligator!
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 3:57 PM UTC
**** here I am again
suffused by incoming sunlight floods,
blonde tresses decorative,
and a
refrigerator light dim surprising,
********** a future fest,
when in search of ordinary milk and coffee
cherries, grapes, watermelon,
cole slaw, caramelized walnuts,
Spanish Marcona almonds,
chicken defrosting, and wine,
a pink rose,
blushing like me,
at the amplitude of love and blessings
I have uncovered,
and that covers me,
while she sleeps,
I sip first coffee and
her love
and more than suffused,
*I am effused,
unable to contain all this,
what I am feeling,
like my water broken,
pouring tears
and I wonder who is*
this idiot
that forgets to say
thank you
for what he
has been given,
and who in return
can merely offer up
a pauvre writ,
a love poem,
of salt and sweet
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
crystal - clean - clear - concise - cold
the juncture
the fracture
the untold stories
the harp crafted in mildew
so many things
so many many bits of things
square and curved and round things
and roads of never ending things
lots and lots and lots of things
the things would stretch
from here <
> way into the distance
to really really really
............................................................................................. small things
dreams
defrosting
like tomorrow's chicken
waiting
to be cooked with love
unfold its
crispy juiciness
call me crazy
feel free
get in the queue
turn it up to 10
make yourself comfortable
gimme another shot
if there's something I do know
we have time
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
you are a fool, Sophia. As I look up at these city lights, every neon sign seems to advertise you; they all remind me of what I'm missing out on. I pass strangers and hear them whispering your tender mercies: "so?" "fee" "ahhh..." I may be being quite forward so early on in our correspondences, but the theory that you are a scrap of paper that someone would allow to slip through their fingers is ridiculous to me. I say that because even after only meeting you once, by such a fortunate and faithful chance, I wanted to write screenplays, novellas, and entire manuscripts only based on how beautiful your name sounds when I say it. I will be absorbed in everything you admit me to learn about you. I only hope for your amusement when you discover my own scorched trails. I'm stupefied by your compliments, and I will catch every drop of your defrosting heart on my tongue. I felt so stupid but I beamed in pride seeing I could make you blush as pink as the roses on the bush behind you... such a delicate, feminine, sensitive color; white blossoming into red, purity blooming into passion. How I wish I could be the one to awaken a passion in you. I'm terribly sorry if I'm smothering, but you've an expert pen dipped in ink of naivety... in meeting you I crossed the border between respectable me and questionable sanity: the Sophia Line (your kiss would be turpentine, **** anything I used to be to become anything, everything you need from me). Ah... fee so... you've given me a lot to live up to. xo. Josephine.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
Suspicious milk
There when I got home
In a tub
Surrounded by water
Or milk blood
Ostracised from the fridge
Left alone to die
Why?
Did you commit milk atrocities?
****** innocent milk bottles?
Or maybe you're a secret agent
The names skimmed
Semi-skimmed
He's like the FBI in your fridge!
He's like the CIA on your cereal!
He's like the MI5 for your cookies!
Did you get all that
Full fat?
After those Oreos!
With their twisting
Licking
Dunking
Dunking their souls into the blood of our young
Or maybe not
Cow juice, alone on the breakfast bar
Not that far
Milk on the sill, defrosting.
Watching.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
Skeleton trees,
stripped down to the bone,
live naked within the walls of winter
Icicle boughs,
and branches buried deep in white
Conical conifers draped with ****** snow,
a blanket of diamond dust
They now enter my frozen world,
like life would now exist
inside of a snow globe
The drifting slopes
add white dimension
to this winter world
Frost upon the windows,
designed like crystal upon the glass,
sends shivers down my spine
The mass exodus of flocks of birds,
migrating south
for their seasonal vacation,
have gone away
These are the images embedded in the hynotic halls of my mind
The aging calender
upon the sunless wall
will soon give way to another year
The polar atmosphere
will have to surrender
its icy grip
but it is in no hurry
once January rolls around
In wintertime
we become like
weary, winter warriors
as we are manned with
shovels and plows,
battling the barrage of shellfire
of continuous cold, snow and ice
Shielded with scarves and heavy apparel,
shoveling and scraping,
salting and sweeping,
we are at war with
the fierce elements
that make us slip and slide
The salt trucks look like
army tanks on the move
Playful adventurers laugh at the scorn
The mammoth artic tundra
is their playground,
the ultimate winter utopia
They shall master
the slippery landscape
on skis, sleds and skates
in their pleasure
to conquer the frozen land
Winter is truly a wonder,
but soon my
Spring and Summer dreams
lie captive
I find myself
a foreigner of this wintry wilderness
My fair, flowery fields are gone
Barren are those beautiful images,
for Spring, Summer and Fall,
fables to my wintry world,
have slumbered all too long
Soon I am pondering.....
If only I can thaw
these stone solid feelings,
as the land soon melts
into Spring tears,
and can light a lamp within,
defrosting the sub-zero
feelings inside of me,
I will fully embrace the dreams
of warmer times,
and I shall find myself once more
A woman who knows why
she endures such a season,
shoveling my way through
the stormy periods of life
to thrive amid
the firsts of Spring
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 8:17 AM UTC
there's such a strange feeling brought in by sunday mornings.
it's as if you can feel the calender resetting,
a groggy haze of transition between one row of boxes and numbers
and the next.
the dates themselves adding line-breaks on type-writers,
molding the ever-changing scripts of our lives.
the day gets claimed for resting and resetting -
we recharge with early beers and late lunches
followed by a hefty dose of sweat-pants.
at least 'round here,
"sunday's best" has never been anything classy.
it's paint-stained denim, muddy boots, and over sized thrift store sweaters.
we don't own church shoes or pressed slacks,
because we've never needed ornate buildings to silently give thanks in.
we need the wind,
and the wild,
and the dirt.
we set out with the intention of getting lost,
for the simple joy of the instant that we find ourselves resurfacing on the face of the map.
we give thanks any time that there's nothing between us and the sky
and our wind-chapped faces are covered in smiles and sun.
desert dwellers need the sun.
we greet her daily,
wildly and emphatically as the frozen layers of earth.
sundays are for defrosting.
we bake beneath grandma's home-made quilts,
and in the arms of good love;
thawing enough to ensure growth without cracking our foundations.
"sunday's best" is just a good place to be.
it's a refreshing state of mind in an augmented pace of time,
where we slow down,
and step back just enough to see what really matters
and what never has.
and when the alarm clock howls like a rabid beast come monday morning,
we'll rise reflective and refreshed;
strengthened up to continue driving forth towards the lives we're living for.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
thoughts,
water,
paper that tumbles from the sky,
movies,
music,
two dimensional conversation in three dimensions of Skype,
air,
sunlight,
refreshing through the miniblind and my open window,
ideas,
words,
that take me to places to meet people who are total strangers,
but that does not make them
stranger than me.
When I stream.
Tears,
down
cheeks
defrosting
frozen
visage,
salty,
talk,
cheap,
with
expensive,
words,
that
are like
cologne,
fading
fad,
all
used
up
bottle,
now
emptied,
and only
a hint
remains
streaming,
sniff the air...?
©DWE122013
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
Through the summer breeze
and the warmth of the sun blazing gold,
the shining creation would come to life.
Through the leaves changing colors
and the crispness of the autumn mornings,
the world would slowly quiet down.
Through the cold air turning fingers numb
and snow falling like an endless cloud,
the old things would come to an end.
Through the broken ground defrosting
and soft beacons of light coming through,
the new life would take hold of hearts.
I watched the seasons change,
I watched the seasons remain.
I grasped the wonder of God's grace:
never alone though never the same.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
Your heart hides behind a wall much taller than me.
Fear makes your voice shake.
I can sense it.
You want to love something delicate, something fragile.
But too afraid that you will destory it in the end.
So your mind tosses and turns.
Back and forth with the idea that these feelings are real.
That maybe you could feel human again.
And with every good thought, there are two bad ones after.
That you're a monster in disguise.
Just for a little bit.
And maybe if you gave yourself the time of day...
You could see that your heart is actually beating.
Defrosting from the past.
I wish you would accept the love you give
and the love you could receive.
Because deep down I know you're wishing for something brilliant.
Something that hasn't happened, at least not yet.
Take her hand before it fades into a memory.
Make this moment worth it.
She's worth the try.
You're worth it, without a question.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
Shutter my eyes on the frozen deserts
opening to swallow
all the memories you left inside:
a heart stripped of dreams,
by the pain of quicksilver moments
slipped past us in Time's disguise.
Interminable thoughts play-rewind-play-rewind
Of feelings dragging like anxiety:
We could be whole
if the world put us together with
Time, Love and impassioned Tethers.
Instead I'm trailing along
Dragging my iced feathers,
leaving two sets of footprints
upon the oceans and deserts of ice and shards.
Incapable of defrosting
These beating, screaming hearts.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
If the train leaves the station at the same time as another and they collide at a certain speed, how great is the disaster?
Well if two bodies collide at a certain place and time with a designated amount of passion, does the same disaster occur?
Does the ticking time bomb begin the moment you unclasp her bra as you whisper that you love her?
Breath defrosting her trembling ribcage as your arms slide up the sheets, and where two eyes meet, a spark lights the fuse. And you have everything to gain but both of you will lose.
Two "I love you"s meet at a school building, in a courtyard in December but only one will remember what it feels like to feel everything you've ever known slip from your grasp and leave you on your own. One will see the moment for what it truly is, a heartwarming moment, one innocent kiss. But when these opposing lips touch and the tear drips from her cheeks, he'll reach to wipe them and she'll turn her face despite his efforts to save her that she never really asked for. She was lucky to meet him now she's lucky to have met him.
Someday soon he'll disappear and every night when the moon gleams through her window she'll see him. It seems she never will forget all of her mistakes, all her regrets. And to think it all started with one head on collision where love met lust and promises were too early to meet trust.
-k.d.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
what is this?
a shallow spark?
a dying ember?
a glint of sun in defrosting december?
what is this?
this is how i remember...
what is summer too?
is it the same to me as is to you?
its warm grasp and gentle rays,
reminisce of times with her and the days.
that we spent together,
the spectacular weather
and not ever having to question whether
the sun would ever, stop shining.
the warm summer morn
before we were torn
and cool starry night
and the tears i'd have to fight
through,
i remember what i'd say to you
and what i said now...
the season's changing
in my head
seasons change
but i stay the same
it seems a bit strange...
am i to blame?
i... i don't know anymore
the sun is blazing and the moon is hazy
they chase me
sometimes fight in the sky
i think to erase me
the grey wolves howl
blue dragons growl
tigers roar and on the prowl
they each have their flames
but this world and its games
and i don't know where casts the blames.
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Pale green blossoms rise up out of the rich moist dirt, reaching for sunlight
Rivers rage from melting icecapes, racing towards defrosting lakes below
Humming and chirping fills through warming air, nature has music again
Fawns and foals on their new wobbly legs, nibble grasses that have grown green and crisp
Me with my camera, capture life at its peak, the becoming of spring life's began
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
What is your poetry, my friend?
Is it the cool spring day that bounces
off your clothes after a long winter mourning;
the spine-chilling defrosting session
you have when the sun finally rises
and the forward look to the light of a new day.
Or is it the morning silence of a library,
hot teas, and warm crumpets, that carries
your imagination far far away
after forgetting the chaos of yesterday.
Your poetry is your happy place,
your depressed face, your angry taste,
and an exhausted out space...
Your race to the moon and back
before mother tucks you in
and turns off the lights.
It's the bad blues news
and the good old days' anthem
that hums on long to the Sunday tunes
without a care in the world.
What is our poetry, my friend?
Is it a couple of pals laying waste
to the grass below our restless bodies
as we gaze up into the galaxy
and pronounce what is your and mine;
the grass clumping together in our hands
and spilling all over each other's hair.
Or is it the strum of your guitar
and the beat of my hands clashing
against each other to make a sweat
Yet miserable lullaby for our hearts
to pour our into the beach we set camp at.
The waves matching our irregular beat
with its own casual style
that loves to ride up onto our toes mid-chorus.
Our Poetry is what we make of it.
love letters dabbled back and forth
across the classroom get caught
just to share the love we have
with everybody else who doesn't have.
The glittering looks we give
when everyone bursts out laughing
because we know they know
they will never come close to us;
not even second place.
The tear drop memories of what was
and what coulda woulda shoulda been
but now isn't there for us to even cry on;
just cold shoulders and salty whispers
about the past, that should never have been
because it makes up too much pain for the present.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 4:03 PM UTC
I love you.
You cut out a chunk of your heart and grafted it onto mine
A patchwork quilt defrosting my confused heart
I can't help but to love you now
I love you
Because you never ask anything from me
Somehow you see me
You told me you see in me someone you want to marry
I told you we have to end
I'm scared
terrified, because
I love you.
You are fighting the same struggle against time
And I'd love to stand there on the frozen battlefield with you
But the cold winds are free from my mind
And blew me away
You blew me away
You said
it's not easy to let you go
It is so very hard
Ripping that beautiful quilt apart
Trying to see from the seams
what is you and what is me
But my eyes are blurry from tears
and I can't see anymore
I love you
And if I knew what emotions to put behind it
if I had any
I would tell you I am sorry
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
there's this madness in the world
that i can't place my finger on
it's at the tip of your tongue
when you reach out to lick the icicle
so cold, so raw, so innocent
it's in the curl of your mouth
when you see those clouds rumble
the thunder that shakes you to the core
it's that glitter in your eye
that you have to hide every time
the music is a little too loud
and the drugs are a little too hard
it's dancing in the flames
when your fingertips glaze over the fire
of the rusted old stove that was never good
for anything but defrosting frozen dinners
there's this madness in the world
that i can't place my finger on
i can taste it closer than my mother's breast
and ****** it to my own heart
but i cannot for my life embrace it
without seeing death dance before me
there's this madness with an air of innocence and play
there's this darkness with light shining through
there's this oddity that makes perfect sense
there's something i can't place my finger on
there's something i know
there's something i feel
there
is
something
here-
now.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Shut your eyes and go
to sleep listening to the
gnarled willows weep.
Kisses on the forehead
goodnight to ensure you
are tucked in just right.
I will sing you a gentle
lullaby as the birds fly
off into the jet black sky.
The moon is laying low
for you to use as a night
light in case you are to
get a nightmare and feel
a distressing kind of fear.
But do not be scared of
what lurks and loiters in
the shadows of your soul
for I will hold your hand
and tame those demons
to a dominant demand.
The hold they have had
for quite some time is
now reaching the end
of its disintegrated line.
I can see your cold smile
defrosting in the sun now
as the willows shake off
the winter snow and you
capture some of the new
season’s glow inside of
your wholesome soul.
So my beloved friend,
shut your eyes and sleep
listening to the willows
weep as now this peace
is finally yours to keep!
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC
Defrosting the freezers
are far from ****
Nonetheless
They're on the rise
Caps are melting
Shelves are falling
Glaciers are passing ships
in the traffic lane
They're on the move
This is no song & dance
The poles are looking for
new real estate and
They're coming soon
to a neighborhood near you
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC
How many hearts are we born with?
Two? Twelve?
And when we die, are there any left over?
Because when we get our hearts broken,
somehow we find it in ourselves to love again.
From the wee age of "puppy love"
all the way to "always and forever", we get back up.
No matter the hurt we endure, we can find a way to revive ourselves.
Or at least most of us, I see,
because while everyone is defrosting their backup hearts,
I lie here dying.
Being born so long ago I must not have been lucky enough.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
SEPARATE ROOMS
Feeling miserable.
A defrosting snowflake.
Tear stained wedding dress.
A bedroom at mums.
Mum's hat for bridal events.
Left in the closet.
Can't say goodbye.
Hangs out in fairyland.
In all the best stories.
She loved holding you close.
Poppet.
Can't stop it growing.
He knows it's coming.
Can't stop it.
He won't let her.
She won't let him.
Their feelings bit both of them on their behinds.
Books on bookcases.
Inventive suggestions.
Not up for progression.
Full of bright ideas.
These lovers are head cases.
Looking in her places.
In ways speaking sense.
Intense.
Hiding their faces.
At the end of the day.
No more to lay together again.
(c) Livvi
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC