"holey" poems
,***how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)***
<•>
human too broken?
like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry
the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading
like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts
so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...
remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want, can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?
the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed
so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
.
1
death dirges
Frogs in distance sing . . .
Foxes, herons, join in too,
. . . A round of croaking.
2
love gifts
Her gift of flowers . . .
Came at night without garden,
. . . Were picked in bedroom.
3
twins demure
Full moon and she . . .
Beauties without crescent smile,
. . . Naked in starlight.
4
light music
Before even sun . . .
Gleam opens to paint each day,
. . . Beauty in birdsong.
5
iridescent
After sun showers . . .
Sparkle of rainbow colours,
. . . Busy hummingbirds
6
chilling
Hollow sound through trees,
Naked and bare branches sway,
. . . Old winter creeping.
7
flirting
She wanted a child . . .
Rushed from one suitor to next,
. . . Clock set to maybe.
8
super villain
Truth once singular . . .
Mucked all up with politics,
. . . In cowl of falsehoods.
9
casualties
Blood spills in gardens . . .
Naïve worms torn from loose grounds,
. . . Red robins, green lawns.
10
stigmata
Each spring miracle . . .
Trees blessed by caterpillars gifts,
. . . Holey hands of leaves.
11
consecrations
Ripples lead to bows . . .
After fish breaks the water,
. . . A kingfisher dives.
12
constancy
Steadfast as always . . .
Wildflower in sun and rain,
. . . Showing true colours.
13
roommates
Chaste lovers wonder . . .
How bodies weather the cold,
. . . Never knowing touch.
14
swept away
Suddenly we kissed . . .
At beach as tides rolling in,
. . . Drowning by ocean.
15
seductress
Her red hair so long . . .
Brushing my face, hiding eyes,
. . . A kind entrapment.
.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
Man of science,
Only sees what is there,
Wants to build the fence.
Man of religion,
Out of nothing sees everything,
Wants to envision the fence.
Man of philosophy,
Out of everything sees nothing,
Wants to sit on the fence.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
I asked my mother for a glass kaleidoscope,
but instead she handed me three shots of wine
and a field guide to running galactic bases,
which I guess is her way of selling dreams
at low prices. I have yet to understand a coffee shop's symmetry,
so I embrace the scrupulous company of a dragon-riding-a-butterfly.
One spin around the Milky Way leaves the butterfly
with holey wings and the dragon vomiting in my make-shift kaleidoscope.
The apple tree in the corner of the living room ruins the symmetry
of the space and I have to chug another glass of wine
to make up for the peach tree I couldn't dream
about and another wrong note sung by the basses.
The song's in too low of a key, which is the basis
behind the evil chinchilla's plan to mass-produce butterfly
farms as part of a larger goal to pillage the dreams
of dreamers. Luckily, we all have a handy-dandy kaleidoscope
and a bag (or two) of bitter-tasting wine
stolen from their boxes -- too much symmetry.
My brother put a block on local news; the symmetry
of our county's border was too much for me to bear. He bases
his action (when mother asks) on the wine
he didn't drink, so I throw the broken butterfly
out the window where it lands on my nephew's spinning kaleidoscope.
He doesn't know it yet, but that drum he's banging will envelop his dreams.
A hike to the top of the cliff (a leap) re-energizes my dreams
and I still can't relate to the maple leaves and their symmetry,
but at least I can look through a lampshade at the kaleidoscope
of trees dancing below me. There are seven thousand bases
yet to run and they still haven't caught the butterfly,
so a boy yells, "Drink!" and I take another sip of wine.
The dragon and chinchilla are tipsy from the wine
at this point and discuss the difference between dreams
and electricity while my mother sautés the butterfly
in ice cream and abstract ideas. The symmetry
of my right ankle is still a bother, so I tell the basses
to sing a quarter tone flat while I collide a scope.
Off goes dragon-with-butterfly (once again) and I finish the wine.
I make my nephew a chinchilla-skin kaleidoscope and rinse the rocks stained with dreams.
My mother comments on the apple tree's symmetry while the trees below keep running bases.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
Lyrics in her face
blaze, from screen to mouth
bony thumb, scrolling
mumbling into an ancient microphone
hanging from the rope swing
in her garage.
Voice shakes here, shivers there
but ****
she is soulful.
Authentic, exquisite
in holey socks and wet hair
and goosebumped arms
getting swallowed by a hoodie.
******* she has it all
and gives it nothing.
Some of us are simply stunning
no spray tans or updos
no sequined skirts or stiletto shoes
no autotune or makeup kits
no words-
only nothing
could improve her.
Nothing could improve her.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Some people like fall, but not me.
It's full of death and decay, the gorgeous pieces of fire drift
from their skeletal homes and burn out into
sodden mushy brown paper.
Hard smooth and brown pebbles, spiky holey bombs, and twirly helicopter blades fall from the same skeletons and hide
beneath the paper, waiting for an innocent victim,
lying in the perfect position to slip someone up so that
they lose their bags and packages as they themselves go
slip slide crashing into the ground.
The victims are sure to rise up again, but with some bruises and bits of soggy brown, stuck all over their clothes
In fall, all the blooms of color decease, all fruit and vegetable and good green things die and leaves the world sodden mushy and brown.
Some people say they like winter, but not me.
It's a cold cruel and heartless season, robbing any last trace of life
from all helpless and left-behind creatures.
The vegetation becomes glazed over with melting glass and is the
one spot of beauty, as the only green left resides on prickly evergreens, housebound plants, and the occasional tacky
coat.
In winter, there is no way to leave your personal fortress without mountains of clothes, and so every person becomes a
chapped lipped, red cheeked, stiff fingered puffball.
Every time you jump into a mound of the white fluff that accompanies the dread season, some is bound to creep into your shirt and boots, freezing whatever it touches, and then ever so so slowly flowing along your skin, one of Gaia's little tortures.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
the flapping wings of a dove
waves crashing to the shore
stars that glow from up above
a bride's beautiful wedding dress
holey sheets across children heads in October
a graceful swan, Santa's beard or snowmen
ice melting in springtime rain
daisy peateals and summer clouds
the light that shines from heaven's door
a royal color fit for kings and queens
pearls of the earth; beautiful yet unclear
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
O Moon, where are you now?
I feel like you left while things were getting so good
Emotions were visiting then passing through
Tears were falling off my cheeks into the cosmic ocean of emptiness
Dreams were appearing as if my heart made them living entities
The night breeze whisked with your radiance danced with the hairs on my legs
My sisters and I absorbed the breath of the galaxy under an open ring in the sky
You hid underneath the holey blankets of silky night clouds
Befuddled by your absence, a confusion arises of how to live in my own light, without your light.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
he told me i was living in fear
and i thought i wasnt supposed to be here
a sign hangs above his living room couch
"the police ruin everything"
i want to disagree but i control my thoughts
i build a wall between them and my mouth
the same one he built
and her and them and we and us
i can tell by the furrowed brows and tell tall signs
by the words that come out only when we drink our nightly wine
i climb on top of him
in his room of american flags, broken records and leopard ware
faux patriotism and hipster runoff mixed with nonchalant dishevel
i kiss his sweaty neck
my mind is always down south
even now
where my toes peep out of my socks
curious of the present moment and the theme of tomorrows thoughts
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
Her Father's old wool jacket,
from Johnson Mills,
in creamy white,
dark forest green,
golden amber,
in a lovely patchwork,
A soft dark winter tuke on her head,
that dark green in the background,
with rusty speckles on her cheeks,
Wet snow falls silent,
the sky is a crisp Winter blue,
the air is cold and clear,
& intoxicatingly clean,
As she breathes life in and out,
then,
looking down at her black Sorel boots
and her worn black denim jeans,
a nice old holey wool sweater,
and a maul,
A **** lumberjack?
Maybe...
Dressed to hack the wood,
the plumber thinks so,
he stops by,
a friend of hers,
sorta,
Huh?
Not invited,
but no one is around here,
we all do it,
so he helps too,
Hey I'll make lunch,
harmless flirting,
I suppose,
Because,
wood warms you 3 times they say,
Once to chop it,
two to stack it RIGHT,
three to bring it in & burn it,
But if you count the starting of the,
cantankerous chainsaw & the guy,
helping you,
And you hafta arrange & rearrange, everything,
cleaning the flue and chimney,
I'd say a few more than that,
& don't ferget to pay the man,
the cantankerous one,
Yeah he got lunch too,
and about them ashes,
could be pretty hot,
take 'em out regular,
that stove cranking too,
OUCH,
She ends up gets burned,
a few times each year,
Taday,
she's on step too,
as she picks up the heavy maul,
not to heavy for this gal,
all the way back,
watch yourself,
As a neighbor winches,
a woman chopping wood?
Yup.
That's right,
a way of life,
for her,
always has been,
poised and ready,
swing and smack,
if you hit it right,
you hear a crack,
Just like a baseball bat,
hitting a homer,
Big pieces,
are made more manageable,
when you don't try to control the force,
when you let the sharpened maul,
Do all the work,
for you.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
My vast heart views panoramas,
Of wide depths, open to oceans,
Sorrow has broke no thing alone,
A pink starfish legs under waters,
Arms ever sinking into wet sands.
*As tides roll in, the sea birds whirl,
Exploding clouds of spray an' skirl.*
My soul, washes up, for granted,
Untook leftovers of the beached,
Endlessly salt dry things all alone,
Holey shells, driftwood, seaweed
And half buried, one pink starfish.
*As tides roll in, the sea birds whirl,
Exploding clouds of spray an' skirl.*
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
Shlomit (whom most
of the boys disliked)
stood in the playground
holding one end of the
skipping rope while another
girl held the other end as
another skipped. Her wire
rimmed spectacles stayed
in place as she moved, her
holey cardigan had seen
better days, her grey dress
had been handed down so
often that it shone like steel.
Naaman stood and watched
her from the steps leading
down to the playground. She
sometimes smelt of dampness
as if she’d been left out in the
rain and brought in to dry over
a dull fire. He looked at her dark
hair held in place with hairgrips,
the hair band of a dark blue
remained unmoved by her motions.
Some girl pushed her away from
the end of the skipping rope and
she walked to the wall and stared.
That seemed unfair, Naaman said,
you were doing your bit ok. Shlomit
looked at him with her nervous eyes.
They always do that, she said; never
let me play for long. He stood beside
her; he could smell dampness mixed
with peppermint. Maybe you’re too
good for them, he said. She smiled and
pushed the hair band with her fingers.
Her nails had been chewed unevenly,
he noted, her fingers were ink stained.
Would you like a wine gum? he asked.
He held out a bag of wine gum sweets.
She put her fingers into the bag and
took one and put it in her mouth.
Thank you, she mouthed, her finger
pushing the sweet further in. Naaman
walked with her up the steps that led
up from the small playground and stood
on the bombed ground and looked down.
There used to be a house where the
playground is now, he said, it got
bombed out. The playground was
once the cellar. Oh, she said, I didn’t
realise that. The bombs missed the
school, shame, he said, smiling. Daddy
said I ought not talk with boys, she said,
looking at Naaman then quickly around
her. Why’s that? he asked. She looked
at her fingers, the thumbs moving over
each other. He said boys were rude and
mischievous, she said. I guess some are,
Naaman said. She looked at him. You
seem all right, she said. But you are still
a boy and he might find out I talked to you
and then there would be trouble. How
would he find out here in the playground?
Naaman asked. Someone might tell from
here that saw me, she said anxiously.
Last time someone told him he beat me,
she added quietly. She pushed her hands
into her cardigan pockets. Best go, she said.
I like you, Naaman said, you remind me of a
picture I saw of a girl standing beside Jesus
in that Bible in the school library. Do I? she
said, did she have wire-rimmed glasses?
No, Naaman said, but she had a pretty face
like yours. She laughed and took her hands
from her pockets. He saw two reflections of
himself in the glass of her spectacles behind
which her own eyes gazed out. Maybe it was
me, she said playfully. Oh, yes, he said, taking
her thin ink stained fingers in his, no doubt.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
My eyes, will rain
tear-drops
of tequila.
When I think
about you too.
They'll run down my
dead-white,-
porcelain-poltergeist
cheeks.
To the crack,
tip of my
toilet-talk-tongue.
It should just be bitten off
& Bleeding, by itself.
Darling, you haven't been the same since you switched your scripts.
Baby,
Our hearts are soon to
be
hollowed out & holey.
Half-way gone.
Half-way to the moon-hearts.
This is not permanent but we're forever.
But the moon was full the night before.
So it has been nothing but fading with the sorrow.
&
Darling, I'll be howling at the half moon for you.
</3
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 12:56 AM UTC
Two and a half years of
Hiding under my Levi's
And cheap, holey sweaters
Jackets, handed down from mother
And gloves made out of toe socks
Two and a half years of blaming
It on the cat, pointing fingers
At sharp cornered desks and
Dogs and messing around with friends
Hiding my secret, holding it close to me
Today, I took of my jacket
And the world, being cruel as it is
Forced me to crawl right back inside
With eyes prying and people touching
And their judgmental, pity looks
But tomorrow will be different
And I wont let young eyes
Stop me from being afraid
To show my forearms
I promise this
It's time for some change
Because I can't go on faking
My smile for fake people anymore
And hiding my body from the world
Because I am beautiful
Or so they say
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Let's build a fort out
of pillows and blankets
and holey sheets and stuffed
animals and couch cushions.
Let's go climb some trees
and jump in a strangers
pond with all of our clothes
still on.
Let's go catch the fireflies
in the middle of an open
field on the hottest
night in July.
Let's dance around campfires
and drink until we fall over
into the grass.
Let's fall asleep in the dewy
green as we look up at the
stars trying to figure out our future.
Let's stay this way forever,
let's never grow old,
let's grow young together.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
My vast heart views panoramas,
Of wide depths, open to oceans,
Sorrow has broke no thing alone,
A pink starfish legs under waters,
Arms ever sinking into wet sands.
*As tides roll in, the sea birds whirl,
Exploding clouds of spray an' skirl.*
My soul, washes up, for granted,
Untook leftovers of the beached,
Endlessly salt dry things all alone,
Holey shells, driftwood, seaweed
And half buried, one pink starfish.
*As tides roll in, the sea birds whirl,
Exploding clouds of spray an' skirl.*
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 3:04 AM UTC
I’m small enough to cry for those with frozen teardrops
who can’t get up off the side of the road to die in peace
So I'll abide in this polar freezing cold silent deliverance
where a hollow warmth hides the tears that aren't for
cryin’ alone
There’s a bitter arctic wind blows right through the tree trunks
there’s no shelter leaning on the dream of the leeward other side
This winter isolation grasps on impatient pieces of frayed light
like hope a mustard sized seed of shine may move venerable
mountain peaks
Who ever knows how long salvation lasts ? They said he died
sleeping on a cardboard comforter and blue plastic tarp duvet;
a holey old coat stained with all what went wrong in life …
And .., I feel a sickening guilt of a warming fire's thickening
smoke
The chimney’s icicles drip an angel’s frozen teardrops
But .., I can’t find no heaven in this big ol’ world ...
wild is the wind ... January 4th, 2017
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
You can talk about Jesus
And be instantly heard.
You can call him your Savior
And not mean a word.
You can shout your hosannas
To the people on your street
And few will suspect you
As having pure clay feet.
Holy, holy, Holey Moley,
Things have turned for the worse.
Hiding behind Jesus
Gives our land a ride in a hearse.
When you talk about Jesus
Please be true to the words.
Read what he has said
And not what you heard.
If you read the Holy Bible
And find reason to hate
You’ve been led astray
And it’s not too late.
Holy, holy, Holey Moley,
Things have turned for the worse.
Hiding behind Jesus
Gives our land a ride in a hearse.
So far we’ve noticed
The words that bigots use
Are not from Christians,
But are textual abuse
In that they are from before
Man learned to write
So why are bigots so sure
They got everything right?
Holy, holy, Holey Moley,
Things have turned for the worse.
Hiding behind Jesus
Gives our land a ride in a hearse.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
It's the smells,
The woody, earthy laden lift in the air.
A scent guilded in memories of twigs breaking under feet,
As I walk to the One Stop with my dad,
Wet, amber leaves stuck to his holey shoes,
The air is damp and unfaded, but lightly coated in the smoke from his roll up.
The smell,
More floral now,
Warm, heavy rain drip dropping onto vast leaves in Mexico,
The floor drier and peppery compared to it's English cousin,
My eyes locked onto the stars through pointed dancing clouds,
As if the sky has been dipped in glitter and laid out to dry in the jungle.
And now its moss,
Moss and pine and your hair.
It's both of us gazing through the foliage to catch the eye of a bird,
Our fingers brushing and clinging,
I can feel my mouth lift,
As you pull me towards your nose,
And whisper 'I love us.',
We walk,
Warm in one another's stories,
With wet socks,
And pink cheeks,
We inhabit the trees.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 7:05 AM UTC
He didn't meet many expectations
With the shell that he wore
Though the people gave nothing
They expected more
He'd stroll into town
With the clothes on his back
And the tools he would need
In an ancient, holey bag
He'd search out those
In need of repair
A leaky roof
Or a broken chair
This man seemed to know something
About every field
He'd smooth bumpy roads
Even doctored wounds 'til they healed
There was never a charge
For the service he rendered
One need only ask
And perhaps remember
**If a stranger's in need
And passes your way
Just give him a hand
That's my pay**
The more that he helped
The more tradesmen would fuss
*This man's stealing the thunder
That belongs to us*
So the tradesmen all gathered
And plotted and planned
The weapons they chose
Were not in their hands
They began to spread lies
*This is our competitors' ruse
If he keeps freely working
Consider the business we'll lose*
They convinced the masses
In spite of all he had done
*This enemy among us
Is a dangerous one*
So this strange humble servant
Who was mocked in the end
Had no one defend him
Not one single friend
If you'll lend me your ear
I'll return it with truth
The enemy among us
Is me and you
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Trying and failing to get to sleep -
I’ve never sailed before.
I've already tried counting fish
So I turn my thoughts to statistics
In the hope that they reassure:
The chances of dying on a yacht are
Absolutely minimal
(Unless you’re a millionaire).
So when the ocean swells and the boat rocks
I pray to the god of my holey socks
That danger is safely slipping by
On my port or starboard side
And the hungry old whale of fate
Has bigger fish to fry.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 3:04 AM UTC
Our America sulks in the gutters,
in the rotten alleyways of those living in the shadows.
As corporations, as greed, as self-obsession
damages our life web.
Our America loves the lonely dying child,
as suburban 'mother's **** the illegal pool boy.
Our America peers through holey, worn fabrics
as bare-fleshed youth slaughter for
sweatshop brands.
Our America becomes the past
becomes unknown
becomes a dead fad
as mysterious men lure the idea of a future.
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 4:58 AM UTC
She gives the gift of gab!
When her love snapped onto my back, like a rucksack to be worn
The old me died, a rambling man was born.
My words are playing a twisted game of Temple Run
The monkeys are her eyebrows, cocked like pistols, and we're playing Russian Roulette.
My words are emptiness and hot air and imagined shapes, yet not nearly as two-dimensional as constellations.
She's a phrase I just learned, and will incorrectly overuse.
She's a worm in my ear, impossible to lose.
She feels like two cups of tea at three in the morning.
She feels like assembling an RC car without reading the instruction manual.
And by God, those eyebrows.
I need her like rocks need water and snow needs the sun.
I want her like turtles want to fly and eagles want to run.
She's that feeling when rain comes down on an empty highway.
She's half a bottle of Elmer's glue I just dribbled onto my hands.
I miss her like broken bowls miss Cheerios and holey socks miss feet.
I miss her like diarrhea misses constipation.
I miss her like NBC misses viewers who have turned to online news sources.
I miss her like journalists miss exposés.
I miss her like polar bears miss ice caps.
I miss her like avalanches miss snowy peaks.
I miss her like Hiroshima survivors miss World War One.
I miss her like cities miss silence.
Mostly, I just miss the silence.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
I remember them well,
droves of street-urchins
in every little ville,
battling it out
with water bazookas
filled with **** water,
squirting the hell
out of each other,
staining holey shirts,
for a smidgeon of joy.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
I am under the sun’s dust-specked rays
With the low mumbles of a nearby river flowing into my ears
My brain bathes in it’s cool water
The pitter-patter of energetic drips hopping in and out of their prism
Becomes the only sound that occupies my head
Leaves,
Brown
Gold
Holey
Deep
Crunch crunch crunching
Dirt like magnetic attraction clasp to
My boots
My pants
My hair
The sky
Empty
Unoccupied by nothing but the birds that fly in it
Deep breaths of wind proud and tenacious caress my eager face
And it gets dark and the sky swirls and contorts
Screaming out it’s agony and frustration
Over another dying day
It assaults my eyes with it’s canvas
Melted oranges, cascading reds, opaque violets
Illuminating all it looks over
With the glow of it’s ferocity
The scent of pine needles and bark seep into my weary lungs
And I am invigorated with a burst of life
I’ll laugh and let the cold air cap my teeth
And grab my naked eyes
And shake me and shake me and shake me until
I can’t take it
And I cry from it’s frozen clutch
And I laugh and my face is as red as the burnt burgundy leaves that cushion the bottom of my boots
And all
I can hear
Are the echos
Of my solitude
And the toads
Croaking
And
My skin
Warms
And my
Heartbeats
And
My brain
Is silenced
And my eyes close
When I open them I see nothing but my ceiling
And I look forward and my TV is staring at me
With the look of nefariousness it always has
Frantic, desperate, delirious
I grab at my skin
And I
Am
Cold
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC