"floaty" poems
Looking at the clock, I struggle
Despair floating like an eye floaty thing
Get the hell out of here
Like cheese, I age, the more so the more I smell like a ****** old guy like god **** quit buying clothes from Dillard's
Like an onion, I make people cry because my face resembles a donkey getting ***** by an eagle that's ice skating and juggling
All at the same time.
Stuck in my socioeconomic class
My mom is getting harassed
My brain cells are getting grassed
I hate communists.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
*
The fume
A thick dark fumy cloud
Dormant it lies, but often loud
Precariously overhead, it flowed
The sunshine of the life, it swallowed
It rained, challenged by the mighty peak
In the heart, It pained, to see it weak
The cloud was small but heavy
However dusty and floaty.
The doom and gloom
Embracing in its shadow
In desert, plains and meadow
Eclipsing the days, sunny bright
Dreadful, with the darkening night
With me, always hanging around
When noticed, nearby it's found
Haunting me with a sadness
Flaunting its darkness
A lot in the cloud explored
Then consciously, It was ignored
But dancing at the back of the mind
Past hurts and pains, it put to rewind
The boom and bloom
And then, letting it flow across, I got immersed,
In fine tiny droplets, the cloud
dispersed,
Now each droplet addressed
separately
Was dried in the shiny sun
completely
All of the cloud, dripped to
evaporate
Condensed eventually, as
distillate
My pains, by that elixir,
cured,
Alchemised me
into
24 carat gold
*
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
There is a sequence of small events, signs; that as they occur point us in the direction of the mid-winter festival. This morning: the first snow; iced rain, not the soft down-like floaty stuff, but hard crystal-shaped foot-crunching shards. Yesterday, it was on with the wooly hat, the padded waistcoat and a more than just sprightly walk in a park of leafless trees. Everywhere, a damp coldness.
Sitting companionably after the meal, a fire spitting in the hearth had brought a glow to her cheeks. She was replete with glowness, her speech dancing too and fro after the family phone calls of a Sunday night. Outside, the sound of wind against the house.
Settling herself against him, feet tucked under his reclining body, she tells him about her niece, a birthday girl just two last week. This little one was touchingly innocent of what happens on a birthday. She knew it was coming, next week, soon, then tomorrow. Imagine her the night before: just think you'll wake up and be two! And that's what this birthday business is? She wakes and there is something special in the air, her sister smile-full, bouncy with expectation. Her parents’ voices are louder than usual, there are bigger hugs and longer kisses. Birthday, birthday, birthday. Her grandparents arrive. More hugs. THEN her father appears with a cake! It's only just after breakfast, but the large people are having coffee and there's her juice cup and a cake! Birthday, birthday, birthday shouts her sister. For me, a cake for me? My cake? Daddy lights the candles! Oh, oh, oh. This is . . . and something wrapped in pretty paper is being handed to me. Her sister, being wonderfully sisterly shows her how to remove the wrapping. A book! Read it to me now, now, please. It's my birthday, now.
This is a sign he thinks later when in bed she folds herself to him, arranges his arms and hands to hold her into sleep, still glowing a little. This is surely a sign. A child's discovery of the birth day. The joy it brings, the way it lights up our lives. And never again will her father see quite that measure of surprise and delight in his daughter's face. Next year she'll be full of expectation, know all about birthdays . . and be three.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
They think happiness is a bouquet of helium balloons. Picture everyone in the world, each holding a bunch of balloons on strings. Most people's balloons are plump and bouncy, and they float really well. Some people's balloons might be droopy because they're sad, or sick or something. So the people that know me think my balloons are just droopy, and they try to help. They say, "Here, have some helium. Let's get your balloons all floaty again." But I'm not holding any balloons at all. So even if they gave me helium- tanks and tanks of it- there's nothing to put it in. My balloons are just completely missing.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
“Some people are never far away...”
I am thinking this--
bouncing tipsy on pool floaty
at my daughter's new home
in 'burbs of Philly
Sipping wine
on a pool floaty
thinking this--
abstractly
Sipping wine
in odd peace
on a pool floaty
cool and soft, the water
Cicadas scour the air
...Knowing it's not true....
I had watched them from my porch
leaving –
since the day they came
They –
and the robins too, headed south now
tumbling in their groups
that garble time
that sketch horizon
with a maze of staggered lines
Watching
geese--
their backs and wings gleam
in golden V
across the sunset
They are honking as they rise, raucous
from river in their flight
My daughters do the same
Migrating south from Scranton
waving, honking til their cars have turned the corner
out of sight
...on a pool floaty
fully clothed
I watch them
drenched in the darkening sky
tasting salty streams
Intoxicating sounds
their laughter
their voices--
How I love....
cicada droning
in the lush of background green
I will keep this moment clutched
to me
all I have of them
between these moments
I live between moments
of nothing and everything
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
i was going to write a piece using the word we entirely too often. talk about the slip of your palms down my cheeks, the floaty high after you don't sleep for forty-eight hours and then skip gallantly through the albertson's parking lot. i was going to write this immense prose with weaving metaphors and phrases that begged to be spoken. a piece with a moral, about a boy and a girl, or maybe two girls, or an animal and the voice that haunts it. about a willow bride with gauze wrapped firmly around a puncture wound. describe the inner monologue of a park bench. but maybe not, because that would be deleted.
i could write you a letter, because you know who you are. or the empty waterbottle that is staring mournfully at me, or burlap sacks, or the words that i speak of constantly but never speak.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
I want to be the flirty girl
In the floaty dress,
With the flower in her hair
Forever.
I want a portrait in the attic,
Growing wrinkled, drooping, dying,
While I dance through the city, luscious and buxom,
Not a care in the world,
Enjoying being 'different'.
Freeze time, I like me now.
It's taken years for me to get here,
And I don't want to leave.
I don't want to be insignificant,
I dread becoming invisible,
I want to just stop,
And be where I am,
I want to be me, now, forever.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
I bought a red balloon today
It was round and shiny and bright
I smiled as it gently swayed
All bouncy and floaty and light
I don't know why it made me happy
Tied to a piece of string
I suppose when we all feel ******
It helps us cope with things
It dazzled like a beacon up high
On this day so dark and grey
But it brought smiles to passers by
Something to brighten up their day
But then I looked at this balloon
As it glowed above my head
Its beauty and life will deflate soon
So I let it go instead
Fly little red balloon.....
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
Never thought the intent to harm
Thought she was a floaty flower
Wanna **** him till the light of dawn
He was to be devoured
Warmth lack of clarity inside, a little bit
Congregate where the bodies drained now, smells like florentine bedsheets
What a slave to it
A slave to it
A body without a soul
What a slave to it
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
I think about you better with my eyes closed,
My love where do I begin.
The beginning is as close as the end,
Although there is a lot of time spent in between.
I can't seem to get enough of you,
Something is missing, especially without you.
Your energy lingers on me long after you are gone,
Like the scent of the beloved that sticks.
Sweet palmed baby,
Soft eyed angel.
A gentle voice escapes your delicate lips,
Floaty words wander out and right into me.
Nothing compares to one short evening,
Me in a room with you.
With some strawberries and wine,
We are touching and talking.
A brief warm light bursting through,
Yet too weak to reflect on anything.
The only nights I do not dream about you,
Are ones that I'm asleep next to you.
The nights you have your plush rosy lips on me before,
I drift into a sort of peacefulness only found within you.
A crisp soft blow building up on me,
Until we collide, meet at some spot of sweet release.
I no longer recognise the hours night turns into day,
Or the noises that surround us, like chirping birds.
Two worlds subconsciously complimenting eachother,
The taste of your candied skin remains on my tongue.
Tracing my tongue and all down my throat,
It lingers longer, beyond us parting.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 11:01 PM UTC
the fostry boys and clair-n-tine hills
will wrest away their fears
like marcks-alarns and floaty badge
and puffer-nickel stills.
they'll bother beat with ever chills
and lime-lack in the surf.
I'll wait for time appronaheed,
I'll ferret out the mirth.
you'll not buy wick-ends in their fall
nor taste their merton soot,
you'll waste your fully throtton ball
and save your lamest foot.
as they're the childs of never-been,
the cartwheels at street and rue,
unghost their face as your beating slows,
these boys, to res-cue you.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
I'd make art that wasn't the equivalent of processed
microwave food, without the "gourmet" label.
Then again equal validity in creation is only debatable
if you're an ******* who believes any of this has meaning.
If you're taking yourself seriously,
you're going to get ****** up by
the **** end of this joke; Art is more than these
observable qualities of reality. It is beyond us.
However, everything we are is made of the stuff.
We are art. Life is art. Life is meaningless
Art is meaningless.
We are meaningless. You.
You are meaningless as well.
Roll on snare... None of this holds real validity.
Abuse of cymbal.
In this lifetime I want so many things that simply
will not happen. She says my "dreams" are floaty
although I know I won't live to see them.
Life flies by so fast it's a wonder we don't get
tickets. I want light that moves at 40mph
and scorches on impact. Explodes like fireworks.
It should glow; green or blue.
I'd use it to cook these dinners,
burn these notebooks,
**** these mother
******* guitars.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Of all the things inside my head
I wonder which I’d choose
The shiny saucers on my wall
With patterns on them all.
Some painted by Susie Cooper
With dainty flower heads
And others Brambly Hedge
With hedgehog tucked in bed.
Then in blue and white china
And Churchill on the back
Picturesque moments of bridges
Willow chintz and that.
Finally the many flower fairies
Their delicate floaty wings
Sitting on a tree branch, Cicily Mary Barker
Who loved all tiny things.
Love Mary ***
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
warm, floaty, light-yet-heavy
you make me feel
normal
high
above-it-all
chemistry
to the
nth
degree
short
reprise from
life's reality
me joined with
you
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
You're no further away than you were before, but the high tide is in and I accidentally slipped my floaty onto the train with you, and I'm afraid of drowning.
It was so easy to love you and maybe that's why it's so hard now.
Before, thinking of you brought feelings of peace, well being, contentment.
And now, through no fault of yours (rather through the faults of a jealous heart beating in my chess) when I think of you it's always marked with feelings of sadness, anger, and (naturally, I suppose) jealousy.
I'm gasping for breath,
I have no floaty pulling me to the surface.
The shore I left from is a lot closer than the one I wish to reach, and I don't know if I should swim back, keep going, or drown.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
Bein' out in lake
Catchin' bass
A piece of cake
Don't take eyes
Off the candy
Randy
Catchin' sucker'd
Be dandy
Sweet-tooth'd scaring night
Rollin' hard
High kite
Lounging in floaty ecstatic
Roll still
Admire the galactic
Traverse through waters
I heard mutters
Hashish-bier thoughts unclear
In hand
A welcome of dry land
Pulsation of bass I hear
Naked timid music
Synth-like rave
Mystical Acoustic
Land so dry had drag'd me in
With cold sweating fear
She whisper'd
'trek 'r treat mm' dear'
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
i write from the 1st of october. i write from cold air and turning seasons. from hazy days and lazy days and 'maybe things will be okay's. i write from stale bread and cold tea cause id made it at half past three, and the wind is blowing.
and i want to wear my dads big old fairisle jumper because somehow, it always smells of him. and the wind is blowing.
i write from the 1st of october. i write from endless evenings and too many cigarettes and a craving for my mothers supermarket box wine. i write from tired eyes and floaty songs and i write because im feeling fine. and time is passing before my eyes and it makes me feel uneasy because these are the years i want to remember. the 1st of octobers and 6th of februraries and 27th of mays. and all the other days.
i write from the 1st of october. i write from awful poetry and laddered tights and dreams about boys that got lost in the city. in more ways than one.
i write from the 1st of october, and the wind is blowing.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 7:35 PM UTC
The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance.
Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into.
You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: ******** ******** ******** ******** All ******** for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******** keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******** structure that holds up the ******** truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******** structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night.
The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth.
You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute.
The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic.
So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
I may be that girl
you see passing by
a cheeky grin
and a twinkle in her eye
That little smile
is really just for you
she'll gaze into your eyes
so you'll know it's true
Shaking that little *****
'coz everything's alright
greeting you each day
with a wave and a 'Hi!'
She hopes to make you feel great
with her good mood and delight
You may hear her coming
with her dainty sunkissed feet
slipped into flip flops
her painted toes look a treat
Sashaying by
in a floaty summer skirt
she's a 'people person'
not a naughty little flirt
She hopes to see you again
to give a wink and a saucy smile
It's to see you on your way
and remember
you're her favourite by a mile
; )
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
A moment, an ethereal softness that, within it,
consumed is the whole being.
It was nature and nerves set to flame.
A gentle lust and lightness that built speed
and heft deep in the pit of me.
I felt how it made your cheeks burn, then your eyes averted mine.
Your gut-reaction in word form. ****
Grace not by the usual terms
but through the breathy intonation,
to be felt rather than heard.
Raw. And unfiltered gut-stuff.
Freshly churned in the deep pit of you.
And urged up pressing against your teeth
til the last defenses breached.
And through swollen lips parted.
The very place of origin.
Where it began a-flutter, and,
once realized,
with nauseating visceral coercion.
Bodies to become stardust
afloat the wintry night cool.
Washing over the lake as we stood afront it all.
Bodies to become heat.
A reduction of bone, muscle, flesh.
Liquid- like-swimming bodies.
But everything swimming.
Mind and spirit too-
swimming floaty- like.
Swimming in the liquid night-pool of star matter.
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 4:41 AM UTC
free me from
lopsided dreams
dizzy and frantic
then
soft and floaty.
downside out
and
upside in.
and you,
always you,
creeping in
lingering
etched in my mind
and on my lips,
but bitter
like poison,
then honey stings.
please sing away the pain
in hushed memories
then erase it.
now
you will
burn
up in flames
and i will rise
from the ashes
with onyx wings
and soar
straight to the moon
and the stars
and the planets.
finally free.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
I wouldn’t like this.
A class full of uncomfortable individualised strangers.
An over head projector,
prodding, obvious questions,
trying to ascertain the exact purpose or meaning.
The space for ambiguity is closed up like a canon eclipsed by an earthquake.
Highlighter and underlining of a spontaneous experience.
They are trying to make water into concrete.
I just want it be able to bubble and foam and languish
but they want to pin it down.
I would be sad and disgusted if I saw my floaty feelings
pin boarded up onto the wall for dissection
Do not treat my insides in this way
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
we Need to talk
-why is this something saved for later? a floaty, indefinite time in the future: words that fester get no easier to say
we Need to take a break
-cracking open the distance between us like two halves of an egg shell only renders us broken and ready to run
we Need to be in love
-what if our ideas of love don't match?
the only thing worse than needing is
greeding
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
After two long days
of water skiers
and screaming kids on floaty things
skipping across the surface at high speed
behind motor boats
both big and small
loud and not so
of plump sun reddened revelers
sprawled on pontoon boats
playing loud music
drinking
48 hours of fishing lines
and hooks hanging at various depths
in anticipation of fish that may never come
of jetskis
that streak across the water
like water skeeters on *******
After all of that
a five day weekend
to rest in the sun
to let things settle
A long weekend for the lake.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC