"discolorations" poems - Hello Poetry

Bernie frames the TV between his feet-- left hand remote, beer bottle balanced by his right— clicks through half-time shows, clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer, a death-ray secret weapon, clicks just to do it, an idiot’s smile faint on his face. he sees only noise Emma tends her stamps, perched on the plain board chair she upholstered herself— its arms worn, warm, warmly welcoming— her back to her husband, her life as wife and mother coming to a languid close. she tastes some regret-- yet spicy with passion-- where life has had its way with her. The rug’s bright stew of colors can’t hide everything children spilled when they were young-- juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears; little dreams, tiny heartbreaks, minor crises ground into the weave; all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs, blood and sweat and nightmares congealed into solemn patina-- I see protects it from time. These solid objects— stout, no-nonsense chair wearing gouges, marks, discolorations of use and years like badges; fat, chunky, cigarette-burned BarcaLounger, drunk from drink spilled on every surface, handle supple as a young girl’s wrist, swirling a territorial aura around its microscopic sphere of the universe; and the rug… unassuming, proletarian, handmade and honest, each scrap of fabric chosen by the weaver’s hand, now useful again, reveling in redemption— these solid objects invade, infuse, invigorate otherwise empty space, squeeze meaning from the world around them, same as the hand of the artist sculpts love from her heart to give them life. The children have moved away Old friends are dying every day Stamps no longer can be licked There is no way to interdict The Jets are losing again

0

Feb 6, 2011

Feb 6, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC

auntie-hosebag

2 Chairs & a Rug

Bernie frames the TV between his feet-- left hand remote, beer bottle balanced by his right— clicks through half-time shows, clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer, a death-ray secret weapon, clicks just to do it, an idiot’s smile faint on his face. he sees only noise Emma tends her stamps, perched on the plain board chair she upholstered herself— its arms worn, warm, warmly welcoming— her back to her husband, her life as wife and mother coming to a languid close. she tastes some regret-- yet spicy with passion-- where life has had its way with her. The rug’s bright stew of colors can’t hide everything children spilled when they were young-- juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears; little dreams, tiny heartbreaks, minor crises ground into the weave; all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs, blood and sweat and nightmares congealed into solemn patina-- I see protects it from time. These solid objects— stout, no-nonsense chair wearing gouges, marks, discolorations of use and years like badges; fat, chunky, cigarette-burned BarcaLounger, drunk from drink spilled on every surface, handle supple as a young girl’s wrist, swirling a territorial aura around its microscopic sphere of the universe; and the rug… unassuming, proletarian, handmade and honest, each scrap of fabric chosen by the weaver’s hand, now useful again, reveling in redemption— these solid objects invade, infuse, invigorate otherwise empty space, squeeze meaning from the world around them, same as the hand of the artist sculpts love from her heart to give them life. The children have moved away Old friends are dying every day Stamps no longer can be licked There is no way to interdict The Jets are losing again

71

The best thing about having dark skin is that the scars camouflage themselves, That you don't fit into the pale-skin-dark-clothes-slit-wrists stereotype That you're more likely to be profiled as a criminal than "emo," so no one ever bothers to check anyways. The best thing about having dark skin is that my burns heal, they leave barely noticeable discolorations in my dark skin. That only I can make out the slight change in shade from brown to browner. And maybe you could too, if you squint a little. Maybe, just maybe you'd see the dark brown stripes painted permanently against my even browner wrists. The best part about having dark skin Is that no one checks your wrists, because everyone is too busy looking at your curly hair, your big nose, your big lips. "are you on welfare?" "do you use food stamps?" "do you eat watermelon and kool-aid with a side of fried chicken?" Because no one ever stops to think that black girls would ever think about hurting themselves, too.

0

Feb 3, 2014

Feb 3, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC

kama_kameleon

Dark Skin

The best thing about having dark skin is that the scars camouflage themselves, That you don't fit into the pale-skin-dark-clothes-slit-wrists stereotype That you're more likely to be profiled as a criminal than "emo," so no one ever bothers to check anyways. The best thing about having dark skin is that my burns heal, they leave barely noticeable discolorations in my dark skin. That only I can make out the slight change in shade from brown to browner. And maybe you could too, if you squint a little. Maybe, just maybe you'd see the dark brown stripes painted permanently against my even browner wrists. The best part about having dark skin Is that no one checks your wrists, because everyone is too busy looking at your curly hair, your big nose, your big lips. "are you on welfare?" "do you use food stamps?" "do you eat watermelon and kool-aid with a side of fried chicken?" Because no one ever stops to think that black girls would ever think about hurting themselves, too.

22

I have made a new skin for you twenty-six times the cells, a telescope or our children having lunch on my favorite parts of you – sometimes their lips’ pressure made you cross chattering like a bug on summer screen doors, and you would turn them blue. Aching, they would plead for a larger bruise, discolorations that would give plenty of room for the fresh cells I am growing, giving life. These make you smile for their thirty-five days spread across my hips and the waves rocking the sun, radiance to burn your side, the teeter-totter into your flesh – I remember that you love me again and have, too, given me new skin twenty-six times but yours is built much like a fire, heat ambling to my chest left and farther to the right, every cell becoming one skin, waves high tide.

0

Nov 20, 2012

Nov 20, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC

sarina

twenty-six skin

I have made a new skin for you twenty-six times the cells, a telescope or our children having lunch on my favorite parts of you – sometimes their lips’ pressure made you cross chattering like a bug on summer screen doors, and you would turn them blue. Aching, they would plead for a larger bruise, discolorations that would give plenty of room for the fresh cells I am growing, giving life. These make you smile for their thirty-five days spread across my hips and the waves rocking the sun, radiance to burn your side, the teeter-totter into your flesh – I remember that you love me again and have, too, given me new skin twenty-six times but yours is built much like a fire, heat ambling to my chest left and farther to the right, every cell becoming one skin, waves high tide.

18

The little girl inside of me was feeling so small. She was aching badly, her heart was going to burst out and so was mine. She ached for both of us, and I, I ached for her. I ached for my skin, for My pores and the discolorations on my face, I ached for my hair, ached for my split ends damaged by time and negligence, I ached for my nails, too big too hard too yellow too something, I ached for my fat, ached for my stretch marks I ached for my love handles, muffin top, little pouch on my not so flat stomach or any extra something that might not always be considered nice , I ached for my fingers, I ached for my thighs, I ached for my teeth, I ached for my nose, I ached for my forehead and my hairline that was too uneven too messy too something. I ached so badly for the barely audible voice of the little girl inside of me when she was trying to cheer me up this morning, whispering that I can do it, that I should do it I should care for myself. I should take a bath put a face mask on brush my hair and be gentle!! “You’re doing this because you love yourself, you want to take care of it” she’d whisper. I ache for her and how she’s slowly getting smaller now, soon she’ll fade and I’ll be left with no one to help me wake up in the morning. I’ll ache for my heart, who’s had more than enough pain but still receives more punches, my heart will ache for itself it will ache for the both of us as it sees me wilting away as I mourn the little girl that was once the voice of hope in me. I ache for my aching and for the fact that I don’t know how long I can fight before I fade away too.

0

Oct 25, 2018

Oct 25, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC

Ramu98

Ache.

The little girl inside of me was feeling so small. She was aching badly, her heart was going to burst out and so was mine. She ached for both of us, and I, I ached for her. I ached for my skin, for My pores and the discolorations on my face, I ached for my hair, ached for my split ends damaged by time and negligence, I ached for my nails, too big too hard too yellow too something, I ached for my fat, ached for my stretch marks I ached for my love handles, muffin top, little pouch on my not so flat stomach or any extra something that might not always be considered nice , I ached for my fingers, I ached for my thighs, I ached for my teeth, I ached for my nose, I ached for my forehead and my hairline that was too uneven too messy too something. I ached so badly for the barely audible voice of the little girl inside of me when she was trying to cheer me up this morning, whispering that I can do it, that I should do it I should care for myself. I should take a bath put a face mask on brush my hair and be gentle!! “You’re doing this because you love yourself, you want to take care of it” she’d whisper. I ache for her and how she’s slowly getting smaller now, soon she’ll fade and I’ll be left with no one to help me wake up in the morning. I’ll ache for my heart, who’s had more than enough pain but still receives more punches, my heart will ache for itself it will ache for the both of us as it sees me wilting away as I mourn the little girl that was once the voice of hope in me. I ache for my aching and for the fact that I don’t know how long I can fight before I fade away too.

2