"duckpond" poems - Hello Poetry

In South America, truck drivers are paid collossal amounts of money, to deliver supplies between towns on roads, no wider than the width of their trucks. When you turned up on my doorstep that sunday in the rain, your eyes told me before your lips did. Sixty three hundred days is a long long time to wait for someone, but I would do it all over again, if it meant I could fall asleep in your arms one last time. Next Autumn when the leaves turn rusty and fall from the trees, I'll remember the afternoon we spent in Victoria park, where you waded to the middle of the duckpond, just because I said you wouldn't. Your mother always told me when we stacked away the good china after Sunday lunch, that your stubborness always got in the way of what was right. You've been gone eight hours and still nobodies reminded me how difficult I can be at times. Eight months later and everytime the phone rings I imagine your voice crackling down the line "come get me from the supermarket, I have sugar buns. "

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Apr 28, 2013

Apr 28, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC

lily-jean

sunday.

In South America, truck drivers are paid collossal amounts of money, to deliver supplies between towns on roads, no wider than the width of their trucks. When you turned up on my doorstep that sunday in the rain, your eyes told me before your lips did. Sixty three hundred days is a long long time to wait for someone, but I would do it all over again, if it meant I could fall asleep in your arms one last time. Next Autumn when the leaves turn rusty and fall from the trees, I'll remember the afternoon we spent in Victoria park, where you waded to the middle of the duckpond, just because I said you wouldn't. Your mother always told me when we stacked away the good china after Sunday lunch, that your stubborness always got in the way of what was right. You've been gone eight hours and still nobodies reminded me how difficult I can be at times. Eight months later and everytime the phone rings I imagine your voice crackling down the line "come get me from the supermarket, I have sugar buns. "

16

there's a secret place i found to keep my fear to hide my tenderness & be vulnerable -- it's next to the smallest bones in your inner ear the fluid skin blanket of your swooping neckline lily-soft & somehow stiff enough to break open my seed-pod heart the one i thought no one could pry apart but with rosebud ******* -- lips -- the figure of biblical magdala takes me away from a lone satsuma tree raising its shriveled offering from the crippled earth on sunday strolls through duckpond parks kicking cobbled streets of augusta block or scooping water at me smiling in cutoffs on a hot hometown riverbank you came to me on barefeet out of the smoke & rain silence where i was invisibly sobbing where heat-lightning waltzed sneaky-pete over the prairie & what are you if not a rain -- a zephyr flowing through stone temple just as the dry-mouth dog days of summer brought hell's fire across the southern field so i've abandoned the hermetic existence & buried my old dead shell with a harp song hail glory to the contortionist god vaulting off the balance beam in the back of my mind beneath the rain soaked topsoil of dawn among the mound palaces of ants & mourning mud hornets while the gray shadows of the magpie dance & writhe on the mosaic faces of the trespassed lupine forest & the sun still comes up on time big gold fluttering like a delusional cicada over the empty pink street i'm still fidgeting because clouds with tails like jellyfish sting with rooted memories of azaleas but you kiss away my all my latent restless gypsy fears & keep the harsh light dimmed or wrapped in heat-foil in your front dress pocket & you only give it back to me in brief drips -- pinches -- wet tongue kisses -- we talk with our eyes as only animals can our butts in the damp sand beside the breathless sea where streaked clouds seem free to finger the horizon but are cut by the city skyline -- a switchblade

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Nov 23, 2016

Nov 23, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC

david-badgerow

wrapped in heat-foil

there's a secret place i found to keep my fear to hide my tenderness & be vulnerable -- it's next to the smallest bones in your inner ear the fluid skin blanket of your swooping neckline lily-soft & somehow stiff enough to break open my seed-pod heart the one i thought no one could pry apart but with rosebud ******* -- lips -- the figure of biblical magdala takes me away from a lone satsuma tree raising its shriveled offering from the crippled earth on sunday strolls through duckpond parks kicking cobbled streets of augusta block or scooping water at me smiling in cutoffs on a hot hometown riverbank you came to me on barefeet out of the smoke & rain silence where i was invisibly sobbing where heat-lightning waltzed sneaky-pete over the prairie & what are you if not a rain -- a zephyr flowing through stone temple just as the dry-mouth dog days of summer brought hell's fire across the southern field so i've abandoned the hermetic existence & buried my old dead shell with a harp song hail glory to the contortionist god vaulting off the balance beam in the back of my mind beneath the rain soaked topsoil of dawn among the mound palaces of ants & mourning mud hornets while the gray shadows of the magpie dance & writhe on the mosaic faces of the trespassed lupine forest & the sun still comes up on time big gold fluttering like a delusional cicada over the empty pink street i'm still fidgeting because clouds with tails like jellyfish sting with rooted memories of azaleas but you kiss away my all my latent restless gypsy fears & keep the harsh light dimmed or wrapped in heat-foil in your front dress pocket & you only give it back to me in brief drips -- pinches -- wet tongue kisses -- we talk with our eyes as only animals can our butts in the damp sand beside the breathless sea where streaked clouds seem free to finger the horizon but are cut by the city skyline -- a switchblade

52

Sophia sat on the bench in a cafe in the park. I'd gone to get two coffees, and came back, and handed her one and sat down. My father not happy. Why, what's up with him? I asked. A neighbour told him I came home with you on Friday evening. I sipped my coffee. Her old man was a short, but stocky Pole, who looked like and sounded like a mafia boss. What did he say? I said, gazing at her long blonde hair and pale blue eyes. He wants to talk with you. When? I said, taking a sip of coffee. As soon as possible. I nodded my head. Did you explain we just had a coffee, and talk? I said. We did more, but I was trying to forget that. He still wants to talk with you. She sat back and gazed at the duckpond over the way. I lit a cigarette, sipped more coffee. Did you tell him I go to Mass most Sundays? Yes, I told him. And he still wants to talk? I asked. Yes, he said soon, and I was not to see you until he's seen you. But you are seeing me, I muttered. She gazed at me. I want to see you; he won't know. He knew about Friday evening, and he wasn't there, I said, looking around to see if we were being spied on. We see him tonight. I inhaled deeply on the cigarette. I pictured us Friday in her bed; not something I could forget.

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Jun 12, 2019

Jun 12, 2019 at 4:12 AM UTC

TerryCollett

Sophia and Benny in the Park 1969.

Sophia sat on the bench in a cafe in the park. I'd gone to get two coffees, and came back, and handed her one and sat down. My father not happy. Why, what's up with him? I asked. A neighbour told him I came home with you on Friday evening. I sipped my coffee. Her old man was a short, but stocky Pole, who looked like and sounded like a mafia boss. What did he say? I said, gazing at her long blonde hair and pale blue eyes. He wants to talk with you. When? I said, taking a sip of coffee. As soon as possible. I nodded my head. Did you explain we just had a coffee, and talk? I said. We did more, but I was trying to forget that. He still wants to talk with you. She sat back and gazed at the duckpond over the way. I lit a cigarette, sipped more coffee. Did you tell him I go to Mass most Sundays? Yes, I told him. And he still wants to talk? I asked. Yes, he said soon, and I was not to see you until he's seen you. But you are seeing me, I muttered. She gazed at me. I want to see you; he won't know. He knew about Friday evening, and he wasn't there, I said, looking around to see if we were being spied on. We see him tonight. I inhaled deeply on the cigarette. I pictured us Friday in her bed; not something I could forget.

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