"godmothers" poems
some times I believe,
not think,
but believe,
that there are indeed little figures in the grass,
brushing my ankles with tickles and laughs
sometimes in mid of velvet black,
can see them waving their six fingered hands
in front of the lights across the bay,
for the twinkles are different, their winkles,
semaphoric, euphoric, random but patterned
every know and every then,
could they be inside me,
inciting riots, sugar sharp pains,
in places where pain has no place purposed,
feel them lifting my-back-of-the-neck hairs,
at scary movies, making an ear itchy, why?
these elusives
are fairie godmothers,
personal angels,
hobgoblins,
shoulder sitters,
amusing muses
ear whisperers,
of new poem titles
sock stealers,
shoelace knoters,
giggling self-amusers,
ever present, ever invisible,
hat hiders, wet spot slider installers
you say you know them too?
cousins perhaps, for my elusives,
could not be here and there,
for they are:
as I write,
as I speak,
this very second
fluttering my eyelids,
those rascals,
to lay me down to sleep,
in cherishing tenderness me to keep
for they know too well,
sleep,
is an elusive of a different kind,
like peace of mind,
but they do their best,
to distract me unto rest
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?
Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.
In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.
When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.
Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.
I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
3.9k
I'll fly out from this rollercoaster
Filled with disgust, with dizziness
The operator stands aghast
Amidst the turning machine
Above his heels,
Within his well-fed hands
It spins and turns
Like Big Brother's voice
On a broken loop
Creaking engine recalls
A sordid, mechanical taste
In the mouths of the trapped
They think it's so wondrous
To be on top of a flightless
Soar to the heavens
To see those ant-like buildings
Like a grain of dust in their hands
But they have paid the price
The people of the carnival only feeds them dreams
While they snicker inside the tents
Fairy godmothers on their breaks
Clouds darken beneath us
Rumbling, rumbling, roar the
Blue-violet crack in the sky goes
As we rode along to the earth's tremble
The view matches not what they promised
But everyone must go on till the ride stops
I sniffed the steps of rain in a small stairway to my senses
I knew right then that ride wasn't what we all thought
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
We should stop falling in love
with our dreams and ideas and thoughts
of the things we truly desire.
We get disappointed about the things we expect
but, goodness, we have no clue about what they really are.
We should stop changing ourselves
and turning into the characters
we've watched from romance films.
We crave the kind of love they have,
but, goodness, those are not real.
We should stop searching
for whoever's meant for us
if we'll only leave people with broken hearts.
We hope to find who's best for us
but, oh my goodness, we abandon hearts & souls for our next try.
We should stop living
in movie scenes that create
false hope inside our haunted minds.
We wish to exist in fairytale
but, oh my Dear, there are no fairy godmothers here.
Because, Dear,
There may be (or may not be) someone to save you.
There may be (or may not be) someone who always understands
There may be (or may not be) someone who'll be there
And there may be (or may not be) a happy ending.
Yes, there always may be, but there may not be, too.
(And I'm sorry)
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Sometimes it takes years.
Sometimes, only a few months.
Sometimes, in one brief moment of eye contact
across a crowded Chinese restaurant,
that in all honesty you never even wanted to go to.
People say that love at first sight is a joke.
Something to put in movies, right next to magic carpets and fairy godmothers.
Personally, I used to be in favor of the years notion. Or at least many months.
Unfortunately, your emotions don't always like to agree with your notions.
For me, it took less than a week.
I mean, it could happen.
Why not?
God made the universe in six days.
Why can't you fall in love in six days?
God doesn't exist?
Probably not, I agree.
What's your point?
I see. Hypocrisy.
Maybe I'm just fooling myself.
If I don't believe in God,
can I believe in anything else?
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 12:54 PM UTC
oh, terrible person;
oh, woe is me, terrible
'person' for terrible acts
that were never committed
in the first place.
oh, second place,
welcome me. welcome
me? welcome 'person'
for uncommitted deeds
and false memories?
is it welcome? is it
welcome?
oh, honey. oh, darling.
oh, sweet sweet sinner
from catholic school
in the back seat of a fighter jet.
oh, military propaganda
for a life un-lived. oh,
song. oh, drown it out.
oh, performance.
oh, performance.
oh, beautiful girl.
oh, girl to be taken.
oh, girl to be used.
oh, girl, get used to it,
you'll be dealing with this
longer than it was dealt to you.
oh, girl, you'll be hurt
longer than the hurters. oh,
sweetheart, i forgive you because you
were young. but you are me,
so i also hate you.
oh, little one.
won't you grow up?
won't you be a failure
earlier than i was?
won't you give up
like i never did?
won't you hitch a breath
on a short prayer,
wish you never were
wish they never were
wish those things...
oh, those things.
wish they never were?
see, you're younger than me.
oh, you're so much younger than me.
wish they were never done;
see, twenty-three year olds
don't have fairy godmothers.
they have propranolol and therapists
and dialectical behaviour therapy forms
forgotten to be filled in.
oh, forgotten.
oh, stone slabs with no meaning.
oh, stonehenge.
oh, mythology.
be an anthropologist, my love.
curl up your grief
and your trauma
and work it into a pretty clay sculpture.
oh, sweetie, make it beautiful
please
make it beautiful. make it
loved, or just make it.
let it be finished
and loved
and long-lasting
and then die.
oh, and then die.
listen to music.
sink into music.
be music,
be beautiful,
be consumed.
you are what was done to you.
after all,
oh, after all,
you are what was done to you.
you are what was done?
you are done.
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 8:43 PM UTC
Why do I cry about love when children are dying of hunger?
Why do I feel empty about you, when millions live on a dollar?
Why do I cry about love when mothers are burying their children?
I want to cry for the right reasons
I want to cry for injustice
For wirikuta
I want to cry to my mother, my sisters, my grandmothers and beg them for forgiveness
Forgive all my sexist trespassing, all my alliances to abusive men, all my silences
Forgive all the times you cleaned after me and served me
All the awkward situations I put you into for defending me
And my right to be queer
Forgive me mother
Sisters, aunts, grandmothers, godmothers
For allowing you to be undermined in ceremony
For stepping up and not letting you speak
For speaking the words that belonged to you
For not singing soft enough for your ears
Why do I cry over men who don’t love me
And forget about the women who raised me to be the queer that I am?
So I place these tears as an offering of love
Will you please accept them?
Mother earth
Mother universe
Will you please accept my offering?
Why do I cry over love,
While others have tears no more?
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
My paper crown has burned.
My wings have been ripped away.
My faerie godmothers are not real,
Neither is the court of Fae.
So while I sit and wait
For a darling prince to come,
I may as well remember
That there isn't going to be one.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
Maybe it’s at 3am with the lights on
or 1pm in the orange gleeming sun.
When I think about dying,
it’s not after my brothers punch.
It’s the moment between feeling everything
and absolutely nothing at all.
I am eating clean, working every muscle,
and still this part of me is oozing black.
On Sunday my smile fades
like the orange sun in November’s 6pms.
Meeting my friends disappointment in me,
and for dinner my godmothers dismay.
How many girls does it take to die to make you believe their emotions are valid?
How many men does it take to fix
a lightbulb without a fuse?
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 2:42 AM UTC
The bud blossomed into a lovely rose.
It's petals bloomed to mellow joy.
In the world of fairy godmothers and princess,
for her the flower was her grand pride.
Without a note of farewell the flower had gone down,
and wept her heart at the sight of the dead rose.
Though words of sympathy were conveyed,
nothing could heal her faint core.
A bouquet of flowers greeted her the next day,
but not a single rose to replace her lost possession.
As time flew she moved towards the world today.
The rose which was an agony in her once frail heart
had now lost its existence within her...
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
pink cheeks and saccharine eyes
cover the briar roses
a flower escapes her lips,
but the thorns cut her throat
sweet, smart, and kind
the fairy godmothers say.
a rose for her, a kiss from him
on lips as pink as dawn.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 4:10 AM UTC
Lost Causes / (n) (plu):
1. Streets leading to dead-ends.
2. Children cursed shortly after birth by their fairy godmothers.
3. People diagnosed with last stage cancers.
4. Women you know are bad for your mental health and must chase nonetheless. Women, pretty, pretty women, with good hearts, and good intentions, and invariably bad decisions. Strong women who make you weak in the knees. Women with loud laughter who you know might make you cry for years afterward. Women, glowing, luminous women, leaving only darkness and silence in their wake. Lonely women looking for more loneliness.
Women needing love and not believing in it.
Women causing lost-ness.
Lost-ness causing women.
Jan 24, 2020
Jan 24, 2020 at 2:03 AM UTC
This is it.
The final end.
The finish line.
The destination.
Call it whatever you want.
But this is it.
This is where the ending begins.
This is when I decided to stop.
I don't wanna fool myself again.
This time this is real.
It'll be a slow fade.
No traces of pain.
No amount of rancor.
No turning back.
I will end it here.
Here, where I became happy.
Where I learn how to look forward on mornings.
Where you told me all those pretty lies.
And where I was fooled to believe
It was a great stay here.
magical to be honest
But pretty lies are for kids who believe on fairy tales
on prince and princess
on happily ever after
And I realized I'm all grown-up.
Old enough for bedtime stories and fairy tales.
I know ours wasn't an enchanted one
No fairy godmothers who will grant my wishes
No frogs that will turn into prince
No knight in shining armor who'll save me
We don't exist in reality.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
When I was little,
I thought I’d grow up
and become someone
that glittered.
Not famous.
Not rich.
Just soft.
Just full of light.
Someone who laughed without flinching
and felt safe in her own skin.
Someone who saved the day
and got to sleep through the night.
I thought growing up
meant choosing your favorite ice cream
at midnight,
meant late-night dances in the kitchen,
meant freedom with a ribbon tied around it.
I didn’t know
it meant silence in hospital beds
and scars you don’t show.
I didn’t know
that being alive would ever feel
so close to being lost.
I didn’t imagine this.
When I was nine,
I made wishes on stars.
I believed in fairy godmothers,
second chances,
and that every sad ending
was just a chapter
before the miracle.
But my miracle must’ve gotten stuck somewhere
between foster care statistics
and the wrong people with the wrong intentions,
between school hallways
and rooms where no one listened
until I screamed.
I didn’t think
growing up meant learning
how to be quiet enough
to stay safe.
Didn’t think it meant
counting calories
and skipped meals
and mistakes you can’t scrub off.
Didn’t think
it would be this hard
to get out of bed
on a Tuesday.
No one told me
that sometimes the monsters win.
And they don’t have fangs
or claws—
just names and job titles
and the ability
to be believed.
The girl I used to be
wouldn’t recognize me now.
She’d ask why I stopped painting,
why I’m always tired,
why I never dance in the kitchen anymore.
She’d ask
what happened to magic.
And I wouldn’t know
how to answer.
Because I don’t want to tell her
that sometimes the world
breaks you
before you have the words
to explain the damage.
That sometimes
you survive things
so dark
you can’t ever go back
to who you were
before.
And I don’t want to see her face
when I say that dreams
don’t come true
just because you want them to.
That no matter how bright your heart is,
there are places so cold
even hope shivers.
But still—
I hope she never stops wishing.
Because I don’t know who I’d be
if I didn’t remember
how she used to believe.
And sometimes,
on quiet nights,
I still look up
at the same stars
and wonder
if maybe
she’s still in there somewhere.
If maybe
there’s still time
to become someone
she’d be proud of.
Jun 6, 2025
Jun 6, 2025 at 3:43 PM UTC
One day my fairy godmother asked me,
Do you want to be white?
Do you want to have fair skin and thin easily manipulative hair?
Do you want long legs, legs that look good in jean shorts and skirts?
Do you want the boys to call you pretty?
Do you want to fit in?
Do you want to live in a world where your most commonly asked question isn't "what are you"?
Do you want to go to a school where the administration doesn't think of you as a statistic they need to improve?
Of course, I said yes.
"Make me white" I said.
She said too bad.
Too bad, you're gonna be Hispanic.
You're going to have dark skin that makes your pale scars all the more apparent.
You're going to look different each time you walk into a classroom or onto the school bus.
You're going to hang out with your white friends and forgot you don't fit in, at least until you look into a mirror and you remember.
And remembering is going to haunt you.
You're going to avoid cameras and windows.
Avoid anything that reveals your daunting reflection.
You're not going to be white.
Fairy godmothers aren't real.
All you have is an hada madrina, and what can she do in a whitewashed world?
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 5:17 PM UTC
I just want to relive those days again,
When I used to smile genuinely,
Instead of giving a fake tight lipped one.
I want to be the child again,
Who used to get happy,
As if given his favorite cotton candy;
I want to be the mischievous one again,
Who used to give a cheeky- smile & puppy eyes,
On being caught for the little mischiefs';
I want to live my utopia,
Where every thing is just so perfect;
Where Cinderellas' have a happily ever after,
Where a knight in shining armor,
Is waiting for his damsel,
Where Augustus and Hazel become a single soul,
Where partings are never too longing.
I miss my old self,
Who used to believe fairy godmothers are real,
And one day she would meet the seven little dwarfs,
Who would be ready to protect her.
I miss the one little kiddo:
Who would instantly look up at a shooting star,
As if wishing for someone to wake her up,
And take her covertly to meet Olaf,
The one whose banter was enjoyed,
The one whose laugh was contagious.
But now it feels like,
It's all in the past...
Sep 21, 2021
Sep 21, 2021 at 8:03 AM UTC