"exceptionally" poems
I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.
I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.
I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.
I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.
I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.
I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.
I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.
I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.
Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.
I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 6:27 AM UTC
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
26k
I've taken to carrying a pencil around
Whether I sit or stand
For it seems exceptionally true these days
I can't think without a pencil in hand.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates
My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess
My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming
Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves
My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that
So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
I came only to watch one person eyes open and peeled.
The Blonde Bombshell was her name and O, what power did she wield!
One look and the explosion of her beauty could soften any heart of steel.
I knew nothing of softball besides the name,
but the blonde pitcher inspired me to change my game.
As I watched she seemed nervous on the softball mound.
Her first few pitches practically never left the ground.
The game continued and she pitched better in each inning.
Each throw as beautiful as she was and secured her team in winning.
She looked more confident as she began to smile.
Sending each batter back to the bench crying like a child.
As I prepared to leave I waved my farewell.
To a blonde beauty who looked and pitched exceptionally and gracefully well.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
You should have been the soul that Edgar Allen Poe loved,
So that he wouldn't have died miserable and alone,
You are the Morticia to my Gomez; deadly in love,
We would make a quirky Addams family, bar none,
I love the nerds in us and the banter of annoyance,
I love the moments of radiant love and our nature of being different,
'Cause we did meet exceptionally over persistence,
And we accept each other regardless of difference,
I wish that our love will remain eternal,
Narrated by Obi-Wan,
With a theme song by John Williams,
Directed by Lucas, nah, we don't need direction,
I do know, we need a Queen, and that's you my puddin'!
Leia to my Solo,
A Queen-B-lovin'-Quinn to my Joker,
A die-hard Drake lover with a heart for the Dark Side,
This Vader loves his Amidala, xoxoxo,
We would revel on any side but the holy!
May this love never fade, and be full of surprises,
But not the kind where there is nasi lemak with no ikan bilis!
But you make the best **** nasi lemak, sigh,
I'm forever grateful for my Babloo
I'm forever grateful that you're by my side,
My Annabel Lee, I'm grateful Poe never met you,
'Cause you're all mine!
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC
Werewolf stood in front of a puddle.
Four inches deep. Maybe.
Werewolf looked away.
Stickers. Graffiti.
Flem’s Revenge Live Tonight!
The Nifty Nymphos April 24th.
Ballz Deep featuring **** Matikz and Tremaine The Truest.
I’m a long way from Cologne, he thought.
Werewolf knelt towards the puddle.
The wet filth smelled of hot blood.
Exceptionally hot blood, rather.
He spat in the puddle and turned.
One thousand drunk humans.
Ten thousand more, asleep, above.
Not misunderstood.
Cursed.
It’s a very different sadness.
Alexander’s Feast ended.
Rounding out his latest playlist -
Bashfully Baroque.
Werewolf checked the time.
Less than an hour.
He buzzed a buzzer.
I’m here for the Devil’s Cherries.
The What?
The, ahem, Devil’s Cherries.
He’s cool. Let him in.
And just like that, he was let out.
A line was forming for Flem’s Revenge.
While a bright moon reflected in Werewolf’s puddle.
Werewolf shouldered through.
Cursed.
Clutching his score.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
The flowers are exceptionally cold this season
The rain leaves much to be desired
Mr. & Mrs Sunflower are expecting seedlings.
Good old sounds of pitter-patter on the mud;
"Delve deep little ones - for the earth is rich and good".
Standing two meters tall
Where did I leave me shovel?
Grannies dead and buried,
Grandad he went to war.
Yes, in our house, like a bees -nest
There's honeydew; it feeds us
Gosh, I am so very tired
I need to take a rest
Lying here - just catch my breath
Let Mother Nature do the rest
R.I.P as they will say
One day upon my grave
Lest we pray; behold, my children laugh
And rise again shall I,
Through the wonders of an age old myth
Of time and evolution - life!
Now praise the Lord my soul to give
And keep me warm inside
A glow of peace in troubled times
My memories, a myth
God Bless You!
© all rights are reserved B M Coldwell
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 8:34 AM UTC
We were in the fourth grade.
Richie Ackerman was having
a birthday party.
There were the two twin sisters
so exceptionally cute
blonde hair in dresses.
We played spin the bottle.
First kiss was regular mail
kneeling or seated.
Second kiss was air mail
standing in place.
Third kiss was special delivery
in the hallway.
In the circle of players Richie spun first --
his birthday after all.
Must have been my tenth time around
before a regular mail kiss
with one of the twins.
She smiled a welcome.
I was shaking.
Right on the lips
very short
very soft
she smelled so good.
The game proceeded
we experienced more kissing
yet that first kiss
lingers on.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
at age 10,
my mother pointed
At the small birth mark
On my left knee and said,
"Someone's going to love
You for that one day."
At age 16,
I told her that a boy,
One far away,
Told me I was unloveable.
"He couldn't be more wrong,"
She promised.
At age 19,
She picked up my prescription,
And cried,
"I don't want you
To get your heart broken,
Mary." She sobbed.
The empty encouragements mean nothing,
When a daughter has decided
That the need to be tragically beautiful,
Is more important than the need
To be exceptionally loved.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
It smells vaguely of pizza
And there’s a little white fuzz floating around in the air,
I’m rewriting memories and helping a friend through a break up.
I’m sitting on my back staircase alone at night with no substance to keep me company,
Remembering a time sitting here with my ex having wine while he smoked a cigarette feeling relative peace and romanticism.
Now I’m contemplating the roughness of the stucco walls and the wrot iron and staircase and window cages,
The exceptionally uncomfortable and bumpy stair steps, all of the tangible visual interest around me,
Maybe falling in love with it,
It doesn’t notice me or maybe
Maybe it does, maybe it feels my weight,
Knows my smell,
Oh my god maybe these walls remember that moment that I’m thinking of!
Maybe they know all of it and they support me,
Maybe the me that was then and the he that was then is sitting here too just below me,
Letting the me that is now observe the sweet, pervasive sickness that we were lying in.
The pizza smell has wafted away and so has the little fuzz,
The wrot iron staircase feels okay against my head,
The angles that I’m looking down on feel unique to me, my frame of vision, is just for me.
He lived here, he bothered me, he smoked on this staircase nearly every night.
But maybe these steps and this material around me knew it was not his,
Maybe he never saw the stairs at this angle, maybe they never showed him their magic or their comfort or their mood or their simple, simple majesty.
Falling in love with a staircase and with the shadows that it kept secret for me.
Divine, it’s all divine.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
Loss of energy
don't seem to know what's happening
Was so bright
swear I had this kind of limelight
Now i feel blue with a deeper kind of hue
no motivation at all it's like
I'm stuck behind this **** wall
Lately I've been hearing this expression
they say it's called seasonal depression
But how can this winter's dew
all of a sudden make me feel this blue
Snow falling from the sky is exceptionally beautiful
how can they say that's what's making me feel so unusual
All these amazing things keep falling in my lap
yet for some reason all I want to do is take a nap
For days and days and days and so on
Sleeping is the only time which my energy isn't gone
Maybe it is this expression and in the summer my energy will come back
till then I guess I'll just have to lack.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
I keep reminding myself, that mental illness goes along with greatness. Hemingway. Sylvia Plath. Billie Holiday. Dickens. Melville. These are just a few of the great minds that suffered from a fine madness. Should they have been medicated into mediocrity? Or lived in mediocrity because they were not properly medicated or in proper treatment?
All of these individuals: exceptional human beings.
Note: Do you want to be exceptional? Or exceptionally dead.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
《☆ Ode to Miller Spring ☆》
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road since
first I came to be here.
This journey was
my awakening to the
new existence I would step into.
Foreign to me
the illustrious homes.
Dripping willows, old oaks, poplars...
Perfectly kept grounds.
Checkerboard patterns carved
into lush grass.
This road is winding.
One needs to go slowly.
Families, children, animals,
all enjoy this path.
The winds blow at this highest point,
up above the Glacial Basin
that forms the river below.
Before farmland,
home to
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring
The deep Spring of Healing
Ancient, pouring forth
from the center of the Earth.
This road, brought me to a
place of solitude...
An open space.
Land of possibilities.
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road
since first I came to be here.
This road has led me to the new existence
I have stepped into.
Perfectly kept grounds
checkerboard patterns carved
in lush grass.
The wind blows at this
highest point,
up above the Glacial Basin,
that forms the river below.
Before farmland,
home to
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring
The deep Spring of Healing.
Ancient, pouring forth from
the center of the Earth.
This Spring, that quenched
my family's thirst.
This Spring, that pulled my
people here,
so many years ago.
A road brought me to
this place of solitude.
An open space.
A land of Dreams.
I wonder,
what Dreams,
this land
will hold for me?
☆●⊙●☆●⊙●☆●⊙●☆
~July 2014~May 2015~
2nd Edition
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
"Miller Spring" is a pure crystalline-rock aquifer that has been revered by all peoples blessed to live within it's reach. The tribes of the Ojibwe and Lakota shared the spring. It was called the "Sweet Spring of Healing Waters" This spring was also shared with Settlers as they arrived. When the land was owned, the spring has always been made accessible, to All People. It should be noted that this spring water is exceptionally clear,
crisp and has a sweet bright taste
It is delicious!
To this day Miller Spring is available to all.
It's icy cold waters gush forth 24/7~365
days a year out of a well by the side
of the road, down about a mile
from my home.
I actually live in a modest house
on two original acres of this
beautiful land, which is now
bordered by five "illustrious" homes.
We moved here from the
City in the year 2000
Living in the suburbs was the
"New Existence" I had stepped into...
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
Why do I want to live away from boys?
Something strong in me has told me,
You cannot be fully woman in front of man,
They won’t understand, they won’t accept,
They will reject,
Only in front of women will you be free,
With only the exception of God, for he made me,
When in front of man, I must imitate man in certain ways,
Must promote some womanly ways, and hide others,
It is not that I think these are bad, You just don’t understand,
And were taught to shun.
But even I know that some men, exceptionally taught by their mothers,
Are not afraid of Woman.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
One day at a food shop,
I met a man selling cats,
For the money, he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some bats.
"Got any bats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No bats here!" said the guy.
He seemed to find it quite funny.
"We've got some lovely cakes,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some snakes."
The man blinked rapidly thrice.
The man seemed exceptionally brainy,
And his manner was strangely amused.
He wasn't what I would call zany,
The great disdain he noticeably oozed.
Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit beautiful.
Still, he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty dutiful.
So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the food shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you, I believe."
"Cats, bats, you shall find.
Cakes, snakes, you can get.
You must now open your mind,
And get down to New York Market.
So to New York Market, I decided to go,
In search of the bats, I craved.
The winds it did eerily blow.
But I felt that the day could be saved.
There were stalls selling apples,
Strawberry in many shades.
There were even stalls selling apples
People were scattered from many trades
I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather beautiful
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady.
I wondered if she was at all dutiful.
Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some bats!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some cakes and cats.
"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the bats she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.
As I walked away I heard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 9:56 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
In a world full of fact and numbers
you are exceptionally unaccountable
a vision in the mind of an engineer
who had the wherewithal to create
not just one Human but billions.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Hold my hand
I still like the feel of cliche
Even though I know the secrecy of being married
Flawed, we still love the chaos
The tears of pregnancy, holding a combination of both me and you
The long nights wiping my tears in your drunken stumbles
I still loved you
I stopped seeing the cute in your impossible eyes
Persuasive, I slowly became the alcoholic
I switched the looking glass
Where do we go from here
No fancy words or metaphors
Is it time to sign the papers
You tell me
Keep it sincere
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
How can I say "We're just friends"
When I taste you in my dreams
Your honeyed savoriness on my tongue
Formed itself
Useful
You dance like an angel
In the center of my pupils
Your song is exceptionally sweet
It humbles my spirit
Divulges me
That we are all just hummingbirds
Vigorously, hunting for a melody
Auctioning off welfares
For pleasures swimming in vain
Selfishly
We've never enjoyed the necter without the pain of
Piercing thorns
With handicapped feet,
We dream to fly
60 miles a beat
How I wish the breeze
Would carry me
Straight to your home of
Butterfly Weeds
Longing for the eightenth year, to sore away
Just as a sweet bundle in Mama's womb
In the nest we mature and anxiously wait
Extremities
Planted firmly on the dirt
His amour
Gives me wings
And, I flutter
His humming is a pleasing sound
Searching for a fullfillment
Two times our body weight
In the ebony of my skin
I inertly wait
Wishing for reincarnation
A
New
Life
Of a harmless, beautiful
hummingbird
Harmonizing its way
Across God's blue sky.
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
Being interrupted by far off people making exceptionally loud sounds while trying to write poetry is exactly like having a horrible toothache and trying to perform a tracheotomy on a rabid cat.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
I think i would rather a heart of ice than a heart of glass
Glass is translucent and fragile
When it breaks, it can so easily hurt anyone who comes upon it
Ice, though similar, is exceptionally different
It can be either clear or cloudy
Or it can hurt or sooth
I like it most because unlike glass, it can melt when given enough warmth
While yes, ice is cold, it's still only water hardened by its surroundings
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Disturbances, however hard they try,
Will always be horrifying.
Now alarming is just the thing,
To get me wondering if disturbances are atrocious.
The ramp is not nonthermal!
the ramp is exceptionally nonthermal.
A ramp is hot. a ramp is nonthermal,
a ramp is caloric, however.
hardships are not lean!
hardships are exceptionally zoftig.
Do hardships make you shiver?
do they?
Don't belive that gales are big?
gales are little beyond belief.
Now unimportant is just the thing,
To get me wondering if gales are shrimpy.
I cannot help but stop and look at depressing tornadoes.
Do tornadoes make you shiver?
do they?
Cyclones, however hard they try,
Will always be traumatic.
Never forget the harmful and painful cyclones
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 8:08 AM UTC
Dear Karen,
It is seven years this month when you left us.
I miss you everyday. In the car, seeing the passenger seat empty, but can still hear you telling me to slow down. When I see Russ and Mea, I smile, knowing that our grandchildren, Evan and Emily, would not be here if not for you.
Not long ago, at one of Evan's hockey games, I turned to Mea and said, "I hope Karen is watching this", for Evan(goalie) was playing exceptionally well. Mea put her hand on my shoulder, "she probably has a better seat than we do." I don't doubt that at all. The same goes for Emily and her activities, whether it be soccer, basketball, softball, or who knows what else, I know that you keep that protective blanket around both of them. Yes, there will be scrapes, scratches, bumps, and bruises. perhaps a broken bone. But when the game calls for a "clutch" player, is when the power of the angel, you, leaves the bench, strengthening the confidence of all the players, not just one, or two, but all. Like all things mortal, sometimes they win, sometimes they lose. But most of all, they learn. A most important result.
Love you, and miss you!
Richard
copyright: richardriddle 01-07-2015
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 10:04 AM UTC
I tripped and fell into temptation
The hole was exceptionally deep
The futher that I fell
the deeper I would sink
I built stairs
that were made up of all colors of lies
But the more that I made
the top was never nye
But the hole was much deeper
than all the stairways made to Heaven
I needed a friend to save me
one who converts sin into salvation
from bread that must be unleavened
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 2:51 AM UTC