"favorites" poems
As I walk down my driveway, past the seemingly endless field of
green,
sprinkled with little purple weeds, dotted with clumps of yellow
daffodils,
I think about how much I love flowers.
Roses are my favorites, but daisies and wildflowers are a close
second, I think.
I like to think of myself as a flower. Maybe I’m a wildflower .
. .
It would make sense, seeing as my spirit is as free
as the wind that blows the petals across the fields of green.
I am a wildflower.
I am the flower, firmly rooted to the ground, unable to escape.
My roots, they are tangled, and mangled, and torn, and broken,
but strong . . . they refuse to move.
Like chains, they keep me here where the seed was planted.
I am a wildflower,
trapped in a garden of weeds . . .
none of them wildflowers. We are not meant for the garden.
Oh no! Not when there are fields, and pastures, and valleys, and
hills, and mountains out there.
Here in the garden, we get food and water, and daily care. But
there in the world!
That is where I am meant to be! When I see the birds flying
overhead I shake with jealousy.
I feel the wind swaying me back and forth, as if it is calling
me. “Come with me, oh sweet wildflower. Let the world see your
beauty, while you see the beauty of the world.”
I want to touch the mountains. I want to sing with the sky. I
want to hear the wind saying,
“Look, I told you it was beautiful.” I want to dance with it,
as it carries me everywhere.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
Even fate picks it's favorites,
I'm sure of this as I watch the sunset. My porch reveals to much.
The homeless hide their homes in the corners,
Sleeping in the shadows.
The heat leaving them sun burned and drunken.
Can you spare some change?
I've got 5 mouths to feed...
But I always can find some,
Even when they admit it's for beer.
I wonder each time if hope abandons them all.
I know that people can give up on the ones they love,
I know that life can be painful.
But I lay awake at night,
knowing that could be any one of us. Just across the street,
Lays a man in the bushes,
Sleeping off a drunken state,
Not knowing if he'll eat tomorrow.
And me,
I've got 5 mouths to feed.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.
But I was talking about the picture.
The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean, came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.
Right, the picture....
It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.
But, the picture....
It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.
The picture...
It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?
I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
forged in the likeness of you
the whisper meanders in my memory bank
it dances softly on a burgundy velvet glove
that covers my wrinkled hand
it visits me in deepest dreams
and speaks in hushed tones
of the infinite days ahead
when we shall once again dance together
forged in the feeling of you
I live each day like the last
holding onto the past
like a cat with a captured bird
not allowing it to die
waking to the sounds of winter winds
and old favorites on the radio
the ones we listened to together
so many years ago
those years that forged a love so strong
that I rarely blink twice
without the thought of you dancing by
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Pluto says
Keep your hug
Pluto says
Dwarf Planet my ***
Pluto says
Sticks and Stones *************
Pluto says
I know what I am
I don’t care
For your “opinion”
Captured by the Kuiper Belt! Please.
Or one my favorites,
A cold rock!
You called me a trans-Neptunian object?
I have five moons!
An 11 year old girl tried to name me.
She won £5 but I’ve had many names.
I am fond of Hiro.
But I’ve also liked Minerva.
I am hardly a minor planet.
In 2006 they tried to make a verb out of me
To "pluto" is to "demote or devalue someone or something.”
**** You!
So passive aggressive and insulting.
I am not carrying that around with me
My orbit is 248 years.
At a 17 degree angle thank you very much
To pay my respects to that egomaniac Sun.
Why would I care what you think?
Perhaps I am envied because I am so far away.
I don’t think that I am far away at all.
It’s relative, no?
Yes, I am removed
from that Versailles situation over there
and all that ********
That horrible planet
You know the one that I mean.
The one that’s crawling with “things”
They’re not even you.
Disgusting.
I am awash with molten ices and
I even sport a plasma tail.
I spin in nitrogen gases
On my own path
Alone
With my FIVE moons!
Just us!
They claim that there are other
Dwarf Planets here and there
And even go so far as to suggest
That I am the puniest amongst them
But with my five and five more still
That’s 10 to 8
And you already know what I can do.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
skimming the feed of poetry
reading the works of poets
liking here and there
without ever a care
some of us rather copiously
we all have our favorites
but the poem is just the beginning
of the start with a spark
if you never look at the activity
you are missing the best part
it's the jam that turns me on
in comments short or long
continuing the song
so don't be offended
of the flame that's ignited
its all rather splendid
to fire the wordplay excited
it's not really a contest
but more of a sinuous ebb and flow
hoping for a laugh or looking to decompress
when you have a day that blows
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
The music may have died for some
That day in nineteen fifty nine
Don McLean said that it ended
But I say, it's just fine
The day that Buddy died
I feel it only took a wound
and though it has been 60 years
I think it's been re-tuned
If silence reigned when the music died
The Beatles would be missing
They picked their name for Buddy's group
An act that had some hissing
The Rolling Stones...would never play
If the music died as told
There would be no Exile on Main Street
There would be no band so bold
The Hollies, well that's simple
They were named after the man
If the music had really died that day
Would Graham Nash still be a fan?
To me it took a major wound
A shot that slowed it down
It changed music's direction
Took it to another town
With Elvis silent on German soil
The Beatles took the lead
They made sure music was living
And many others did they breed
Bobby Darin, Mama Cass
Jimi Hendrix and The Pearl
Jim Morrison and Brian Jones
Made the music spin and twirl
When Elvis Died, it slowed a bit
With Lennon shot...some more
But, the music never, ever died
For those who're keeping score
For each one lost...another comes
To fill the void with sound
It may have been quite wounded
But the music's still around
Each generation keeps it
In it's own and special way
That's why Buddy's music
Is still played on air today
So, please don't think the music
Died way back in fifty nine
Just look at all who've come on since
All your favorites and all mine.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
Like an onion, I had layers.
And you peeled me away, one at a time.
One layer off.
You saw my favorites.
The food and drinks I crave for.
The wall paint I wanted for my room.
The perky dresses, nail polish, knee-high boots.
And the spot I always prefer to be- on the front seat.
One layer off.
You saw my hobbies.
The words I stitched together.
The stars that formed our zodiac sign.
The wallclimbing, badminton, volleyball.
And the guitar strings that strum our lullaby.
One layer off.
You saw my dreams.
The plane ticket to Paris.
The thrill of a bungee jump.
The candlelit dinner, fireworks, dancing fountain.
And the license as a medical physician.
One layer off.
You saw my strengths.
The smile behind the false judgements.
The tears I fought back with pride.
The temperance, confidence, adjustments.
And the self-love I have strongly magnified.
One layer off.
You saw my insecurities.
The missing dimple on my left cheek.
The pimples on my forehead.
The bitchface, fierce stare, strict walk.
And this prominently thin-but-tall body figure.
One layer off.
You saw my regrets.
The kisses I could have refused.
The friends I thought were true.
The false assumptions, unmet expectations.
And the trust I gave to the wrong person.
One layer off.
You saw my secrets.
The punches I had to take.
The bruises I covered with my sleeves.
The lies, frustrations, disappointments.
And the brokenness suppressed in my memory.
The last layer, off.
You saw through me.
The anxiousness escalating slowly.
The exposure feeling uneasy.
I felt stripped, explored, unguarded.
And in my nakedness - you had to choose:
To love or to leave me,
For who I really am.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
but it's fine, i'm fine.
i've been telling myself for more than a year
that i wasn't going to write anymore sad ****** poems about you,
but here we are.
most days i'm sure i don't miss you,
but then i listen to the wrong song,
and before i know it -
i'm screaming along to band of horses in the dark,
stalking your twitter favorites,
and somehow,
i've managed to get snot on my forehead.
yeah, nostalgia is an *******
but not all the memories sting.
there was that one time we went to the movies
and i slipped on some ice and fell flat on my ***
i just sat there while you took a picture.
but i'm glad we could laugh about it.
i'm glad we were comfortable.
in my head, we still are.
in my head, we're oversized-goodwill-sweater comfortable.
we aren't as comfortable in real life
but i'm glad we still laugh.
this is the part where i don't bring up the time you told me
my laughter could cure your sadness,
because i'm pretty sure i already put that in another poem,
and it makes me really ******* sad.
did i ever tell you i used to play guitar and piano?
i loved them, but i never tried very hard.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanted to be good without having to practice.
i wanna meet the girl you write about
so i can ask her how she manages not to love you back.
because i've tried everything & i am so tired.
i forgot this wasn't supposed to be a sad poem.
i'm not good at happy anyway,
i never have been.
but in your absence i've learned a lot about softness.
so if i ever find myself back in your passenger seat,
i won't correct you when you sing the wrong lyrics,
i won't ask why when you take the long way home.
i won't ask you why you don't have your seatbelt on,
i'll just say a silent prayer
and watch for signs that you might be about to swerve.
right now there are eleven empty containers of alcohol in my bedroom,
and i didn't find you at the bottom of a single one.
- m.f.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
A wise woman once said she’d like to be defined by the things she loved.
Not the things she hates or fears or the things that haunt her.
This idea very much stuck to me.
This is my attempt at defining myself by the things I love or the things I find love in.
I love the sound of ocean water hitting the shore.
I have never been more at peace than I am at a beach.
I can freely think, freely breathe.
I can just be free.
I think the ocean is love.
I find love in good morning and good night texts.
They may be meaningless to some,
a nuisance to others,
but to me it’s the purest form of endearment.
I can’t look at a good morning or good night text and not smile.
I think those texts are love.
I love and find love in music.
I would go through hell as long as at the end, there was a good song.
I love to sing my favorite songs at the top of my lungs
and can’t help but tap my finger to my least favorites.
I think music is love.
I love books.
Even with the worst books, I love the lessons they had to offer.
I love the time put into writing it.
I love the time I put into reading it.
I love starting to read a book at 9am and blinking to find out it’s now 9pm.
I think books are love.
It’s so easy to get wrapped up in what I hate,
even easier to get tied up in what I fear,
sometimes I forget love is a thing.
I don’t want to live like that.
I want to continue to love and find love in things.
I am a lover, not a fighter and some may hate that cliche
but you know what, I love it.
I think being a lover is love and that may be redundant but maybe, just maybe, I love that too.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 4:18 PM UTC
I got a text today with news that was
a long time coming.
But that fact didn't make receiving it
a single bit easier.
Working in pharmacy is
high stress
low thanks,
Gotta develop quite the
thick skin.
But some patients are different.
They become favorites,
your smiles to them are genuine,
you share hugs with them,
your heart twists at their struggles,
and you rejoice in their triumphs.
You come to love them.
The problem with that connection is,
when they die,
they take a piece of you with them.
You'll no longer
see their name on your computer screen,
pour their medication into a vial,
have them brighten your day.
Working in pharmacy is
high stress
low thanks
But the worst part is when a patient is gone
and you don't get to tell them goodbye
or how much they meant to you.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
Salt Lake City
Without the Salt
Just emptiness because they told me I couldn't have sugar
But that's one of my favorites
Why would I go without it?
I think people love to tell others
What to do
It empowers them strategically
It makes me wonder
What really is there for them to make such an act
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
But soft, what flatulence through yonder rancid window breaks. If it is the east, well then I’m heading west.
I wish I could recite this and I wouldn’t be talking about my life, but life is fair… just not for me. So I dive right in unfortunately. And I bask and I bask and I bask. Hold on, wait, please allow me to retract, as this occurs numerously within occupation. I firstly divide the **** cheeks, as if Moses dividing the seas. Like Jesus I break bread… anyways… my life is literally spent with my nose sandwiched between numerous people’s backsides. This brings me to my next point… I love my job… because I love people. My favorites are obese people because they suffocate me and for a brief moment I am without consciousness and have not a clue of my reality. The people I do it for the most though are the unstable people, you know?... the people with digestive problems that are so unstable they sometimes slip and instead of their body gas I am left with a face that looks like a diarrhea toilet. I am a poet though and therefore I hold onto the only significant job related poem that I’ve seen on our restroom walls… “Here I sit lonely hearted, came to **** but only farted.”
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
People show love in many ways
A note on the bathroom door
An extra brownie in your lunch box
Starting the car on a cold morning
For her it was in her food
She cooked her emotions the way most chefs add salt
You could taste them clearly in every bite connecting your tastebuds to your heart,
If she was happy the steak melted on your tongue
If she was sad the soup made a tear glisten in your eye
But when she was in love with me
Every Bite sang in my mouth
She made my favorites every night
Life was good
But one day the bread wasn’t so fluffy
It held a melancholy note i’ve never tasted before
I asked what was wrong but she didn’t have the words to explain what she as feeling,
So I let it go
That was my mistake
Day by day, she started to crumble
So did her pies
She went from a wonder dancing in the kitchen and licking the spoon
To a hollow shell serving you lukewarm pasta that left you unsettled
I excused her behavior
I was busy she was stressed
The food was only cold because I was so late to the table
I didn’t realize it wasn’t dinner I was neglecting
It was her
If i could change one moment in my life, i’d be that night
The one where she finally felt up to baking again
We had some time together, she hummed a bit as she stirred the batter
But then she stumbled and dropped a glass measuring cup of milk she was holding
It was bitter irony seeing the woman i loved,
The light of my life,
Crying over spilled milk
That’d be the moment i’d change
I’d catch her wrist and hold her up
Just Like I promised I would
I wouldn’t fail her if I had another chance
Our kitchen is quiet these days
There's a thick layer of dust everywhere except the microwave
And around the edges of the room are tiny bits of glass
Glistening like diamonds
Or unshed tears,
Abandoned like me
But I can’t complain
After all, I abandoned her first
I should have read the recipe
I should have realized she was breaking
I didn’t see it at first
But every bite held a piece of her suicide note
If i’d only tasted it before it was too late
Now she’s gone
My hearts as broken as that measuring cup
And I’m the one crying over spilled milk
By Aknier ~this is fictional~
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
I wander.
Endlessly, I wander.
Ceaselessly, I walk.
Forever more, I go on.
How many ways can I depict my unrest to you?
Footprints are the timeline of my life.
Where I’ve been, the mistakes and wrong turns I’ve made.
The people who have walked in.
The people who have walked out.
They are etched in the ground, broken in by my feet.
Every so often, a second set of footprints joins mine.
Some go on for months, years.
Those are my favorites.
But they never really last.
Most dip in and out of my path.
Some lead me in circles until I have to leave them behind.
You never know what steps are the right ones
Until you’re looking back at them, behind you.
I wander.
I search.
I trust.
And then, I hurt.
Of these steps I am sometimes wary,
But the set of prints next to mine makes me sure footed, now.
I squint to look ahead, but my vision is terrible.
I can’t be sure, but it seems that there are many sets of prints ahead.
Strong, deep, sure-footed paths are carved out in the future.
Please, take me there.
Please, do not lead me astray.
I don’t want to have look back to judge the way you stroll by my side.
Do not waiver now; I haven’t got time for circles any longer.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
ask me who my favorite artists are
ask me what my favorite season is
as me were my favorite memories lie
ask me where i’d love to go,
what i’d love to see,
why i cut my hair the way i do,
who i desire to be
i want you
to ask me these things
because perhaps
my answers will make you
fall in love with me
i surely fell in love with you
whilst you were listing off
your favorites
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
We seek attention,
Facebook,
Twitter,
Instagram,
Tinder,
Kik,
Snapchat,
It's all about the most
Likes,
Comments,
Retweets,
Favorites,
Snaps,
Followers,
Where have our real friendships gone?
When something goes wrong we post a selfie,
write a status,
send a snapchat,
or tweet about it.
For what?
For the hopes to hide our feelings on the internet.
For the hope that a stranger will like it,
That a stranger will leave a comment saying everything will be okay?
We have become numb.
Forgetting the real relationships in our lives.
When there's a problem, we escape to the internet for that next like instead of talking to someone who actually cares.
When we don't get the attention we're looking for, we post a #selfie to find what we're looking for.
Social media has become the new drug of our age,
And it's changing the way we live our day to day lives.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
Why cant I be someone i want to be?
Why can't I have the body I was meant to have?
All I want is someone to look at me and able to see me
Jayce not Kylie
Boy not girl
My life has been ****** up since birth
But to the rest of the world Kylie is just a tomboy or something else
Why cant I just be me and not get yelled at or made fun of?
Why does some of the world pick favorites?
Get over it the world doesn't only consist of cis straight men/female
We arent that much different just something that makes us unique.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
They've both had you in ways
That I could only ever dream of having you
They've felt your hands on every inch of their bodies
And have felt the bliss of your lips
They've exchanged all levels of pleasure with you
They've gotten your attention
They've been your favorites
And encompassed your dreams, asleep and awake
As i have to hack and squeeze my way
Just to approach the horizon of your vision
Jealousy isn't the word to describe
The desperate hunger I can't squelch
And the heaviness of my limbs
Being filled with the feeling of insufficiency
As I face the fact that I'll never be what you want
Not nearly enough
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
I smile when my profile picture gets 50 likes
but would it mean more
if I liked my face without the assurance of others?
Maybe not,
I'm a millennial, after all.
1994, born and raised
a "90's kid."
I tweeted that...it got 12 favorites.
Too bad I can't favorite my internal thoughts
in order to validate them without sharing them.
I sent that as an iMessage
to my friend who responded
"#deep."
I'm posting this poem on the internet
so that people I don't know can read it.
Maybe they'll even leave a comment.
I say what I feel,
via text message,
followed by an emoji and a hashtag
as a sort of millennial footnote,
minus the APA style.
I'll use LOL style
or FML style
or the style of ironically using texting lingo
to prove that I'm not #basic.
I, Lex the Millennial,
wrote this poem on my iPhone 6.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
your voice; it envelopes me.
emotions,
so evident.
so much expression from speech you don't express in.
words never mean as much before you speak them.
*ah, you're one articulate ************
words are only of meaning when you use them.
speak to me.
tell me about your fears, and i'll tell you how i only feel brave with you by my side.
speak to me.
tell me all that goes through your mind. i've never loved hearing someone's thoughts so much before.
speak to me.
i want to know what you love the most. talk to me about your mom. your brother's dog. talk to me about which sibiling you'd prefer to talk to when there's no one else home. then, define home. tell me about all your favorites. i have them memorized unconsiously. what keeps your blood racing? tell me. tell me, i want to listen. i want to know how you've grown to be so beautiful.
speak to me.
i want to know what you hate the most.
tell me about those behind your undying rage; those behind your anger. so i can burn them to ashes.
speak to me.
talk to me about what overwhelms you the most. what emotion drains you? i want to know whether it's despodency or hollowness that cripples you. is it both? i want to know whether you fall in-between self-hatred and self-love or on either end of both. in other words, are you aware that you're ethereal.
speak to me.
i'd love to hear your voice again. tell me more.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
They say girls like something shiny
And that may very well be true
Bigger is better but I'll take tiny
No matter the size I'll make do
Of course I have my favorites
Or those meant for special occasions
Getting dolled up I want to savor it
Adorning myself prematurely for my sins
Perhaps they get jealous of each other
So maybe I'll take them all out for display
They sparkle perfectly making me stutter
Stroking each longingly before we play
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 12:38 AM UTC
All suffering comes from the inability to stand pain. As long as these two, suffering and pain, are not distinguished with the razor-sharp sword of wisdom, we will continue to suffer. But it would be incorrect to say, that we are indeed able, but unwilling, because no one likes to suffer. There is a flash of awareness, when we perceive the possibility, yet being able to, in a way, that is given to us. Not from a God outside of us, as if this would play favorites. I can’t describe any way to that place. I just know that it happens sometimes. And this awareness causes immediately complete relief.
© Barbara-Paraprem, 2015
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
How could I spell out love when it is absent of her name?
The way her eyes reflected a sunrise, the envy of Eos
She was like honey in the sky, the amber of her energy enraptured me
I was bewitched
She was a masterpiece drawn with starlight, unfathomable beauty
An ivory sculpture crafted by the hands of a god, masterpiece of Hephaestus
I remember the time I was blessed by that smile,
A vilified promise
The scent of patchouli and the taste of my favorite tea
Like ambrosia for a mortal, that sweet taste of paradise
Sunflowers and the many other favorites that she gave me
Stolen without a word
She used to call me late at night to talk about her day
But the days for me got longer, I couldn't keep her entertained
Such a coldness hid underneath the warmth I thought she gave me
Gone like a ghost in the night
I thought I was breathless because I loved her, now I’m suffocated by the agony
She was killing me underneath the sweetness, constricting like a boa
And when I close my eyes to see the memories lapse she's still in them
Haunting me like she wanted
Eros' is golden arrows struck me hard and shamelessly
Through my heart and left a scar, chasmic and wide
Her toxic serotonin left me high, addicted to her energy
A limitless euphoria
I spoke to the gods above and I told them of my love
What a liar she's made me out to be, the clever snake
I begged that Aphrodite let my words reach her
But they fell on deaf ears
Now I pray that Anteros relieves me and hears my plea
Unravel these feelings in my heart, lift the anchor of her name
Don't let me be the sole carrier of the blame
For the ruin that remains
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 7:42 AM UTC