"divot" poems
"You look like love,"
she said one night,
cold with the
whispers of winds
on old cobblestone
and hushed
footsteps
of snow-covered
boots.
He stopped
in his tracks,
the cherry of
his cigarette
pulsing
like the colors
of a spinning
satellite
lightyears away
from their newly-found
lives.
"What does love
look like?"
he asked,
syllables hanging
close to his face,
blue eyes
darting
from her lips
to her hands
and back again.
But he knew.
He knew from the first
time he shook her hand
and saw the
sweat glisten off her
brow,
and listened to her
listless stories
of how summer
never truly loved her,
that one day
he truly would.
She smiled,
lips cracking
from the dry air,
"It looks like an
overflowing sink,
fresh with bubbles
from soapy dishwater
left unattended
to waltz in the kitchen.
It looks like ice
cracking
to the sweet smoke
of scotch
and the divot
on the couch that
sinks our thighs
and the thought
of any afternoon plans
deep
in crevasses
we're both too sleepy
to crawl out of.
It looks like all
the things
the world
took from me
and promised
it would never give back,
but instead packaged
in a
candle
bright enough
to illuminate
all the dark places
and remind me
that even though
others have treated me
like a
flicker,
I'm truly a
flame."
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
Women are so beautiful
take a woman down to her skin
and you can trace the lines of her back
like tracing the curves of silken cloth
every dimple
every curve
the crease of the neck
the elegance of the shoulder blades
the rolling divot of the spinal cord
the curve of her sides
the dimples at the bottom of her spine
her hips
that dint that curves around to her inner thighs
her thighs
her knees
her ankles
the feeling of pressing your naked body up to her naked body
your hands on her hips
your palms in her dimples
your chest on her back
chin in her collar
fingers in her pelvic crease
your lips on her neck
her **** fit into your pelvis
your tongue at her jaw line
hands in between her thighs
teeth pulling at her earlobe
fingers on her ****
her *** on your fingers
your leg wrapped around hers
your hand tracing her outline
like rolling hills
soft
and smooth
she's so beautiful
and it's all so perfect
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
These days have defeated me
The cartographer burned the map meant to take me home
I don't know how I ended up walking in circles
The ground below has a divot where my thoughts have weighed down the soil
I've taken step after step to get where I'm going
The only step left will be the hardest one
I just need to lift my foot off of the ground
To fall
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
divot discoloration blemished imperfection.
The storybook of my flesh is peppered with these pockmarks of life.
A secret connect the dots maze on my body binding the story pages together.
I grin as I examine my body and all it's protruding oddities, how beautiful it is as I crash course through this crazy ocean my breath still ebbs and flows in synchronization.
I love the nooks of me no one else could possibly understand.
my peculiarly chipped tooth buried in my gums as a reminder of juvenile fun.
I tuck myself into a bed of comfort cradling these imperfections, a grand testament of life.
The girl with the electric smile and lazy eye.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
i don’t know if you were in second
or third grade. or what your favorite color was.
i’m not sure if you liked playing dress up or soccer
or if you were an only child or the baby of six.
i don’t who you had a crush on and i’m not even sure of your gender
but what i do know, is that today you were scared because you saw white
and then heard the noise of the explosion, and the screams of the injured
but i’m not sure if had learned yet in school that light travels faster than sound.
i don’t know why you were watching the marathon, but i know that you were excited
and impressed
that all these people were running for twenty-six miles, which happens
to be the distance from your house to your
grandma’s.
i don’t know if you died squeezing tightly to your mother’s hand or
if your last breath was taken alone, while hundreds ran in a flurry around you.
i do know that when you fell to the ground, no longer breathing,
you tripped a wire that pulled out
your father’s heart and sanity.
i know that you hadn’t yet felt someone
trace their lips up the divot of your spine
and i know that you will never get to sneak out of the house at
three am to get drunk in a park.
you will never see the next president or even what your best friend will wear
on his wedding day.
and i am sorry.
i am sorry that someone was sick enough to put
an explosive in the trashcan and let it detonate
i’m sorry that your death was the product of human selfishness and greed.
i am sorry that today you had to feel a warm liquid leak from your body
and that you lost so much of it you
couldn’t bear to keep your eyes open.
i’m sorry that you were eight years old when you died,
and that you barely got a taste of the world before it was snatched out from under you.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
*And baby,
Ill apologize when you finally spot my flaws.
A little mole on my side,
The rough of my feet,
The divot in my jaw.
Youll say theyre nothing,
And you say youll love me more.
But will you?
Will you be able to,
When theres nothing left to adore?
Will you when you see
The invert of my hips,
The cracks on my lips?
The scars on my legs and shoulders,
The tears that turn to boulders?
A chunk of missing flesh in my left thigh,
The way my light breath can turn to a heavy sigh?
The already forming wrinkles,
The way that I cry,
And how my nose crinkles?
The sensitivity of my eyes,
The part of me that has already died?
My ability to stand tall,
How easy it is for me to break and fall?
When you realize all of this...
Will you still be here for the long haul?*
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Fill up these hollow eyes...
These two dry sockets, sitting cold like marbles in a divot.
Pour into them.
Look past the shallow pool,
and dive deep into the blackness.
See what I see...
Sink into my vision...
Floating, if just for a moment.
Dead weight,
with arms wide open.
Fill up these hollow eyes,
with penny thoughts and nickel dimed emotions.
Weave the string, and pull me closer.
Entice me.
Tease me.
Tickle my fancy.
Make me chockfull, to the brim.
Then spill me over.
Fill up these hollow eyes,
they **** you in like bathroom drain pipes.
Keeping up the appearances...
watch how they move.
Like the lolling head of a sleeping toddler,
no focus.
Their out of focus.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
How does one lose a creature gracefully…?
Is it possible to just be okay with a quick goodbye under the hum of those awful fluorescent lights? Would it have been easier, kinder, softer, if the lights were lamps scattered about the space, yellow and murmuring? When does the gut-wrneching tightening stop? Will I ever let the sadness of it leave my chest?
Sitting in this complacent grief even months after it all is kind
I know that the grief will let me cry and I know that when I do, it doesn’t judge me for my “I wish things could go back to normal.” Because regardless of how familiar the New Ways become, it still isn’t the same. I am bookended by these two creatures that have and continue to adore the Earth I walk on. But the Old Ways stick with us for longer than we’d maybe like.
But in filling that little empty nook, the small nest where a dog named Nelson used to lie, I’ve forced myself to grow, to become changed.
My adult life started when I got Nelson, and it started again when I had to let him slip through my trembling fingers. And it continues on with this new creature named Franklin, who sits just to the left of that Nelson shaped divot.
Loving things that leave you utterly shattered is what makes us so mendable, forgetful, endlessly desperate for devotion…
The whole scene will replay in 10 years time, and I will be even more ruined then.
Jul 6, 2023
Jul 6, 2023 at 2:53 AM UTC
Trust me when I say it
There’s no other way to play it
You’re a purentee bigot
There’s no other place to lay it
You might as well admit it.
It’s your shoe and you fit it.
I believe in the point and hit it.
You are a **** ******* bigot.
Now this won’t hurt much, did it?
It was your own tongue and you bit it;
Showed the world and all in it
That you are nearly an idiot
And a race-bating creep along with it.
So, instead of swallowing, you spit it.
You are a callow and traitorous bigot
Who would deny to others in a minute
The rights of citizenship along with it.
The Liberty Bell? You’ll pit it
With the sticks and stones. You did it
Every time you parrot a Fox News tidbit
As there are little but lies within it.
So, there is the door, why not hit it?
Because your illness? No one can mend it.
It’s a blow to your brain, and within it
The lack of anything more than a divot
Where your compassion should be if it
Had even the tiniest solid rivet.
Instead you are a peanut butter widget,
Not much more than stuff found in a privet.
And not much smarter than a piglet.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
summer
never truly loved her
she thought
kicking
the last soft waves
of the season
like they were
a pile of autumn
leaves
closed her eyes
from the sunrays
imagining
the oranges and pinks
of sunset
painted by the trees
answering to the
cold whispers
of the wind
winter
they call but still, summer
never truly loved her
she thought
but as the last soft waves
crash to her feet
the little bubbles
like the first fall
of snow
she thought
of the heavy footsteps of mud
and the snow-covered boots
on the porch
the subtle smell of pine
circling around
the divot on the couch
the bubbles from
soapy dishwater
waltzing in the kitchen
it means
you're home
and though summer
might not have truly loved her
it never took away
her metaphors
to describe what
love looks like
and love looks like
dry leaves scattered like
freckles on your cheeks
on the old cobblestones
we walk on
on Sunday mornings
it's like a pair
of warm socks,
hot cocoa and marshmallows,
and Christmas carols
it's waking up right where you belong
like blossoms greeting
the first sunlight
after months of snow
and it's summer
when the agony of waiting
under the scorching sun
learns to turn into
patience
love is these seasons
giving way to
years
and patterns
we will never get tired of
summer
might not have truly loved her
but she'd hoped that one day
you truly would
and
you did.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 7:15 AM UTC
Don't let me get comfortable,
I could get used to this lifestyle.
Lazy days in the desert sun,
exciting nights with ****** fun.
Toss two hundred dollars on a dinner for 5,
It doesn't mean anything to them.
Don't miss the champagne divot stomp,
with a hat on your head, the heat is tangible.
Days spent with sand between your toes,
a Marlboro lite between your lips,
death on your mind,
all the while the dunes are full of life.
Dream of a girl who comes to you clothed
and leaves you with a guilty feeling of ******
Don't forget your brandy.
Money is no object,
having enough things to buy is the problem
having people to buy things for is the problem.
****** is a problem.
****** is a problem,
but it seems to solve all other problems,
and when money means nothing,
****** is just a chance to feel.
Or not feel,
the desert doesn't care.
It is beautiful and deadly and will leave you searching for water, and the desert nights are unlike those of the mountains.
The mountains I'm a part of.
The mountains are forgiving, they are loving and caring and will not leave you searching for water, for it is a given.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
she said: love the boy who paints.
And I think of your hands.
Your hands with fingers
like Grecian pillars stretching
across the divot between my
hip bone and my bellybutton
your palms that were shockingly
dry but extraordinarily smooth
cupped around my *******
while you slept, a single
foot peeking through my
calves, your sweat seeping
through my cotton shirt
a drawn out
b
r
e
a
t
h
So, love a boy who paints
and think of his hands
the only things that you
can remember vividly
all the things he did
with those fingers
during *The Kids
are Alright*
but
it's not your
oil on his skin
anymore
and someone else
loves that boy who
paints.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
i am captivated
by the fluidity of your text message
you claim you arent a poet
but wow
how you can use 140 characters
to put words out of my mouth
evolving silence from stunned emotions
fantasies flit and twitter
sparked by your wit
the eminent feeling of loss when they fade
out of the temporary reality of my neocortex
and my thalimus
away into the sharpening atmosphere
my discombobulated desires
each begging for my undivided attention
in this sleepy realm of imagination
i contemplate your construction
a worthy demonstration of your capacity to hold
my mind
my eyes
my body
you are great, large, spirited
and your spirit consumes and overflows
my selfish desire to swallow you whole
until you spill out of my ears like maple syrup
sweet and sticky
and then i can have you all to myself
but that isnt fair
to the world
and the good you do it
you have taught me restraint
in my inability to think of anything but you
coupled with my inability to be with you
you manage to intrude into my every thought
conversation
my very being
with magic
your resplendent mind staining my arms
the overly colourful shadow that creeps along my spine
i feel a spectrum of colour
flickering along my horizon
crawling down my thigh like a silk scarf
i am consumed
by your light
crackling and growing
sparking and fizzling
fuelled by my tinder
my eyes swivel and squint
trying to see you through the bright mass you are surrounded by
and i catch a sigh
escape my lips
falling to you
from this new plane of existence you lifted me to
and here there is a woodstove
and a mass of cotton blankets
with a divot in the middle
begging to be filled
and you are there
my hand eases my descent into your warm chest
feet lifted
head filling the gap between your shoulder and your neck
and i rest my hand on yours
you gently sweep your fingertips along the top of my thigh
and you hold my other hand
in life there are times and places
abundant
that we find ourselves falling into
relationships
feelings
people
and so rarely
do we feel like we are made to be there
but here
darling
is where i am supposed to be
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Here from the first time, from the day I lost my virginity, look:
I have carved out the notches in secret on this headboard.
The wood a dark brown, daintily placed at the head of my twin bed.
The tallies face the wall, the romance is dead.
In the middle among the marks, this deeper divot,
Where the grains turn to slivers: that is the day my heart broke.
I can recount the exact moment and tell you now as I trace it over,
His name, his smile, pained me far longer then it should have.
The smaller hashes that follow, all six of them, meant nothing.
See, there is no pattern, except for the fact that they made it to bed.
Over time, as it occurred, I chiseled away not only the headboard -
But my heart. Too many notches for my fingers and toes.
See, here, that was revenge, and here, he's now an angel.
A multitude of sin runs through it all.
See, this headboard is whittled nearly end to end;
Perfectly untouched on one side, badly beaten on the other.
Regrets have created it, tucked between the sheets.
Yet, as I make the bed I can't help but smile,
Sign after sign, there will be another.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
My eyes swimming, the lamplight
bobbing as it is held in my gaze; I watch
the door swing closed with a
resounding click.
Just a moment before were your hands, floating
an arms length away from the sun-
warmed duvet, shuffling in the effort
of untangling your headphones,
methodically stowing them in the
pocket of your jeans.
The door sweeps shut, your silhouette in
the hallway lighting now stifled and
the dancing figures
of the oak leaves are
swaying together upon the carpet. The window
glowing soft and meandering over my shoulder.
With a resounding jolt of latch meeting strike
plate; I am left with the hum of passing electricity,
the grazing cadence of
my exhales,
and the lukewarm divot in the sheets where
I hold your departed presence captive.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
how to write about love
when you've never experienced it before
when all you've ever known
is the heady, warm rush
from the bottom of your belly
to the crown of your head
as you hug her
the difference in heights
allowing the divot between her *******
to cradle your cheeks
you go up on your toes
to aim your lips
on the soft, rosy skin of her right cheek
looping your arms around her shoulders
her arms automatically encircling you
your lips smiling against her cheek
one day
you took aim with your lips once more
reaching for the pure, white expanse
but she, too, took aim with hers
looking for your own pale skin
and the timing couldn't have been more wrong
or right
as your lips crashed onto hers
for a single moment
time at a standstill
two different bodies
a pair of mouths making contact
she pulls back immediately
and you don't even register
your feet carrying you to safety
in the crowded cafeteria
its busyness somehow calming your anxious heart
as you spend the rest of Valentine's day alone
kisses aren't quite the same
aren't quite as relaxed
a layer of stiffness neither of us can
or want to uncover
her hugs aren’t tight
but her smile is
as she waves a half-hearted goodbye and turns
to aim her lips
on the bump of her boyfriend’s cheek
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 2:00 AM UTC
I rolled over onto my back.
I reached up and wiped the sand beaches from the water line of my eyes.
My gaze fell to rest focusing on the corner of my ceiling where three planes came to an infinitesimal point.
The stale air reluctantly circled over and over through the whirling dervish blades of my floor fan.
I tossed to the left. My shoulder embossed with the intricate design of the thin sheets.
I ran my fingertips over every sullen divot in my flesh.
They felt like the imprints of dusty fingertips you left on my soul.
And though I knew better, I blamed you entirely for those wagon wheel ruts, muddy canyons I am still striving to cross over.
I realized it would only take two planes for us to meet.
The newborn air gladly pushing up the wings.
The plane indenting itself into the sky like a seal into melted wax, like the convex curve of a line.
But some lines are never supposed to truly meet.
Like the horizon.
The sky and the sea.
Running parallel.
Running indefinitely.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Its comical how
Ive never written about
The sweetest times of my life
Like the trip to Hatteras
With the abandoned golf course
And the hours of skating down
The newly paved road
And the boys who provided
Some of the greatest smiles there will be
With the small geese
Which we provided bread
And the 4th of July fireworks
With the sun-kissed skin of my best friend and I
Or the newer trips
At my house with the loft
And the 4 mile ride to the beach
With the divot where there were hours
Of my boy and I talking
And kissing
And eating
The love and music
And kicking his *** at every game
Its comical how
I cannot seem to write everything down on paper
But I can relive every moment of them
Each night in my dreams
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
I woke up in her arms
from a slumber of one thousand years.
All that survived through my hazy dreams was my name
and the vague smell of morning dew
and reinvention.
Her shoulders softly slope down to her naked waist,
but before I can feel her all the way up
Her lashes, like black lace shutters, lift.
I take this sweet moment before she wakes
To watch the way morning-light makes gold out of her skin.
With my lips to her forehead,
I recalled the sounds and images of our **********
and the way we crash down after,
sometimes side by side, like children who’ve played to their limit,
but often one atop another, like lovers who’ve collapsed amidst the fog of their own intoxicating devotion.
Every divot or dimple in her skin is another hiding spot
for a little imaginary love note.
Her black eyes to me are like a dark room, where she takes me
when she wants me alone.
My eyes are blue like the sheet we found ourselves under
the first time I allowed myself to taste that subtle pout
and the sweet, wet innocence of her kiss.
As I watch her rise and dress,
shyly slipping cotton over her sacred curves in this white-gold morning light,
I believe I know her better than she does.
I can tell by the way she pauses to look at me and smile
that she knows me better than I ever will.
Let me worship you, my beautiful angel.
Don’t feel those heavy sounds while you’re in this with me.
Wake up brand new in my arms,
every morning that you love me.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
*Forget not
That at the lowest part of the humble path
Resides the divot
Which concurs and divides
Not passing feet
But yearns to keep the honest truth
Which is bestowed upon the earth
By means of rain
Teeming with life and oxygen
How it tries to keep itself within
Both without fail, and with inevitability
Because the water will certainly soak or sway
But the divot itself will forever stay
Embedded in the earthly clay
Beneath our walking feet
So forget not to tread lightly, ever so
On this, the placid soil underneath*
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
The dead remain so
The alive not not so
Pivot divot when
Friends through end
Are still so; with or
Without tuna casserole
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 12:47 AM UTC
A ghost sits beside him
on the well-worn piano bench.
Black cherry staining holds strong
against years of wear.
His seat engraved -
a small divot carved
from countless hours of diligence.
All where he lay himself
at the mercy of the keys.
Most of the time,
porcelain and ebony fingers
clutched his heart, allowing every beat to
bleed life into the music.
For it’s not him that dictates what he plays,
but what the keys see inside him.
More often than not,
a minor chord reverberates
against the practice room.
From there it’s a dance.
Fingers
gliding,
traipsing
up and down the length,
piecing together a melody
that speaks volumes to him alone.
Every note holds a word,
a piece of himself.
An outlet for emotions
shoved inside a shaken bottle,
finally exploding against the refrain.
Mason’s weight creaks beneath the bench.
It’s old, could probably do with replacing,
but he will never own another bench.
Worn in the wood next to him,
a smaller divot keeps him company.
Mason’s fingers leave porcelain
to run over the groove.
A little over a foot wide,
though he remembers her being much smaller.
Memories tug at the corners of his lips as
he splays his palm against the seat.
It’s likely bigger from the squirming
she’d done whilst waiting for his attention.
God, he wishes he’d paid more attention.
But some songs would forever be played in minor keys.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
Why I am like this?
The taddest stiver from what I deem aptest is excavated.
My skin is pock marked and discolored like a poorly laundered sheet.
When I run my fingers across my flesh ridden vessel my fingers read the incrusted imperfection.
Divot: you were never worthy
Scar: who could ever find you appealing?
Blemish: your existence is repugnant
I ravenously pick at my skin, hoping I'll find some scintillating suit of beauty lying just beneath my robe of acquiescent reality.
Tear: I fear intimacy because I let my imperfections blind me.
Heart: palpitating panic, I've grown accustom to the small nibbling self loathing.
I harrow my skin not only as a result of my OCD, but as a way to keep me corralled from all the potential I'm afraid to see.
I feel much more safe sundered away from all the beautiful things I once aspired to be.
Scarring, discoloration, dead skin.
I don't have to fret rejection when I've already denied myself the right to be accepted.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
i sip galaxies from the divot of your collarbone
and paint nebulas across your skin with my tongue,
filling my ravenous
blackhole
Heart
with starlight.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 5:15 AM UTC