"figurines" poems
I was never looking into you
I was only pouring an image of myself onto your canvas
Of course I didn’t know
it was me looking into me
this was the mirage of my desire
always in the shape of a question mark
and you
a sweeping mystery
oozing something toeing the peculiar line between *** and titanium (cold, edgy, sharp - trembling
between pain and principle
like blazer and tie
or more like halfway-unbuttoned-shirt-and-slacks on-with-no-tie
(it was like you were making an effort!))
It was ***
but it also wasn’t ***
(I am empty
I am full)
I keep building up and up and up
all these images in my Mind
(which never shuts up)
(a never-ending narrative
She spins and spins and succumbs
only in those rare and passing circumstances)
constructing people like buildings
only the scaffolding is imaginary and when
the architecture folds in on itself
soulless
and my beloved figurines come toppling down on me
why do I still get so surprised
so stung
so lonely in that
hollow and distant way
(like your Mind is echoing
in on
Itself)?
My Mind is like quicksand
devouring streams of memory with ease
forever unsatisfied and craving more of the same
sharp edges and all
praying for a satiation in some distant future
She knows will never come
Only here
in this tiny universe
can I spell out anything resembling rationality
from the mess and junk and tangled tendrils of my Mind
Only here
can I extract bits and pieces of thoughts
and try to puzzle them together
until they make sense
until I can separate “Me” from “Reality"
And what doesn’t make sense
what I need to understand
is why I feel so beset
with this heavy magnetism that
overpowers me to the point of
paralysis
(with little to no room for breathing)
and why it was you
who pushed me into this feeling
and you
who is still pulling me along
far past the threshold of my resistance
and I am done
and it stings
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
Once, long ago,
An old man took me into his shop
And showed me his snowglobe collection.
Every one, spotless,
No trace of dust lining the rims.
I paused to gaze,
No,
Marvel,
At each scene:
Two children ice skating,
A milkman driving his truck,
Ladies reading magazines while having their hair styled.
Every one, spotless,
Until I lightly shook one,
Just enough so the snow sprinkled
The ice skating children,
The driving milkman,
The reading ladies.
But each scene was still, frozen in time,
Still, perfect.
I slumped to the floor,
Heartbroken and tears trailing down my cheeks.
I wanted their life so bad,
But all I could do was marvel,
No,
Gaze,
And lightly sprinkle the tiny figurines.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Leafy ferns and little frogs
Toads live in the garden
Weeds and grass and daffodils
And poop...I beg your pardon
Yes **** is in there from the cat
That roams around the houses
Just pick it out or grind it in
It should be full of mouses (meeces or mice)
There's ceramic figurines in there
Little deers and little dogs
To go along with little stones
And plastic little logs
But, beware the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see just where he's at
There's ******* blown from up the road
Candy wrappers and old tins
The neighbor kids are lazy so,
They never throw it in the bins
The cat lies sunning lazily
Beneath a summer sun of gold
With it's job of chasing meeces down
For a while, put on hold
There's ivy, climbing everywhere
And things you can not tell
They got there from the squirrels
But you keep them for the smell
But, beware the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see just where he's at
You tend the garden lovingly
Moving figures in and out
You never move the gnomes too much
Too much trouble, I won't doubt
You transplant flowers, move some trees
Cut the weeds back, till the soil
You head inside, the whistle blows
The kettles on the boil
While you are gone, something goes on
The gnomes attack the cat
You come back out, and wonder why
The gnome has lost his hat
yes, beware the garden gnome
A treacherous beast is he
With evil eyes and long white beard
He is plotting after thee
The garden gnome looks daffy
In his jacket and his hat
But, look deep in the gnomey eyes
And you'll see he's looking at the cat!!
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
One each end of a shelf
Victorian figurines
A boy and girl
Like crystalline
With stiff edged lace.
Never fell in love
But still precious
Bought by a Godmother
Who did not have children.
Then the plaster dancers
Spied in a box of my father’s
Given by a poor grandmother
Loved these two
With their net “tutus”
Such graceful arms
Long pointed legs
Felt their life twirling.
The difference between
Two worlds
The rich and stiff
Poor but beautiful.
My bedroom shelf,
With a poster of
**** Jagger,
in the middle,
smiling.
Love Mary x
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
so what do we do when all is left are figurines
gifted in the unholiest of manners
and the crusties in my eye when i awake
are no longer their
since sleep is a distant memory
and all the tides of highs and lows
simmer to a stagnant plateau
because days no longer carry weight
surmounting to popcorn on a string
--one just like the last--
suddenly a day
--popcorn with extra butter and just a pinch of salt--
comes and shakes the bland you into something recognizable
a sparkly-eyed realist with an unusually magnetic personality
drawn from absolutely nothing
but the reality that life goes on
and we just have to be aware of peoples polarity
s.q.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
vexed by the solidity of the granular surface
of this rough and tumble dream
i awaken to a forest of sunlight's in a dark world
to my sleep numbed mind
it resembles
the artwork of french revolt era
royal court damsel in distress figurines
dancing with dark-ages statues of plagues death
the starving meet the fed
and they struggle for who leads this dancehall of the marcarbe
burning the ashes of the old worlds dead flames
i look away to find her face
near mine
cut into shadowy sections
i hear within her spoken thoughts
the contortions her life has suffered
at the hands of grey faced strangers known intimately by her
i wish with heart and soul to reach out
and comfort
to remove the burden
the shadows of her face
are reflections of the world as she sees it
she is mesmerized by its ugliness
and she cannot close the door to her past
it lay like her childhoods bedroom
filled with broken teddy bears
and soiled sheets
if i could heal you
if i could even ease your moment
i would trade my living soul to have your smile
you are loved
you are so loved
a lame beggar in the rags of a monk
limps slowly from the effigy of a old world
as it burns with unspoken rages
white smoke from the roof
another chapter of history closed
with too many secrets
too many
but the beggar takes consolation
that she was given a second chance
a dove birthed from flames
here in the dust of the old world
you are loved
you are so loved
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
If I ruled the world things would be this way:
The Hunger Games would be watched every single day,
Tomorrow When The War Began would be listened to and read,
While others choose to have the figurines next to thier beds,
John Marsden and Suzanne Collins would be the best known authors,
And mothers would go out to dinner once a month with just their daughters.
I would be a rich and famous actor and a poet,
Ellie, Julia and Taylor have talent and I know it,
I just need to figure out the best way for them to show it,
Maybe in acting, writing or singing,
I have no ideas for my bell they are not ringing.
I would stop all war and poverty,
And everyone would have the same amount of property,
I would even out the money for every country,
And have all my fruit and veg hard and crunchy,
Our world would be a multi-cultural, accepting all religions,
One day I would get rid of all televisions.
Swimming would be a sport at school as well as cheerleading and diving,
But everyone would have to take lessons in surviving,
And every day my hair would be curled,
All of this would happen if I ruled the world.
written by maegan cattermull
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
~
*Ragged mist of stalled horizon,
from dry dock
to disadvantage point
second hand shops
of sackcloth and ash,
they contain multitudes
treading the outside edge
of perception,
rehearsing disaster
in fistfuls of earth,
and the immaterial:
the stuff of pure shadow
a bevy of dead buildings
resemble a fallen actress
in the throes of dance,
with emaciated figurines leaning
forward in the temple,
listening for clues
too far to whisper
work will never resume
on the tower,
and it will remain painfully scanty,
a place to bury strangers
or raise up cholera
the third world summer
sun on sacred walls,
red before orange,
let the rays burn away our sins,
we contain multitudes
but one step inside doesn't mean
we understand anything*
~
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 5:29 PM UTC
The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
Can't see the forest for the trees
Blinded by specificity
Laser sight for **** I don't need
Lending from my sanity
On cranium spending sprees
For all things that should not be
Store them all so perfectly
Like they're treasured figurines
A preserved psyche crazy hard to free
Carbonite Han Solo in deep freeze
No Leia to barter for release
Huttese wont work, no trip to Tatooine
Vader breathing disturbs my sleep
Palpatine "do it" on repeat
My Empire Strikes Back with relative ease
To quash anything that provides relief
Cos I'm not okay, but I am
Film flam tryna find who I am
Hell in a disenchanted dance
All my chemicals romance
Distorting where I began
Never quit, my only plan
Exhausted but here I stand
Hoping soon I'll understand
Why I feel so ****** repeatedly
'Cause red is the new black speaks to me
A funeral for a friend harming me
Bring a celebrant for my old psyche
Now bend my arms to look like wings
So I can fly free from that part of me
'Cause I buried it deep so purposely
It can stay stuck there for eternity
Jul 4, 2023
Jul 4, 2023 at 5:05 AM UTC
The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
they were undeveloped.
fetal figurines in preservation
still and detached from
the placenta of a better time
tiny knucklebones
grew miniature orchards
half in bloom
out of season, tracing palm lines.
(deciduous wrists)
forever in the interim,
encapsulated
while clock-hands
melted through ceramic face
and dripped over cream lids
sealing their last breath
like hurricanes in a time capsule
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Trinkets
little collected emblems
voodoo figurines
gypsy gold
Blankets
small symbolic weapons
ancient memories
stories untold
Gather
find myself naked
caressing unforgiving ground
but the moonlight warms me
even in the rain
as I lay
Imperfect center to my holy ring
my treasures guarding
but passive
Crawling
crooked radius
Finger space my soldiers
to align with the stars
now gone from your forest green jewels
Zodiac calendar
Perception overruled outcome
The wind blows
I start again
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Is life a story, is life magick dreaming to love?
I gazed up. “Standing below the elephantine magnolia,
the ground still bore Tuscany ochre from autumns last kiss.”
My eyes solivagant orbs fed on spring’s dews in mourning
──jewellery clinging opulently to her naked form.
Dawn chilled the breeze caressing her body as abscission
demanded she undressed her emerald gown of leaves.
Magenta and cream blooms sprang “loudly” seducing
─ blushing mauve crowned centres,
a population of endless figurines perched motionless on aching
naked branches.
Solomon’s seal burned white within me drunk impending suns arrows, opulent words of silver Verbus diablio kissed in a cauldron
of Magnolia words, a banquet for mortals that seek loves gold.
A lone spider echoed silence bearing the sigil of Jupiter’s
vermillion and white spun striations luffing on the breeze
warming. “Magnolia dressed the day ardent in perfumed
── glorious plumes that each set sail across waking skies.”
Ablaze I am luscious dreams wrapped in sweet nectar,
travelling limbic memories breathing deeply, held captive,
wanton within her labyrinths of silk caresses, petals whispering,
sweet love as she engulfs my last resolve.
In raptures white velvet gown my hem sweeps over gold russet
and brittle autumns words forged in winters need for warmth──mind leaves crunching beneath life’s changing seasons,
stitched I cling enamoured to mortal honeymoon summered fields.
I am the female of sapphire tears twisting, glittering melting ice shards, bequeathed of pained black stars travelled on passionate magick fires, breathed on melodious Roma nights.
Rested among the branches a mantel crucified- drunk once more,
a bloom held silent in time weeping, exploding fragrant in a coloured soul, a luffing flower creature to life──crowned
──to sun hope thorns.
©ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Alice is being put back into the basket
The last thing she saw were pelican wings
She’s being shipped off to Africa, Alaska, Antarctica
Where all her ideas won’t mean a thing
Barrel of monkeys, household deities
Ballerina idol figurines
Empty harvest, ashen dreams
Scapegoat of all mystery
Send her to Babylon, Venus, New York
Build her a temple for the deported
Cause she’ll never be destroyed
Just atrociously unemployed
While everyone back home
On their counterfeit thrones
Saturate the seventh day
Plagiarizing her decay
So keep the lid on tight
Say your prayers as you fight
Off chaotic thoughts
And warnings made in tears
As Alice is being put back into the basket
We continue bobbing for apples
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 8:52 PM UTC
The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
a cyclist avoids a dog
but takes out
a table
of garage sale
figurines
as a drought
pamphleteer
reprimands
a child
for *******
on a hose.
I haunt my faith.
according to my father
my father
isn’t alive my father
eavesdrops.
except for talking
he’s been silent
until
in pictures of her
as a young woman
his mother
is dead.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
Oh look!
A tree!
It's beautiful!
Nature!
Green!
The breeze blows!
Look at those leaves!
Look at the beauty of God's work!
The magnificence!
The wood!
The fruit!
The flower!
The knothole!
The...gum?
There's gum in the knothole?
There IS gum in the knothole!
Doublemint!
Pennies and figurines too!
Who would do such a nice act?
Oh...
Right...
Him...
The one hidden within.
He must really be misunderstood.
I wish we could meet him
So we would know the real him.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC
Grandpa loved angels
Kept them scattered throughout his room, his house, his life
On everything from pictures, to figurines, to trinkets
Alissa found a penny with an imprint of wings with the year of her birth on it shortly after he died
How strange, we all thought
Grandpa had a lot of things,
Luck charms, knick-knacks, practical jokes he carried just in case
He kept his humor in his back pocket
I visit my grandmother in her home that used to be theirs
She is now as vacant as the Detroit winters are cold; the ten years without him have stripped her of any warmth
I think a part of her left when he did
I enter his study and look through every drawer, discovering a part I neglected to understand when it was present
I never showed much interest in anything he told me when he was still around
I only really knew of the things he kept in drawers, cabinets, on shelves
Everything he owned is as constant as it ever was
His belongings remain untouched as if he hasn’t been gone for over a decade
I feel too much alive in this office of a dead man
I run curious fingers over the bindings of books, stopping to pull at Dickinson, a faded collection of poetry inked with flowers on the front cover
I remember the dictionary the size of my six-year-old palm that intrigued me so greatly; the ability to fit so many words into such a small area was nothing short of fascinating
It is the one physical memory I took home with me after the funeral
I had wanted it always
I now picture it hiding in the back of my drawer in my childhood bedroom where I know it still is
On his desk there are so many key chains, bills from another generation, maps, postcards, watches
So many things I am not sure what to call them
I am not sure about a lot but
Grandpa loved angels
Angels and ***** jokes
One to keep you safe and the other to make you laugh
I keep both with me always,
Just in case.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
She is a fallen woman
from the Holy Sea,
a broken sample
from the Fairlight,
dressed in whispers and vines.
The wretched wind
says many things to her:
"lament no more over
your emptied ******
follow the glum west end sky
to the treasures of America."
Her intangible items
go first: two figurines,
two tin daughters
travelling with the wild dogs,
asleep in the backseat,
kept as contraband
until she pays with
coral, jade and pearls.
But heroin's
in her veins, telling her
the kids will keep,
as she slips beyond
the black rainbow
and into 'paradise'.
Dec 12, 2021
Dec 12, 2021 at 8:19 AM UTC
Monkeys staring at the eyeballs in our heads
The forced rope ties tighter and pops out the vein
The process takes a moment but no more than a feather being blown
Sun beams now highlight the velvet hour.
Sand castles keep the sand man guarded and safe
In return, we have another day swallowed by the unaccomplished.
Spirited with a medical remedy
Lovers say a happy goodnight to the days ahead.
String haired figurines on the walls form the decor in this doll house
The rooms sit back to back but remain mostly vacant.
She dances around the room and tries on the attire
Forming the platform for our intimate silent exchange.
The chair pulls down and gravity makes its move
Maps form plans to be affiliated with a higher member
But with refusal, we can sit and add wood to an internal stove
Write stories noticed by no-one living in elegant designed routine.
They say its madness that gets you in the end.
I dont think I agree!
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
the house was painted
a soft hue. an old tobacco trap;
discolored white where
pictures once hung.
in the kitchen, grease stains,
faded bluebird wallpaper —
long since ceased it's song,
and one cast-iron skillet off to the side.
pale and forgotten,
the fine china shrieks!
my barefoot innocence
is lost as the cold-colored
porcelain eats at the floor.
sometimes when I lay there covered in
turpentine, stars usually topple
out of the cabinet,
and my gas stove aspirations are botched.
the sink drain moans with the silent
invectives of an impure saint…
her rosary still atop the mantle.
just outside, a stone angel
that smells of lilies, —
savagely eats rosebuds over
an autumn bonfire.
from time to time
her face is one of lament…
it follows me from room to room,
and my hands shake for hours
while holding little antique figurines
in a basket full of milkweed…
they’d tuck at the curtain,
their little music box voices
complain about her eyes...
they'd scurry up the ivy on the side of
the house to avoid her
disappointed glance…
there was a sad wingbeat as
I stepped out on the balcony to collect
them one last time.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC