"gazebos" poems
spoon fed my keepsakes as nothing blots the sun so much
you teach me how to cringe in spun sugar. the nape of your
neck.
gleefully, we usurp the thicket of our mild dementia. sullen
joy equipped. a sumptuous dirge curdles the myth, your fins
***
as troubadours, we malinger in the pith of our blunt fruit. crust
removed from our daily bread. our basket of basilisks, bathe
in stone.
duel wielding our gazebos... we bivouac in our ambivalence, by
turns we move. you tip toadstools as i milk maidens for their
candelabras.
our palominos run. we do
violence to timpani and click mice.
pc
drifting in the cyberwocky. we transit the binary auto-bond
and paste
whats
clip.
blue thumbs thread cranberry noose. our ***** nods off. fronds
of juniper and cannabis slap the window pane. throughwhich
a *** mouse pounced on frond’s sway.
startled, we move the furniture of our eastern proclivities.
for thine is the kingdom
of our discontent !
swing-shift lap-dogs, trundle west of the east village. smell
of ****** and nag champa. idiots sting.
idiots braid zodiacs with greasy fingers. [ indeed ]
and
you
preach from your gut...
( your left breast marvelous with taint) and saltwater taffy.
we
laugh again-
at things we have
and now
only
harbor ghosts
where the rain
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
should have
been.
this is the new
intimacy.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
Tiny smiles and loud laughs
Summer heat and cool breeze
Excited words and calm thoughts
Deep conversation about meaningless things.
Soft songs and slow guitar
Young souls with long lives
Polaroid photos and alleyways
Sunroofs and blue skies.
Dollar stores and Chinese food
Gazebos and high heels
Doughnuts and Bonnaroo
Tiny smiles and lunch meals.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
There's an illusion in vacations
You buy a holiday bundle to endless beaches
Expecting to melt into a puddle
From the wet sun, from the softest massages, from the savoury delicacies
Yet I find myself melted
The same numbing beat
Disguised as lofi background
The same screeching shrieks
Of strangers in the sun
The lack in detail as I see the same view
Everyday, the same restaurant every meal
A sameness away from home
In the sand a million footsteps form
In a uniform path from the sleepy gazebos to the ocean
The ocean stretching far and away
The horizon hiding the destination of the sun
No footsteps can lead me towards where I long
Stuck in a routine I cannot call my own
Sep 4, 2022
Sep 4, 2022 at 8:53 AM UTC
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
people drink coffee and stare at
from studio apartment windows
and under pretty white gazebos ,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that falls soft at first,
and then harder,
and then soft again,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that smells sweet
and makes flowers grow
in the spring time,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that collects in pretty puddles
in the pavement
so that toddlers in rubber boots
can jump in and splash
their parents,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that lulls crying teenagers
to sleep in their warm beds
or makes lovers miss one an other,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
people watch and listen to
with gentle acceptance,
I'm the kind of rain
that falls fast and hard,
the kind of rain that is cold
and hurts sun burnt shoulders
when it hits them,
the kind of rain that washes
pretty chalk paintings off of
drive ways in suburbs
without a second thought,
the kind of rain that
seeps through ceiling tiles
turning cozy little homes into
chaotic whirlwinds of
anxiety and destruction,
the kind of rain that
makes your joints ache
and your eyes red,
the kind of rain that
gets the kids out of the pool
and sprinting inside,
cold, wet, and uncomfortable,
the kind of rain that
washes leafs into
your gutters,
you curse it all week long,
the kind of rain that
only wanted to touch the earth,
to feel some semblance of warmth,
but the kind of rain that
doesn't know how to
leave the thunder at home,
the kind of rain who
breaks the things
it loves,
no matter how
hard it tries to be
gentle...
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
The sun doesn't revolve around us,
And it was known to the ancient Hindus.
How they estimated precise distances,
It's still an exclusive paradigm of sorts.
This poem is not a nursery rhyme,
For it discusses what went wrong.
Wrong with the history of Hindus,
And with the tapestry of the world.
Hanging down the global gazebos,
Is a wonderful story of lost wisdom.
Sep 24, 2024
Sep 24, 2024 at 2:31 AM UTC
As the Earth rotates along it’s axis at a million
Million miles an hour, no one on Earth can feel the speed.
Yet while everyone shuffles past us, I’m moving at a
Billion trillion miles an hour and I love every moment.
At a time devoid of laughter, you make my sides just rip apart,
And you’ve put your hands upon and warmed my cold and frosty heart.
Your voice, I wish, it could be played in my head again and again
But it can’t, so I’ll just wait ‘til I call you again.
I need you to kiss me, because my lips hurt from falling
Head over heels.
All these feels, **** all these feels.
Tell me, baby, is this really real?
I don’t have much time left and I just can’t sit by and let
Life pass me by, so then why when a long-lost love comes around
Do I sit here and try to convince myself just
To tell her.
**** man, don’t just try and compel her.
Don’t impress or act fake, don’t be something you’re not,
Ask “What Would Will Do?” and then give it a shot,
So I tell her that I have longed for her kiss and her
Hands interlocked within mine makes me grin
Like a ******* a fool, but I don’t care because
She is mine.
She is fine.
Now I put my heart out on the line.
Here I go, no tip-toes, I run straight, don’t look back,
The pulse in my chest feels like a heart attack,
But I calm down and smile when I realize it’s just
How she makes me feel.
My heart and my brain, now on the same page
For the first time, yes, it’s a shock.
People always gave me compliments and told me I was funny,
But I never thought that it would be enough to please you, honey,
So I walked away and sighed and didn’t want to go,
And so now, the water’s won’t be tested with a toe.
I’m diving headfirst, into picnics and dates and
Candy cane kisses at way-past-too-late,
And coffee breath pillow talk, but we just don’t care…
God, do I wish I could just smell her hair.
Of all the inhabitants of this small world,
I just can’t believe that I found you.
Got so lucky to just stick around you.
Music’s our blood and the roads are sheet music
So let’s write our own silly love song.
With your smile, I simply can’t go wrong.
Can we dance in gazebos and see that, these, and then those,
And whatever may come in between.
On top of the world, Titanic-sized love,
Except we don’t hit icebergs, we climb them.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
Pollen scented halos
float on tin music
played from under
pop-up gazebos
(providing insurance
against dark clouds
blotting the horizon).
Light dims and glares
as the sun plays peek-a-boo
with infants running
to no end.
Pram junkyards,
picnic islands;
the territories of the
green and daisy-dotted land.
***** thumped with bass notes
in wrong directions;
dads run after toe-poked
spheres into the road.
Trees watch from the edges;
a shallow forest leading
to suburbia, where the *****
gazebos, children are stored.
Dogs. Oh, the dogs.
This is their land, of course.
They make the rules
and pull their clothed
owners like staggering drunks
into the deep of the park.
A man jogs past.
A bike rings it's bell.
A laugh wins the
battle of decibels.
A plastic bag rustles
in the exhaling wind.
The daisies vibrate
and reach to leave their
grassy bed.
But they are part of the park.
May they never leave.
May England remain this
way in memories forever.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
The gazebos roof looked daunting
Hypnotic fear
The kind that
makes my *****
hot
sweaty
screaming for more of what you've got
Pulsating fear
sits in the core of my temples
I saw the source in the forest through it's
dark inconsistencies
A void
Branches,
loom
You're hand
You're light
I'll tell you,
Smug eyes
Dark circles
The notches in your wrist
It meant nothing
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Nassau
Warm smiles under rusted hulls,
mailboats smoking,
lobster red cruise ship tourists,
back to the islands they go
Highborn Cay
White cloth walled gazebos,
bikinis and tan.
Loungers on pearl beaches,
lovers, the sea and sand
Compass Cay
A pirates place.
Rustic docks in crystal blue.
A meeting place, restless souls
Pathways and secrets on a tropical island.
Oh, frolicking sharks? In cuddle piles.
Staniel Cay
Rural and lovely,
Pink and blue shops, take your pick.
Haggling fishermen in front of a quaint little pub.
far from home, further from troubles.
Locals tell me god blesses me a lot.
The church has the best plot of land.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
The middle of November. That’s how I like to remember you. I think of you as the middle of November: Cold, with red hair like falling leafs and blue eyes like the sky looks when my eyes water from the wind and my small hands would go numb. Something changed. You were no longer the November mornings I’d spend high as a kite contemplating where I’d be three years from then, hopeful and star struck. You were June. Too warm. You were the June afternoons I’d spend going from high to low, my arms burning in the beating sun waiting for a small, black pickup truck that never would come. You were gazebos with peeled back mesh walls, letting bugs crawl across my bare skin until I thought I’d have to peel that back, too. You were cigarette butts put out in old cans of Diet Coke, mason jars full of expired whipped cream, fireplaces with no purpose.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
Sigourney was a saltwater princess
born from a flash flood;
a stray cat I found
stuck between the boards
of a wooden fence.
Her cries mimicked
the local 6 o'clock siren
with a backdrop
of toe beans fettering
on a park sidewalk.
I mirrored the way
her left paw traced
the cracks of the cement,
(fast paced, sloppily),
then ushered her out
using a combination of
strength and saliva.
"It's okay,
you won't get wet,"
I whispered
as my left hand struggled
getting out a plastic bag.
Carefully,
with precision,
Sigourney was plopped
backwards into
torn up plastic
marked
Have A Nice Day!
Alone we trudged
through flooded baseball fields
and gazebos
to cross the highway.
"Do you want
to go home?
Do you have
a home?"
I took a shortcut through
the Taco Bell drive-thru,
cars honking,
claws breaking through
malleable material.
cotton, skin, etc.
Sigourney said nothing.
"Good,
because I don't know
if I want to."
Tucked into a bag tucked into a jacket,
we headed westward
as far as we could,
before a cop approached
a teen at midnight
technically committing
a catnapping.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
It is the hardest to wake up
in shambles.
Your day is a mixture
of soft memories
and crushing nostalgia.
Do you remember?
The rooftop with
gardens and gazebos
and warmth for us to grow?
I forgot how close
it always was,
how wrong it all feels
because nothing grows there
anymore.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
050720
People started drinking coffee and staring at Me
From studio apartment windows,
Under pretty white gazebos,
In the open carport,
Busy offices with disinfecting stuff,
Some even paused Netflix on their TV screens.
Some hated Me –
For while I smell sweet,
Only some flowers grow
In the springtime.
And there were some whose thorns
**** the other just to survive.
I watched while hands are being driven to the sky
As if they're waiting for Me,
As if they're prepared enough.
Some collects in pretty puddles on the pavement
So that toddlers in rubber boots
Can jump in and splash their parents –
And they're on it,
I bet the game has started.
Love is sincere –
I make lovers miss one another,
I lull crying teenagers
To sleep in their warm beds
And some keep dancing
Tapping the floor with each move
And they believed I was hypnotized
To delay my visit and their season.
People don't simply watch
And listen with gentle acceptance,
I saw various faces changing masks every day –
Trying to fit what seems an "endless time."
Some were afraid of Me –
As one talks about Me,
Some run away.
So they don't even hear my expertise.
That I wash pretty chalk paintings off
Of driveways in suburbs
And without a second thought,
I can make them clean.
One tells the other,
As if I seep through their ceiling tiles
Turning cozy little homes
Into chaotic whirlwinds
Of anxiety and destruction --
Maybe, that's how their perspectives are.
I love the kids, so playful of their kind --
So I get them out of the pool
While sprinting inside,
Cold, wet, and uncomfortable.
Then I wash the leaves into
their gutters.
I touch the earth with my presence
To feel some semblance of warmth,
And I don't leave the thunder at your home,
I don't break the things that I love,
Unless they let me break their hearts
For what breaks mine.
I am the Rain,
But most of the time, I'm more than that.
Nov 24, 2022
Nov 24, 2022 at 3:02 AM UTC