"itchy" poems
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass
Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps
Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying
Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”
That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress
Some images just stay with you, ya know?
July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
I've always had itchy feet
Never can sit still
Or let the soles of my shoes fuse to the ground
I keep my home around my neck
Wear it in a golden heart shaped locket
I misplaced my compass but never lost myself
I crave the ground passing beneath my feet
Beneath wheels and airplane shadows
I measure my age in miles acquired
I've seen the Milky Way from every angle
And swam in every sea
I keep going, going, going
And I never stop to wonder what I'm running from
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
I feel the scratch
of the itchy cotton gown
on the narrows of my back
as it climbs up and down
Displayed I lye on the medical tables hard cold steel
It seers into the crevices of my bones
I ponder the lone window and wonder if it's real
I listen for the bleep and bloop of medical tones
Nurses walk by in a mechanical grace
poke and **** & tap and touch my face
and then proceed to leave without a trace
with no hint of knowledge of my medical case
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
I'm a big girl, I'm a big girl
I begin to chant in a simple rhythm
as small as a ball I begin to curl
I'm abandoned inside this glassy prism
The dead silence creeps inside my brain
I want to scream to fill the deadly gap
but the cold thick air of silence brings pain
I comfort myself and say it will be ok
My breathing begins to quicken
my eyes dart around the room
only comfort is the fear which I am stricken
my sight goes bleary as darkness looms
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Tears sting the corner of my eyes
I want someone to hold my hand
Oh God how I want to cry
but the only thing there is the bleeding arm band
The test begins with the thickness of barium
It slides down my throat and clings to my esophagus
It tastes like chalk and pandemonium
they want me to suffocate I guess
I chug and chug as the pictures are snapped
x-ray upon x-ray of my stomach and my back
Drink more Drink more They tell me to do
Nervously I shake and say, anymore and I will puke on you
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Even more poking and prodding ensues
but of my stomach, ribs and *******
I lay rigid as a board from the pain of each touch
I grow weary of this tiresome rues
The tests are done
and the coast is clear
I am left alone
to dress myself in fear
Dismissed and discharged to walk away
they file my chart with a robotic smile
now for the wait of endless days
I'm lost in my mind's land of emotional exile
Waiting all alone
waiting on this cold table
waiting for the doctors and the drones
Pins & Needles Pins & Needles
I wait for the results
Is it stomach cancer, an ulcer or both??
In the dark I am kept like followers in cults.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
We were mixed up when it built;
One another forced to coexist.
As it drew us high and higher still,
Below us grew the abyss.
Overflowing with ecstasy,
We left our hearts astray.
The obnubilating and obsolete
Had gotten our way.
Obstacles vanished one by one,
Increasingly slaying the beast.
Moments we thought we'd won
Are when we'd won the least.
We stretched out our hands towards the sky
Like wretched ghosts wrapped in disguise,
As though we had just found a new paradise
With the devil ahead leading as our guide.
We followed him throughout the land:
"This way leads us to the great fountain",
And now we're stuck in a desert of sand
Wondering when oases shall be attained.
We've taken a bet against our nature.
Was it anyone-in-particular's fault?
"For every curse there'll be a cure,
For every flood there'll be a drought."
Once more, again, we shall repeat,
To morrow, and for ever more.
When the sunshine now seems to greet
And when the darkness falls,
Comes that nighttime of our lives;
We ponder what we've been,
But what we're we supposed to be
When the pact was always sealed.
So we wait in such anxiety,
The impatience growing itchy;
And we amass, tall in piles,
To crash onto the shores like the sea.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:55 AM UTC
loaded with her weekly shop
outside the doors at asda
***** **** that never let
opportunity go passed her
hello big boy
she stroked his cheek
my bags are heavy
knees are weak
i lift dumbells
night and day
giss ya shopping
lead the way
i've got an itchy *****
and i've got the horn
do you want to see it?
you **** hunk of brawn
you'll have to show me luv
it's hard for me to see
those ****** japanese cars
look all the same to me
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 1:26 AM UTC
By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream
~ Umi
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Itchy face;
Cold embrace,
Troubled by fate
Itchy face;
The taste longed for is
The glory of success.
Itchy face;
If only he could put in the best.
O how he yearns for that taste
Itchy face;
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
hist whist
little ghostthings
tip-toe
twinkle-toe
little twitchy
witches and tingling
goblins
hob-a-nob hob-a-nob
little hoppy happy
toad in tweeds
tweeds
little itchy mousies
with scuttling
eyes rustle and run and
hidehidehide
whisk
whisk look out for the old woman
with the wart on her nose
what she’ll do to yer
nobody knows
for she knows the devil ooch
the devil ouch
the devil
ach the great
green
dancing
devil
devil
devil
devil
wheeEEE
10.3k
The sharp line separating where the sun met your skin
And where it was protected by your shirt is more prominent than ever
Because you forgot to lather on your sunscreen.
The dirt settles into a thin film
Covering every inch of your body
Caking into your hair making it feel
Like you haven't washed your hair for days.
The bugs are constantly buzzing around your face
Leaving bites up and down your arms
Making them itchy and irritated.
But, the sunburns, dirt filled clothes, and bugs
Only strengthens my love for the game.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
Sweaty face bright purple and greasy
I used to hide my body between the pages
But he told me to not read any more
Itchy head heated enough to make tea
My eyes are now how the trees say my name
My eyes are now the leeches I put in empty tampons
Sweaty neck I only want some traces of lips
Sweaty palms I only want some other fingers
Sweaty thighs I only want to walk well
************ sad wrapped in plastic
Cranky child trapped in old wrinkling skin
It may well be irrational excuses
Womb nervous and not worthy
Cerebral excuses, hormonal excuses
Highly sensitive person excuses
Delayed maturity excuses
Premenstrual syndrome excuses
Premature menopause excuses
Abusive motherhood at 5
Traumatic childhood at 18
What happens in between stays in between
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
If you've an itchy ***
Scratch it 'til it brays.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
The wind used to carry your whispers to me
gently,
lifting them from your distanced lips,
carrying them to my distanced ears.
The wind loved our delicate romance
and would do any favor
simply to hear
your next beautiful dance of words,
or to watch me smile,
heart melting,
at your whispered adoration.
But now it is restless, itchy summer
and though the wind rarely blows past
my ears,
I know your words drift slowly to me,
floating,
lingering,
whispering:
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 5:55 PM UTC
Let me tell you about myself.
I am a mosquito magnet.
I have little scars of itchy memories all over my scrawny legs.
But I think it means my blood is sacred.
I find my laugh unique and one of a kind.
My walk, resembling more of a bowlegged wobble, allows me to stand out against the crowd.
(My walk isn't that bad, by the way, I was merely exaggerating for stylistic purposes.)
What's more, the fact that I am prone to blushing at even the slightest glance my way is kldjaf;ldjfoiad;htija;ji;ajf.
I love it.
My clumsiness only adds meaning to the moments in which I am fleetingly graceful.
Yes, my posture is rough around the edges,
But it signifies that I have been around the world a few times.
At least I don't jut out my pretty decently sized *******
You're welcome.
I find my lack of arguing skills in the moment cute.
My mistakes are adorable, and my obvious flaws are endearing.
The fact I can't **** an ant without showing sympathy is amiable.
If only somebody thought the same way about me.
If only people looked and analyzed others as closely as I do.
They would see.
That way I wouldn't be the only one loving myself. (Or trying to.)
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
You pick up your needles
and knit together your lies
you make a scarf
of all different feelings
blue, red, green, yellow
beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate it.
You drape it around my neck
wounding it around and around
tight, tighter, too tight
i choke back my words
i now look beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate you.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
some times I believe,
not think,
but believe,
that there are indeed little figures in the grass,
brushing my ankles with tickles and laughs
sometimes in mid of velvet black,
can see them waving their six fingered hands
in front of the lights across the bay,
for the twinkles are different, their winkles,
semaphoric, euphoric, random but patterned
every know and every then,
could they be inside me,
inciting riots, sugar sharp pains,
in places where pain has no place purposed,
feel them lifting my-back-of-the-neck hairs,
at scary movies, making an ear itchy, why?
these elusives
are fairie godmothers,
personal angels,
hobgoblins,
shoulder sitters,
amusing muses
ear whisperers,
of new poem titles
sock stealers,
shoelace knoters,
giggling self-amusers,
ever present, ever invisible,
hat hiders, wet spot slider installers
you say you know them too?
cousins perhaps, for my elusives,
could not be here and there,
for they are:
as I write,
as I speak,
this very second
fluttering my eyelids,
those rascals,
to lay me down to sleep,
in cherishing tenderness me to keep
for they know too well,
sleep,
is an elusive of a different kind,
like peace of mind,
but they do their best,
to distract me unto rest
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
My transcendent transition
Brought by my ****** ambition
Became my personal religion
When I gained a monk's chastity
All my pleas just came back to me
My prayers remain unanswered
Like someone dying of cancer
An inept bow-legged dancer
My skills are useless
My bites are toothless
My eyes are youthless
When my face has been strained
By the energy that was drained
On this ceaseless journey
To sate my ceaseless yearning
They don't look like the pictures they show
They only choose the photos that glow
They're so afraid of being alone
Willing to lie
To lure unsuspecting prey
And trap them in a spider web personality
But webs are useless against grander creatures
And become an annoyance
When all the wildlife
Can only see silk
And get itchy in the effected areas
In our minds we build barriers
In our hearts we grow wearier
Searching for someone to hold us tight at night
Someone that looks right in the light
Someone that helps fight all our plights
Someone to give that tranquil transition
Into that peaceful loving condition
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:23 AM UTC
sweater
sweet
"you taste it"
sweet
I feel it with you
as I am enveloped in this sweater that
smells
feels
tastes
breathes
like you
comforting and warm, like you
woven and fragile, like you
itchy and scratchy, like you
like
you
if I could wear this sweater forever I would
to be held by the very fabric that has hugged your person that has hugged me
that I long for
that I think of as I remember that this is the first thing I put on after you felt me
all of me, with you
that this was the first thing you let me have, and take
that this was what you trusted me with
your Christmas sweater
what I put on for reassurance
that you want me and need me
what I put on for safety
when I feel like I'm losing it
I'm falling now though
in this sweater
backwards into that ocean
and I'm scared, sweater
that as days pass he loses me
that his image of me fades and drifts away
that he forgets the sound of my voice
that my touch on his body has evaporated
sweater, I want to hold him as he does me
this image in my mind of his smirk
his lanky but grand stature
his sturdy hands and brittle nails
his smell of Old Spice
his blonde bed head
I want to hold it all
and I want to hear it all, sweater
how he used to light everything in his path on fire as a child
how he owns a mug with his face on it as a little boy
how he lost it all to one person, like me
sweater I can feel myself falling
I'm losing my balance
I can't stand
I'm trying to protect my heart because I'm afraid to let it go
but a part of me fears I already have
and it's lost
in his arms
bare and bleeding
and yet here I am
wearing his sweater
alone and yearning.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Hazel
Your poor itchy face
I wish to free you from your aches
You lovely girl of lakes
Free at last to set your pace
In the Astral realm.
I cared not for you as I should
Please forgive me as I know you would
My favourite doggy
Woof woof.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
O might those sighs and tears return again
Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,
That I might in this holy discontent
Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain;
In mine Idolatry what showers of rain
Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent!
That sufferance was my sin; now I repent;
‘Cause I did suffer I must suffer pain.
Th’ hydropic drunkard, and night-scouting thief,
The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud
Have the remembrance of past joys for relief
Of comming ills. To (poor) me is allowed
No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been
Th’ effect and cause, the punishment and sin.
5k
There's something about that itch
that you can't itch enough.
I feel like when I put on my
Adidas or Nike ankle socks
they just don't do the trick.
My Hanes crew length
feel so comfy on my itchy legs.
They keep my legs warm
when I spend eight hours
in the cold box stocking drink.
However when I wear those
high socks with shorts people stare.
I guess it looks goofy
with my pale skin
that people have to double take.
I bet they ask questions like
"Is that his leg or is he wearing socks?"
I smile though when they stare
because it makes feel noticed
and it reassures me that I'm here.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~
when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town
when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet
when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me
so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,
a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed
2:01am
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
.simone biles (the gymnast)...
miles davis (the trumpet guy)...
must be black privilege;
wasn't there a movie...
starring
woody harrelson
and wesley snipes?
you sure?
i thought it was
called: white men can't jump...
sure as **** ****** can
sing church gospel!
how's that for
privilege?
if you're going to
culturally box, and repeatedly
punch below the belt...
you're quiet likely going
to get a reaction...
i have an acne wart growing
on my *** the size
of a cauliflower,
it's itchy my brain,
it's differentiating between
agitate and: lying back...
i guess the excess of...
look... you may have
the excess melanin...
i have lactose tolerance...
we're even?!
no?
so how come some smurf,
some European hobbit
shackle your N.B.A.
Goliath(s)?!
explain that one to me...
if these people were so
cock-unsure...
how they **** did they
tame the Zulu Apache Goliath
bodybuilders?!
what the ****
i already said, and it was proven...
IQ...
i don't like it...
but i'm pretty sure that
the whites **** more people
in terrorist attacks than...
camel-jockeys...
it took 3 or over three...
to perform the Bataclan Massacre...
three... the third of the IQ
that required a Breivik...
130 in France...
dissociated among 3 attackers
that gorged on testicles after the spree...
fun, fun fun fun...
like: you're trying to say that without
irony...
and how many in Norway?
77...
i only look at the IQ of killers...
so... what's the ratio?
77 / 1
130 / 3 = 43...
like i said... low IQ...
you really want your little
racial insurrection?
you'll have it, don't worry..
i'll just the narrative...
must be black privy...
if you can mash up a jazz compos.,
right?
crackers read from
a prepared script...
you ******* just, "improvise"...
rapping contra talking...
**** come to think of it...
******* boys took it too far from
your Oreos...
like... too much drums...
not enough wind, or strings...
too much drumming...
pulverizing the ears
with drum & bass and what not...
if i wasn't deaf prior,
i'm deaf by now;
******* boy to Oreo woo-oo-oops
boy;
same **** different cover.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
I'm gonna close my eyes and shut my mouth,
Let this high take me down south.
Now who cares, I'm everywhere.
They tug my arms, I rip my hair.
"No"
"Don't Do That!"
"Do this."
"Go Here."
(uh huh)
Whatever you need, that's what I'll be.
My face is itchy, my mouth is dry;
All I wanna do is stare up at the sky.
-Don't ask why-
Just let me fly.
Who needs the boys and who needs the girls
when you can take one hit and say goodbye to the world
and become
Comfortably numb.
I'm gonna shut my mouth, close my eyes
Take a big breathe
enjoy my high
and push on
so long, so long.
Find me in the gravel, kicking some rocks
I've got no shoes on, I got holes in my socks
Who cares, I'm everywhere.
Giving myself that big bear hug
from the inside I'm warm
This is how I feel love
(uh huh)
I'll do whatever I want.
My skin may itch, my heart may wear,
but whatever comes next is not my affair
I'll be gone.
Push on, push on.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
we whispered missing years
fluttered legs over a withering porch bench
she mixed my hair with white fingertips
to keep the itchy thoughts away
the walls of my grandparents’ house held me close,
my surrogate womb
we shared more than blood and color as
time licked her blonde with
heavy waves of fruit and nicotine and
I didn’t mind
she sung sticky secrets to me:
nights she dreamed on the streets when
rent was too high and
dads that come like rain:
big and loud all at once,
then gone
fingertips padded quiet paths along budding curls while
“mom” sat sweet and safe against my tongue
--
c
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
Today, I saw a person in front of me, their eyes on something else
and I took a moment to inspect them,
and then I realised it was myself.
There they were, wearing the clothes I had put on in the morning,
wearing the face I recognise in pictures
and standing exactly where I was standing.
But, they were not me – in that moment, they were not.
How could I be that girl, that women standing there in that shop?
The body inside is not that one I saw in the mirror,
the one who was looking a different way.
Inside, I’m more, I’m smaller, I’m darker, I’m paler and
I dress for them each morning, choosing from the clothes
not bought for them exactly,
but forced to match them, to meet halfway.
I knew it then, with a glance at the mirror person, nothing pretty would be bought today.
And it wasn’t.
Some days, it’s dungarees.
Other days, it’s dresses.
Some days, it’s shorts and leggings.
It all depends on who I’m playing as and
I’m sure that’s all okay, but then they say describe yourself in three words.
How can I describe myself, this person I do not know?
So I go for the easy option and choose them from a list:
Quiet
Creative
Studious
And I suppose, that’s one way of putting myself into three words;
one way of putting myself into an easy to understand formula.
But it doesn’t cover it.
Three words don’t cover it.
Because really, I think I’m just an observer inside my own imagination,
an observer inside my own life and all these other lives inside my head.
I’m just the implied narrator of this person in the mirror
and all these others, who come and go in different places.
But then the girl in the mirror reminds me that tomorrow is my birthday,
a day to celebrate the fact I exist outside of my head
and then she touches a shirt, made of itchy fabric
and there’s life outside the overwhelming inside,
a life where I need to describe myself in three words
and fit into those three words and into that one person,
looking at something else, not in the mirror.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC