"indentation" poems
~a question of a thousand dreams~^
“Where are you going now my love? Where will you be tomorrow? Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow? All the questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see”
this one composes itself
for all dreams go unremembered
the first, the thousandth, the every in between,
erased by the push button of opening eyes
but dreams come, marching in, saints mining the raw materiel
the quartermaster has stored, awaiting requisition by an
unarmed unnamed corp, witnessed but never seen
these dreams wisped soft willow budded, tempting taunting,
leaving nothing but unanswered questions that colored come
in black and white
elementary clues,
a pillow indentation,
single hair that stretches
across the sea between two pillows that is blonde or red
but
certainly unmine,
dregs of soured sentiment linger like the
aftertaste of too many coffees and stainless steel beers
heated summers breezes give no succor or relief,
and the rain following gives no pleasure,
for now you are hot and soaked,
but somewhere in there a dream is part replayed,
and eyes widening in major league surprise,
the question acknowledged, the dreams quest hinted
she has gone, neither happiness or sorrow will she
provide on the morrow, no toweling of your wet hair fair,
and you awake sweat besotted, it is not rain, just pain,
and it is only one dream a thousand times repeated
and what you do and what you see
is the abraded night ahead, and
you bitter laugh, for there is no more other than to think,
the question answered, and you beg relief by
uttering
“perchance to dream”
3:49 pm
see the notes!!
someone accuses me of Plagiarism
because I did not acknowledge that the quote in marks and Italics was from a famous song written 39 years ago
so here is my response to
“just saying”
congratulations on ******* me off
and yes I agree, you do not know the rules
“#1: Quotation Marks Are for Quoting People—Verbatim
Perhaps it should go without saying, but quotation marks are for quoting people. Quoting doesn’t mean summarizing or paraphrasing; it means repeating exactly what someone said. If you put double quotes around a phrase, your reader will often assume that someone, somewhere, said that exact phrase or sentence.“
http://thevisualcommunicationguy.com/2013/09/11/10-things-you-really-need-to-know-about-quotation-marks/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
again, madness!
one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?
why?
must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:
“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”
no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!
your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.
the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.
here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>
But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:
*”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.*”
A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out
these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.
<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.
a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
Pastel paint down a gridded terrain,
square indentation in a porous grain,
snow atop the mountain melts away,
floods the chasm to crumble today,
gone in a flash, its been known,
short-lived is my ice cream cone.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 2:36 AM UTC
Every muscle is a brushstroke.
Every vein has a story
Every indentation is a memory
I hide my pain in the gym and the physique that comes with it bears the scars of betrayal, loneliness, depression.
I hide my pain in plain sight, masked by the illusion of strength.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
The ripple effect of a rash decision.
Ignoring with a cold precision.
Glass cannot completely melt away.
Yet it never heats up the way they say.
A small crack in the upper lip.
An indentation, a simple dip.
If you don’t read the bible, Jesus will hate you.
But, Jesus, that is something I’ll never do.
The crack expands to a spider’s home.
A girl in a metal chair all alone.
Do you know what the gospel is, kid?
I don’t know if I do, but I wish that I did.
Splicing incision, multiple cracks.
Spiraling around in un-orderly stacks.
Mummy, I’m feeling ill.
Doesn’t matter, you are going still.
A piece falls to the floor with grace.
A trickle of water fills its place.
She throws her square hat into the air.
Whipping away the wafers and wine out of her hair.
The dam breaks away, the glass cascades in a sparkling haze.
Washing away the church daze.
Never. Again.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
the rain wet floor
the man with a birth mark in the shape of Pangea
the backwards baseball cap
the re-used meme
the re-used meme
the idea of “retro”
cumulus clouds floating
heavy &
overhead
all electrical goods just sitting on stand-by
waiting
the machines are waiting
the blueprints that are 1mm out
at right angles to the rest of the world neon lights flash downtown
reflected on wet concrete
arriving at a destination and not knowing how you got there
my glasses leave an indentation on the side of my head
my children are asleep and I can see the signs
a new Netflix series that goes on for 125weeks – I have no stamina for this –
the mundane beauty of a leisure centre
the perfection of the shopping mall
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 7:38 AM UTC
<!>
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman
strap on a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released
a one way only sign
time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word leave just this:
where is the in in
intimate?
are you the in in
inmate,
or the jailor at the gate?
you swear never again
until committing once more,
a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,
and the greater toll taken and paid for,
and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity
happily
<•>
9/17/17 10:55pm
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
The loving puddle in the gutter off market street-- the one that fills with dirt and **** and damp newspaper, plastic soda cup, strange indecipherable Chinese pamphlets with bleeding characters. She smiles at the sun and renders its visions on her face, and with great tension attempts to demonstrate her willingness, her blushing consent to being totally subsumed by its whims. Of course she trembles at the diurnal stampede of feet, but is not afraid-- for she too speaks in eternity. She has evaporated before-- she has kissed the incessant sky over Marrakesh in the soft morning and dreams of the sparkling mountainsides in the night, when she is divided by callous rubber tires or cast below by competing distant rains. Yet she has always found her way back home; Nestled in the subtle indentation of road besides the brickway near Battery.
"Dewdrop, let me cleanse
in your brief
sweet waters . . .
These dark hands of life"
It was one of the waning days of winter, in the blurred haze of rains, when we left the coast and began our journey home. As she drove, I watched the pebbled streaks roll across the window into great vertical streams, to be cast off indistinct along the stationary road. Upon all our sides, Even the black-toothed mountain tops lost their grandiose summits into the fog. Off the road, next to the sagging remains of a gas station, a man sat beneath the naked fist of an old willow tree. He, with a teal umbrella, twirled the nylon circle so that the collecting sheen of water spun and spiraled centrifugal out into the bombarding camaraderie of fellow drops. The damp fields sat empty of life behind him, casting into evanescent black oceans of dirt. As we hurried past, I turned back-- and following him with my own watering eyes, I watched for as long as I could--until he too faded silently into the mist.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 3:27 AM UTC
I hope you wore a sweater,
in your favorite shade of blue.
It gets cold in late November,
_(it gets darker faster, too)_
I hope the shoes you wore fit snugly
_(even if your socks don't match)_
I hope your last day wasn't ugly,
I hope the pain was over fast.
I'm sure you felt your sadness deeply,
I'm sure you felt your heart ache too.
When you took a walk when all were sleeping,
in your favorite shade of blue.
I wonder what it felt like,
to pick the perfect tree.
To end your painful heartache,
snug shoes on dangling feet.
But my most pressing question,
that I would ask of you,
is where did you lose your earbud?
_(you're wearing one, not two)_
They moved you to the metal table,
_(the one that tilts down at an angle)_
They cut the sweater off you too,
your favorite one in midnight blue.
They make their notes:
your weight,
your height.
They check your shoulder width and write:
"He will fit a standard casket"
_(they carry on with their assessment)_
"Rope indentation - on the neck
Eyes and fingers - blue and red
Socks mismatching
Nike shoes
One earbud gone"
_(that's all I knew)_
Tell me why'd you take that walk?
I know the road ahead looked bare.
Tell me how you chose a song.
Did you brush your teeth and comb your hair?
Did it happen on a school night?
_(your file says you were in 12th grade)_
Did you tell your mom you loved her?
- with your mind already made.
So to the boy with just one earbud,
I'm sorry this world felt so wrong.
I hope you're in your favorite sweater,
and you're listening to your favorite song.
Dec 10, 2023
Dec 10, 2023 at 8:44 AM UTC
A baseline that you feel in your chest,
Humming thick in your ears,
And your mouth,
You just want to live in their blur of impactful words,
That you don’t understand,
Because it’s just a baseline to you,
But have you ever felt so proud of someone?
That what they’re saying, or what they’re playing or who they’re being,
Becomes the only thing that’s keeping off the rain,
And you can see every tooth in the room,
Every heart that becomes unbroken and
every heart that breaks,
Well it’s a shooting star,
Baby it’s gold dust,
Because his gaze is tattooed on your body,
Under your sweater,
Under your skirt,
Yours is a crime scene littered with his fingerprints,
But you’re no ****** victim,
Jackie,
Jane,
Joan,
Wife,
Mother,
Daughter,
Survivor,
Protector,
Warrior,
Woman,
Know when it’s dark,
And subtle shadows are all that remains of your bodies,
Finding all the bones in your shoulder,
The piano strings that move your fingers,
And each indentation of your spine,
Is a bible,
But God won’t give him strength,
It’s your skeleton that is fortitude,
You’re the dragon protecting the castle,
You’re Rosie the Riveter,
You can hold up the world with perfectly manicured hands,
You will listen,
And you will care,
Let him breathe in the fractions of your soul that you exhale,
That way,
Every standing ovation and
every wound that heals,
Is saturated with the influence of you,
Though you don’t understand,
That baseline you can feel in your chest,
It is your to be proud of too.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
In the forest, there grows a flower
That the night loves with starlit showers.
How it blossoms near the tree beneath the moon!
Its petals are a vibrant indentation
Which, with its beauty, betokens the wilderness.
Rapacious and beguiled
Become the seekers of the bloom.
Ravenous are they for its syrupy nector,
And greedy for its savory and intoxicating effect,
Which is delusive to those who would otherwise be able to reckon.
Its glamour incites a yearning
That, not sated, becomes a burning
Which leaves a hollow place where the logic used to be,
And tangles the chords of one's emotions.
Not everything that is enticing is worth the bill of fare,
Even if it thrives freely throughout the land.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Smile
an indentation that can change the mood
Smile
an indentation that can change the feeling
Smile
an indentation that can change the bud become a flower
Smile
an indentation that can change a pupa to a butterfly
Smile
an indentation that can change the rain into the beauty of the rainbow
Smile
an indentation that can change winter become summer
Smile
an indentation that can change everything
One person smile, two people smile, three people smile and everybody smile
Smile
an indentation that can change everything
Smile
an indentation that can change some words into a poem..
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
Paraphrased is my paradise
Pushed down
Clouds
Waiting to be found
Left in mass transition
Pondering in blurred positions
Paraphrased is my paradise
Pushed down
Celestial clouds
Waiting to be found
Distorting my vision
Bent through kaleidoscopes
Caught in between
Periods of hope
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
This was inspired by dents on the pillars
Outside the porch before it began to rain
And their smoothness and dips and mountainous valleys
And inevitable destinations and their journeys
And feeling the rain before it fell, without touch,
And today will never be another tomorrow
And fleeting, transitory roughness.
This was inspired by dents on the pillars
As the foundation sank into shifting earth,
And its progressing non-smoothness
Laced cracks through the dents,
And I rumple my fingers into each notch
And feeling without touch, too,
And I remember slipping on an unsecured brick
And slamming my head against the pillar
And roughness and pain and inevitable destinations
Like hospital beds for the busted heads
And hallways for the churning stomachs.
The dents are molding from the rain
And yellowing with the oil from my fingertips
And I haven’t moved my hand in five years,
And the valleys are so deep now that I see flames dancing in the depths
But is the world so complex as that
Or is it simply same outcomes and same purposes
In an infinite score of time passing
And seven billion dents across an ornate pillar
That stands with so much pride
But feels hollow to me, is hollow.
I wish to feel each indentation
When feeling without touch won’t suffice,
But I haven’t moved my hand in 500 years
And this poem is about dents,
But it was only inspired by the honesty of them
Because it’s really about roughness and valleys
And oily finger swirls and inevitability and unsecured sameness
And the pillars keep sinking into themselves
And the dents are folding into the cracks
And I can no longer touch them with feeling.
There are smudges on your cheeks from my finger touches
And dents on your heartbeat from trying to keep mine in time to yours
And mountains in your mind that I fell for in the first place
And everything is transitory
And this poem is about the days you sought the pillars in my skull
And the night they began to sink into themselves
So that neither of us can reach them now.
There are dents on the pillars,
And it has begun to rain,
And you’ve curled miles into the folds of transitory time-passing
As if we were inspired by the dents, too.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
Swoon, swindled, spindled, and spun.
Wisp of a hand,
to the possession of tongues.
With your lungs producing breath; methane gas.
Lips like matches,
with tendencies to strike,
engulfing us in a passionate blaze.
Bodies connected in the dark,
the silhouette of your euphoric body proved that ignorance was needed and illumination,
never needed.
Settle.
Intertwined in the repose,
Was the leaf to our stick.
Fathomed indentation
Tethered in our unspoken script
Heavy apparitions conjured from tight gasps.
Releasing 3 whispered words,
becomes our catalyst.
One embedded in your eyes
A riptide
of size to rise
the ties
in the endearing future of our lives
until we say our goodbyes
you'll shed this pain that cuts like knives.
Daydreaming of electric wires.
Tiptoeing on what
hangs lower than our fire.
Closed currents in the air
You continue the shock
as your fingers dance through my hair.
We're the flowers and petals,
withered into the passion we're plagued with.
Oh so crowded,
We're cursive
Characters tied in knots,
We can't be split.
Fearing the closure,
We mustn't ever be print...
...Fragmented, affluent, vacant, and split.
The script unraveled
Not cursive,
now print.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
the cracks in the shades
make stripes along my sheets
eternity and death
laying beside me
it's time for them to leave
but their promises
will never vacate
the indentation on my mattress
their breathing, their whispers of truth
that progression is happening
that the world is spinning
that I am dying
spending hours assuming
that their touch will render me
into anything but a funeral
pacing in a skull
when they leave, I
am sure they will never
return. for this figment of my
imagination, has ended me
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
The dark night was out there
even though the shutters
were up at the windows
and the night nurse sat
in the small office
with her coffee
and wearing glasses
and you entered
unable to sleep
you wearing pyjamas
and dressing gown sans belt
in case you tried
to hang yourself again
and you sat opposite
taking in her big blue eyes
behind the lens of her glasses
her hair brown
and well kempt
and you said
when can I go home?
when you’re better
she said
when will that be?
you’ll know
she said
and sipped her coffee
how good does better feel
you have forgotten
but do not ask
her upper lip has skin
from the milky coffee
hanging
and she wiped it off
with the back
of her hand
and Christine stood
by the door of the office
dressed in her nightgown
pale green
and open at the top
showing the indentation
of her throat
and the small valley
where her ******* began
can’t sleep
she said moving in
and standing by the desk
you looked her
feeling an intrusion
yet glad she is there
her being there beside you
the smell of her
her hands on the desk
tapping
what is it with you two?
the night nurse said
if it’s not one
it’s the other
or both
can’t sleep
Christine repeated
had a nightmare
dreamed I was at the altar again
and he didn’t show again
and it happened again
and again
the nurse said
I’ll get you both something
but if the doctor
hears of this
he may recommend
ECT again
she looked at you opposite
across my dead ****
Christine said
but the nurse had gone
just you and Christine
and her nightmares clinging
gazing out the office
onto the sleeping ward
in semi dark
and the dread
of the ECTs
hauntingly present
remembering the last time
in the small back room
waking with a head heavy
and in pain
and Christine
lying beside you
on another bed
eyes closed
stiff like one sleeping
but acting dead.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
I am not yours
Nor can I ever be.
I am bound to this world
This earth
This terrain
While you-
You are walking across the universe
On steps that I will never graze upon.
I envy the faces you pass-
People who don't even know your name
Yet are privileged to be in your presence
While I am here, clinging to the mere indentation of you on my bed.
I don't understand the logic behind this.
I know you.
I have seen you wake up in the early morning,
A sketch of hazy eyes and soft edges.
I have seen you thrash in the middle of the night,
Delirious and fevered from the demons in your head.
I've held your calloused hands
And mapped out your scars
To the constellations of the dark dark sky.
I knew all of that
And yet
I still could not be yours.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
He felt the scars up and down her arm
with the tip of his index finger.
Tracing ever indentation that was left by a blade.
“Why did you do it?”
he asked.
She sighed and answered
“Because I had to.”
His brows furrowed not understanding
how she possibly had to do this to herself.
“I did it to control the pain.”
He trailed kisses from her wrist up to her neck,
“I still love you,”
he said enclosing her in his arms.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
Reading “Poem” While Waiting for her in Peet’s Coffee
Lukewarm coffee with nothing special
in it, and my brain buzzing
with words passed through a phone.
Ah, I’d love to go back to those days
spent singing and seeing colors in cement
questions asked precariously of my life
and yours, your and my possibilities.
But staring into the beyond, I am left
disappearing quick in the cold air like the warmth of coffee left on the table.
Precariously
in love
I was caressed to the point where
my face left itself
impressioned on the pillow
I pressed into every night.
My head was clear
because it was expelled
each night into a cell phone
away from here. It reached
an ear, soft and embracing
swallowing all I pressed into it.
The indentation I left
I saw as me
held precariously
in the head
of another.
Now, head spinning,
ready to be filled with anything
stable or not, I at least remember
being held.
Poem
*Is this love, now that the first love
has finally died, where there were no impossibilities?*
I saw no impossibilities with you
held there in all I wanted. True
there was bliss, but if what they say is true,
what else is that?
I remember more color
pointed out by you,
blues and oranges in shadows on cement
reds in faces and how the sky is the only one
who can blend yellow with blue, but
now all colors are an option
for this palette
though all colors mixed
leave grey
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 6:49 AM UTC
Warm sea breeze
embrace the embers
of sunset’s night.
Pebbled wash
laps gentle ashore
shadow seeps
into every indentation
the sand that sinks beneath my feet
still cooling from before.
Eyes through leafy palms
they meet
wincing in the glare
of sun lit shimmer heat
Your bikini
magnifies my gaze
covers an ample *****
Moments thought
the inquisitive mind
Lost in oceans
azures blue.
Stretch to the horizon
leave the world behind
To hold so tight
as if sharing skin
To mould to every curve
and cleft of you.
A raptures prelude
senses commotion
run for cover
monsoon rain.
Somewhere
there is only you
a far away ocean
crying for crested moments
and indulge a passion
in such freedoms refrain.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 1:59 PM UTC
~
from the anthology of the unwritten,
from the tombs of the stillborn,
where carcasses of idled titles and orphaned stanzas
do not compete for proof of life,
and
nameless birth certificates unissued,
yellowing and wasting midst
crumbling aleph bet spawn
here
comes a poem of concession
comes a poem of summation
of a life lived, knotted poorly, not well,
worse cursed as vanilla inadequate
the satisfaction in the writing,
the gleeful breaking of the sac,
the gushing relief giving way to
the childbirth of a new moon-poem,
arrested, wrested
a single plague affliction,
the cancer of weakness,
means Pharaoh wins
the cancer of weakness
no cure, no pharmaceutical poultice,
spreads insidious; one day - pain in the remote,
your big toe, then
next you can only street stagger
begging forgiveness and the kindness of strangers
hoping for the accidental cure of touch,
the miscellany lottery ticket probability of low chance
the visible mark you leave,
a weak indentation upon a pillow,
it is the dented head, cut deep by the shadow,
shake it out and you're a disappeared one,
nothing to show,
did someone once sleep here?
you were once upon a time
binary
a 1
now a 0 -
flip flop bottom top,
listening to Frank's "That's Life"^
my litany too long;
woeful work this business of flailing,
posting a tired-out self help love poem
ain't no cure for the falling-out-of-love
black and blue, self-inflicted bruising blues,
the wrists ache
the bones don't freak
but squeal, somebody's squeezing me
the alarm clock, a death knell,
everyone saying don't worry
you got a proven record,
the boss's eyes twinkling
"but what have you done for me lately?"
funny
Death says
Hey, aren't you the boss?
Who shall over rule thy Dominion?
What have thy done to yourself lately?
Answer: never end a poem with a question mark @
3:06am
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
Wall
I see an indentation
I fill you
My empty hours
Room grew pale
Like white ash
Folding eyelids
Fell into abyss
Nocturnal space evolved
Scattered like silvery dots
Between my ego
Remain seated
With pride
And a glinting ceiling
Watchful like moon
Wall
You gravitate slowly
Toward center
Like a sulkiest universe
Sprouting!
You lean over my shoulder
I shrug you off
Tilts against my back
I turned over
Merged those dots
I wish to blend
It disappeared!
All colors in me
Vanished ...
As it cleared away
Everything was wasted
Left deep marks
On yours
My eyes opened
I wailed!
Silence stared at me
She was there
Pounding
Cold
In black.....
Here take my seat
Instead.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
If we were two books who happened to cross covers
Or over lap tittles,
In a momentary lack of structure
You would find us stacked back to back
As unlikely as a tragedy with star struck lovers..
Happened upon the other
in a library archiving
Written word and lives, and eons worth of soft
Text typed,
I would be a book of Russian poems
Roughly speaking of beautiful things,
With a bare textured cover, a soft sea foam green.
And you would be lost in the meaning,
In the reflections of your wealth
I would give you all the answers you hide inside your self,
You would be of another breed,
Your italic headings speaking of vastly different things,
You would show a thousand places I wish to know,
With a hundred hand drawn maps
Filled to the indentation with
realities greater than my own imagination
with pictures
That capture you, whisper liberation,
You would be the inspiration every trapped
lower class individual looks upon while dreaming up
Vacation homes.
You are the window to the places everyone
Everyone wants to know
Your pages crisp but warm, smelling of vanilla
Not a single scuff, crease, you are not torn.
A soft Carmel brown cover where
A hundred careful fingers hover.
You are probably thinking we don’t belong together.
Not in a library alphabetized and
Split into sections,
Good thing great librarians
Know better, she
Stole us and set us together in her own
Private collection.
There is no where I fit better than
Next to you, pressed cover to cover,
we are becoming a story of
unlikely lovers,
We are best friends,
Penned from different ink
Speaking different themes
meeting
Resting between book ends designed
Out of clever minds set out to
To fuzz the line between actuality
And your aspiration,
We are just the perfect combination of
Drive and a dream,
The fact you are here means something
And the more I read the more it seems
Together we'll achieve great things.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC