"gingerale" poems
gin reminds me of
black birds
{singing
in the dead
of
night
}
when i want to
take my
b r o k e n
wings
&
learn y
to l
f
of flowers
blooming in
january
and
slightly-sweet country music
of
{almost}
thunderstorms and orange
blossoms
of wearing
too much
mascara
and blush
just to walk around
naked
in my kitchen
of cheeks
flushed
and the taste of lime
and gingerale
on the pads of
my
fingers
of restless nights
when days are l o n g
and sweet cosmos
and wine
don't cut the edg
e
and the
sting
of lavender laundry detergent
on a paper cut
of
being a
GROWNwoman and realizing
that
childhood
doesn't
end.
or stop.
when you
walk
a c r o ss
a stage
of t
u m
b l
e
off of a summer warmed s
l
i
d
e
of swisher
sweets
and wind chimes
in north carolina
of pressed powder and the tastes of
watered down
iced coffee
{coffee
ice
shake
almond milk
pour}
with no sugar
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
I don't know how to write you and maybe that's the point of it
I think about taxi cabs and single beds and pity my poor stomach
It can't take the shame of fogged memory
Dewed with whiskey and gingerale
Not regret, but it's kin, no fooling.
I don't do regrets
And I've never said a thing that I don't mean
So I meant it when I said it, but the when's important
Because I'm not flippant, or unsteady
But I don't know how I'm feeling.
Just know that I am.
I am feeling.
And I feel that that's significant.
Because I don't want to be a ball of quicksilver
Bright, mercury
Rolling from you in quick, sharp drips
Of poisonous charm.
Don't swallow it.
But do listen.
Just not too much.
Forget I said anything.
I'll stay quiet
Until I know what I'm saying.
Just know that I am feeling
Even if I don't know what I'm feeling.
I am feeling.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 5:32 PM UTC
gem scones
and ginger loaf bread,
slathered with farmfresh butter.
washed down with
oh so **** cold home made
lemonade ices.
little pots of salmon rillettes
and tiny potted prawns
eaten on crisp potato wafers.
crustless finger sandwiches
of cucumber and tomato,
grown twenty feet to the left
of where we sit.
in the shade of the radiata pine tree.
minted gingerale punch.
sunshine dappled light,
playing on fine glassware.
the aromas of ovenlove
mint, pine, ginger, citrus
and salt,
mingle with old spice and
lavender water, of the grands, dozing,
as they sit baking, basking,
in the afternoon heat.
high tea,
at the homestead farm.
on the windswept coastal
plain.
once every couple of months,
awaited with much, anticipation.
remembered with much
fondness
a feast of food, family
and much love.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC