"lifesavers" poems
They come on to my clean
sheet of paper and leave a Rorschach blot.
They do not do this to be mean,
they do it to give me a sign
they want me, as Aubrey Beardsley once said,
to shove it around till something comes.
Clumsy as I am,
I do it.
For I am like them -
both saved and lost,
tumbling downward like Humpty Dumpty
off the alphabet.
Each morning I push them off my bed
and when they get in the salad
rolling in it like a dog,
I pick each one out
just the way my daughter
picks out the anchoives.
In May they dance on the jonquils,
wearing out their toes,
laughing like fish.
In November, the dread month,
they **** the childhood out of the berries
and turn them sour and inedible.
Yet they keep me company.
They wiggle up life.
They pass out their magic
like Assorted Lifesavers.
They go with me to the dentist
and protect me form the drill.
At the same time,
they go to class with me
and lie to my students.
O fallen angel,
the companion within me,
whisper something holy
before you pinch me
into the grave.
3.9k
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom)
“a new day, a new chance for my soul... to heed
a small voice ... to give flowers, to plant new seeds.
to not trample on wildflowers and unwanted weeds...” Sally
“Sweet baby
with your head on my shoulder
I'm no more growing older...” Pradip
~
the unpredictability and randomness of the winds,
seed carriers, of small voices, yearning to be heard,
powerless in appearance only, for within are powers superior heroic,
who can grow others who can feed
who can sustain multiple living creatures
each seed unique, a poem composed and complete,
authored by precedents, authorized by predecessors,
utilizing the cocoon of soil and sun,
rainwater from space and deep driven to
the clear milk of underground railroad rivers,
to give nurture to its revisional generational code
these new children of an old mix,
are quiet lifesavers giving proofs positive,
that those who will one day grow old,
with deep gnarled roots, are most capable
of finding ways of manufacturing fresh youth whim within,
to those who give babies homage, in attendance
this then the newborn miracle, the new seed,
wind borne, replants itself in old soil,
taking but more so giving,
injecting bits of vitality into its arterial ancestry,
how can this be?***
*I do not know the why or the how,
but am evidence of the therefore,
and the thereafter, of impossible wisdom*
7:07am 4-5-19 a newborn poem for poetry passing grandparents
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
some years back, not too difficile to recall,
revive and animate those memories of love and disasters,
but the distance is comparable to half-a-dozen
eighty day trips around the world, many frequent
flyer miles accumulated with trips to love disasters,
interspersed with the days of shock and awe believing
(sigh) that stumbled, fumbled my way in what we silly
call true love, which is really the high of believing
that you deserved the easy way, but now know, there
is no easy way, and romance is a hard earned privilege,
and sensory deprivation can fool you, absence makes
you vulnerable, don’t be vulnerable, stand up right,
**** out, and eyes smiling but phasers on full, nonetheless…
this not a downer, but a dis-claimer, even I claim the
never be sure of the 100% foolproof methodologies for
discerning the genius of genuine,
when the risk is the reward
maybe when your 22, even 23,
you’ll be better at true discernment,
but until then be wise,
there is no saving the day,
till your knees are scraped,
and crackling and cracking
heart seem like the same thing
but they’re not
do not confuse
causality with correlation
love is not your cause, be-all,
or even the end-all, do the work
on your self to betterment
24/7, knowledge to be wiser
comes with vive les expériences!
and
someday you’ll senses will be tickled,
and the aroma of possibilities will
arose that dormant hunger, and may
be a correlation to another human in the
immediate vicinity, a man, swimming
in your moat without permission, then,
check him out and maybe, jump in,
once you’ve passed the red cross lifesavers
test, cause the murk is murky, and is never
fraught with just rose water, but jump a
few toes in and if you’re still sinking,
hell he’ll
find away and give him the rope to help
you climb a board, yeah, a broad tough as
clear varnished nails with a heart radiating
the nuclear fission of Strontium 90.
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 1:31 AM UTC
self destruction like burning bridges you know full well you'll drown without
being reckless with your rafts and your lifesavers
and feeling the heat of the fire prickle your forehead,
beads of sweat teasing your skin
and making it impossible to ignore the deep water already lapping at your feet,
clearly prepared to completely engulf you in liquid darkness.
self destruction like inhaling the fumes of a hundred toxic promises,
made to you by old would-be lovers;
sugarcoated words and lies roughly covered in white,
feeling the poison seizing up your struggling lungs,
fingertips flicking through dictionaries with cracked spines:
desperate to find a word that isn't even there.
self destruction like breaking hearts that aren't yours for once,
just to hold the power of corruption and allow it to make you bloodthirsty,
much like slaughtering ants beneath magnifying glasses,
watching them struggle and turn to unrecognisable ashes,
whimpering half hearted apologies whilst trying to convince yourself
that you are not a bad person, but simply a broken soul.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Smells like Gun Powder in the empty room
tainted by the aura of damaged memories
feeling my armor worn out and weary
going down the stairs, the lights are fading
warm blood in my hands like a distant afternoon
I'll ride shotgun with a shotgun like in the old days
and we'll make a right turn on memory lane
just make sure to stop at every corner
so I can blast your remembrance away.
Smells like Gun Powder on my side of the bed
where for the hundred time you ask if I'll be ok
I wish I had some Whisky,
it sure is wishful thinking
in my dreams I am always sober,
somehow never drinking
quite the opposite of the real life I lead
I can always count on my nightmares
to always find you here
in our worn out bed fully clothed
facing the window
and your face clenched in sorrow
is a moving talking picture.
It's pouring down again
in the forgotten ghost city
we take a turn towards oblivion,
where you surprised to see me?
under the leaves of an old tree
contrasting the projects brick buildings
incessant rain flows from our eyes
like a fluent turbulent river
wondering if I should build an ark
or if it would be worth the pain
and take a wild shot in the dark
and save us both from this fast sinking boat
how did we even navigated the sea of love
without lifesavers to keep us afloat?
How did we lost what was so hard find?
Smells like gun powder every second of my life
my emotional ammo gets packed on an old Colt 45
a revolver that turns back the hands of time
I'll measure every word, retracing every step,
without derailing my train of thought
inhaling the gun powder
like the ashes of this love
trying to give my Spotless Mind
Eternal Sunshine at long last
in the basement tied to a chair
I came to find myself...
barely clutching my fate in one hand
and what's left of my conscience on the shelf.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:06 PM UTC
fools, ,you see ted bunny and ronnie biggs are saying the fools have been trapped in my snowstorm
and in the category 3 cyclone marcia in queensland, nobody listens to the ploy of cronus and barry allan
even if they are trying to keep them safe, and ted bundy who flew around aistralia trying too make
marcia and lam, really ruin australia, and keep these americans trapped in snowy weather, keep kids from
learning, by closing the schools, and cronus with barry allan’s help, was trying to get people to rally together
to make everyone happy, and safe, we can’t save everyone, but we could ****** well try
and then ted bundy said heh heh the fools, thinking these waters are safe to swim in, but ted isn’t shy
he is evil enough to make people lose their lives, we must listen to authorities as opposed for doing the
right thing, you see they call this nature, i call it cosmic attack, a really fierce cosmic attack, nobody can
see the clear sky ahead, in order for people not dying from this sort of thing, and that is, don’t do stupid things
ronnie biggs also is making the category 3 cyclones marcia and lam and a terrible snowstorm in the states
you see these vicious killers are doing more harm here, than they did on earth, they are ruining families
from all over the place, and elvis presley cancelled his neptune concert, to make the jewish messiah daniel
who is his earth body, to think that he needs to start thinking of trying to save people from these terrible
snowstorms and category 3 cyclones, you see, he thinks he is forcing the cyclone probably, but we all know
that ronnie biggs and ted bundy are forcing them, i think this country concentrates too much in celebrating
the jewish messiah’s previous life, and making him sleep like a pack of rich arrogant ***** but even if he
wants to work anywhere, he wanted to get into library studies but instead of that, he is playing all over
the planets, singing elvis is a schizophrenic and everyone seems fine with that, but, instead of looking
at relief web. int, you should help us finish off ted bundy and ronnie biggs evil and cunning plan, to
force the dreadful end of the world, you know what i think, if people listen to lifeguards and not going
out to these fierce seas, the end of the world wouldn’t come, we must pray to buddha, that these people
are safe, so when marcia hits, they are not out there battling the cyclone caused by ronnie biggs and
ted bundy, please, buddha help, cronus ands barry allan battle these dreadful spirits, ,and make the
storm ease, there are a lot of snow trapping innocent americans and all ted bundy and ronnie biggs
can say is heh heh heh, these fools are falling right into my trap
PLEASE BUDDHA SAVE THESE PLACES, MAKE PEOPLE SAFE BUDDHA
MAKE THE SURF LIFESAVERS, WORK HARDER TO PREVENT PEOPLE GOING OUT
MAKE PEOPLE IN THE USA, JUST SIT IT OUT
UMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMMM
ronnie biggs and ted bundy are sitting in saturn club rings saying foolish earthlings
they are falling right into my little trap
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
Windshield wipers
slappin' time
Grandpa drivin'
Grandma singin'...
Goin' home from my
weekly Wednesday visit
after my mama died...
only allowed
one day a week
with Grandma
my mama's mama...
Always a stop
at the store
for one more
Golden book
and a roll of Lifesavers
on the way home...
and I remember
my tears
going back to a place
that did not feel
like home
and Grandma singin'
"You are my sunshine
my only sunshine".
My tears are fallin'
now
with the memory
of her voice
and the sight and sound
of the rain...
Grandpa drivin'
and Grandma singin'....
and those windshield wipers
they were slappin' time...
cj 2016
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
I remember it being cold that night.
It was the first time I had walked away
and worried I was leaving something.
It wasn't the kind of cold that
cut
and made itself at home in your bones.
It wasn't even the kind of cold
That strained every breath to feel like your last.
But I could feel the wind biting at and hanging from my ears
while it whispered.
But my mind was moving too fast to make memories,
It seems to never have the time anymore.
But it saves pictures
like polaroids.
Fast flashes of things passed
like whiplashes and mass stashes
of three picture days
of everything
and you.
Flash:
Legs around mine, light jeans, fluorescent lighting.
My heartbeat heats at the thought of it.
My back feels numb.
Flash:
Your smile in my headband, **** you're beautiful.
I think you threw your head back and laughed.
My arm tingles where you touched it.
Flash:
The sky was slate. Your eyes were asking me their first question.
I wished I had chalk.
But you already knew the answer.
I try to tell you now what you already were then,
But there aren't enough words in the world to tell you.
To tell you that your eyes looked like lifesavers.
To tell you that if I could,
I would develop my dreams at the nearest hour
drop shop and lay each frame out
like a quilt
and a collage.
(Because my mind is full
of a kind of mess that is never less
than warming.)
I would tell you that I hold your words under my tongue
To make sure they're always delivered warm.
And that if I leave them in there long enough
the fire starts.
My words melt into mercury
like ice in boiling water.
And I tell myself,
That if anyone really knew the heat,
They would stay the hell out of the kitchen.
But I made you something.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
My heart shakes like
The bottle I pour my coffee into.
I remember you and I drown and drink
the ocean trapped inside, brown and
two and a half times lighter than your skin,
two and a half times more than the coffee I should be drinking.
That night was our last in the same room.
You sat beside me to escape your sleepless lonely limbo.
My head throbbed and the way my heart raced then
and the way the storm crashes the air and breaks the trees and blows the rooftops
and drenches the world -
is the way
I refused to swim in the brown seas of your skin.
The waters might wash rafts and boats and lifesavers
to the shore where I am standing
But I know that before the sand and the trees
there was a sign that said
‘No Trespassing’.
Intoxicated I stumbled and grabbed a raft of brown arms
and stepped on the black stones of your face
and slipped into your sandy smile and
buried my face into your green shirt waves.
No Trespassing.
The words loomed over my head
like the clouds that filled up the sky so much
that there was no sky -
and somewhere out there, like God in the clouds, she was
looking at me,
looking at the way I grabbed a bottle and swam in her seas.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 1:14 AM UTC
hypocrisy is something that comes easy to me.
often feel the words falling out of my mouth but never taste what they mean.
lips know exactly what words to whisper when tear stained cheeks and broken pieces appear;
spent years formulating the right kind of glue to put them back together.
i find myself throwing out a never ending supply of lifesavers,
without even a cloud of thought to what might happen to my small boat with all this extra weight.
sometimes, little holes emerge on the worn down wood,
and suddenly all my passengers jump ship.
stuck figuring out how to fix them on my own,
most often they are covered up with only bandages.
every so often, my procrastination becomes bad karma and we both sink.
thoughts heavy like an anchor, my body lies contently on the ocean floor.
water filling my lungs like the feeling of giving in fills my frame.
self love is the biggest storm i’ve ever had to deal with.
lost at sea since i was ten years old,
it was then that i became acutely aware the space i took up.
had rolling hills occupying places where my best friend had only plains
and my smaller self never really felt small.
fast forward to the present,
where i’m often not present because i have made myself little in the only way i could.
now made up of whispered opinions and avoided eye contact,
i wonder if my younger self would smile at the thought of being slight.
i can teach you how to be content with yourself.
i can talk you through the motions.
i can tell you that i wouldn’t change a thing about you and mean it.
i can love everyone but myself.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
if i had a problem
with letting go of things
you wouldn't be sitting on your ***
in a large pile
of things i decided
i didn't want....
but you are.
(just to clarify)
I hope when you wake up
and realize where you are
that you will make friends
with the boy who asked me out
when i was seventeen
and find some small enjoyment
in all the cherry lifesavers
and heck
maybe even have a lovely conversation
with my
mother
while knitting
using all the pattern books
she ever gave me
(too bad she couldn't knit herself a new family)
and drinking the tea
that i got
every christmas
from my aunt.
in other words
enjoy
all the other things
i didn't
want
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
Having a bad hair day.
Felt death creeping closely.
Almost smelled it
How much I don't know.
Dawned on me rapidly.
Things fading fast.
At the end of the line the lifesavers.
They come.
Woven magic.
All sorted out.
Thank heavens.
Relieved .
Night terror.
Night shift.
Thank God I'm in bed
Tonight I rest.
In peace.
(c)LIVVI
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
It doesn't matter anymore
Not to me anyway
Why should I care what you think
Do you ever think of me
You're so full of greed
Because you consumed it in the eighties
And they bait you in the states
With their american awards
So sad, such a sham, what a shame
It doesn't matter anyway
Not to me anymore
You're no comedian but, celebrities are all the same
Shooting lifesavers
And wishing on falling stars
So you can smoke more on the corners
And drink scotch at the bars
Shooting lifesavers
Like the fake friends that they are
And discovering more to life
When it's too late to start a fire
It's almost over now
Don't be ashamed
For the things you did you had to do
In sunshine and the rain
So don't you worry your poor head
or even try to try explain
It doesn't even matter now
The rest can live in pain
Shooting lifesavers
And wishing it would end
So all the torment Devil gave
Would get you in again
Your friends are shooting lifesavers
Because they want to live
But are their lives worth more than nil
If they haven't any give
I would rather end it all
Then shoot lifesavers again
So i could save them up, then give
My lifesavers to my friends
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
^words of Wislawa Szymborska
(a phrase from her poem “Some Like Poetry”
———————————
gorge on poetry,
thereby!
imbibe your raison d’etre,
if well examined,
one will be exclaiming:
Exactly!
we on trial from birth,
for having been born sin~innocent,
yet guilty for having allowed
in nighttime light pollution,
one searches for places in
life’s momentary memorabilia,
band~aids, orange lifesavers,
a phrase, photograph, pale bulb light…
these “things,” are our
hitching posts, lean~to,
grasped hungrily for
support whence
negotiating the
steep Spanish Steps
of the staircases of
monumental outrageous misfortune
this poetry,
this poem,
this railing,
sustaining from Day One to
Day T+1 and beyond,
a protuberance of strength
to grab onto before the
shaming of old fails falling,
a head banging despair of barely
hanging on,
unbeknownst to you passerby,
we, who live a life of bare bones,
only mimicking existence, while
questioning Death’s delayed arrival,
and only by,
this poetry,
this poem,
this railing,
sustaining our edge two forward, one back,
cognizant of our awesome missteps,
begging permission, to-liv-liven, a moment more,
offering upon-this altar, a sacrificial lamb,
this poetry,
this poem,
this railing,
sustained in the writing thereof,
expelling the fumes of the
nearly, the never, the hapless hoping
Thu Oct 26 2023
8:15am
Jan 5, 2024
Jan 5, 2024 at 11:21 AM UTC
Can the ocean really get flooded?.
when the ocean in my brain gets flooded ......
my thoughts are tangled up
in the tornado twisting and turning
in my head surrounding my brain that fight
through the tossing thoughts, emotions and
feelings that my lips may have trouble speaking
my pen is the oar I use to pull my drowning soul
out from the troubles waters
The ship wreck of words sail through
the rough thinking waters running fast
causing a whirlpool headache as they
fight pushing and clawing at my brain walls
yet surviving thoughts that were able to brake
free from the storm of depression they smudge
a trail through the dripping wet ink falling from
my oar of a writing pen dragging behind the
clustering drift wood of lost words smearing
through the lines of the solid land of paper
my brain calms down a bit to inspect the
rest stop of provided free range of open
writing space clearing the way for all the
injured broken pieces of memories and
lost thoughts that were still floating behind
the mind is trying to stay focus by thinking,
searching for any surviving notions or ideas
that hangs there on the tip of my tongue
tossing out the remembering lifesavers to
pull in other surfacing thoughts that wants
and need to be revived from the fallen debris
clustered crews of gathered thoughts form as
my pen holds the ink of hope and inspiration
dragging my down confused depressed soul
to safety by writing my trapped untold story
ink its flowing through the valleys of paper
marking detailing the saved unspoken words
freed from the clutches of depressions prison
my brain can now release its story through my
scrawling pen that I hold in my writing hand
There are always traps of frustration, confusion and
depression; which is the worse pitfall of them all
the war from the thinking process is never over
preparing for their battle I take the action to grab
the already loaded weapon for writing; the "INK PEN"
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
I asked which flavor you wanted.
You answered,
*"Whichever one
you don't"*
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
i reached for you, a safety line
you turned around, left me behind
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
If alcohol is a crutch for one's brain
then narcotic pills are a candy cane
not if you're looking to manage pain
(although those intentions can change)
but to hop on the sugar rush train
just know once the pez dispenser is drained
you'll have to walk all the same
after the sugar train sugar crashes
and you must escape the sugar ashes
of a powder overload
that people confuse with blow because you explode
once your sweet tooth is exposed
you can barely speak because that's all that's left of your teeth
and your only way of relief
is atop a pixie stick peak
surrounded by a cocoa ocean
perpetuating turbulent motion
so you look for sugarless lifesavers
like that's asking a light favor
after you spited neighbors
over candy flavors
but now you need their help to walk
they'll think you're nothing but talk
because you thought your cane was the kind used by pimps
but take it away and watch how you limp.
May 15, 2023
May 15, 2023 at 1:24 AM UTC
She doesn't look at people,
she looks past them like they're not even there.
She pushes the Push sign on the glass door and breathes in.
The air is stale inside and full of young children holding their parents hands,
teenagers with braces and sweaty foreheads.
Everyone around her barely glances so as not to be the fools that stare,
but some men still do.
When she stands in line to get the few items she has in her arms,
a cashier immediately becomes available and stutters over the total,
glancing too long at the pens, lifesavers, and Chap Stick she’s purchasing
while handing her cash back to her.
She's that type of girl,
the type that men stop and stutter for.
When she exits the store
a man jumps back to hold the door open for her.
She's the type of woman whose jeans fit her *** in the right way,
and her stomach is perfectly flat against the soft touch of her top.
She exits and walks towards her car,
hands tucked lightly in her pockets.
She opens her door and feels the fresh cold air brush her cheek
as she turns her head and throws her brown hair towards the night.
In the car she empties her pockets
of the handful of things she had stolen
and smiles at her reflection in the rear view mirror.
Silently a wave of euphoria runs up through her chest
to the top of her ****
She turns the key and the radio’s music begins.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
But do they gleam!
Their spots unseen.
The walls we climb,
aren't they divine?
There a spit shine;
not so disgusting.
Here a soiling secret,
but it's not rusting.
You may not like it,
so quit building it,
but it's here so you
cannot even escape
a world of crap,
while you keep out
the lifesavers,
that you've crossed
off the grocery list.
So obey the walls,
they're tall order.
Ignore the calls,
or the feint odor.
The greatest malls,
and all their *****
you'll soon realize
are hopeless junk.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
there were a lot of small lifesavers
but like the candy, they only lasted for a short while
and after the flavor of one was gone i would find a new one
going and going until i ran out and had to buy another bag
music was one of themwh
i would listen instead of think
friends were one of them
i would talk instead of sleep
dreams were one of them
i would dream with eyes wide open
writing was one of them
i’d write to keep myself hoping
you were one of them
but you were different than the rest
the others only lasted a few months
but your sweet flavor never left
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC