"humidity" poems
My ****
follows me everywhere!
Wiggle wiggle, poke poke, jiggle jiggle.
At the fridge in night I've a friend by my side.
By my backside.
On,
my backside.
Stuck with humidity to the toilet seat on a rainy day,
that's right!
The bathroom exists, and on a toilet do I sit.
At least four or five times daily.
Stuck to chair, playing with hair with one hand
and a controller in the other.
Pumping up and down and in circles as I
jump squat.
Jump squat!
To share if you dare put your palm down there to squeeze.
Grab slap, wibble wibble.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Hair upon my head.
People say it’s beautiful.
To me, it’s merely dead.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Whenever I take a nap,
I look like lightening came down from heaven
And gave me a little zap!
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Whether wind, rain, or snow.
Humidity is my enemy
I have a **** afro.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
People stop and stare.
They ask me if it’s natural
As if they really care.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
I think it’s rather boring.
You pay buckets to look like me
It’s so freaking annoying.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Girls tell me that they’re jealous.
But if they really knew the struggle,
They’d agree it’s rather hellish.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Straight hair would be a dream.
I’d brush and brush and brush my hair
And never even scream.
Twirly, whirly, curly Q
Alas, it’s here to stay.
But I guess that’s what makes me different,
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
(i want love in these woods)
while walking in
the quiet woods
humidity causing
blonde hair to stick
to my neck
on wooden path
my footsteps move
and on highest railing
a squirrel beckons
i smile /a real smile/
she stops
as if listening for my footsteps
then scampers forward
a few more feet
stops...tilts her head
eyes gleaming
listening for me again
i think she is the squirrel queen
bidding me to follow her
to my lover
waiting in the woods
i want love in these quiet woods
in the quiet night
under the moon
*oh what a night
that would be
with you*
the smell of the leaves
the sound of the crickets
eyes twinkling
soft blankets
this night
you should whisk me away
to a place in the woods
but, alas
the squirrel queen
scampered into the woods
and i'm sitting
at a picnic table
in filtering sunlight
sticky
transfixed
heart pounding
dreaming of
love in the woods
with you.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania,
you’ll find an unmade bed,
a pile of clothes on the floor—
clean but not folded,
open drawers and dusty shelves,
a desk in the corner of the room
with pictures laid across it.
When I caught my first fish at six.
I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line
to avoid the slimy scales,
a frown on my face from being forced
to sit silently in the cold.
When my family went to Marco Island,
my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells
in our matching swimsuits and hats.
Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun.
High school graduation
posing with my best friend since first grade,
diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us
because not everyone survived all four years.
Move-in day at college,
sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter
and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy.
Sweat on my brow from southern humidity
and moving furniture without the help of a father.
The pictures are merely snapshots
that lack the full story.
How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart
when I was eight years old.
My sister warned me before it happened,
told me what a divorce was.
I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs.
Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears
until the day he left. The sounds of her cries
escaping from behind a closed door.
“This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
But that’s exactly what it meant.
How I was taught by my father that love is conditional,
and I repeatedly needed to prove myself
through good grades and unquestioning obedience.
Forced to stay home to spend time with the family,
sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV.
Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends
because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter.
It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father.
If you look harder at the bedroom,
you’ll find journals filled with bitter words,
screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor,
food wrappers stuffed in hidden places,
a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes,
evidence of a story untold. Until you.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 9:09 PM UTC
open field, ***** hands, chewed-down nails
I stood at my door and had a fine breakfast:
warm breeze over-easy on a gravel-bagel,
a side of spiced bird calls tasted envious,
baked humidity that I ate with my feet,
O, to be a head chef of intention.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 6:50 PM UTC
My tuberculosis infected heart
spits blood
and
stays away from light
lives in humidity causing fungus growing
In my inside.
My tb infected heart caughs from all its holes
at night
it never sleeps
nevear eats
it's lost it's appetite for people and joy
and laughs
My tb infected heart will die soaked
in smoke
they'll burn its bed, its clothes
every crumble of feelings
and I will be left naked
with blood stains on my skin
My tb infected heart
lives in isolation
between walls of mirrors reflecting
the misery of my mind
It lives in fear and shame
hungrily waiting for death to come
for them to burn its bed.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
The sweet heat washes down trembling limbs
Drenching in warm sweat
Trailing its languid touch down the face
Arms and finger tips
Dripping along the spine
Between the chest and across the hair of the scalp
Collecting on eyelashes and lips
Huffing in exertion
Choking on humidity
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
The Heat, and not the sports team
Has come here for a while
It's enough to set some records
And to **** the farmers smiles
Humidity and high temperatures
Add to make our life like hell
It's drying up our creeks and streams
There's no water in our wells
We do not use our ovens
To cook our meals, not now at least
We just leave meat on the counter
The outside heat will cook the beast
Our lawns are brown and dormant
But the weeds are growing strong
There is chickweed and crabgrass where once
Green grass did once belong
The splash pads are on overtime
To help keep people cool
We've cooling centers everywhere
They're in all of the schools
In order to cool down at home
I have my a/c set to freeze
And if at times this doesn't work
I watch Christmas DVD's
Remember hats and sunscreen
to keep the heat off of your head
In fact it is so god ****** hot
I tan while I'm in bed
I remember as a child
Summer never got as hot as this
Compared to recent temperatures
Is like a blow job to a kiss
We pray for heat in winter
And in the summer, the reverse
I know I would like the snow
The heat is much, much, worse
Instead of just complaining
I should just take it, brave the heat
But for now, I'll watch my movies
Sing my carols, cool my feet
I know that come this winter
I'll be crying for the heat
Just remind me of this little poem
And I'll shut up, and take my seat.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
We call it “peacock hill”
I love this misty humidity that hangs here
sunlight barely peeking through; lovely mossy ground and wet leaves
turning to mulch under our tramping feet, we hear the peacocks call
in their unique tone - musical, alluring and promising
of a rare treat to the eyes, I’m only six years old, walking by your side,
and I don’t realize that in my excitement to collect peacock feathers-
***i’m missing the peacocks for the feathers
and
I’m missing your company for the peacocks***
and somehow if I could turn back time, i’d like to make that right
pay more attention to you, than to silly feathers or birds, beautiful though they are
just soak in the moment, and be with you completely
so that years later, when we live so far away
i’d look back on this moment with a lot less regret
and be glad, that we father and daughter
had some great times together
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
I have loved you in the coldest of snowstorms that winter has to offer,
Felt your warmth through the curve of your lips,
The music of soft fingertips. My body is your piano,
We write a different genre of music when we love.
There are warm rays of sunshine cast over our flesh
And the snow glistens with the light you shine in.
I’ve never felt safer, wrapped in the protection of your arms
During the loudest thunderstorm in the middle of spring;
When the skies are dark and grey, lightning shooting like swords
Against earth’s ceiling.
I’ve held your naked body against my own,
Drawing over the cliffs of your hip bones, the valley of your
Belly button and the mountain range of ribs,
The cage that protects your heart from the heat of the
Summer temperatures that I hold within me, your warm
Anatomy heating my body like the core of earth:
From the inside out.
I’ve ran my fingers through the sweet sweat resting over
Your back, like droplets of dew on a leaf in the early morning
Humidity of summer after a night of making love.
We watch the leaves change color ad stroll softly
To the ground in autumn.
The temperatures begin to drop and the branches are naked
And bare, like my skin in summer while we sleep.
I’ve loved you like the snow that grips the bark.
I am cold, but winter has always been your favorite.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Touch me, I am fragile but I know I will not break. If you look at me long enough your eyes will start to water based on the saltiness of my skin because of the sea's I've swam to get to the place I'm in now. Open, closed, I've ran back and forth a hundred times, I am the weakest link and the leader of the group. If you sawed me in half you'd see three things: my barely pumping heart, a toxic amount of love, and a will to survive.
Touch me, but be gentle, because although I learnt to withstand even the deadliest of summer heat your cold heart isn't something my body is used too. Close your eyes, count to ten, am I on your mind? No. Throw me into the ocean. I'm no use to you then. It's cloudy but it doesn't rain, mid 70's but no humidity, my heart is sore, but I'm breathing. Oh god, I don't know how, but I will continue.
Touch me, be rough, ***** make it a melody and prove to me all I'm missing out on by not being enough for you. Afterward, I want a list of ten things I can change so that I will be enough for you. Make it a hundred if you have too, I just want to be enough for you. Staple it to my forehead, toss me in the ocean. I'm not here for your approval, only my own, and I don't think I'll be content in who I am until I'm something you think is worthwhile. Push me on the ground and kick me as hard as you can, make this pale skin your canvas, I want bruises and blood, six broken bones and a concussion to match. Make me hate you. Babe, all I've got is love.
Touch me, one last time, but don't let go until the end of this lifetime. This love became a competition long ago, and boy do I love to win. Tonight the universe spoke to me and it told me here is where I need to be, and I think it wants me to fight. Put on your armor, give me some weapons, I'm here for the long haul and I'm taking every prisoner I can. Touch me because I am weak and I need to learn to be strong so I can withstand this, 'cause baby this love feels like seeing a doctor coming towards you with a needle the size of your head, "oh don't worry sweetie this will only hurt a tad", ******** I still felt it a week after. But this one, **** I'll be lucky if it doesn't still sting in a year...
Touch me, please. I'm begging you. I need to feel alive, but you've been suffocating me and my heavy heart. How am I supposed to survive when loving you feels like death?
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
A coffee shop afternoon can say it looms significant
In the steamer’s sweet humidity
And the idle legs pace for more
I hear the whispers of world-changers and gossip mix
Local color of a quiet little town.
Sit humble and lean, a fixture ‘till showtime
And ask lines around just we’ve they’ve been
And who they’ve seen.
There’s a poetry in the patron, come
My gaze permits and intervenes
Its narrative and scheme, in lover’s hand enweaved.
Graphite plays its frustrate part the writer
Seated far, far in a blissful nadir
Bristles in his pony tail like drawers end to no avail.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Determine meaning of toxic
probe quantity of goodness required
to cease metabolic function
Give space to inspections
of remaining affect-reserves
Adjust interior humidity
to +/- decency
Console yourself.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
The Dutch brought art, mud and dirt of the Kathmandu heartland,
With cigarette smoke clouding the air, and pizzas in the oven.
Not overcooked, no medium rare, slight rounded, man-made
The ambiance was now of Rembrandt and Van Gogh,
Yellow with the hint of light.
Perhaps coffee, perhaps tea.
And delight in a conversation of philosophy.
Maybe you'll pay, maybe me.
The open doors swallow in the air of the monsoon,
with the enigma of ever binding books who stuck to the wall
Like wall flowers, some folded papers like petals of an unbloomed bud.
They all had smells better inhaled with tobacco smoke.
The music played, and people dance within the security of their thoughts,
The shelter for their thoughts, the flaws of their speech.
Memories,pure and bright radiated from the lamps above the bar,
Lights which come to us only in fallen stars, but wishful thinking
is dangerous.
Hence forget it like Dutch forgot the wars.
Memories are made here, where the humidity is heavy from the perfume of heavy smiles, or folded chins and forheads from a chess game.
Not hidden, no worries, around the corner.
But yet again man made.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
It was the summer my
feet tanned like a gladiator,
my coliseum was more a
city piled on dirt, dust, trash
and under that; sand. It was
a desert summer though pollution
and global warming stole the
'dry heat' notion, burned it
up between layers of humidity and
buried it under the city-
down to sand that touched jewels
and biblical lust.
sometimes I ate pigeons and
sometimes I ate McDonald's.
sometimes I was in love and
sometimes I cried myself to sleep.
my eyes were brown, my skin was dark
and my accent was convincing.
I could have been anybody
tiptoeing between past-dead
hatchbacks and stray cats-
any lonely girl with sleep in her eyes
and fogged up sunglasses,
so why did I stay me?
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
I feel it surround me
holding me in my place.
It hovers around me
like humidity on a hot day.
I take deep breaths
but that never seems to help.
I try not to succumb but the
deep
burning
anger
envelopes me until I see red.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Warmth,
Sunshine,
Humidity,
Filling the days.
Monkeys here,
Snakes there,
Geckos everywhere,
Finding them throughout the day.
Homesickness pulls at my heart.
Birds tweeting,
****** of a foreign language,
Small things caught throughout the day
Reminding me of home.
Cold,
Clouds,
Wind,
Filling the days.
Raccoons here,
Seagulls there,
Buildings everywhere,
Spotting them throughout the day.
Homesickness pulls at my heart.
Foreign things,
So different from home
Making me long for the past.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
I thought you'd left us, long ago
desolate on a swing
rocking stale, dry grass and still air
crossing
never quite the hurdle
lost
unaware
sweating youth in this humidity
I thought we'd never make it past the
rusty red and brown of weathered fences
like
felt moun
They
tains
Made of dirt
(guilt)
and an endless turmoiling scent, still fresh
I thought you'd forlorned us
h e a v y r a i n and warm bodies
standing next to oxidized hoops
one adjacent to the other
The haze of the heat hard, but not impossible
to withstand swaying like the gust of wind, swaying
the blazing sun and my open palms swaying
Why was it here that it felt like you left us
stumped,
unaware,
consuming with no
idea of the Greater
2.
W H A T was it about inner cities
And skin that would tan
Or resist the sun
that made you mutter murky words
judgement
that made me hike a
K
A
E
P
that for so long made feel like a (lost) traveler
unable to come find my way D O W N.
Still on a mountain top
Never quite crossing the hurdle.
That’s how you wanted me
A
B
A
N
D O N E D.
3.
But my tongue made sounds
copper pots and plastic measuring cups
became the pious accompaniment
of a song sung inwardly
until it manifested
Words on lips
Lips willing to kiss the purple clouds made out of strange fruit and a high border walls over my hand and back
4. A Swimsuit and a pool that could cool
me
small children see the cicatrixes
But I walk towards the water; I have long abandoned shame.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:24 PM UTC
It almost feels like summer,
breeze at the dusk, killing mosquitoes.
It feels like
Taking a stroll on National Mall,
On a summer night in front of Lincoln Memorial.
Playing Frisbee riding bike
On the meadow in front of the Capitol.
My summer in the capital
With you, him and her and them and myself alone
It feels like the humidity in the swamp, with jazz playing in the background
It smells like crab cake and french toast, out from the diners I frequent
It looks like the summer sky, cloudless, your eyes
The meadow the ducks, summer dress and birkenstock.
Brunch, breeze and bike, followed by more bike rides along the riverfront.
Sitting on the marble stairs of the Supreme Court
Dipping toes in Reflection Pool
Summer in D.C. oh how I much do I miss you and adore
Summer is a state of mind and so does love
But you never fail to give me the feelings of those above.xxoo
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 5:04 AM UTC
There are archers in rooftops 270 meters to my east
They account for the wind
They feel the humidity as the air condensates on the back of their neck
Crawling down their spine
They inhale
Let out their carbon in a slow steady sigh
Their target is at the door to my dorm room
My door creeks open
The archers let the cord to their payment slide down the mountainous ridges on the end of their fingers
One archers whispers "for freedom"
The arrow soars to the window that lets light pour onto my covers
Glass shatters
The thud of a body falls to the floor
I sit up
A thousand grasshoppers replace my bones
The hairs on my arms are attentive
The lights illuminate my illusions
I stare at my own body on the floor
I fall to my knees
Meeting my eyes to the dead stare so familiar in mirrors
Finally
This monster is dead
A ****** arrow stands from his forehead
From his toes to his hair, he falls to ashes
The broken window letting in a breeze that vaccums the ashes from the room
All that's left
An arrow stuck to my floor
The arrow penetrates a photograph
I lift the picture to take a closer look
A hole covers the eyes
What gives it away is the smile
The complection
Finally
This monster is dead
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
I imagine sitting on a porch somewhere humid and calm,
a tall tree, full of hand fruits, providing shade to foot traffic.
In this imagining, the lemonade is almost too sweet but doesn't stick to the table when it dries, and the mesh lining of the patio denies mosquitos all entry.
Their buzzing is drowned by the sound of ice being crushed three or four times with margarita mix and my favorite sin. Here, life has halted so dearly in a way I've always wanted, and in this, there is peace.
My parents would have kept a container of peanuts nearby to have with their Pepsis for days like this--
days where sound and warmth and humidity mingle, and fanning yourself with an old church pamphlet was better than being
bored, comfortable, and air-conditioned.
Apr 15, 2023
Apr 15, 2023 at 12:04 AM UTC
I have migraine headaches quite often.
Stress could be a factor as
I am a fifty-one year old father of three;
a retiree with too many chits, too many broken nest eggs...
Or it could possibly be my diet:
lots of carbohydrates and complex sugars,
mixed well with large quantities of
diet soda and inactivity...
Or perhaps the trouble lies with allergens;
for my life is inundated with pet dander, pollen,
dust, and grass clippings. Add to that
humidity levels and mold blooms -
who wouldn’t be allergic?
Or maybe it’s just a brain tumor.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
evening
Maria and Mr. Riner are sitting on my bed
tied up like garlands, against the wall
the words stew inside and I can't seem to
pour them out
but we three fools, sit and scribble regardless
staring blankly at the drooling clock
(persistent, in our memories).
the whitewashed cinderblocks are testament
to the number of walls
the quantity of clocks
this series of chairs
and if we close out eyes we expect to
wake up in heaven
but it's just the same old hell.
she says, keep writing
(if you feel inclined)
and slides her back into mine
but I've got no more letters in these fists
(so I'll lie and think for a bit).
she says,
I've never been a 'she' before...
morning
my coat sits in a bundle near the door
I've been trying to find a way to hang it
but I'm having mixed results, in fact
all this month I've been trying to make attachments
to these white,
white,
cinder block walls
with all manner of adhesives.
but these nightly sessions
have been ******* with the humidity
and every morning something new is on the floor.
all I can do is put them back up again.
try and
be a little more constant
with these climate fluctuations.
try and
sleep a little more, sweat a little less.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC