"forkfuls" poems
If only
I could put the corners of your eyes
Into words
They would be like
The skin that sits on custard
And crinkles
Or they would be
The shattering of sunlight
Over leaf-spears
That toy it apart into
Forkfuls of sweet butter
Or they would be
The winkles around the heart
Of a daffodil
One day growing,
The next dying
But always yellow
I don't much like the colour yellow
But there's a richness to it
And a glassiness
And an optimistic up-swing
That I see in the corners of your blue eyes
If only
I could put the corners of your eyes into words
Because we've all sold out
Of happy poems.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
That day at the river was the most beautiful.
There was a balance in the air that day;
everything was perfect.
We both smiled and laughed.
We fed each other forkfuls of lemon cheesecake.
We embraced and kissed.
Everything was vibrant that day and seemed to be glowing.
The water.
The rocks.
The trees and bushes.
The sky.
The few white clouds.
That day will always remain in my memory
As the most beautiful birthday I have ever had.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
The simple act
of throwing cups of cold water
hurriedly, several times
over the head and shoulders,
when taking a bucket shower,
is nothing I look forward to
in the morning.
An equally boring activity
is the simple act
of shoveling forkfuls of food
almost mechanically
into the mouth
with stainless steel fingers.
But the simple act
of gazing into your eyes -
across the small circular island
holding the steam-spewing thermos,
and the yellow and white eggs
silently sizzling beside freshly baked bread,
at that time in the morning
when the birds have just started
the second round of greetings -
is pure happiness
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
with a hellish mess of originality!
she don’t care, that my own estimation
is droopy, my slip showing, nah, she’s
howling and I’m returning her “favor”
***** you’re my ruination,appearing
regularly around 3:00am, with three
or more poems for me to store, as if
the world awaits my/our awakening,
muse gaslighting, trolling my brain!*
she replies:
“they come sad and easy, fed to me
in spaghetti string lines, forkfuls
of stanzas, wicked, which I lace
upon your lips for easy retrieving,
reliving them gloriously here on HP
Of course, if you prefer this woman
can disappear, like a rolling stone,
plenty new aborning poets, lyricists,
crying out for inspiration, satisfaction,
how about an adieu, bye to my how-de-do?”
she got me by my spectacles, knowing I’d
take her haunting just to write a single word,
all my own, even if took ten years long; laughing
at me, saying “you’re not the first to make that deal”
so if you see creations from a [email protected],
it ain’t me babe, just another man who sold his everything,
for a passing hallelujah, or worse, even a finale selah...
Sep 7, 2020
Sep 7, 2020 at 5:08 PM UTC