"hibiscuses" poems - Hello Poetry

We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance, think and talk through the side of her neck. It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early, For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!” We would lean in and listen intently But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous! Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses, She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray! We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment. For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak. But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head; For she was practically logical, Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes. Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground. And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition. Those times, there'd be surprise and awe. Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge. So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head; And that is when we would cheer for her. But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.

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Jul 11, 2019

Jul 11, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC

Nuelle1_

A Piece Of Her Brain Fell To Her Neck.

We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance, think and talk through the side of her neck. It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early, For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!” We would lean in and listen intently But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous! Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses, She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray! We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment. For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak. But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head; For she was practically logical, Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes. Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground. And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition. Those times, there'd be surprise and awe. Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge. So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head; And that is when we would cheer for her. But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.

22

blue lilies now;wilted and zapped petals of hibiscuses; frosting and drooping pressed between our pages stenching and staining them edges bleeding the flesh stenches the putrid blooms carve squealing wounds the blood engulfs the heart that deliquesces the crevices are graved then the heart deliquesces and falls into two down/a rotting corpse it oozes into the disgust of existence creeping through shredded layers of shroud covering the withering bones, mass and emotions searing it melts eventually-the shroud until it reaches the bones crashes them there spilling the liquids/ all that is left bare is already atrophying and i guess that's the difference between dying and rotting dying at least leaves you the voids to hold onto to be nostalgic for what was held dying-paints,hues from the ashes that blew but rotting eats away all that existed and snaps leaving detritus,stinking odor that i need the craft of us all worn out the fragments dis plumed through holocausts the rebellion in ruination and the twitched cold feet each breath i've took,now smothering you,me,and everything the reflections,contradictions intoxicating,caging charcoal abstracts punctured and ruptured all constituents consuming and decaying now every treble so heavy freezing not frozen perishing not lighter maybe these moments -they never stop cause right there in the midst everything rots. -/and we let it ~d

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Jul 27, 2018

Jul 27, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC

smotheringblue

Stenching//

blue lilies now;wilted and zapped petals of hibiscuses; frosting and drooping pressed between our pages stenching and staining them edges bleeding the flesh stenches the putrid blooms carve squealing wounds the blood engulfs the heart that deliquesces the crevices are graved then the heart deliquesces and falls into two down/a rotting corpse it oozes into the disgust of existence creeping through shredded layers of shroud covering the withering bones, mass and emotions searing it melts eventually-the shroud until it reaches the bones crashes them there spilling the liquids/ all that is left bare is already atrophying and i guess that's the difference between dying and rotting dying at least leaves you the voids to hold onto to be nostalgic for what was held dying-paints,hues from the ashes that blew but rotting eats away all that existed and snaps leaving detritus,stinking odor that i need the craft of us all worn out the fragments dis plumed through holocausts the rebellion in ruination and the twitched cold feet each breath i've took,now smothering you,me,and everything the reflections,contradictions intoxicating,caging charcoal abstracts punctured and ruptured all constituents consuming and decaying now every treble so heavy freezing not frozen perishing not lighter maybe these moments -they never stop cause right there in the midst everything rots. -/and we let it ~d

63

hidden ways through bushes in a july evening — i'm walking to the park. haven't learnt to write poems yet, or to think of thoughts. but i draw girls wearing fancy clothes in my sister's old notebooks. i have learnt hidden ways to exist everyday — go to my room when dad is watching the television in the living room, don't laugh at dinner, pretend to fall asleep, pretend to not hear. i haven't learnt yet what it means to feel relieved to leave the house and go to the park. a mix of straight and wavy, my hair, is a roasted-coffee brown in the sunshine. the swings are taken and i've made a couple friends over shared boredom. we decide to make bouquets for home. big, round leaves rolled into cones, and off we go looking for the prettiest flowers. orange, white and pink hibiscuses and a big adventure, stealing roses from someone's garden. i've fallen down from running, and the other girl tripped over my leg. we are laughing — breathless; our cheeks pink and dusty. the sun has swirled into a nothing, and the girls say they have to go. a bouquet of flowers in hand, i walk back home from hidden ways through bushes. leaving the shoes outside, i rush to the kitchen to fill a glass with water — the flowers will live another day in a makeshift vase. in the living room dad switches on the television.

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Feb 25, 2019

Feb 25, 2019 at 11:22 AM UTC

makeloveandtea

A good day in childhood

hidden ways through bushes in a july evening — i'm walking to the park. haven't learnt to write poems yet, or to think of thoughts. but i draw girls wearing fancy clothes in my sister's old notebooks. i have learnt hidden ways to exist everyday — go to my room when dad is watching the television in the living room, don't laugh at dinner, pretend to fall asleep, pretend to not hear. i haven't learnt yet what it means to feel relieved to leave the house and go to the park. a mix of straight and wavy, my hair, is a roasted-coffee brown in the sunshine. the swings are taken and i've made a couple friends over shared boredom. we decide to make bouquets for home. big, round leaves rolled into cones, and off we go looking for the prettiest flowers. orange, white and pink hibiscuses and a big adventure, stealing roses from someone's garden. i've fallen down from running, and the other girl tripped over my leg. we are laughing — breathless; our cheeks pink and dusty. the sun has swirled into a nothing, and the girls say they have to go. a bouquet of flowers in hand, i walk back home from hidden ways through bushes. leaving the shoes outside, i rush to the kitchen to fill a glass with water — the flowers will live another day in a makeshift vase. in the living room dad switches on the television.

57

Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather in monsoon and you — I found you In an apartment with a sunset wall and cane chairs. Like an oyster closed shut against the waves of salty seawater; closed against the sun reflecting golden-green. You are more than body, clothes, cigarettes, water; the scatter of thoughts and fog within you. There you are, So far afloat in a sea — golden and green, and I found you! Do you ever wonder if the world is all imagination? Stardust for skin; the road and our houses a sandcastle creation? Oh, what are the chances of birthday phonecall-kisses from my grandfather before he died; unread messages and wet eyelashes on a lonely night? Scratched and bruised and cracked by an ocean, darling you and I — what are the chances? What are the odds you'd survive your storm and go on, Past seaweed and sharks? That counting days, "one, two, ...thirty-seven thousand" I'd have found fallen hibiscuses at bus stops, a card in my bicycle-basket and on a sublime day midst salty seawater, golden and green... I'd find you? Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather and you — I found you.

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Apr 25, 2017

Apr 25, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC

makeloveandtea

Pinctada.

Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather in monsoon and you — I found you In an apartment with a sunset wall and cane chairs. Like an oyster closed shut against the waves of salty seawater; closed against the sun reflecting golden-green. You are more than body, clothes, cigarettes, water; the scatter of thoughts and fog within you. There you are, So far afloat in a sea — golden and green, and I found you! Do you ever wonder if the world is all imagination? Stardust for skin; the road and our houses a sandcastle creation? Oh, what are the chances of birthday phonecall-kisses from my grandfather before he died; unread messages and wet eyelashes on a lonely night? Scratched and bruised and cracked by an ocean, darling you and I — what are the chances? What are the odds you'd survive your storm and go on, Past seaweed and sharks? That counting days, "one, two, ...thirty-seven thousand" I'd have found fallen hibiscuses at bus stops, a card in my bicycle-basket and on a sublime day midst salty seawater, golden and green... I'd find you? Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather and you — I found you.

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