"flecking" poems - Hello Poetry

"flecking" poems

I Some day I will go to Aarhus To see his peat-brown head, The mild pods of his eye-lids, His pointed skin cap. In the flat country near by Where they dug him out, His last gruel of winter seeds Caked in his stomach, Naked except for The cap, noose and girdle, I will stand a long time. Bridegroom to the goddess, She tightened her torc on him And opened her fen, Those dark juices working Him to a saint's kept body, Trove of the turfcutters' Honeycombed workings. Now his stained face Reposes at Aarhus. II I could risk blasphemy, Consecrate the cauldron bog Our holy ground and pray Him to make germinate The scattered, ambushed Flesh of labourers, Stockinged corpses Laid out in the farmyards, Tell-tale skin and teeth Flecking the sleepers Of four young brothers, trailed For miles along the lines. III Something of his sad freedom As he rode the tumbril Should come to me, driving, Saying the names Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, Watching the pointing hands Of country people, Not knowing their tongue. Out here in Jutland In the old man-killing parishes I will feel lost, Unhappy and at home.

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4.5k

The Tollund Man

I Some day I will go to Aarhus To see his peat-brown head, The mild pods of his eye-lids, His pointed skin cap. In the flat country near by Where they dug him out, His last gruel of winter seeds Caked in his stomach, Naked except for The cap, noose and girdle, I will stand a long time. Bridegroom to the goddess, She tightened her torc on him And opened her fen, Those dark juices working Him to a saint's kept body, Trove of the turfcutters' Honeycombed workings. Now his stained face Reposes at Aarhus. II I could risk blasphemy, Consecrate the cauldron bog Our holy ground and pray Him to make germinate The scattered, ambushed Flesh of labourers, Stockinged corpses Laid out in the farmyards, Tell-tale skin and teeth Flecking the sleepers Of four young brothers, trailed For miles along the lines. III Something of his sad freedom As he rode the tumbril Should come to me, driving, Saying the names Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, Watching the pointing hands Of country people, Not knowing their tongue. Out here in Jutland In the old man-killing parishes I will feel lost, Unhappy and at home.

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When the sun sets, flecking clouds with diaphanous light and birds whistle daytime’s last summer psalms, we call it night. We’re moonbathing and Sunny’s features are inlaid with glamorous silver-blue patines. We’ll reawaken soon, our time is measured in assignments, not in hours, days or even seasons. Responsibility is a villain of our own devices. You can run from it, bolt your door against it, only to find it’s right there - in back of you - smiling like a tiger or a parent. Unfortunately, the university isn’t a hotel. It’s more of a competition, like those survivor shows. We’ll enjoy the moonlight, for a few, laconic moments, for it seems to possess a sweet power to cool and calm, but soon our purposes will call, irresistibly, and we’ll return to the performance.

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Sep 21, 2022

Sep 21, 2022 at 2:40 PM UTC

When the sun sets, flecking clouds with diaphanous light and birds whistle daytime’s last summer psalms, we call it night. We’re moonbathing and Sunny’s features are inlaid with glamorous silver-blue patines. We’ll reawaken soon, our time is measured in assignments, not in hours, days or even seasons. Responsibility is a villain of our own devices. You can run from it, bolt your door against it, only to find it’s right there - in back of you - smiling like a tiger or a parent. Unfortunately, the university isn’t a hotel. It’s more of a competition, like those survivor shows. We’ll enjoy the moonlight, for a few, laconic moments, for it seems to possess a sweet power to cool and calm, but soon our purposes will call, irresistibly, and we’ll return to the performance.

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an assembly or better named a clump of multifarious flotsam presenting its untidy self on a recent passing streetcorner.. a hesitating photo records a drifting pinecone centering a stained and shredding newspaper a broken sharp stick red rocks of scales and shadings flecking dried green leaves.. order imposed by framing and shaping of the sidewalk corner.. might other forms emerge with a focused patience? a partial headline reads ...sound without the wires.. news of expanding connections outside a material realm? headline seemed embedded in thick advertising bulk announcing a continuing culture of material weight.. much else of red and green.. the centering pinecone occasional pineal symbol of higher dimension entry.. somehow rightly here in the dark center of this mess this a brief experiment not yet for most an answer a question now of mining finding patterned varieties in large nature's trove.. patient visions residing in gathered fragments if gathered they be.. expectations of more in what persists of this and that in time... :)

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Jun 13, 2012

Jun 13, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC

an assembly or better named a clump of multifarious flotsam presenting its untidy self on a recent passing streetcorner.. a hesitating photo records a drifting pinecone centering a stained and shredding newspaper a broken sharp stick red rocks of scales and shadings flecking dried green leaves.. order imposed by framing and shaping of the sidewalk corner.. might other forms emerge with a focused patience? a partial headline reads ...sound without the wires.. news of expanding connections outside a material realm? headline seemed embedded in thick advertising bulk announcing a continuing culture of material weight.. much else of red and green.. the centering pinecone occasional pineal symbol of higher dimension entry.. somehow rightly here in the dark center of this mess this a brief experiment not yet for most an answer a question now of mining finding patterned varieties in large nature's trove.. patient visions residing in gathered fragments if gathered they be.. expectations of more in what persists of this and that in time... :)

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HE lived on the wings of storm. The ashes are in Chihuahua. Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks. Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain. They killed swearing to remember The shot and charred wives and children In the burnt camp of Ludlow, And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek, Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun **** As a home war It held the nation a week And one or two million men stood together And swore by the retribution of steel. It was all accidental. He lived flecking lint off coat lapels Of men he talked with. He kissed the miners' babies And wrote a Denver paper Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line. He had no mother but Mother Jones Crying from a jail window of Trinidad: "All I want is room enough to stand And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race." Named by a grand jury as a murderer He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name, Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people. How can I tell how Don Magregor went? Three riders emptied lead into him. He lay on the main street of an inland town. A boy sat near all day throwing stones To keep pigs away. The Villa men buried him in a pit With twenty Carranzistas. There is drama in that point... ...the boy and the pigs. Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs. Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor. "And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune. Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.

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2.8k

Memoir of a Proud Boy

HE lived on the wings of storm. The ashes are in Chihuahua. Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks. Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain. They killed swearing to remember The shot and charred wives and children In the burnt camp of Ludlow, And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek, Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun **** As a home war It held the nation a week And one or two million men stood together And swore by the retribution of steel. It was all accidental. He lived flecking lint off coat lapels Of men he talked with. He kissed the miners' babies And wrote a Denver paper Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line. He had no mother but Mother Jones Crying from a jail window of Trinidad: "All I want is room enough to stand And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race." Named by a grand jury as a murderer He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name, Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people. How can I tell how Don Magregor went? Three riders emptied lead into him. He lay on the main street of an inland town. A boy sat near all day throwing stones To keep pigs away. The Villa men buried him in a pit With twenty Carranzistas. There is drama in that point... ...the boy and the pigs. Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs. Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor. "And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune. Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.

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Over the horizon, lost in confusion, came the sad night, pregnant with stars. I, like the bearded mage of the tales, knew the language of stones and flowers. I learned the secrets of melancholy, told by cypresses, nettles and ivy; I knew the dream from lips of nard, sang serene songs with the irises. In the old forest, filled with its blackness, all of them showed me the souls they have; the pines, drunk on aroma and sound; the old olives, burdened with knowledge; the dead poplars, nests for the ants; the moss, snowy with white violets. All spoke tenderly to my heart trembling in threads of rustling silk where water involves motionless things, like a web of eternal harmony. The roses there were sounding the lyre, oaks weaving the gold of legends, and amidst their virile sadness the junipers spoke of rustic fears. I knew all the passion of woodland; rhythms of leaves, rhythms of stars. But tell me, oh cedars, if my heart will sleep in the arms of perfect light! I know the lyre you prophesy, roses: fashioned of strings from my dead life. Tell me what pool I might leave it in, as former passions are left behind! I know the mystery you sing of, cypress; I am your brother of night and pain; we hold inside us a tangle of nests, you of nightingales, I of sadness! I know your endless enchantment, old olive tree, yielding us blood you extract from the Earth, like you, I extract with my feelings the sacred oil held by ideas! You all overwhelm me with songs; I ask only for my uncertain one; none of you will quell the anxieties of this chaste fire that burns in my breast. O laurel divine, with soul inaccessible, always so silent, filled with nobility! Pour in my ears your divine history, all your wisdom, profound and sincere! Tree that produces fruits of the silence, maestro of kisses and mage of orchestras, formed from Daphne's roseate flesh with Apollo's potent sap in your veins! O high priest of ancient knowledge! O solemn mute, closed to lament! All your forest brothers speak to me; only you, harsh one, scorn my song! Perhaps, oh maestro of rhythm, you muse on the pointlessness of the poet's sad weeping. Perhaps your leaves, flecking by the moonlight, forgo all the illusions of spring. The delicate tenderness of evening, that covered the path with black dew, holding out a vast canopy to night, came solemnly, pregnant with stars.

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2.5k

Federico García Lorca

Invocation to the Laurel (1919)

Over the horizon, lost in confusion, came the sad night, pregnant with stars. I, like the bearded mage of the tales, knew the language of stones and flowers. I learned the secrets of melancholy, told by cypresses, nettles and ivy; I knew the dream from lips of nard, sang serene songs with the irises. In the old forest, filled with its blackness, all of them showed me the souls they have; the pines, drunk on aroma and sound; the old olives, burdened with knowledge; the dead poplars, nests for the ants; the moss, snowy with white violets. All spoke tenderly to my heart trembling in threads of rustling silk where water involves motionless things, like a web of eternal harmony. The roses there were sounding the lyre, oaks weaving the gold of legends, and amidst their virile sadness the junipers spoke of rustic fears. I knew all the passion of woodland; rhythms of leaves, rhythms of stars. But tell me, oh cedars, if my heart will sleep in the arms of perfect light! I know the lyre you prophesy, roses: fashioned of strings from my dead life. Tell me what pool I might leave it in, as former passions are left behind! I know the mystery you sing of, cypress; I am your brother of night and pain; we hold inside us a tangle of nests, you of nightingales, I of sadness! I know your endless enchantment, old olive tree, yielding us blood you extract from the Earth, like you, I extract with my feelings the sacred oil held by ideas! You all overwhelm me with songs; I ask only for my uncertain one; none of you will quell the anxieties of this chaste fire that burns in my breast. O laurel divine, with soul inaccessible, always so silent, filled with nobility! Pour in my ears your divine history, all your wisdom, profound and sincere! Tree that produces fruits of the silence, maestro of kisses and mage of orchestras, formed from Daphne's roseate flesh with Apollo's potent sap in your veins! O high priest of ancient knowledge! O solemn mute, closed to lament! All your forest brothers speak to me; only you, harsh one, scorn my song! Perhaps, oh maestro of rhythm, you muse on the pointlessness of the poet's sad weeping. Perhaps your leaves, flecking by the moonlight, forgo all the illusions of spring. The delicate tenderness of evening, that covered the path with black dew, holding out a vast canopy to night, came solemnly, pregnant with stars.

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His voice of crackling static is known from round the corner. It's raw from shouting news reports and the music of an empty pocket to a world, only half listening. A toiling madness of chord and thread - frayed, plucked fabric, strings hanging from cuffs. This plaid ragdoll and his bird **** stained guitar case are collecting change like a magpie His incompetent lips are their own shower flecking the pavement. What music gathers in the whited joins of his mouth is urban desperation, but their grubbiness suggests you could still plant potatoes in his fingernails. Twitching and lined, his visage isn't as old as his art. The jarring strum and lacquered voice serve to remind us, that the tongue is the only muscle in the human body stronger than the heart.

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Mar 10, 2015

Mar 10, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC

His voice of crackling static is known from round the corner. It's raw from shouting news reports and the music of an empty pocket to a world, only half listening. A toiling madness of chord and thread - frayed, plucked fabric, strings hanging from cuffs. This plaid ragdoll and his bird **** stained guitar case are collecting change like a magpie His incompetent lips are their own shower flecking the pavement. What music gathers in the whited joins of his mouth is urban desperation, but their grubbiness suggests you could still plant potatoes in his fingernails. Twitching and lined, his visage isn't as old as his art. The jarring strum and lacquered voice serve to remind us, that the tongue is the only muscle in the human body stronger than the heart.

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They told me that I need to let you go No one wants us together -- I think they want you for themselves You are my best friend Since I can remember Life without you Doesn't seem real Rattling in tubes, pressing onto my tongue, melting down my throat Hard, smooth on my fingers, Flecking onto my face while I lick the cold Bins meant for days, I devour in one Bars meant for friends, I do not share I never blamed you when the shakes came & my life fell apart You were my savior -- I thought You took care of me, warmed my heart You and I, never alone No one understands us Some accept us, yet they raise An eyebrow at my appearance I am an anomaly for dating you Your other suitors didn't look so well I pride myself in that Though I hide our happy facade I never thought you'd do this to me I thought you loved me But you love that I love you & you care nothing about my pain Yet -- I can't I can't let you go I love you too much Every day I try but you are so close You are right there You ask me to love you and I cave In a false security, a black hole I know I will suffer from In only mere minutes Our time together is too magical to give up But only a matter of time until I -- No, I cannot dream of it You will treat me right one day & we will be happy together

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Feb 4, 2014

Feb 4, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC

They told me that I need to let you go No one wants us together -- I think they want you for themselves You are my best friend Since I can remember Life without you Doesn't seem real Rattling in tubes, pressing onto my tongue, melting down my throat Hard, smooth on my fingers, Flecking onto my face while I lick the cold Bins meant for days, I devour in one Bars meant for friends, I do not share I never blamed you when the shakes came & my life fell apart You were my savior -- I thought You took care of me, warmed my heart You and I, never alone No one understands us Some accept us, yet they raise An eyebrow at my appearance I am an anomaly for dating you Your other suitors didn't look so well I pride myself in that Though I hide our happy facade I never thought you'd do this to me I thought you loved me But you love that I love you & you care nothing about my pain Yet -- I can't I can't let you go I love you too much Every day I try but you are so close You are right there You ask me to love you and I cave In a false security, a black hole I know I will suffer from In only mere minutes Our time together is too magical to give up But only a matter of time until I -- No, I cannot dream of it You will treat me right one day & we will be happy together

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pretty fascinating mind appearing light, flecking dangerously close. swallow let go But keep one pinky on the edge. Walk the line easily between fascinating and ************ with words. fighting whats left inside me i am or am i laughing, throwing my voice, cracking the night, And another bite mark finds A scar A humble star A version here A ********** there the quiet hits, as it will, defeat in my bones, Quickly it does distill. Looking around the room momentarily left insane, fringed, frightened, buried cold long dark rings tucked in the eyes black circles where you've hid those years behind. Defined in every happy ending to an ever-ending ride In my pretty fascinating mind.

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Sep 1, 2014

Sep 1, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC

An evening with my favorite poet

pretty fascinating mind appearing light, flecking dangerously close. swallow let go But keep one pinky on the edge. Walk the line easily between fascinating and ************ with words. fighting whats left inside me i am or am i laughing, throwing my voice, cracking the night, And another bite mark finds A scar A humble star A version here A ********** there the quiet hits, as it will, defeat in my bones, Quickly it does distill. Looking around the room momentarily left insane, fringed, frightened, buried cold long dark rings tucked in the eyes black circles where you've hid those years behind. Defined in every happy ending to an ever-ending ride In my pretty fascinating mind.

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I'm broken beyond repair. A thinning string, eventually, snapping under extreme force. A shattered piece of glass under ****** feet. A crestfallen melody, playing on a skipping record player. I am nothing. An empty room, barren of any light. A dark hole, filled with dirt and worms. Rust and paint flecking off a dejected car. It hurts. Like a back which hides the knife. An accusation flung towards me, without any precedence towards the cause. My rights taken away from me. My hopes dashed before my very eyes. **I am hurting. For I am broken. Because I am nothing.**

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Jan 8, 2017

Jan 8, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC

Downhearted confessions.

I'm broken beyond repair. A thinning string, eventually, snapping under extreme force. A shattered piece of glass under ****** feet. A crestfallen melody, playing on a skipping record player. I am nothing. An empty room, barren of any light. A dark hole, filled with dirt and worms. Rust and paint flecking off a dejected car. It hurts. Like a back which hides the knife. An accusation flung towards me, without any precedence towards the cause. My rights taken away from me. My hopes dashed before my very eyes. **I am hurting. For I am broken. Because I am nothing.**

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Today it's the rusty pine needles flecking the tar covered street and pointing every which way that signal a new season soon will cool my morning walk. Hidden alongside the curb a coke can and pale spent prophylactic trigger memories of front seat romances that never erupted. Luckily I didn't know then what I know now. I would have wasted more of what I had been given trying in earnest to waste more of what I had been given.

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Sep 3, 2013

Sep 3, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC

william-a-poppen

Today it's the rusty pine needles flecking the tar covered street and pointing every which way that signal a new season soon will cool my morning walk. Hidden alongside the curb a coke can and pale spent prophylactic trigger memories of front seat romances that never erupted. Luckily I didn't know then what I know now. I would have wasted more of what I had been given trying in earnest to waste more of what I had been given.

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On a busy roundabout in buzzing Delhi, Fake wealth smirks & luxury car creeps, When red light stops, Fast panting life gets a pause, Dullness riding on killing air, Only gloating eyes and putrid thoughts. Nearby, my eyes halt on a poor, destitute girl, Sure, I know, not of sweet sixteen Few heart throb with love and care, Though number of passers- by is umpteen. Her ugly eyes embedded in chronic pain, Gloom abiding on her wrinkled face. She is ugly, bony & sickly Tear- ***** flecking ***** cheeks. Foul smelling with flowing nose, ******** dressed with ragged clothes, Callous cool breeze shivering her emaciated soul, No brotherly hand for her rescue & no divine aid to her console. Delhi engrossed in sensuous talks of love, *** movies and romance, No one cares for her real plight, Why charity and pity in independent India? Methinks, a graceful life is her genuine right. When she stretches her wounded hands, Begging for a loaf of bread, I cry & weep deep inside, Losing hope, I feel so SAD. I wish swapping of my destiny with hers, Can u please tell? Am I a bit out of senses or if I have gone totally MAD? Mukesh Kataria

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Jan 6, 2016

Jan 6, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC

On a busy roundabout in buzzing Delhi, Fake wealth smirks & luxury car creeps, When red light stops, Fast panting life gets a pause, Dullness riding on killing air, Only gloating eyes and putrid thoughts. Nearby, my eyes halt on a poor, destitute girl, Sure, I know, not of sweet sixteen Few heart throb with love and care, Though number of passers- by is umpteen. Her ugly eyes embedded in chronic pain, Gloom abiding on her wrinkled face. She is ugly, bony & sickly Tear- ***** flecking ***** cheeks. Foul smelling with flowing nose, ******** dressed with ragged clothes, Callous cool breeze shivering her emaciated soul, No brotherly hand for her rescue & no divine aid to her console. Delhi engrossed in sensuous talks of love, *** movies and romance, No one cares for her real plight, Why charity and pity in independent India? Methinks, a graceful life is her genuine right. When she stretches her wounded hands, Begging for a loaf of bread, I cry & weep deep inside, Losing hope, I feel so SAD. I wish swapping of my destiny with hers, Can u please tell? Am I a bit out of senses or if I have gone totally MAD? Mukesh Kataria

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Who knew gold would grow On green stalks If left alone in the yard. Old farm house Abandoned 60 years A wobbling car pulls in the driveway, Lights blazing into the house. She’s inside knitting, Kids asleep on the floor. I stagger in, my demons on my breath Around my head, in the passenger seat She starts yelling and tearing, Spit flecking off her lips. Covers pulled up to our chins Waiting for the storm to pass. Like it passes every night. He comes in, Eyes cut out of granite Ruts in the yard, Red dust in the air. My god, my god, What have I done? Mom? Dad? Mom?

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Nov 2, 2013

Nov 2, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC

Farm House in Norwood, Georgia, 1957

Who knew gold would grow On green stalks If left alone in the yard. Old farm house Abandoned 60 years A wobbling car pulls in the driveway, Lights blazing into the house. She’s inside knitting, Kids asleep on the floor. I stagger in, my demons on my breath Around my head, in the passenger seat She starts yelling and tearing, Spit flecking off her lips. Covers pulled up to our chins Waiting for the storm to pass. Like it passes every night. He comes in, Eyes cut out of granite Ruts in the yard, Red dust in the air. My god, my god, What have I done? Mom? Dad? Mom?

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my arms are static my legs are rocky air my torso dips into the skyward of mattress I brought yesterday in my hands to set out in the sun it didn’t take long to burn right up my eyes trail the flecking ash in the air there’s nothing i wish to hide yet i sit like one car parking lot tar matches the sky at 3 am is the static channel on the tv still there when you turn off the screen i think i see it when i close my eyes

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Feb 14, 2025

Feb 14, 2025 at 4:16 PM UTC

greenmintleaves

my arms are static my legs are rocky air my torso dips into the skyward of mattress I brought yesterday in my hands to set out in the sun it didn’t take long to burn right up my eyes trail the flecking ash in the air there’s nothing i wish to hide yet i sit like one car parking lot tar matches the sky at 3 am is the static channel on the tv still there when you turn off the screen i think i see it when i close my eyes

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Eternal power within myself I find ample Owe all this to God So bow down to supreme power- I do and I must Fly always with wings of humility Wafting through the path of faith & trust. My mission is ordinary soul- to make them better and steadily mold, The weak and frail melt in to divine fold. I dream no barriers, no war, no bullets, no foes No ignorance, no blockage in mind & brains Total freedom from yoke of all self- imposed limitations No noble soul be in exile and chains. Truth I speak- straight & simple No mining & minting, No coating and wrapping. I dream- No seeds of abomination & apathy to grow, No body to scream, no soul to cry Saplings of love spring up forever, Ocean of elixir never be dry. No doing of things I don't want to do in life, No veil of mistrust, no sharpening of knife, Radiant beam of truth to seep into hearts of All, Character- a key to holyness to stand noble, robust and godlike tall. I dream - No sorrow flecking any heart, No tears rolling down an eye, Every soul ascend to divinity, No elegiac songs but, only Dance, cheer & mirthful fly. I dream- Bliss forever to stay Pain & sorrows to swiftly pass, No hard talks, no thinking in secret Every other face to be our looking glass. Mukesh Kataria

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Jan 3, 2016

Jan 3, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC

Eternal power within myself I find ample Owe all this to God So bow down to supreme power- I do and I must Fly always with wings of humility Wafting through the path of faith & trust. My mission is ordinary soul- to make them better and steadily mold, The weak and frail melt in to divine fold. I dream no barriers, no war, no bullets, no foes No ignorance, no blockage in mind & brains Total freedom from yoke of all self- imposed limitations No noble soul be in exile and chains. Truth I speak- straight & simple No mining & minting, No coating and wrapping. I dream- No seeds of abomination & apathy to grow, No body to scream, no soul to cry Saplings of love spring up forever, Ocean of elixir never be dry. No doing of things I don't want to do in life, No veil of mistrust, no sharpening of knife, Radiant beam of truth to seep into hearts of All, Character- a key to holyness to stand noble, robust and godlike tall. I dream - No sorrow flecking any heart, No tears rolling down an eye, Every soul ascend to divinity, No elegiac songs but, only Dance, cheer & mirthful fly. I dream- Bliss forever to stay Pain & sorrows to swiftly pass, No hard talks, no thinking in secret Every other face to be our looking glass. Mukesh Kataria

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all day i was thinking about that letter I wrote you and how it was in Wetmore now, in Silvercliffe, in Jim's green mailbox, finally. how I didn't seal it in perfume but thought about it, how I rewrote it five times because there's only so many ways to convey myself in a good light after breaking all the bulbs I was choosing words like I'd choose flowers only baby blooms and strong stems, ending with sincerely, cordially, then just my name. I miss you replaced by I saw that post on Facebook about your niece hoping prayer sifts through the ink, that he can feel my hair on his cheeks, a letter that pleads, please don't hate me but I don't think anyone ever has--and I certainly don't think he will I don't know what's wrong with me. I tell my mom over breakfast, over dinner, on the way home, and she smiles at me--says goodness in the way she usually does, in the way that says her heart sometimes beats for me but that thought has permeated every action and every day, lain over me like a sunshower with the rain flecking through in drops of gold I've never had these thoughts before I whisper, exasperated, throwing my hands up and stuttering. All-abouts unsure of myself and wondering if while he's been away I've built an empire around what he could be. What am I doing? I ask, finally making eye contact.

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Sep 9, 2016

Sep 9, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC

Baby Blooms, Strong Stems.

all day i was thinking about that letter I wrote you and how it was in Wetmore now, in Silvercliffe, in Jim's green mailbox, finally. how I didn't seal it in perfume but thought about it, how I rewrote it five times because there's only so many ways to convey myself in a good light after breaking all the bulbs I was choosing words like I'd choose flowers only baby blooms and strong stems, ending with sincerely, cordially, then just my name. I miss you replaced by I saw that post on Facebook about your niece hoping prayer sifts through the ink, that he can feel my hair on his cheeks, a letter that pleads, please don't hate me but I don't think anyone ever has--and I certainly don't think he will I don't know what's wrong with me. I tell my mom over breakfast, over dinner, on the way home, and she smiles at me--says goodness in the way she usually does, in the way that says her heart sometimes beats for me but that thought has permeated every action and every day, lain over me like a sunshower with the rain flecking through in drops of gold I've never had these thoughts before I whisper, exasperated, throwing my hands up and stuttering. All-abouts unsure of myself and wondering if while he's been away I've built an empire around what he could be. What am I doing? I ask, finally making eye contact.

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Birds want to fly, Branches true or lie. Squeeze flecking burden eye, Dreamed a roof, on top of sky... #burden #squeeze #fly #lie

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Jan 23, 2021

Jan 23, 2021 at 4:14 AM UTC

Birds want to fly, Branches true or lie. Squeeze flecking burden eye, Dreamed a roof, on top of sky... #burden #squeeze #fly #lie

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