"lingonberries" poems - Hello Poetry

I have this theory that butterflies taste like bubblegum. When I was a kid, my tongue was a permanent shade of bright pink. Shoving as many pieces of BubbleYum into my mouth as I could fit was the epitome of happiness, and when I could fit an entire package at once I knew there was nothing I couldn’t achieve. And I’m sure that right now if you cut me open my stomach would be a fluorescent pink, because when I see your face in my mind as I’m sitting in class or when your name is on my tongue before I fall asleep, that’s what it tastes like. Bubblegum. But please don’t cut me open. My dissection would be too ****** anyway, and far too colorful to detect butterflies… Because my blood runs red, white, and blue. When I was younger my mom would always tell me that as I grew older my tastes would change. Of course, she meant that eventually I would grow to like peas, but even though that still hasn’t happened, she was right. Back then red, white and blue tasted like hamburgers and apple pie and baseball. But just recently I cut my finger – and as I brought it to my lips I tasted lingonberries and fish and skiing. Have you ever wondered why blood tastes like metal? It is the SWORDS and SHIELDS that flow through my veins, passed down from ancestors of millennia past. And every time I am injured it pours out in protest, those ancient warriors urging me to fight against this strange land and this strange culture. I was born away from home, as were my parents and grandparents before me. And as I feel the shapes of foreign words in my mouth they taste like meeting an old friend. Because I’ve come to realize that my blood never ran red, white and blue. It runs rødt, hvitt og blått.

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May 29, 2013

May 29, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC

kayla-kaml

Bubblegum

I have this theory that butterflies taste like bubblegum. When I was a kid, my tongue was a permanent shade of bright pink. Shoving as many pieces of BubbleYum into my mouth as I could fit was the epitome of happiness, and when I could fit an entire package at once I knew there was nothing I couldn’t achieve. And I’m sure that right now if you cut me open my stomach would be a fluorescent pink, because when I see your face in my mind as I’m sitting in class or when your name is on my tongue before I fall asleep, that’s what it tastes like. Bubblegum. But please don’t cut me open. My dissection would be too ****** anyway, and far too colorful to detect butterflies… Because my blood runs red, white, and blue. When I was younger my mom would always tell me that as I grew older my tastes would change. Of course, she meant that eventually I would grow to like peas, but even though that still hasn’t happened, she was right. Back then red, white and blue tasted like hamburgers and apple pie and baseball. But just recently I cut my finger – and as I brought it to my lips I tasted lingonberries and fish and skiing. Have you ever wondered why blood tastes like metal? It is the SWORDS and SHIELDS that flow through my veins, passed down from ancestors of millennia past. And every time I am injured it pours out in protest, those ancient warriors urging me to fight against this strange land and this strange culture. I was born away from home, as were my parents and grandparents before me. And as I feel the shapes of foreign words in my mouth they taste like meeting an old friend. Because I’ve come to realize that my blood never ran red, white and blue. It runs rødt, hvitt og blått.

25

I want to lay in my bed Next to you At seven in the morning. "Crepes?" "Crepes." You say. I get up and start the crepe maker I put out the Nutella And cut bananas And pull out the jar of lingonberries that I love Even though nobody knows What lingonberries are. You ask for peanut butter And we both know I'm allergic. But I have a jar Because I know that You love it.

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Mar 31, 2014

Mar 31, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC

arjj

Crepes

I want to lay in my bed Next to you At seven in the morning. "Crepes?" "Crepes." You say. I get up and start the crepe maker I put out the Nutella And cut bananas And pull out the jar of lingonberries that I love Even though nobody knows What lingonberries are. You ask for peanut butter And we both know I'm allergic. But I have a jar Because I know that You love it.

18

Mt great grandfather was A Swedish violinist, Back in Goteborg, Like in Phantom of the Opera. I like to think of him Walking through cobblestone Alleyways past pastel houses And little markets selling lingonberries, Playing his violin. I heard he loved someone, once. A woman before my great-grandmother. I wonder if he played songs for her, I wonder if she cried when he did. But they're all dead, now. His violin hangs on the wall At my grandmother's house in Jersey, Dry from all tears, With splintered strings like torn Vocal cords, no longer able to Sing.

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Nov 3, 2013

Nov 3, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC

AKA_Kari

Heirloom

Mt great grandfather was A Swedish violinist, Back in Goteborg, Like in Phantom of the Opera. I like to think of him Walking through cobblestone Alleyways past pastel houses And little markets selling lingonberries, Playing his violin. I heard he loved someone, once. A woman before my great-grandmother. I wonder if he played songs for her, I wonder if she cried when he did. But they're all dead, now. His violin hangs on the wall At my grandmother's house in Jersey, Dry from all tears, With splintered strings like torn Vocal cords, no longer able to Sing.

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