"divots" poems
we explored one another,
similar to that of how the seven sins
would explore their vices,
corrupting their virtues.
but that's what made the garden blossom,
grow with intense passion that radiated
with a melancholy glimmer, with a dipped
and ragged vine of sweat and sheen
arousal and desire.
craving, begging, mewling, whining;
gluttony, craving for the excess
sloth, craving for moments of rest,
envy, craving for a bearing of arousal,
lust, craving for a touch, a sinful taste;
greed, craving the moans and swatches,
wrath, craving for sullen destruction,
pride, craving for the fall of a bereaved apology.
our garden;
a place of virtues, a place of our vices.
you showed me the deepest things,
darkest epithets of what was to be explored,
blossoming a crimson rose of pure desire
in the pit of my abdomen, vines of thorns
wrapped firmly around my hips
and the soft ashen flesh of my wrists
soon to be accompanied around
the thin circumference of my ankles.
the shark divots soon finding their
way around the swells of my breast,
and the tremble of my inner thighs;
body arching, lips quivering,
ecstacy of your words,
your seed planted garden that
became a part of me.
I found the cardinal sins in
the dropping countenance
of your words, of your demands, and of your wishes,
and i bathed in it,
soaked myself up in the lavender of
your scent, the scratchiness of your thorns.
our garden was the place to cast our sins,
delve into them, and it ruined me,
but oh how I solely craved it.
our encounters, our actions, our experiences
putting even the seven deadly sins to same,
forcing them to turn when catching a glimpse
of us. The swells of their cheeks blossoming
with that of a rose tinted hue.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
Your hair is thick and dark
evergreen branches that glide
against lilac petals
made of powdered sugar.
I wish your hands were not so rough,
when you mold my body out of clay
you leave divots, not as deep
as tire tracks in snow
but tiny deer prints
left behind in secret
the kind where the mystery
makes you follow them into the thicket.
Strum that song again,
the one you played, laughing
at the silliness of knowing
every chord, even though we both
silently love it. Don't talk to me
about intimacy problems
because you know I would have
loved you, more
then children with fried dough
the kind that comes from county
fairs
and you can't look at me
like that, with painful eyes
'cause we're both guilty.
What happens to women without
men?
Running fingers over bare
hills, hoping to once again
be covered with fur trees
thick and dark. So catch me
with those that match
your pea coat that smells
sweetly of cigarettes
and stories only known
by haylofts and cotton pillows.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:11 PM UTC
On the night of initiation,
curves of pale luster began to gleam unwrinkled from the darkened divots along the lunar surface
A perspective unseen for so long, it was viewed as a defaulted “wink” on the face of the moon
And therefore, forgotten, unmentioned, until it’s means were sought
From days ‘fore, and long since now dust
Scribing authors, secrete beads of frenzy into ink filled phial
Sending tremors down, into the quill tip
Filling scrolls for permanence in a preemptive defense against continuous unraveling thoughts would befall
this fluency into incoherent clutter
Pioneers of preprint in a provoking tome,
would speak educated reasons why these areas of Moon had been locked under sealed dark punishment
since Empedocles mixed cosmic elements to breed an undeniable proving truth
Exhibiting the myth of danger
alongside
The established absolute and supervening fizzling sunset
proving the existence of love...
—————————————————-
“Since I have given you words from my within
like the ecliptic rising and burning massive,
Our mutual visibility of late is either one-sided
or
short lived
I’ll take a detour around the comforts of romance
And try to talk my way into your pants
By tossing at you, letters squeezed together,
for your minds transcription into the heart of my subliminal write
In hopes you’ll feel a trickling gush
If I get really lucky these words will find you like a volcano erupts a ****
The same way water, beating against years of stone can fall
And crash through a dam with pouring force so insatiable it’s territory is marked in history
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
I was walking along the shoreline
On a warm afternoon in July when
I noticed a piece of polished wood
Bobbing helplessly in the shallow water,
So I pulled it from the salty sea and
Admired the intricate carvings and
Detailed line work across the face.
Just as I was running my thumb
Over the still smooth edges, I
Noticed another piece floating
Just a few feet away from me.
Within the hour, I had gathered
An entire armful of wood, and
Within the week, I had an entire
Table full of mismatched pieces.
So I began working unceasingly
At putting the pieces back together.
I started with the inside, the
Smooth heart shaped piece with
The slight cracks and divots,
Followed by a circular piece
That resembled the brain
With the deep crevices.
I then pieced together
The smooth fingertips
And the rugged feet,
And connected every
Limb and joint together
Until a boy of about
Six feet was standing
In front of me.
I snapped on the
Final piece and watched
As he came alive before me.
His eyes as deep as the mahogany
Looked into mine and smiled, as
Though thanking me.
And he turned his
Back to me and
Walked away.
It wasn't until
That moment that
I realized I had poured
Every ounce of myself into
Piecing back together that boy,
So now every ounce of myself
Was walking out my front
Door with a real boy
Who didn't need
Me anymore.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
And I would bite my tongue gladly
for just another taste of yours;
For the way my name glazed off your front tooth.
Each syllable sticking to my collarbones,
leaving red marks on both cheeks.
I want to smell the scent of your laughter.
I want to feel the waves of your sighing chest
kissing the shores of my spine.
I want, again, for you to hold the glacial angles of my jaw,
because you are the only one
who fears not
of the winter that lies beneath my lips.
And sometimes our teeth would kiss if our mouths weren't moving fast enough.
Your nails clenched into the clay spaces between my ribs,
hoping to hold on just long enough
to make an impression on me,
but I don't think you realize
how deep your divots run.
So let me carve my initials into the peaks of your shoulder blades.
Let me write poetry on your skin.
Let me cover you in the ashes of a thousand goodbyes that echo too hot to let go.
Just let me stay.
Let me stay amidst the oak and sage of your backbone.
Let me stay nestled inbetween the dusk and summer,
of what's to come and what's to be.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
Listen to that big band swing,
Jippin dat doo dattin, with Bing.
Twirl and dancing that vinyl black.
Feelin' the beat through the thumpin' bass crack.
Movin' digits like dancin. Dames.
Tease out that trumpet's pinching twang.
Her dress twirls through the floor,
She.
Spiraling blackhole, spiraling through time net curvatures wormhole.
My ears crash, jazzy spats, of floppin' bop, on the tendrils of brain,
The ooze in my ears feels drunk from the tune,
Music peers to the table cloths wine stain.
She's the toilet water of my music.
Oh that swing.
Oh!
THAT SWING.
I cant help but love that swing like, child's kiss.
Bringing me soft love in lime blues, cross jazz legs,
Spazzing with cigarette drags, dragging my nails through your chest,
Oh that swing, smears me through your dress.
Love child, those legs,
Beauty those pearly notes,
Prickling whites,
Shark teeth scratching the record,
Or just dust.
Slides________________________
Slides the tip of the stylus through divots,
In the pavement street of record.
Missive.
Don't turn that table too slow now.
That swing can't stop.
Oh that big band swing.
Beat that rhythm,
Boys...take it from the top.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
There is a Raven
Perched upon my window sill,
Its talons tearing into the paint.
The tick-tock
Of a grandfather clock
Resounds throughout the walls,
Matching the scritching-scratching
Of the ravens claws.
I sit in the corner,
As I have for night after night,
Not sleeping,
Never sleeping,
Simply sitting and waiting.
The Raven begins
To tap-tap-tap
At the window pane.
And I sit
And wait.
How long now has it been?
Since my Sun,
So beautiful at its Dawn,
Had left its Noon-time heights
For an untimely Setting?
Sadly grieveous as it had been,
My Sunset had been darkly beautiful,
Asplash with deep reds and purple,
Crowned in gold.
Oh that I had been Pyramus and she Thisbe.
Star-crossed and Tragic,
A love made eternal by mutual deaths.
Alas, it was not to be,
For I am no Pyramus and she no Thisbe.
She went ahead of me
And not by choice of her own,
By my blade yet not her hand.
And after her I would chase,
Pleaing forgiveness on bended knee
In that next dream.
Yet I am afraid,
Of the knife,
Her scorn,
Her embrace.
And so I sit
And wait.
The Raven is at my window,
Talons scratching divots in the sill.
The resounding of the clock
Still surrounds me,
As I sit
And wait.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
I remember days when you would don your garden pants,
the periwinkle ones with sherbet-splattered blooms
of pink and orange dahlias.
They came to a halt just above your ankles,
skimming the tongues and velcro latches of your shoes--
size nine narrow.
And you would count for me as we held the spray over each plant,
four hands on the hose: yours wrinkled with tall veins,
mine monkey-bar calloused.
We waded through fern forests, pausing to make knee-shaped
divots in the mulch, while the pants dampened
with dew from morning grass.
Seasons later, your garden was traded for a vase
of carnations on a hospital nightstand,
and your sun for fluorescence.
And I returned to trace our route through the yard, alone,
counting as I sprayed the blossoms, wearing for you
your garden pants.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
I adore you
in a way that when we hold hands i feel like I am holding worms
i'm both in awe at what's happening, and disturbed.
I can't tell if the thought of kissing you makes my torso feel like a towel that's being wrung out, or if it makes me want to peel off all of my skin but either way, the thought makes me feel something.
your laugh is precious.
it spits confetti into the air,
it's the present you forgot to bring to the party, and the promise you make to bring it next time.
it spills all kinds of new anxieties onto the floor.
the kind of liquid that gets into the divots of your shoes, and when it dries it becomes sticky.
it's with you all day, peeling from the tile with every step.
this sound makes me cringe.
your hugs are so warm, if they were a blanket covering me i would have to stick my feet out to avoid overheating, but i need the blanket to sleep.
and darling, I promise it's not you.
don't blame yourself.
I was completely fine until he decided I was old news.
he made so many promises and broke them all.
If i could turn back to the moment I stood in the front of the room reciting a poem about killing my ex lover, I would have threatened that he would later be on my hit list as well.
I apologize for my uncontrollable fear.
I know my tremors are repetitive and I'm sorry for apologizing constantly.
he didn't accept me like you do.
he couldn't handle the ticks.
he couldn't manage to fall asleep next to a time bomb.
I shouldn't blame him but i definitely do.
so if i cry, pull me close.
if i shake, grab my hands.
and if i ***** hold my hair.
I promise that one day i'll trust you.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Within the realm of unplayed instrumentation
a crescendo of specific notes are lost
dangling on high maple branches during autumn leaf change
and only divots below the mowed through grassy soil
throughout segregated quarantine reserves
partitions of divorced land
In the bottom of a child’s backpack
so heart jarring and singularly dedicated to the wandering dreamer harboring any thoughts of doubt about what is and what might inhibit the coming up next
covering over wooden plank necks with strings of primitive notation drafted inside the woods create,
rows of ivory keys and ebony flats,
this includes either screeching or murmuring brass buttons can make
And depending on the blow
Lead based letters
Squeezed together grammar and prose
have no window to grandstand
in a duel verses this one climb of instrumental verse
these missing tones are in tangible reaches
could even be in a soft mother’s dream waiting to be awoken to bring an awakening
Who will seek and find this group of lost tones with striking nuances so spirit soothing
that seeing the mere future is old news
but instilling, feeling, and describing the true meaning of life after hearing what is under, inside and above this crest of colored resonance of tonal pitch...
Or maybe it can insight a minor confidence in the one who lacks it to take that small step forward
Ensuring another step
This is one who will hear this
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC
His shoulders fascinate you;
Both mechanical and organic,
Soft, capable, broad
Like the horses of your youth and just as shy.
Invisible breaths and phantom winds caress the fine divots of your vertebrae:
Divots never loved by tangible lips.
Your skin bristles, hair rises,
Prickles come in waves down the limbs.
You wish you knew each muscle’s scientific classification
To give as a gift,
A mantra,
A prayer to whisper against his delicately whorled ear.
His eyes
Bottle green and limned with straw debris
They rest in shadow beneath sloping brows,
Lashes as long and thick as yours when you use lacquer,
Tunnels to the mind you idolize,
Panes through which you search for the pulse of his soul.
You think of his eyes open,
Think of what dreams are projected against their lids
At night, when yours struggle to escape the sheets.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
I want to make marks
on your body.
Thin stinging fingernail trails
forming paths across your back.
Shallow-bitten divots
adorning your neck.
Burning palm-sized patches
staining your skin.
I want to hear your response
when people ask
who?
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 8:46 AM UTC
My friend died last night,
his mother said,
so you should probably stop smoking.
But he was more concerned with giving
away his dog and shooting himself in the face.
Blowing raspberries didn’t stop
the advancing train that left bruises
on either of her shoulders,
or left her compacted
and hung-over the next morning.
And she was screaming like a banshee
trapped inside a locket,
when he finally bent her over
and said You are beautiful,
do not let anyone ever tell you any different.
She might have lost the polish
from driving a stick shift for an hour
or chewing them, worried about
deer leaping into windshields,
but that is why lesbians don’t paint their nails.
So when he finally slammed her foot
into the side of his dresser,
all she could do was lay there
and bite, losing more of her sheen
into the divots she dug in the skin on his back.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC
Broken pieces
wash away into the sea
All the ugly parts
of me
I'm free?
Sand should be washed white
Flawless and perfected
Pure
Or so I thought
it'd be
Like I'd blink my eyes
a flash of light -
(ning)
It'd all go away,
But in
reality
wounds heal, and
scars are there to stay
Broken pieces do
wash into the sea
Those ugly pieces pulled
by curling crests and forceful waters
Salty with tears of sins and sorrows
But there are divots and dents
Fragments of shell crushed into the sand
The ugly washed clean
Not perfected, but
Redeemed
But you can't forget the stories
If scars fade there's nothing to tell
Because I'm sanctified by blood and bruises
Cleansed by grace for my depravity
I can't forget that I'm unworthy
Power of wind and waves remind me
I'm not needed, but,
still held in high esteem
Wind grabs ahold and pulls me
dragging broken pieces down
Washed into the sea
And the stormy waves
They wreck me
It was never a quick fix
Not one simple storm
to wash it all away
Because those broken pieces run deeper
I'm not perfected, but
Redeemed
And the stormy waves are pleading
Come with Me
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
Gritty, ***** earth
I would make a space
Defined edges and lines
A plant for every place
I would water it daily
Returning from a run
On the way to fetch the mail
Soaking up the sun
Divots in dirt
Turn to flowers in earth
And fruit within weeks
But for all that it's worth
I'd tend to this land
Nurture it with time
All to see you
Pluck fruit fresh from the vine
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
Today, I am a cyborg attached
to a computer by a thick cord
that comes out of my wrist.
I can feel the metal in my arm,
the little divots
that allow it to bend freely
as I twist and move. Inside the cord,
wires spiral into me, around my spine
and into my stomach.
I feel like a rebellious zombie, in
the way I smile whole-heartedly
at the kids in the stroller, and the old lady
reaching for two pennies in her purse.
Soup, they all seem to be making,
but I’m just standing here
punching in numbers and
asking the same questions, wondering
whether the universe needs the receipt
or if I should recycle it.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC
I tried to draw you but i could never do it justice.
I just couldn't record your perfect sadness.
Nor the smile that wouldn't crack through that day
I couldn't etch this paper with the outlines of your face.
Those outlines i traced a thousand times that night.
with my eyes.
trying to make sense of them.
You told me i couldn't change them.
And somehow i knew it before you spoke.
It weren't that the edges of your face were broken.
They could never be.
Not ones so beautiful as those.
Sure, you have your little imperfections -
your hair falls oddly, sometimes,
the small dot on your nose,
divots around your mouth when you frown-
but i love you with them.
And even think most of them are beautiful.
Though i never could bring myself to like those divots. . .
I guess because i never liked it when you frowned.
You'd tell me i needed more than luck to cheer you up,
but that didn't change the way my heart wanted to make you smile.
I can recall only rare occasions when i did not have that desire,
even those were just occasions it was underneath another emotion,
a darker one, a heavier one i'd trade away any day to make you happy.
I knew i loved you that night.
It made me ask some hard questions.
Are we bad for each other?
Should i hate myself for this-
for what i do to her?
Not if you were worth it - but if i could stand it to stick around
but that answer didn't matter,
I'd do it even if i couldn't take it.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
digits digging divots, gyrating
in the finite field I have left on which to play,
bringing me closer to a goalless line
mornings I ran the ball,
feeling the turf beneath me, green and flat
in the afternoon I passed, hoping another would move onward
by eventide I oft punted, conceding my opponent
should be given his run, only to crash into me,
to be shoved into the demanding dirt,
a victim of my will, gravity,
and chiseling chance
when the ball returned
to me, as it eternally did,
I called another play, everyman scrambling
for a chance, at more measured madness, more
yardage marked by mocking minutes, that became
miles, hours, days, and more massive, metastatic
months, unstoppable, no matter who had the ball,
or how far their running feet
would take them
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
there is an empty stretch
of highway
somewhere deep in my bones
cracked tarmac and faded center line
dandelions blooming up out
of the divots of
my sleepless nights
and it is beautiful
and sometimes lonely
like being 7 years old
and knowing i like girls
but also that i am not a girl
and not having the words
to bring that part of me to life
and the first time i kissed a girl
flowers exploded out of
every chip in my armor
making me feel like i could
build a home in my own body
for the first time in 5 years
but everything burns eventually
and flower stems become matches
way too easily
and a hollowness beyond dissociation
something i couldn’t dig out
no matter how hard i tried
and the first boy i liked
i couldn’t tell if i wanted
to kiss him or be him
but both sounded pretty nice
and after the right man to
make me stop being a lesbian
turned out to be myself
the first boy i kissed was on accident
but i wanted to kiss him again
and that stretch of highway seemed less lonely
and more like it would accommodate two
people holding hands
walking side by side
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
time isn’t lost anymore,
no longer do I watch
the hands of the clock
waste away through a
film of sadness
in my melting eyes.
you have found me,
a me that I didn’t know
I still had.
the strength in your
eyes translates itself
into the tips of your fingers
and the trace of your lips
in the divots of my spine.
trace away the prayers
of previous mistakes
show me religion
through your infinite pulse
of grace and power.
my red runs through the blues
of you, as we become the veins
of our own universe.
voraciously consume me
in ways only stars consume
themselves.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
She calls no more.
There are no more letters or silly cards from her.
The spot reserved for her emails,
a picture frame thumbnail, sits vacant and sad.
I know I should delete it, but don't know why I haven't.
Ringtones are a dirge.
Pillows and covers and mugs and sofa divots wait expectantly.
Lamenting.
I had to throw out my clothes, the ones she wore when she was cold
or too lazy to pick her own up from the floor.
Was it her scent i could still smell from them after a hundred washes?
Another life is being filled by her existence, now.
He wont notice her impact until it's too late.
I hope it works out between them.
And that she's always safe.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
he said to me,
and I put my head on his sternum.
A tight skin drum,
crepe over bones.
He had a man's hands but a boy's chest.
To say I only loved him anyway is an injustice.
He had a boy's chest with notches,
a ladder of rib and shoulder blades.
Divots and handholds,
He could be climbed.
And so I did.
I spend most of my time alone
he said to me,
and I slid my hand under his shirt.
You're a great man, I whispered onto his stomach,
a mighty oak,
my wisp of grass.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
Hail, King Arbor, vice-regent of the paradisal garden!
Springing, a wooden fountain clawing up and seizing handfuls of sky,
Towering, dancing in winds that cannot bow him,
With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout.
Padded with armor layered in sheaves and shingles,
Constant cloak accented of moss and vine and bubbles of fungus,
Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires,
Fitted snug o’er the ageless trunk, ever-young beneath time’s rings.
Steward of life, he cradles birdlings in nested branches,
In chewed divots and caves hiding the squirrel and his kin,
His skin alive with deep burrowing beetles and grubs and thousands of worms,
Beneath his leafy mantle are sheltered the fox and the deer.
While branches sway and leaves fly in stormy havoc,
And beasts and creeping things are shaken and tossed,
His stoic roots, unimpressed, anchor the forest to the world,
Laboring buried and ever unmoved, in dark earthen dignity.
Here he stands, shoulder to shoulder with his brethren,
A sylvan army assembled to keep watch as the centuries drift by,
Council of elders evergreen presiding over the passage of epochs,
Terra’s first tribe bonded inseparable under countless dusks and dawns.
And there he stands, all solitary, vertical spire against a flat horizon,
No less regal for the absence of peers, but still defiant and noble,
Standing in judgement uncontested over an undiscerning globe,
Convicting all, dismissing them as airy flights ephemeral.
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC