"elmo" poems
I'm just getting in the bath,
Someone else wrote the letter,
I don't want to make a. Mess.
Draw me the water
I point at the tap
Burden no family
Hold my head under icecaps.
Merkel Cells, diluted sensation,
The end of fingertips cant feel your
Flesh.
Shriveling in the cold,
Shivering to stop freezing,
But I cant. What am I doing?
Can I want this now, errectores pilorum erected.
Have I set motion to,
Cogs in a watch I cant adjust.
my lungs mark absolute zero
this is me sitting in chemistry class
english
10th grade
asking sam to suffocate with me
every alvioli is pinned by ****** as thick as knitting needles
my chest is permafrost
my sternum, antarctica
the ribs hollow out
capillary beds lose all the haem
out of their erythrocytes
I'm losing St. Elmo's Fire.
The baths still panting out,
Water roars, gushing spout.
Proud the current sweeps me through,
The porcelain lining this white hell bathroom.
It's bone cannot hide from my blood,
As if I'm isotope 226 of Radium.
Heat seeking marrow.
My serum is Hodgkins Lymphoma,
Tearing through sheeting tile,
Like a young cancer child,
Afflicted,
Leukemia,
No chance,
No good blood left,
To let.
Soon, it will all be gone, and the rivers that
freeze in my arms, and the ribs that are icicles
form, and the atrial canal is not like Venice,
it is the Rhine in winter, the Volga during
the solstice.
Spring will never come again.
Spring slipped its head into the bath water, like my own.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
Mon coeur...my heart
Is where I start
A journey as long as present and past
Over metaphorical oceans, oh so vast
Tranquil seas of turquoise blue and emerald green
Oasis to seas which for a time were violent and mean
Mon coeur...my heart
Would not be torn apart
A berth in a favorite Mediterranean port
Provided safe harbor of a sort
Reminding mon coeur...my heart
It had yet to reach the start
An unexpected voyage to an uncharted sea
Would lead me to believe there was something more for me
A voyage that made up for the many years of frustration
That always led to perpetual exasperation
Mon Coeur...my heart
Had at last reached the start
An open sea to travel
Honest words that never felt the gavel
A closeness
An openness
Both of which had not been felt
Both of which made my heart melt
Impeccable conversation
Invigorating recreation
She had to be made for me
We fit together so perfectly
My best friend...ma chere
My Elmo to her Carebear
Sunny days
Stormy days
Through those we made our way
And together forever we would stay
The journey over an endless placid sea
Was not meant to forever be
Shoal in the night
7th of June if I remember right
Mon coeur...my heart
Was finally torn apart
I know that all happens for a reason
And some are only with us for a season
But little does that help
All I can muster is the weakest yelp
For what I lost in the end
Was my best friend
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
A baby from Burundi sits next to me today.
He coos and drinks and swallows his mother’s milk.
His father speaks Swahili. Smiles, tells me that his last son
Is going to grow old in Rochester, NY,
Where I sit in a white-walled waiting room, watching
Mothers drag their babies by the armpits to be weighed.
A boy with braided beads holds up four fingers and tells me he is five.
He is too skinny. His pants are sagging and his iron is low.
His mother takes his vegetable checks, stuffs them into the back pocket of her jeans.
What the little **** needs is two percent milk, she says,
Her gold hoops fluttering.
Her son struggles with the small wooden chair he is carrying.
It drags along the carpet, hitting the high spots, and his tiny biceps flinch.
He sits, facing me, while a name is called. And another.
Another woman’s son hands me a book and waits.
He is watching my face and I watch his mother kiss her boyfriend in the first row seats.
He tucks his chin to his chest when I ask his name. Whispers, tells me Jayden.
First page. What color is Elmo, Jayden?
Shoulders shrugging. His lower lip, puckered out and innocent.
What color is he, Jayden?
The color of Jayden’s skin slaps me across the heart when he says he doesn’t know.
He was born in Rochester, NY,
With trash bags and Burger King wrappers wrapped around the fence
That separates his house from the street on which he will grow old
Too soon.
He starts kindergarten in the fall and I tell him Elmo is red, like his t-shirt.
Like his mother’s fingernails.
Like the tomatoes and bell peppers and beets he has never seen.
A girl who went to my High School carries in her youngest child
Who is old enough to walk, but wobbles.
She calls her daughter “thunder-thighs” instead of Jazmyne
And strips off her shoes. Her belt. Her gold bracelets.
The scale says Jazmyne is too heavy for food assistance.
The state says her mother isn’t poor enough for welfare.
The girl I used to know leaves without her daughter’s shoes or the food checks she came for.
In conversations of pretension
We talk about first and third world.
Pretend that America is the land of second chances
Where a baby from Burundi can grow old in cashmere sweaters,
Even when his parents couldn’t pay.
The father who speaks Swahili looks at his shiny watch and his family’s vegetable checks.
Smiles. Tells me his last son is going to grow old and full
In Rochester, NY.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
I jumped from couch to couch, avoiding the floor that was lava.
The balloon soared and floated in the air, and it could not touch the ground.
Circus animal cookies and chocolate milk were there everyday.
When I was small, the world was big and magical.
My role models were Barney and Babar, Kermit and Elmo.
I wore pink leotards and frilly tutus and stretchy slippers and shiny, black tap shoes.
I’d look up at the sky to see that fluffy white clouds were bunnies, hippos and butterflies.
When I was small, nothing was impossible.
Parks were kingdoms and the jungle-gym was the castle.
My glittery costume gown and my plastic tiara meant I was a real princess,
Peter Pan would come take me away, to live in Neverland.
When I was small, I was immortal.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
**** that little willy'd ****** *** lick'n; Skid mark sitt'n
Horror written; Square to circle fitt'n
Kid in frame lifted; Menapose acting
Habit of rabidly crashing into walls of madness;
Precision in his crack-head tactics;
Sky's backdrop to average;
Newspaper wrapped is this devil's package;
He's a mask filled with gas from a bean eating flaccid fascist;
Disrespectful **** sack;
A testament to where God's blessing had left his breath;
And bitten lip was given; Heaven's sin times seven;
Building this living devil hell hole;
Logic of Kelso; Autistic clap of the elbows;
Destined for death row;
Festering hatred, New York to Sacramento;
Hitler's stencil by broke'n pencil;
Bigger ***** then Elmo;
Range of insanity; With driver in hand, You tee up family;
Frantically filling fantasy of being calamity personified as Anthony
Majority holder in depressions percentage;
Son of a Prada wearing father; Regarded by all as Caustic;
Temper Atomic; Reasoning Neurotic
Monotonic **** You
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
It’s strange to be a stranger to you
Even though years have passed,
I hope you think of me
And how we made it last.
Your golden curls and goofy smile,
Burned inside my memory
School yard parks late at night,
The way you made me smile,
Oh so bright.
I wonder what you are doing now,
I hope you are happy and not alone.
I hope you found laughter
And a love that healed and was strongly grown.
Do you remember how we told each other everything,
How proud I was of the silly twisted bracelet ring?
Are you still Afraid if lady bugs,
The way they fly, they way they crawl?
Do you still give the world's warmest hugs,
Is Elmo is the best above all?
I grew up loving you,
So I beginning to accept that will never change,
But the fact that I don't know you any more,
will always be forever strange....
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
If you could only see
One color
of the rainbow and beyond
What- how could you decide?
Red
anger, love, elmo and stop signs
i'd give you roses - not just a dozen- a flower shop full
Orange
fruit, sherbet, traffic cones and tigers
i could watch a billion sunsets- if you would just hold my hand?
Yellow
lemonade, fear, highlighters and dandelions
you are my sunshine, my only sunshine
Green
luck, mint, leprechauns, and grass
i'm envious of her, though her significance is debatable
Blue
rain, robin eggs, sky, and oceans
could i cry with you? i'm still not sure.
Purple
mountains, shadows, lilacs and royalty
i'll bake you a mulberry pie, dripping with juice and made with love- that eternal 'secret' ingredient
As for me, I'd choose brown.
Brown for honest earth, for rich dark chocolate, for tall reaching trees, and for coffee dark as night, hot as hell, strong as love.
For your smooth skin, warm and vibrant.
An inch away from mine, I wonder what it would feel like to kiss you, soft and sweet.
But I look away, laugh with my friend, watch the black evening outside.
And sigh.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
*What fire is this?
Within your eyes
Like a ball of light
Gently caressing the ominous skies
Are you an omen to match my sign?
Or mere bones to cast in an empty cask?
I only ask because so many heads
Have turned away from this overcast
Just because of your fire
That hopeful passion
Which pulls each sailor slowly on
To survive another night until the dawn
To wonder if this your purposful fire
Is meant to bring us back
To the very thing which we ought to desire
Away from the devouring grave of the sea
To a house made of stone on the inland maybe?
Where are bodies would find the true solace of earth
And just might be at peace far away from the sea
Perhaps Saint Elmo
That is exactly where you wish us to be?*
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 10:31 PM UTC
You are a hard ghost to pin down
my will-o'-the-wisp
If I approach you . . .
you recede
If I back up . . .
you approach
But you never let me touch you
My marsh lover
A light unto my heart
Burns where I cannot touch
Cold flames of blue leave me
No traces of heat upon my lips
My heart shivers from lack of loves inferno
The strength of my skin
Cannot be measured
The merit of my bones
Cannot be weighed
Nor will my love be finite
Caged or displayed
My lips seek soft wet kisses
That reign down on my soul
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
hope is a burning buddha candle.
set aflame with his ornate head slowly melting.
we sat in silence and blew the candle out before his waxen ears met his shoulders, but you would’ve liked to have seen him exist in a puddle.
you sit quietly that morning and wonder what it would be like to exist in a puddle.
you decide that you would have liked it.
hope clings itself to the fabric of the floral sundress you bought two weeks before the leaves turned shades of burgundy and ochre.
when asked why you bought it, you shrugged it off.
you wore it, baring shoulders and all, alone in your room with the blinds open.
the september sun glanced at you and you at it.
you were never a dress person, but the blue and pink flowers seemed at home on your torso
and who were you to separate blooms from their home?
hope is your baby brother showing up at your door, sand blonde hair reminiscent of the beaches you were raised on.
he smelled like salt and violent adolescence.
in his hands, he clutched four large pieces of fruit that he stole from the hotel because he said that the fruit bowl from home missed you.
you saw novels in his seafoam grey eyes that read that he missed you, too.
you hugged him
too tight
too many times.
you didn’t cry when he got in the car, but you did when he called you later and said that he was counting down the days to christmas.
there were 114, now there are 109.
hope is st. elmo’s fire and holding your best friends hand as you explain to him that you always felt like ionized plasma.
that you’re like lightening, but not quite.
it is stopping the car on the side of the road to pick wildflower bouquets and press them between the empty pages of your new journal.
it is squash blossom pizza and $60 parking tickets because you were too lazy to catch the bus.
hope is writing a poem and, for once, it not sounding like a eulogy.
hope is writing a poem and not hearing your voice shake as you recite it.
hope is writing a poem and finally feeling like a poet.
hope is writing a poem and finally living like a poet.
hope is writing a poem.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
Mind a steel trap
stealing thoughts and memories
cars and high chairs
the Shang Dynasty of "The" great wall
never once said
"What if I can't?"
they only said ***** please
let's build a wall to the moon
Nepal wanted to join in on the fun
captured children like Hansel and Gretel
fed them their own feces they puked for weeks
no candy here
just cold hard abs
rippling
like the ocean
tye-dyed head stones
skipping graves rather gravely
could you spare some change?
Nah man just some odors
re-ordering from Fed-Ex
exponential increase of refraction
reaction
all base
tickle me Elmo
and give me strength.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
choking on flowers.
sleeping on pins.
living with me.
pull the trigger, beautiful.
razor blades and kisses.
cupcakes in the fridge.
tears in the bathtub.
polka dot fears.
Elmo on TV.
don't forget,
you're living with me.
paper cuts.
broken hearts.
pouring out your feelings
all because nothing is perfect.
you're living with me.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
There is no juice in your meat
No sweet to your thin
No beat in your heart
No wheel on your cart
Little love for your mind
And these missives I have signed
With relish and gusto
Religious ink writing - Irreligious rite inking
Pages full of pelliculous thinking
My pages, filled with the ridiculous
These are my letters to you
Filled with more letters
Held up to the light to cast shadows
And can be seen right through
Guessing thoughts of green giddy meadows,
Of guarded gaffling men,
Of tygers and lyrical zen
My hand had paused and drawn a blank
And you saw that too
When you held up my letters to the light
You read from the cover
Just by my tone
I knew of your other lover
And how I'm made to suffer
How I'm faced with a Hobson's choice
How you've covered up and drowned out my voice
With the moans of your new paramour
With the valiant slew of groans striking to the core
How you've used a hold on my heart
As your bully pulpit
To propound how I need to be fully sculpted
Not the man I am,
I persist,
and I abide,
Not for your amusement and no longer by your side
I feel as if my heart, the conductor, is ablaze with St. Elmo's fire
At my back, a church choir
My funeral,
no,
the inhumation of our consociation.
A pit replete to swell,
on to hell.
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
Where I reside now…is not my home. Well, technically it is. I have lived there for more than almost two and a half years, but it still isn’t home.
Home is where the smell of apple-cinnamon fills the house during Christmas; when tons of tasty food covers the kitchen tables, and family members dig into the dishes.
Home is where I spent my childhood; where the room I slept in’s walls were a mix between the palest pink, white, and grey; the walls covered with my name and stickers, and the Elmo sandbox I played in when I was five.
I used to ride my bicycle down the street and back, and spend time at the neighbor’s house. I remember reading a favorite book of mine, while walking my dog down our long street.
Home, where I would walk outside with bare feet, cringing with every step because there were rocks covering the ground. The bonfire would be set ablaze and I’d get close enough only to back away again because it was too hot.
Now home is a foreign place to me. I no longer smell the sweet fragrance of apple-cinnamon during Christmas. The food seems to be less as is the family.
Where my room is now one color, white, and contains two boys beds; the stickers gone and the walls now freshly scribbled on. The Elmo sandbox is gone and probably sand less.
My bike is old and rusty with a baby seat attached. The neighbors aren’t as friendly. My book isn’t as fascinating and no longer is a favorite. My dog is getting old and no longer wishes to walk.
I wear shoes outside, and the ground is covered with dirt. It’s too much of a hassle to go outside, only to smell like smoke when you returned. The seats that surrounded the fire are empty.
My home is now filled with everything I used to know. My world is different than when I was a child. I’ve grown, and can see that there is no evidence that I even existed there.
They’ve replaced me. Two little boys, my nephews, are now my Daddy’s favorite babies.
I am at the end of the boot, and have been replaced.
Home is where the heart is, but what happens when that heart is broken?
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
If we had forever to entwine ourselves
In the same way the Alps pierce the heavens
Tearing at this schism of sky
We could shed our skin into the
Dance of the wind as it whistles
Through the wind-chime collision
Of our skysung bones
You are already dressed as an angel
And I can see you
Fumbling to find the halo
You keep in your purse in case boys like me
With amber harvest moon eyes come knocking
At the mountain cathedral of your lips
There is a choir in your belly
That sings in the language
Of sunset summer evenings
But I want to rewind you back
To the bare budding of spring
And do to you
What April does to the cherry trees
Please
I am an aurora blown south
To arch you into St Elmo’s fire
So let’s back bend ourselves into an ember
To remember that life
Is a fleeting wildfire of a dream
But when you wake
Don’t you still want to taste
The smoke
On your lips
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
These words are not for reading.
Not for singing, not for shouting.
Not for saying, not for whispering.
These words are only for meaning.
After all, solving for x
Should always equal y,
And without such instances
Of equilibrium there can be no variance.
The scale must balance
Or the dragon will tip,
And tipsy dragons with their *****
Breath, perpetually drunk off their
Own fumes hunt –
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, TOCK
Out of rhythm -- as appears to be the style--
Or-not-style-or-maybe-style-is-out-of-style.
Oh Bill, what have we become?
These roses have no names!
And their smell is ****
Emo – Elmo **** – with no hope for redemption.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
Tears vermilion reflecting the night,
St Elmo's fire burning bright,
Sea sick sailors pray for the light
Doomed and forgotten nets are dry.
Albatross soars, wings of flight
Guiding the lost with cries of gulls,
Let us laugh at their misfortune,
Schadenfreude
Styx flows too soon,
Gold on each eyelid
The Titans shall have their due.
Hyperion weeps to Neptune's view
As Icarus burns to seas of blue
And the sails catch on,
Enlightened by the
Dawn multifaceted hue.
Scarlet prism gems
Reflect the fallen, truth
Through crimson tinted lens.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Life as a high school wallflower served me
without any budding female friendships
until lo…
a gent tulle mandate from my late mother uprooted me
from mine kempf familiar bedrock level road terrain
which venue offered a groundswell
to blossom forth into golden sterling resplendent rod
of natural equipoise (this an unbiased opinion) and balance
with freestyle improvisational swinging motions
unchained from the moors of formality
and lit figurative saint elmo’s sesame street fiery dance
allowing, enabling and providing this shy awkward self
during his young adulthood
to cast away four ever
thy self embroidered handsome
straight as an arrow
naturally high as a kite young guy
buzzing like a yellow jacket
thus liberating spontaneity that je nais sais quoi joie vivre
clamoring headlong toward venus
from healthy pistil packing overflowing bin
laden well nigh testosterone erupting *****
toward opposite gender
whereby bravado donned as key
to *** field of whet dreams
fostering initial albeit late blooming
roll in the hay hormonally rooted rutting squeal!
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 2:15 AM UTC
First things first I'm at the beach. It's awesome, we're on a little island and it's all rich white people. Today me and my cousin walked barefoot through a marsh for 3 hours and I cut my toe and he sliced his foot open. We got chased by alligators and cops and I had fried alligator for dinner(it was great btw) and the best part of all of this is that the last girl that cheated on me is texting me and she is all for being friends yet she can't see why I'm not all into the idea of bffs after I found out she'd been ******* some German kid named Elmo. He's a ****** too, but hey I'm a super huge ******* anyways so it's expected. She keeps saying me and This girl will be a cute couple. How do I politely tell her to **** a fat one. It's midnight and she won't stop texting me *** does she want. She said something happened at a party the night after she met my parents.... Waiting to know what she says is kinda gut wrenching. She said she did it because the guy was nice to her... The **** (my farts smell like alligator
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
St. Elmo looked down on us
He lit our path through the jagged night.
Erasmus held us in his roughened palm.
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead,
to heal the sick soul.
Grasp the mast and glow ,and live
The mast of the fire. The mast.
In darkest night.
Journey to Gilead by the warm blue
light.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
‘We’re floating up with the Angels,’
Said the girl in the pale green dress,
She’d voiced the phrase in German
For the girl had hailed from Hesse,
‘I never have dreamt of a night like this,
We soar like the gods of old,’
Then they came and shut all the windows,
For the night was growing cold.
There wasn’t a shake or a shudder
From the platform in the sky,
The waters of the Atlantic streamed
Below, but they were dry,
A headwind slowed their progress
And a storm was coming on,
The flickers of distant lightning lit
The path that they flew along.
The following day, the coast appeared
But the rain set in the more,
Rather than land, the captain took them
Over the Jersey shore,
The weather was bad at Lakehurst, so
They whiled away the hours,
Floating up there above the clouds
And the steady springtime showers.
They finally dropped the mooring lines
As the crew stood by below,
When a sudden flash was seen up aft
And a roar began to grow,
The ship was lit like a candlestick
As the gas and the fabric scorched,
While a flame enveloped the girl in green
And lit her up like a torch.
The frame crashed down on the gondola
And all you could hear were cries,
It was almost as if the gods had screamed:
‘How dare you enter our skies?’
They say that St. Elmo’s Fire was seen
By the watchers, down on the ground,
But there wasn’t a trace of the girl in green
When the Hindenberg went down.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
The Cape of storms, bay of Bengal,
the southern trades,
I've sailed them all.
I
drank in dockside taverns,
met ladies by the score, been
picked up from the gutters and
then I've sailed some more.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
and i haven't showered in days
because my fingers smell like you
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
The rain sings her adieu;
her surreal scent, her every smile
her very essence drowned by heaven's
teardrops, while her memories remain:
boxed in mylar.
>
The rain sings her adieu.
But how can one not forget her?
How her kisses lingers longer than
St. Elmo's fire, and the feel of
her touch refreshes every second, and
renews every hour.
>
The rain sings her adieu.
Lightning growls and thunder flashes;
and every teardrop vainly tried,
to ease the pain of losing her.
Vainly too the hours, trying every second
to return back to the very moment where
time has finally called her to his bossom;
failing vainly to appease him with their
pleas.
>
The rain sings her adieu.
But what is love without her?
To cherish every moment without her,
to live in bliss sans her, and looking
forward not having her?
Oh what purpose is existing when she's but
in another realm.
>
The rain sings her adieu.
And beyond the horizon appears,
The colourful band of a promise-
despite her absence, her memories will
but forever be etched in through the hearts of those
who truly love her.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
I love cookies, I love spookies
I love you too pooky, I can't leave you
Nor deceive you, in love I'm a rookie
Straight low key patrol in my hoodie
I know I'm mean, straight ******
But I truly love you chocolate cookie
If only you knew how deep your rooted
In my heart, punctured scars,
Can only be healed with your hands
Please understand, I don't pretend, but defend
I'm kinda like terminator
I'm here to protect you, embrace you,
Chase you, just to save you, remember you
For life maybe one day my wife
Perpetrators get knocked get socked out
Tossed out dragged out smacked out
Trashed out trying deceive people's minds
When reality have never awaken only blind
They try to lead, I'm not saying I'm perfect
But once in my life, I felt so alive
Now I feel like drowning ready to dive
Deep, and leave this ugly place
Filled with evil in every place, love is gone
Where has it gone? I guess it's hiding
Scared of the destruction demons may cause
I'm a cookie monster, cuz my color is blue
Hahaha your my elmo cuz you're my color Red like the rose revived from the dead
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:29 AM UTC