"forwarding" poems
all the boys she loved were abandoned churches
with no forwarding address
until the day she knocked down his door
and walked into a cathedral
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
My recollect is of the each,
The Two
And within the Two
One is the One
Holding and using our lead and ink utensils
as if they are weapons for winning at Love,
and reasoning for our written duel
Expressing desires the voice would customarily sever into dissection
Permitting authority to the crafted scripts *********
and may it’s barrier lay
over the possibility of a broken and scattered tongues communicate
Giving our internal intent its day
the way hoped it would speak
Expecting the requited, the return
was a pesticide over wide horizon,
Where the organic surprise of rainfall kept us neutral and thankful
And apart,
our minds maintained with
and of our other
With no need for philosophical proofs only the inner felt proof
Of forwarding shards of sentiment
with compiled assurance
and a dispatched formula
the best way we could phrase
Alongside images
that came in and held tight
in sectors tucked away and reserved from the cherished
to this day are still to be amazed
Spontaneous placement of universally synchronized jewels and stones
Of not have to have
[Only the simplified, pushed down and planted fact]
Of want her to have
So when away,
You feel a personal, singled-out
appraisal of praise
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 9:07 PM UTC
I think that I shall never see
A thing as odd as eight baby
Eight baby from a single mother
Makes me roll my eyes- oh brother
Oh sister oh brother oh sister oh yeah
Mother looked like a Guernsey cow
Is there milk enough- I don't see how?
Eight colic'd infants wailing in the night-
Draw back, draw back- go fly a kite
Eight fitful babies screaming in duress-
Moved far away left no forwarding address
Eight poopy babies dragging two pound diapers
Went to the car wash and used the windshield wipers
Eight teething babies wrangling on the bed-
Picked up a gun and blew off her head.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 9:49 AM UTC
Virginia,
bathed in the misty Ouse
overcoat pockets filled with the hard grey stones of life
dark rocks to match the shadows
of the mountain heaped upon her back
until she could not bear the load
so she swam, and did not leave a forwarding address
or bring a towel and sandwiches for a picnic
Mar 23, 2024
Mar 23, 2024 at 4:10 AM UTC
My father taught me five:
He taught me
1. That it is okay to be late to dinner or not show up at all as long as you have a good reason.
taught me
2. That everyone makes mistakes and either you live with them or you runaway from them leaving only a voicemail and a forwarding address.
taught me
3. That you'll never have to be disappointed by others if your the disappointment and if you leave before the introductions.
taught me
4. That names are fickle, and there is never any point of telling someone yours if you have no plans to remember theirs.
taught me
5. That you have to give a little to get a little but that sometimes you give a little and get a lot of something you don't want.
My mother taught me five:
She taught me
5. That somedays you'll wake up and want to die because life is hard and no one will be on your side if you're against yourself.
taught me
4. That it is hard to forgive and forget and it is even harder when you're 19 and all you're left with is a swelling abdomen, a voicemail and a forwarding address.
taught me
3. That good deeds don't make the person, that sacrifices make the person, that waking up alone at 4am to a crying baby makes the person.
taught me
2. That it's healthy to cry, but it's not healthy to cry yourself to sleep at night and cry yourself into productivity in the morning.
taught me
1. That it is okay to be late to dinner or not show up at all as long as you have a good reason.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
cursed and plagued and ...
whispered on the candy stained lips of ******** children,
just hoping that something bad will happen
i was one of them, testing the limits and toeing the line and waiting,
baited breath and excited eyes, for the "break a leg" to become more than just a saying for good luck
and maybe i pushed the envelope a little too far,
maybe the bard punished not the production but the girl with wild hair and a wilder grin, sending her the karma meant for lady mac herself
maybe i am that cruel woman
or maybe i am her fairer husband, because the weird sisters that predict my downfall are named Anxiety, Alcoholism, and Anger
i wish i had been superstitious as a child
(forwarding the chain emails and reblogging or ten years of bad luck didn't drive me to the cliff's edge)
because maybe i would be safe now
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
I have Scratched your name
into my Calendar
Your name sits on the lined of my diary
poised for consistent use
At what point did you become
so natural to me
So that when I said your name,
it tasted like nostalgia and hope
and the Cool Fire of our words
warms me to contentment
It wasn't until you spoke and
I smiled
That I knew I missed you when you
were gone
But how can I miss you
When you're only an hour away
Still
I'm regretting the wasted July Mornings
When my nerves swallowed up the sentiments that said
that I think of you sometime, even when you aren't around
It sounds frivolous to say that I'd hope for events
that would draw your lens near
But now I'm budgeting you into my time
and Just hope that it's not wasted
The effort it takes to write these sentiments down is
Nearly incomparable to that effort which must be taken
to Remind the heart on my Sleeve to stay put
and not seep into that vein that will Surely carry dreams across my body
The word that I could entitle
Perfect
And since that word is unattainable here
I'll only say all the others
You're that feeling right after a pull
And you feel yourself slip under the friendly drowse
You're that feeling when you feel a set of eyes on your
blushing cheeks
You're the laughter of
a clever retort
You're a Melody thats gives spirit to my word
You're that fire that burns with
a bravery that you cannot see
You're that ticking clock, there to remind me
that Time is Precious
and Soon I hate that circled square on the
Calendar
&
I pray that that circle does not act as a deadline
for when your heart can be
mine
Because I like the sweetness of our fresh beginnings
And I do hope I may call it a beginning
Instead of a short story.
I'm all over the clock,
Yearning for more firsts with you
But even still, hoping for a second or 12.
And some first that could count
in a way that didn't get chalked up to
Naive Sentiments
Meaning I want you too much
And My head is rushing
Hours into this Instant.
Fast Forwarding to our Next Kiss
Sending me on a Clockwise Whirlwind
to times that may not even exist
But I still hope and Gamble
for More hours to play
Procrastinating the Seconds into convincing us all
That It's Casual
It is not Casual, to me.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Hath thou seen Queen Mab to-day?
in that bitter carriage, with her dreams
Forwarding to the cursèd fray
with unhallowed thoughts, or so ’twould seem
And creeping under willow’s bough
’pon rotting leaves and sick’ning scents
Of fretting unborn babes and now
she peddles with a marred intent
With foreign faeries in the leaves
who show broken wares and scattered souls
They hide amongst the dripping reeds
while dying rays reflect on shoals
And here, on the last hour of light
mab cursed the world into the night.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Out of everything I saw, I remember
the thumb.
Swollen and lopsided.
There it was, conquering the wires--red, blue, and green,
commandeering the clear tubes coated with stomach bile.
And the nail. What a healthy nail.
A pink rosebud with cuticle trim. Piqued with a white crest, curling.
Prime for at least fifteen more back scratches.
A drawerful of button-ups.
Pockets of heads and tails.
You can do it, Grandma.
One, two.
Heads, tails.
Up, down.
Up for braid, down for bun.
Braid? Yes. Braid.
And then there are two small thumbs bumbling through foreign terrain.
The braidee now braiding. The baby,
aging.
Tucked in, lulled by echoes of strange mothers. Bleeping pressures, sugars, drawing lines and colors.
But you have me.
And I have this thumb,
hidden under mine.
I’ll keep it safe for you, here in this shadowed palm—sanctified, secret dome.
I’ll protect it from the unhooked jaw.
From placid flesh curtains, over a damp backstage.
White light hanging over the insect—splayed on a lightning-gleamed car windshield.
I’ll hide it away.
Intermission.
Hush now.
Quiet, you. The show is not yet done.
And ****** it won’t be. Not with this thumb.
Not on my time.
I bite it.
At you. Skyward you.
Elusive and slippery. Shiny, rubber-like, all but new.
A blank belated card, lost in the mail.
What it might have said,
had I left a forwarding address.
But we’re here now in this dark hand cavern.
Tucked away, safely in lines.
Those of the palm.
Of tree rings.
Of love songs, and
Pretty things.
Lines, like wires
red, green, and blue.
They bring me closer
And closer
To the thumb.
Fat, with shiny aged skin,
stretched new.
And suddenly, I’m
Old.
Numb along one side.
Useless and dumb.
A limp puppet
plunked down
during intermission.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
open ended, carved under the sky,
before night arrests our bated breathing,
a long line pulls taut.
a single glimmer, thirty
seven degrees to the horizon,
devolves in absence; here,
a heaviness.
you tore the center of a
dripping plum clean to
ripples over fading plains,
corners of streets where
i stand, on one foot,
against this architect's second-best:
perfect still, bearings, city centre.
lost.
a kite string north, slight east,
the rotation of points demarcating
this pasture, a
long line becoming cycles,
tying tree-trunks like
your handwriting in switchblade font;
static inanimacy, a
song for nothing, a five
minute overhaul, the only
meaningful composition the
world will give up.
years.
taking up a pair of scissors,
you make soft moves;
kiss someone new a little longer
kiss someone new a little
kiss someone new,
smile,
skin as parchment,
fine paintings, forwarding addresses,
symbols glowing through the depths of night;
a candle, alight,
to have read you by.
a short line comes loose,
i fall down.
empty.
you fall asleep,
smile.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
the webmaster has
become quite the recluse
he's been away without
offering a viable excuse
it was back in March
that he fled from this egress
not issuing any of us
a forwarding address
on Tuesday we sent
out twenty four scouts
to ascertain intelligence
as to his whereabouts
but the search party had
no good news to impart
all of them were
so disconsolate of heart
the domain is rather
down in the dumps
since our webmaster
pulled up his stumps
we are desirous of him
returning to home ground
it will be such a relief knowing
he's safe and sound
an APB was posted
on the worldwide web
by Brianna Jason
Trent and Kaleb
to seek out the now
cloistered maintainer
who's deserted his position
as our house retainer
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
There was nothing in this vast landscape of delusions, only illusions.
A flower, a friend, a gift, a betrayal, a tear, a shattered mirror and perdition.
The music of the euphoric nothingness enticing the darkness,
calling for the shadows, everlasting, never ending.
I know, I deserve this. Always threw the stone and looked the other way,
the sin, the penitence, the lament, the void, the shallowness, the meaningless.
Living each day a moribund marionette moving through the crowd an empty mess.
The ticking, the hunger, the instrument, the mending of the ending,
but then came you. An unexpected gaze wondering through my maze.
Navigating each passage as if though you knew the way, a hindrance.
Let me corrode here please, go away, I thought. I never said it.
You remained here almost an embodiment of the hope I sought for so long,
Perhaps this is another of my creations, a desire from the dire.
Your hands are tepid, driving the frigidness away, maybe it's real?
An hour, a day, a week, a period of time slowly passes.
You are hope, my hope, my desire, my wish, my light and gentle day.
I found the impatient clock fast-forwarding each hour until the time had come,
to see one another.
Your world was intriguing and vivid everyday was fun, every night a pain.
Without a warning you brought the richness of the paint in to the callousness of mine.
The sky once again blue, the birds with songs, the grass now green my world anew.
Mere words such as “i love you” can't paint paint the picture, for it was more.
And yet here I am again. Alone.
Alive, not dead, back on the path to my journey.
Collecting, standing, walking and eventually running through the paradox.
Anew, exhumed, hope plastered once again against my chest,
and as I cry, tumble, fall and learn;
Each days is new, each meeting a joy and each moment thanking you.
Good-bye! I bid farewell to you, let our past be remembered beautifully,
and the present lived and the future build, as once again;
I construct, destroy, collapse, laugh and dream.
As today the ticking resumes and I commence from where I stopped.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
CROSSROADS
by Beth Faulkner
When you know I'm dead, don't say my name
for I will never move on.
I would hear your voice and return.
I'd live in this eternal waiting room
Watching memories like home videos.
Pausing at the wonderful times,
fast forwarding through the hard,
rewinding and playing over and over
to hear you ask if I shall love you always
,and myself answer "till the end of days"
I need to leave,but I make every excuse not to
Watching the memories until our last moments
Then I hear you call my name and begin again..
******
I know you're dead, and I still whisper your name
for I will never move on.
I hear your voice and beg for you to return
to the eternal waiting room of my mind.
Watching my memories like home videos,
pausing at the time where you belonged to me
fast forwarding through my times without you
rewinding and playing over and over
knowing that I shall love you always
'Til the end of days.
I need to leave, move on.
But every memory is a reason not to.
Watching them until my last moment,
until I whisper your name, and begin again..
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:22 AM UTC
The world has turned into a global village
No one can deny on that...
But..remember the phone we had placed on that beautiful table mat?
Yes...it was a matter of pride to have one..
The only fastest medium of communication we had at that time
It too had models...the rotary phone, the keypad and many fancy ones
We talked, laughed and sobbed sitting at one place as we were tied with the corded set with everyone.
It was safe.....no fear of radiation or loss of eye sight .
Though it was much too costlier than what it is today....people still communicated and talked their heart out
Now...every hand has a cell phone which comes with many features overcoming the limitation of the old one
People can connect anywhere in no time
Then why...?
We are so disconnected.....!
May be we mastered the art of telepathy?...or we are blessed with a magical wand...?
We talk no more
We only make groups
We love forwarding messages
We have become mute.....
So can we again move to landline?
Come out of the virtual world by talking to our dear ones at this time?
Can we try and understand what they are hiding behind their smiling whatsapp profiles?
Let's do things one at a time...rather than multitasking with phone on one hand and laptop on the other...
Let's give them the love and respect when one needs from your side.
So ..... sit back and dial a number of your loved one...and help the world again to become one if not through landline but may be your heartline!!
Bina Mukherjee
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 2:39 PM UTC
I asked my friends to look after my house
while I was away.
I left a forwarding address
and nothing else.
A few asked how long I would be gone,
and I said I wasn't sure.
I don't know much more than my middle name.
My mother called,
breaking the silent drive I was enjoying.
She asked if I was still with Schyler.
I told her I didn't know,
and that she would have to call him
after his date.
I've heard she is a respectable woman.
I checked into the Chinatown motel
and tipped the bell hop after he retrieved my mail.
Not that I appreciated his services;
I hoped he would save his earnings and leave.
No one deserves to grow up here.
One letter was from my neighbor
asking for a postcard.
I sent my bill, hoping that was enough.
The second was from my brother,
his letter of resignation and a simple request
with a time constraint:
You have two weeks to make everything right.
While looking for a black pen
I found a green answer,
and the returning question of why
blue and red make white,
and not the beautiful purple hue
Schyler talked about so often.
I wondered if he had forgotten the color of my eyes.
I ran out of time and spent all my money
with no souvenirs to showcase back home.
Schyler seemed hesitant when I gave him
a date of my return,
and I lied when I said I missed his embrace.
I left a note on my pillow
appologizing for the mess
and said that I would be back next year.
My excuse to return the stolen towels.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
Time is fast forwarding and I don't think I can keep up. My soul is darkening just like the bags under my eyes. I'm exhausted in every way possible. I'm a traveler stagnant and stuck bouncing from person to person to reach my destination. They all tell me that they can't help me unless I can help myself. Till I met you... hopeful speck, brighten up. It seems like you're my partner on this journey, a soul fused to mine. "A best friend is just part of yourself in another body." Everyday we talk about new destinations when I can only think of my own. Why would a god do this to a lonely traveler? Why would a God open up new routes when I was so close to the end..so I abandoned you..to continue my own journey..It grew dark again. I lost the moon while staring at the the stars. The light at the end of the tunnel seems to be a hopeful speck in the distance I may never reach, but I keep walking.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
15th,
the time of the month
when a master card american expresses a visa reminder,
hey your passport gonna get cxld!
don't leave town; you got debts due from living life
to the fullest or the lesser, the black & white soda of
mixed up scrapings and dreaming disney fantasias
7 decades is a whole lot of 15th's
many rent/mortgage notices due,
'postage not included' notices,
(in case you were thinking of cutting a
first class stamp size
corner)
the worst word rent, rents,
and not only on the 15th,
smiling - got to rent me a poem someday,
what is the cost, guessing I'll find out on the 15th next
all the time,
lip limp from weekend to the next Friday,
just just making it through, barely,
month to the month, year to tear, dear and dare
15th to the 15th, teenth to teenth
and what is in betweenth
fully forecast a final call, last call will come on a 15th,
made sure there will be enough left to cover the outstandings,
another outstanding word I love
just enough left to mail me and my ritings,
take care of the responsibles, the non-disposables,
my last months rent, covered, my rep intact,
but no more, no one last yellow taxi ride
***the postage to return me
to my next forwarding address,
and even the cost of this poem,
got it covered***
3:23am 8/15/17
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
Your world belongs to me now.
I can take over every aspect of it, 24/7,
Stopping just shy, by a few micrometers, of what the law allows.
I'll accompany you now on all shopping trips
Offering my advice from, oh, forty feet or so away.
I'll utilize binoculars to make sure you're not doing anything unsafe.
Amazing how well those things work sometimes.
Especially at night, eh?
I might have to replace your dog with a smaller, less intimidating unit;
Of course; you're free to keep the replacement or do whatever you want with him.
Don't want to risk a serious bite on my intrusive forays after darkness..
Call forwarding; amazing cool thing that is!
No questions asked; just need a few minutes time on the telephone!
And pictures; I'll be taking loads of those.
You never know just when a particular photo might come in real handy.
I carry around bird-watching paraphernalia, so anytime I get stopped,
Everything looks copacetic, even the binos.
I also carry groundwater test kits, along with shovels, rakes; boring stuff like that.
You never know when you might need to test the water in an area.
The test kits are out of date by a decade or more, but who's checking?
Had to duct tape that old broken out back window.
I know, I know; it's unsightly and makes me highly visible,
But they'll never raise an eyebrow now, on seeing that fat roll of duct tape.
And you will always have peace of mind, since you can readily identify my car
And know for sure that I'm on the job, around the clock-
Working only for you, babe.
Oops; time's a-flying. Have to get downtown to the city before they close.
I've requested to take a peek at some publicly viewable records.
Amazing what you can find out there, that you never would have expected.
Isn't it?
Bye now; catch you later, ok?
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
Zen minimalist, tool
slipping words two fingers in
and seizing hold, mixing in subtle verbs
spinning worlds, filling up voids
with a tantalizing wetness
Yes, minimalist
and less is more
so clean that up you ***** *****
and speak only silence
leave them lost in awkwardness
born from want and wanting more, like
‘I know you want this
and yes I got this
minus man or wing by my side
rising instead from happy feelings, inside
sounding wise enough to me
and maybe soon I'll see exactly
what they meant’
as we drop and rise
in two time beat
knees, bent, in, weak
quivering at the seams
diving into dreams and coming
out breath stopped, heart attacked,
jagged and off
then two scenes later, maybe three tops
jumping ahead, fast forwarding to
the quick bits
the grimy bits
the slimy bits
the ins and outs
proving what drive thru is all about-
- since there's no need to waste time
on the things we can do
again, and again, and again.
Then, reverse spin
back to the beginning, cowboy
back to the drawing board
back to the sheets
put your back in it and ride, harder
calves carved in, jump the fleet
lift arms up in victory
the downward dog days are over
and we saw them coming
inhibitions released
letting go of the sweet
and drizzling, no just
jizzing all over the God **** place
hot and flustered, in our face
rushing to encase thoughts that
had always filled the space
but still, found no place in design
rather finding the time
to bleed them out, in epiphanies,
calling them nirvanas
calling them divinities
but titling them Truth.
And swearing, on your life
that that's what it was to you
and I lay there, only trying
not to believe it too.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
Journey to a far off land,
Forget about events transpired
Stare into the bright lit tube
Powered through its wires
Click the switch, surf the waves
Before deciding on a channel
That allows you to open up your mind
Never more than you can handle
Relax
Grab a snack
Sit there in your underwear for all I
care
Ponder life's mystique
Let your worries drip away
With your drivel as you sleep
Covet every moment
Every sitcom and commercial
No matter how risqué
Or otherwise controversial
Laugh until your hearts content
Clap when the audiences cheer
That you should become part of the culture
Surrounded by your peers
Cry with every parting
Of favorite characters parts portrayed
The actors most relatable
The true "stars" of the trade
For tomorrow is another day
To face the daily grind
No fast forwarding through the days events
Or pausing, until quitting time
Set the DVR, to view at some other time
Shut your eyes and get some rest
Or Netflix and chill and hit rewind
Play back every missed detail
You somehow overlooked
Or better yet, hit the on/off switch
And open up a book.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
Call yourself Morgan.
Do not hesitate.
You were born on summer solstice.
Like the sun, you’re distant from others.
Move to Seattle and leave no forwarding address.
Busker for a break and warm your bones with charity work.
Pretend poetry is the only thing you’re good at,
And be good at it.
You can’t just write ****** words into
An exhausted leather journal, no.
Incorporate stanza into every conversation.
Drip intensity and rapture like morphine
Into the veins of anyone who will actually love you.
Speak as if you were never human and you’re still learning to exist.
Metaphors and run-on’s are your best friends-
Run-on sentences.
Run-on arguments.
Run-on relationships.
Run-on recovery.
Develop a reliance on caffeine so potent that
you've become the 7:30am medium black coffee
at the cafe down the street.
Leave no traces.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Once again clinging to the past like a baby clings to her mother
Walking in a straight line I sometimes forget the world is a circle
If I keep going straight I'll find myself exactly where I first started
And going back after walking so far at this point is not what I want at all
How is it I wander back home when I am trying to run away
Does the world shift my straight lines to secretly turn me around?
I don't want to be put into reverse nor do I want to fast forward
Pausing myself and looking around, I find myself somewhere foreign
Like always I shrug and choose a direction to make straight lines in
Fast forwarding and rewinding all the time and never knowing it
Maybe my changing motions make a three dimensional cycle
My straight lines curve in the 5th dimension that I cannot see
Impossible movements from the unknown are my trickery
But somehow I find myself starting over from scratch again
1d 2d 3d 4d all I need is something to correctly move me
I need to direct my path into the right navigations of motion
So program my straight lines and distort the dimension of curveballs
It's time to pause and figure out where I am and where I'm headed.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Am I in hell
Or are there fluorescent lights up there
I tapped on the bulb
And it blossomed into darkness
Fast-forwarding like a dead tulip
And here is where I call home
Where two lovers can bloom
Without fear of being seen
They can dance without tripping
Pray without ripping a magnetic field
Making snow angels on dust
On force-fields of antigravity
But something grew eyes
It had instinct to survive
And the modern man gets offended
When you call him a monkey
Am I in hell
Or are there fluorescent lights up there
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
Blind figures, statue representative of
a forwarding thought. Ahead of myself,—
_decisions, decisions, decisions, decisions._
Too many of which, walk along the path of life.
To see as much, is seeing through the dark for
a hint of light. A sense of life; in dead still waters;
running deep of a depthful mind.
It's pen *********** is of words cutting deep,
a favourable piece, seemingly rightmove as I write.
A sight for words, breathless at times.
Annoyingly simple, but overly complicated to piece
together the masterpiece of imagination.
So as I looked up to a night sky, it filled
my head's constellations of lining routes to thoughts.
In the end—a head full of trillions of stars.
_My ideas could be bright._
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 3:55 PM UTC
Jill retweeted what I wrote,
forwarding to all her friends.
Time, you thief, who loves to gloat
over hopes and bitter ends,
say my loves and lines are bad,
say that life itself defeated me,
say I'm growing old, but add,
Jill retweeted me.
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 8:58 AM UTC