"handfuls" poems
if I should sleep with a lady called death
get another man with firmer lips
to take your new mouth in his teeth
(hips pumping pleasure into hips).
Seeing how the limp huddling string
of your smile over his body squirms
kissingly, I will bring you every spring
handfuls of little normal worms.
Dress deftly your flesh in stupid stuffs,
phrase the immense weapon of your hair.
Understanding why his eye laughs,
I will bring you every year
something which is worth the whole,
an inch of nothing for your soul.
73.7k
Hope surges upward from your core and to the heart. It warms your blood as your heart crushes into itself twice every second and unbelievably, your mind starts to think of a million and one possibilities. Your hand tingles and finally, after what seemed like eons, you think you are feeling hope again. You start suppressing it out of reflex- an unconscious, uncontrollable action. You push it down, right back to the void it came from but its too late and your lips are curving upwards into a gentle smile. You anticipate euphoria -almost can feel it at the top of your fingertips and you finally let yourself believe and hope.
It comes crashing down without warning. For a second, you still smile because your mind could not process the disappointment yet. Then - hurt, sadness, shock - flits through your mind. You still hold on to your hope like a child who refuses to let go of candy. Your smile wavers. But just like grabbing onto handfuls of sand, hope will fall out through your tightly clasped fingers. You realised that your hold on hope is no longer and instead, it is replaced by cold, unforgiving reality.
Like an icy slap to your face, like an unexpected kick to the stomach, like a bite from a dog you have always love- that is how disappointment feels like.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
.
He liked to gather up the silence in the springtime
Pack it up and carry it in an old timeworn leather rucksack
From a distance it looked like he was a senseless fool
Picking up handfuls of nothing; then putting it in an empty jar
No mind is paid to the fleeting glance in the corner of a stranger's eyes
They were out of reach from the box he was living in
He kept gathering up the endless silence like missing pieces of a lost soul
It seemed to be everywhere ― and in it heard, the only voice he knew
Supposing all his thoughts pondered come forth of silence
Often resting sheltered beneath branches where it grew on the trees ―
It wasn't just the songbird that broke the stillness in dappled sunlight
It was the dearth of love that rivers through a strong heartbeat’s
silenced words ...
Jesse Stillwater
04 May 2018
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.
I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.
Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe
that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.
In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
17.4k
Mine are grapefruit halves
Bitter
Salted
Easing the transition into awake
Perfect juicy handfuls
But I know girls with cantalopes
Seems to me you'd need a map
To navigate those
And hands like
Melonballers just to make an impression
Raspberry, Blackberry, Cherry *******
A fruit salad of peaches
And mangoes and apples
It's a world made for peelers
And paring knives
I world where a sweet tooth
Can thrive
We plant our women in orchards
Cultivate them in careful
Organized rows
With expert farmers and the latest fertilizers
Leading them on
Into ripeness
Harvested at just the right time
So that no man ever need know hunger
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Dandelions are the most independent flower.
They grow where they want.
No one plants them.
They’re free.
They’re infinite.
I felt infinite picking them in the apple orchard with you.
We were free.
We were infinite.
I couldn't handle my smile watching you,
Rip them out of the earth by the handfuls.
Your face was covered in sunshine and pollen.
It might have been the pollen that resembled sunlight.
Regardless,
You emitted the sun in a way I've never seen before.
I refuse to accept that dandelions are weeds,
Because I want to be a dandelion with you.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Look, you dumb ***** you did it again!
Going like this, you'll never be thin.
You can't eat a morsel, not one bite.
It's too much grief, you know it's not right.
Look at yourself! Grabbing handfuls of fat!
Nobody wants to be around that.
Break every mirror, skip every meal.
Only then will you be skinny for real.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Your serene lips could liquefy petals of a rose
With twigs on your spine
Consuming my dreams as you lure me
Stretching as the stars shine
Tangled in the ocean breeze
Beyond beautiful you steal my soul
Our hands unify in the shade of the unknown
Tonight we step beneath the flesh
As the path of dust disappears
I want to drink from your collar bone
Every crevice I will endear
Following the maze of your fantasy
Impeccable skin inviting me in
The anticipation intoxicates my desires
As I travel your outline I stiffen for you
Eager to gratify the valley of your liquid pearls
You whimper as I dissolve your engorged delicacy
As you spasm and tremble you ignite the evening air
A Magnetic exuberance of fervor swept over me
Our swollen, lustful lips surrender again
As your majestic heart nurtures our love
I famine to have your tongue renew me
Your quivering hands beginning to stimulate me
You brush against my hardness lightly
I stir inside my stomach
Restless and blazing I await
Teasing the tip my luster rises
As your manhood swims inside my mouth
You swell my peaks, passionate yet tender
You linger feeling my need
Slipping into your enticing throat
My fingers clutching your hips
Connecting with my core as I absorb you
I quiver and cry out loud
With handfuls of starlight and luster
We create a haven just for us
You enter me so carefully
As we wither and blend
Our flesh is stamped together
A serene ambiance is swaying with us
As you whisper and writhe beneath me
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
I pick up my pen again
I want these words to be everything
love letters
apologizes
confessions, daydreams
plans? Or roadmaps, new
contracts, to-do lists, like
"stop falling down," or
"try harder this time". I turn
you over but you don't give me what I'm looking for, I'm looking
for a place to dissolve this poison
I'm searching in the dark for halos that don't exist
I'm counting up nights of lost sleep,
calculating the probability of
our intertwined fingers as
remedies melt
off your tongue and run over
cracks in the pavement, oozing
sticky shower thoughts into our heads, like how
did we end up here?,& how
does the world end every night but go
on spinning the next morning?
I want this to be everything, the cure
our futures, soft plans,
collections of stitched together questions like how long
does forever taste on your breath
in the aftermath of all the anxiety you tend
to consume?
I want to pull the drapes on this thing and leave it to breathe in the
dark, leave it under
covers so these ailments don't seep
around my doorframe and pull
what is half-born into the light, let it be
let it live
let it cave in on itself and slowly
rebuild.
Chances come in
handfuls,
let the sun forget to practice her
old game of never
letting anyone rest; my fingers are warm & numb now and they remind me a little of
how you look when you're half asleep
they remind me
why this is fragile, why this is broken
why this can never
last and I'm sitting
in the passenger seat wondering
how the soft things stretch out their wings in
my lungs without
killing me, but they're
leaving their marks now, clawing
up my throat;
I close my eyes and give
them to the open air.
You don't know all of this; your eyelids
are heavy and you're keeping track
of who I am in little
notepads & reminders,
keeping track
of the way we move and how likely
we are to remember this moment in 5 years,
because right now you want
to capture it and tame it like a living thing.
We are becoming dust
molecules, we are
burning, we are becoming
quiet we don't leave footprints
we don't leave traces
we are heading toward the end of the world with our hands
tucked into our pockets, we are headed
toward the end of the world dissolving each others names on our tongues like sugar, we are headed
toward the end of the world and when we get there,
it starts again.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
handfuls of hair,
toungues,
teeth.
the curving air;
alive
in rooms
with hanging doors.
we feast.
our rolling eyes,
shaking lips,
hips.
tremble
under fingertips,
taste the heat
and melt.
we press.
wasting no time
for breath.
it happens.
it happens.
it happens!
Jun 22, 2021
Jun 22, 2021 at 11:52 PM UTC
stuck in a hollow room,
handfuls of pictures of
years, now simple past,
rain still bound, fallen,
the quietness of absence,
the eclipse of
your dissolute smile;
one day,
years ago,
I must have woken up,
and forgotten to stay in love,
or just realized,
I never really was.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
handfuls of hair,
toungues,
teeth.
the curving air;
alive
in rooms
with hanging doors.
we feast.
our rolling eyes,
shaking lips,
hips.
tremble
under fingertips,
taste the heat
and melt.
we press.
wasting no time
for breath.
it happens.
it happens.
it happens!
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 4:16 PM UTC
Orange capsules of condensed vitamin C
Tumble out onto my cracked,
Outstretched palm,
As I arch my spine towards the bathroom sink,
Scooping lukewarm water from the faucet
Into my half closed mouth-
The tiny pills clog my upturned throat:
Just two of the numerous solutions
To a world too numb
To contest.
I've never felt more alive,
Than when I'm drowning my body
With handfuls of tap water
And magic remedies bottled up and
Marketed to a world
Afraid of growing old.
Lining the wall of local drug stores,
One isle over from office supplies
And scented laundry detergent.
Multicolored, multipurpose-
Labels proclaim the fountain of youth
To anyone alive enough to fear it.
There's never enough of reality
To reach our depleted veins
Through the ever present forms
Of the world. Enough isn't
Enough, until we've convoluted it into a tiny
Plastic oval, and forced it down the throats
Of those well enough to swallow it.
Pharmaceutical companies proclaim their
Daily gospel in the linoleum streets
Of hospital waiting rooms
And local grocery stores,
As I cross my heart and count the
Hours until my next prescribed dose
Of complacency. Who knew happiness
Could have the bitter after taste of
Vitamin B or
The credibility of Zoloft.
The sandman has been replaced by Benadryl,
While creativity lies stagnant
Beneath adderall's indifferent thumb.
Obsession is a 26 letter alphabet,
Strung together by a bunch of deficiencies,
Incoherently droning on
To the burden of Man,
And flickering neon light
Of a drive-thru pharmacy.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so
My inner demons are over dramatic children
They do not wage wars
They throw tantrums
They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
When they do not get what they want
And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
Then fall asleep when they get tired
Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
They call themselves demons
When they are more like imps
They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
They broke something
Then press on my heart
Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
At inopportune moments
As I tremble due to the ones
That have tripped and tangled themselves
In my heartstrings and vocal cords
Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
And hold themselves still against my capillaries
As if their presence might distract my blood from
Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
With reports and analysis of too many situations
And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
Of each ventricle and aorta
Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
And pry open old ones with feathers
They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
They tie my tongue with other tongues
And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
They are self depreciating and they know that they
Are not worthy of their title
My inner demons are pathetic
I suppose they're right where they belong
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
I met a shell of a mountain who knew she was finished
claimed she grew up from a grain of sand
with every year wider she bloomed a little bit longer
to the roof of the sky with outstretched hands
she made friends with the sun, shared enemies with no one
counted weeks like she should of counted days
and swallowed handfuls of night so she could sleep tight
and turn her thoughts from its stone cold ways
and this was the beginning, the start of the ending
you can't die from a broken heart
but from the time the sun rose
to the space where it fell away
she would love, and it wouldn't take part
and every every day she would echo echo
in every single way she should let go let go
but it had her in its sights cupids icy arrows
so she caught every one with her heart like it was her duty
it walked the wrong wrong way down her one way plan
she was surrounded by forests, rivers and beauty
until that glacier froze over the land
and so she blamed herself hated her wealth
she was born at too young of an age
and every night her dreams were touched by witches fingers
until her heart was caged.
with every morning spent not caring if she cares or not
sleeping in the melt and mud, waiting for the earth to rot
burying herself alive she scrapes the hole that it left open
empty as her very heart, that mountain was all broken
all broken, that mountain was all broken
now I can see that her bloods red and she’s got feelings and they always get spilled both without thinking
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
Floating on a stream of delicate warm milk
I gather handfuls of froth udders tepid silk.
Chilled hands collect warmth on a cold night,
Fulfilled memories of past moments do ensue.
Each one descends into foamy warm truth
I pick out the choc chips going down smooth.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Welcome to the con! The con starts with the author, Dr. Seuss.
He's no doctor. And that's a fact (and no it's not the only truthful
thing in this diatribe of mine). He used the doctor moniker to
sell more books!
That guy in the book pestering the other guy to try "Green
Eggs and Ham"? Turns out to be the ham and egg salesman,
Sam I Am.
It's a motivational selling "won't take no for an answer"
how to sell book disguised as children's literature.
And Sam I Am is psychotically relentless in his pursuit of a
sale. He needs a restraining order slapped on his ***
"Would you eat them in a box? Would
you eat them with a fox. Would you eat
them with a goat. Would you eat them on a
boat". Would you eat green eggs and ham,
would you eat them Sam I Am?
Dr. Seuss
And on and on. Sam I Am goes stalking him from page to page.
I had a friend of mine, Mustard Joe, ex war veteran with more
than twenty kills (you don't even want to know the things he's
seen) take a look into this green eggs and ham food source that
Sam I Am is pushing so hard. Here are some of the ingredients
he may or may not have found.
Ham -- 30 grams of sugar (questionable )
-- 15 grams of caffeine (untested)
Green eggs -- Trace amounts of nicotine ( not verified)
-- Handfuls of ******* (rumored)
As you can see, It's not an exact science.
People. When eggs turn green, that's mother nature trying to
warn you that your food has gone bad.
But in the end, Sam I Am gets the fool to finally try the green
eggs and ham and he absolutely loves it. Maybe the books lesson
is about to not be afraid about things you don't understand or
never tried. But I still believe there is insidious deception and
evil in the book. I have to think that way. Because after all -- I'm
Willoughby !!
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight
made his pallet on the threshing floor
where all day he had worked, and now he slept
among the bushels of threshed wheat.
The old man owned wheatfields and barley,
and though he was rich, he was still fair-minded.
No filth soured the sweetness of his well.
No hot iron of torture whitened in his forge.
His beard was silver as a brook in April.
He bound sheaves without the strain of hate
or envy. He saw gleaners pass, and said,
Let handfuls of the fat ears fall to them.
The man's mind, clear of untoward feeling,
clothed itself in candor. He wore clean robes.
His heaped granaries spilled over always
toward the poor, no less than public fountains.
Boaz did well by his workers and by kinsmen.
He was generous, and moderate. Women held him
worthier than younger men, for youth is handsome,
but to him in his old age came greatness.
An old man, nearing his first source, may find
the timelessness beyond times of trouble.
And though fire burned in young men's eyes,
to Ruth the eyes of Boaz shone clear light.
4.4k
Two miles from town, I meet an old woodcutter
and we travel the road lined with huge pines.
The smell of wild plum blossoms
drifts across the valley.
My walking stick has brought us home.
In the ancient pond – huge, contented fish.
Long sunbeams penetrate the deep woods.
And in the house – a long bed
all covered with poetry books.
I loosen my belt and robes,
copy phrase after phrase for my poems.
At twilight, I walk to the east wing –
spring quail startle into the air.
Tramping for miles I come upon a farm house
as the great ball of sun sets in the forest.
Sparrows gather near a bamboo thicket,
flutter about in the closing dark.
From across a field comes a farmer
who calls a greeting from afar.
He tells his wife to strain their cloudy wine
and treats me to his garden's feast.
Sitting across table we drink each other's health
our talk rising to the heavens.
Both of us are so tipsy and happy
we forget the rules of this world.
Too confused to ever earn a living
I've learned to let things have their way.
With only three handfuls of rice in my bag
and a few branches by my fireside
I pursue neither right or wrong
and forget worldly fortune and fame.
This damp night under a grassy roof
I stretch out my legs without regrets.
4k
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
On the southern border
Of a dilapidated, porous house.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I used leaves that have decayed
More than the usual
As manure.
I took handfuls of the sand,
That was measured out
For construction of the house,
And spread over its base,
Without any measure.
I diverted the rain,
That was flowing away lazily,
To its base.
******* trembled
As love swelled up within.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I kissed every leaf,
Without anyone seeing it.
Its veins looked like yours,
When I read them gently.
And when the eyes welled up
I made a ridge under them
With my soiled hands.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will nurture it with love.
I will fight with ants and beetles
And even butterflies.
If it ever droops,
I will pamper it with sweet talks
And pet names uttered in its ear.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will stand guard to it
In rain and shine.
I will tattoo on my palm
Its green, branches and leaves.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
Tears
Spittle
*****
I will pour out the soul of life
Just for it.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
In nights, when I really lose it,
I will hug it and cry my heart out.
I will shower it with kisses,
Drenched with tears and spittle.
I will lie down on its lap,
When the eleven bells crumble.
And when I feel naughtier
I will close my eyes
Get inside it
And hide in there.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day,
It will flower.
And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.
The wind, birds and all creepers around
Will take up that song.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day.
***
One day
I will open my day
With its sight
And fade away to next life.
It will wait for me
Till the next life.
***
‘ When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.’
A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
my favorite part of silence is that
she speaks to me
when winter hushes the world
silence greets the rubber of tires to handfuls of snow
resolving the angry roaring of these metal beasts
to purring
when sitting on the rural porch of my grandparent's farm
the voices of the trees are reduced to murmurs
and for some reason it's so much easier to breathe,
to hear myself think
when sounds become null
they leave a hollow space
but silence fills that aperture
with giving smells colors
gifting wet grass the smell of baby blue
and honey the smell of heavy brown
my favorite part of silence is that
she allows me to speak
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
Pain still lingers
Feels like I'm about to break
Standing here aches
Not sure how much more
I can fake
Put me out
Wipe my tears when they fall
Give me some more hydromorph's
Swallowing down
handfuls of pills
Not sure if it's all in my head
My back so full of sharp objects
Even sitting is excruciating
Just give me a break
I need some time alone
Just being alive
is pain, no hope
Nobody to phone
Even though I try to
Nobody picks up
I'm on my own
Never alone
Just dead on the other end
All hope is gone
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 12:03 PM UTC
nutella and bread
riding next to you
as we traveled to the school ahead
adventuring the same path
every break of day
I wore a scarf and a coat
to contain my heartbreak
it was winter after all
you drove me insane
I was helplessly in love with our past
it was as if I was mourning the loss
of when I had you last
while we were still intertwined
looking back now
my love for you never died
I could love you forever
and we still wouldn't be
my handfuls of surrender
aren't enough for you and me
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 2:24 AM UTC
They sit
like the curve of a parabola
facing in.
Though they do not see each other.
He sees only himself
amidst the gore and rot
which once passed as
a picnic lunch.
Pickled spines
and curried thought processes
to name but a few
of the delectables today.
In he reaches,
grabbing handfuls of cured flesh,
and not leaving any time
for chewing.
The yellow fog is syrup
and makes him
heavy-headed.
The trees are old men,
curved backs
and withered from living.
They only want a kind ear
to hear their untold stories of
life, love and death.
Glutton wants food.
he guzzles and guzzles
and never listens to those
who want him to listen.
So he eats,
they cry,
they die
and they are all alone together.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
do you remember the siren in my throat?
the howl of her, the empty vessel?
do you think of me sometimes,
think of how often my fingers
unmade the buttons at the
collar of your longing? how I
unlaced the cement that held
your damaged pieces together
into something resembling
personhood? how you painted
me with the blood of your amnesiac
sins, how I came to be the shrine
of all your broke and all your
bent? do you ever wonder how I
look now, draped around new
frames and coaxed by honey
that drips from new fingers?
do you ever miss those nights,
the half-light of the bathtub, the
shrine of bare thighs and the
drip drip drip as you watch me
melt into something black and
shimmering on the surface maybe
like blood maybe like nothingness and do
you desperately try to take handfuls
as I slip away like sinking ocean down the drain?
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:22 AM UTC