"marshmallows" poems
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)
<•>
familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence
but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy
so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love
what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
compote
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed
now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...
<•>
*I,
but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:
selvage
late middle English, from self + edge
how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”
the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin
all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head
a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape*
all daring you to say
I could
love
it here
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
I wonder how your lips
would taste?
Would they be sweet
Like how I think
They would be?
Soft like marshmallows?
Firm like a lollipop?
Supple like gummies?
Smooth like chocolate?
But no matter how they taste,
I just hope you like ice cream.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
I like using fire as an analogy, a metaphor, the punchline for most of my poetry
I often describe the heart as if it were a hearth, while its beats were the heat it radiated
I see it—sometimes a roaring flame, often times a steady bonfire, other times a dying match.
It could scorch you if you aren't careful, but it also provides you warmth and light. A sort of clarity. Comfort.
It allows some of the toughest things on Earth to become malleable and mold itself into something new
It turns the bitter into sweet, the biting cold to teeth-sinking warm, the tasteless into delicious
It allows the spirit to soar with columns of smoke to the heavens while the body becomes fertilizer for daisies
It takes beauty, and burns it black and ash to the point of no recognition
Fire is so precious, and dangerous, and essential, and beautiful, and ugly—just like this hearth of a heart
Tended and regulated well, it's the greatest discovery of mankind
Allowed to burn out quick, or spread out of control, then it's the accident that burned down London in 1666
I believe I should end this by saying: find someone who will tend to your hearth as if it were their last dying light, instead of a person who would simply roast marshmallows with forest fires
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
Walk by alone,
or have people by the side.
The picnic bench is one that is relied.
To be a go-to place no matter
the situation.
Put on a red and white table cloth,
have a picnic,
choose your recreation.
Walk over and put your foot on the bench.
Make a phone-call,
or sing in the rain and get drenched.
Have a date see how it goes,
the people who come by change,
but the picnic bench knows
it has nowhere else to go.
A necessity that people are unaware.
Since the limit is six,
lucky seven,
pull up a chair.
Light a candle in this dark summer night.
We have food, a fire pit that is cooking,
a guitar, marshmallows to roast, friendship,
and this picnic bench makes it all right.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Marshmallows
Float down the river
All flavors
And sizes
This gives the fish a sweet taste
Their ready to roast
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
"Hey, how are you you doing?"
"I'm doing okay..."
I'm okay because I cannot describe all the different ways I'm feeling apathetic.
And I give you that smile that hides all the hairline fractures in my heart.
Every wonderful longing is swallowed alive,
I'm transcending my emotional capacity to live and love.
All my cheer is shallow and without substance,
Naught more than a cooked marshmallow:
Sweet and crisp without any nourishment.
My wretched self allows me to suffer thus.
Isolated when never alone,
Alone when in true love,
Irreversibly broken,
Choking on my frozen dust.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
Cans of fresh Bear, stockings of the last line: arctic affair;
blue, white, a hint of green and grey.
Marbles rolling off cool ice infinity.
Fellows, the pillows petals fall as marshmallows to our ******* mouths;
devotion to the holy ****
the holy sacrament:
arctic affair...
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
Seven sit around a fire,
burnt marshmallows on two foot sticks
stuck between grahams,
talk *** and film.
Had her naked like Kate Winslet,
not Titanic Kate,
but Little Children Kate.
**** on the washing machine
behind Jennifer Connelly's back.
But the part about Madame Bovary,
who really needs feminist literature in a feminist film?
Okay, maybe it's classic romantic...
I felt lost like a pebble
sinking in the ocean
five miles deep
in the Puerto Rican trench.
I hadn't seen either movie
nor was I well versed
in feminism or romance.
My mind drifted to my first time.
Started with a french kiss
from a Latina girl,
at a house on Cleveland Ave,
I wish I could remember more.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
When I'm a grownup,
I would like a home away from home.
A cabin, perhaps, isolated from the world,
where there would be a lake in my backyard.
Maybe I will also have a treehouse, or a hammock,
where I would read and watch my children play in the water.
Then we would roast marshmallows and make s'mores,
and catch fireflies in the bushes.
My husband would sing silly songs and play his guitar,
and make my children blush with fiery laughter.
When the kids would fall asleep in the bunks,
a cuddle would be awaiting in front of the fireplace.
Where we would watch sappy old movies,
and savor our salty popcorn and sweet milk chocolate.
Together, we would laugh and cry.
Together, we would have escaped the world.
Together, we would have been happy.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
I used to cook for her all the time.
I wonder if she remembers. Can she?
Ramen noodles and toast
at 3:30 in the morning, churros at 8:15.
Sometimes in the middle of the night
she’d cat call my name and I’d always
run to her wondering- Is she hurt? and then
She better not have hurt herself.
I knew better though after the first few times,
yet I always went willingly enough through her
open bedroom door because she wanted me to.
But mostly chicken noodle soup on Sundays
and rice and jambalaya on Wednesday.
mmmmmmmmm.... Carminolas with a kick.
Pop pop pop and her buttons would fly across the room
and other times she’d be under the sheets, already
ready to press my hands against her caramelized skin.
And if we add a pinch of saffron, a dash a sumac,
and a teaspoon full of ajwain she will taste like
heaven and for those cherry lovers add a bit of mahlebi.
But I remember. She tasted like homemade chocolate and
marshmallows. Go make Mama something tasty.
She’d say afterwards and send me from the warmth of
her bed, a Saturday Night Live rerun echoing after me.
I’d bring her dumplings and udon and watch her while she ate,
wondering- Can she taste the arsenic?
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
Manic Pixie Dream Girl
fingerpainted rainbow
on a flat canvass, you are
cardboard pretty.
Like this pastel-colored cupcake
you once saw on television
with sprinkles and little marshmallows on top
something you know
you can never taste
but still thought
“That must be delicious.”
One-sided postcard
With a beautiful scenery at the front
and empty surface at the back
No words to tell
No stories to give
Just a vacant lot.
Manic Pixie Dream Girl
I’ve always thought you were beautiful.
with your colors spilling out of your being and your smiles
that could light up anybody’s world
I’ve always thought it was like peering through a kaleidoscope
And you were a perfect symmetry
of everything a little boy could ever dream of.
So as I grew up
I dreamed to be something like you.
And for a while,
Without really meaning to
I was something like you.
People often told me,
“You are so pretty.”
“You are nice and funny.”
“You have a great smile.”
“You are fun to be with.”
“You are different.”
and guys liked me.
They adored me.
most especially when I exist
only for them.
When I am there to pick up the pieces
and make them whole again.
But manic pixie dream girl
I realized I am no dream girl
I am just—
me.
I feel ugly most of the time.
I eat a lot when I’m sad.
I am very impulsive.
I give irrational comments.
I have temper tantrums when I don’t get what I want.
I get scared of the dark.
I cut when I am hurt.
And there are days when I just want to sleep
and disappear forever.
I am no dream girl.
I am just a real girl.
Trying to make it out alive
in the real world.
I am not a navigator
meant to save lost boys.
I am not
a box of crayons
meant to grow smaller
as I color this blank page of a guy
I am not
a white glue
meant to disappear
once I am dry
I am not
a bandage
meant to heal wounds
on careless little children.
I am not supposed to be a fantasy
I am flesh and bones
I am human
with ribcages that are meant to crush
with the weight of a broken heart
I have lungs
I can breathe on my own.
I don’t need a broken boy
to feel that I have a purpose in life.
I am my own destruction.
I am my own salvation.
I am no dream girl.
Please
wake
up.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
Prologue
casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”
then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach
of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided
pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm
<•>
The Poem Breach
***once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting
a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?
I did not know
but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest
Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...***
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
thank you so insufficient
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
My soul's hot pink,
like them bubble gum squares,
cool, strawberry fizzy drinks,
and a thick candy ice cream.
Those warm, glazed over doughnuts,
cupcakes with light sprinkles,
jelly beans, tufts of cotton candy,
and a tub of small macaroons.
My soul's hot pink,
like them candy hearts, sweet or ****
chocolate coated easter eggs,
lolipops, and sugar rocks.
Those creamy cakes, fruity tastes,
of gum drops, frozen pops,
of sno-cones drizzled, cookie wafers,
and sweet marshmallows; smoothies.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
you see i am very very hungry, so much in fact
i burp very weirdly, yeah i feel so weird
i burp loud and i burp soft when i have a nice cream bun or a nice beef nachos
and i feel like a nice packet of chocolate biscuits
ya know to have with my coca cola
i was watching ellen degenerous and i felt like eating the pie that went in the contestants face
yeah i feel like a bag of popcorn as well as choctop at the movies
because my mouth is burping very weirdly
i don’t want to have this burping feeling
i feel like a strawberry milk and i am fighting myself saying, no, i don’t need it
the strawberry milk says yes, i do, but i don’t want a strawberry milk, it’ll just make me fat
i wanna lose weight but the burping is making me want food, i want a nice chocolate bar
and i want a bag of marshmallows, i want to have more energy
so i can be a cool person, that i am,
i know the burping really is bugging me
and i do want it to stop, STOP, making me feel this way, i want to an artist and a writer and not an eater
please leave me alone strawberry milk and leave me alone chocolate biscuits, i don’t want to eat you
i feel like a chocolate biscuit, but then i say, i will grow fat, ya know keep the fat on me
i don’t want to be fat, i want to lose weight, so leave me alone ya ****** strawberry milk and coke
i want to feel fit in my mind, so i can write and be creative
please leave me alone, junk food, i don’t want to eat you
but the junk food gets in my mind and makes me smell the nice chocolate
i know coke used to be a medicine, but i don’t wanna drink ya
i like to have a healthy lifestyle, and i want to lose this burping because
it’s the medication making me wanna eat, like donuts and vanilla slices and cream buns
and dewok chinese stir fry’s and chocolate biscuits and chocolate desserts and strawberry milk
and a large bottle of coca cola, as my medicine, I DON’T WANT THAT
i had a garden salad for lunch as well as a few glasses of water
i hate being fat, so that means at 2-30 pm, i will go for another walk, whether i feel like it or not
because i must get rid of all this food from my body, so i don’t get diabetes
so if you feel fat, because you eat too much food, push yourself into walking
and walk a regular pace, so you don’t feel sluggish
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
There she sat in front of me with her red lipstick on and a smile that showed off her pearly white teeth that always seemed to light up a room
but something was off
Was it the sweetness I felt, disappearing when I looked at her?
Only the tingling on my tongue after eating too many sour candies was left as I saw her smile slowly curve down each day I saw her
She had a lot of sour moments now that I look back.
I miss the fresh peppermint laughs we shared
what's left now is a silhouette
a wrapper of what we could have been
and now as I sit here looking through her
I begin to crack from the way she makes me feel
She doesn't know
She'll never know about the red stripes she left on me
can a shattered candy cane be put back together?
it might seem impossible
some parts may be lost
but with some time
I'll be back on my feet again
and she'll move on to someone sweeter
maybe a gumdrop this time
Without losing her
I would never have found my marshmallows friends who I know I can always fall back on their soft embrace
They will be there supporting me till my expiration date
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
For once, I'm at a loss for words
I can't write eloquence into our anniversary yesterday
Because it was magical in and of itself
You planned me a quiet picnic in the woods, just you and me
Cooking hot dogs on a charcoal grill we didn't know how to use
And eating chicken salad
Going kayaking was a dream, paddling along
On a quiet tributary to a bigger lake, we went back into the woods
We sat in our little floating craft and talked about first kisses and magic
We wondered at how simple acts could have led us apart and how happy we are together
I noticed the calmness of the water and the intricacies of the ripples when I indulged my paddle into the stream
We were out for an hour, just paddling along
Talking, living, laughing, loving together.
Just being together
We eventually made our way back in, an hour car ride away from home
Talking some more, laughing together, enjoying the company
We went back to my place and ate dinner with my family
Shrimp Scampi with salad and bread
Then roasted marshmallows and laughed when they became torches
Nothing is better than marshmallows with the people you love
After that we set up my hammock and just swung there and watched the sun slip below the horizon
Taking in the scenery, we didn't need to talk, because there was nothing more that could have been said
It was magical until my little brother came over to us and asked why we weren't talking and called us boring
But he doesn't understand, not quite yet
Not until he is sitting on a hammock with a girl, and knows there isn't anything to say
It was a beautiful day, wonderful by itself
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
Not eating chocolate covered cherries and strawberries and lychees and onions and chillies and grapes and marshmallows and turtle meat and cake and shark bones and oysters and camel and beef and beef with dog food and rabbit fur and smarties and skittles and twine and rope and yak and buses and buffalo and authors and novels and chipping containers and bicylces and emus and penguins and polar bear slippers and darned socks and stewed lobster and Darwin Deez and get well cards and ibuprofen tablets is fine with me.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
Like burning marshmallow,
the clouds this Monday.
Thumb over the phone
& the words to you pop
& sway like gin pink
with bitters. Lily lady,
O my lily lady,
kiss me marshmallow -
sticky and tinted pink
with lip on a rainy Monday.
Green window pops
arrive on my phone,
this sweet black phone
that brings you, my lady,
over Atlantic's salt pop
& volted marshmallow.
So on this Monday
when the sky draws pink,
& clouds too are toasted pink,
I take this thin phone
and find you. On this Monday,
my Dublin lady,
under a melting marshmallow
sky, I seek out your hot pop,
that flame that's popping
in the twilight, red and pink.
Sweet as marshmallow,
you burn through my phone,
my smiling lily lady,
even on a Monday.
& so this Monday
like a soap bubble pops.
I'm inspired, my lady,
by the silken pink
thing. On your phone,
a swan's wing of marshmallow.
Yes - Monday's poem comes pink,
& pops with phone messages
from my lady, soft as marshmallows.
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
she sat in her room,
in front of her broken window.
the glass was tinted black.
the metal frame was starting to rust.
the bottom left corner of the window,
was shattered.
shattered by what?
shattered by her fist,
2 years ago.
she could still see,
her blood stains at the ridges.
she sat there on the cold ground,
her hand holding her screams.
she wanted to let everyone hear,
and know,
that she wanted some love,
some attention,
some words of advice.
so she screamed out of that broken window,
but no one heard her.
she sat there on the stone ground,
her hand holding her heart.
she wanted to let everyone see,
and know,
that she wanted someone to understand,
someone to love her,
someone to kiss her cuts.
so she threw it out of that broken window,
but no one saw her.
she sat there on the blood stained ground,
her hand holding her soul.
she wanted to let everyone feel,
and know,
that she wanted her dreams to come true,
her wishes to be fulfilled,
her love to be reciprocated.
so she let it out of that broken window,
but no one felt her.
she sat there on the tear stained ground,
her hand holding herself,
she wanted everyone to smell,
and know,
that her hair smelled like rose and lilies,
that her clothes smelled like lemon and rosemary,
that her skin smelled like strawberries and cream.
so she freed herself out that broken window,
but no one smelled her.
she sat there on the heartless ground,
her hand holding her dreams,
she wanted everyone to taste,
and know,
that her favorite food was marshmallows,
that her sweet tooth loved chocolate,
that her kisses tasted like the sun.
so she said goodbye to her dreams out that broken window.
but no one tasted her.
no one cared.
{gemi}
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
rolling in the rosy dish of my tongue
it returns in my mouth to
its most basic elements
a primordial alabaster foam
of corn syrup and gelatin
and unpronounceable would-rather-not-knows
i think: marshmallows
are the juxtaposition to my quaker pallet
microwave tap water&Fry;'s Cocoa
awash and dissolve
my saccharine oral fixation
in jealous slurps of heat
that radiate down
down down
heat, you see-
(as a sakura flush
blossoms 'cross the
pale of my throat)
-has always been the key
here's a secret:
in solitude i
i'm a homunculous girl
all lips and all hands
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
When I was ten I used to believe some pretty silly things
I believed my sister when she told me
That marshmallows were made out of whale blubber
I believed that all the monsters in the world
Would totally be repelled by my covers
I believed that taking 40 baby aspirin would **** me
And I only found out it wouldn’t after I tried
When I found out that other than a stomach ache
I was left completely fine
I first attempted suicide at the age of 10
And I don’t know if that’s where anyone else has been
But I really ******* hope not
I found out at age 14 that monsters, real monsters
Are the ones who actually slip under your sheets
Plucking out your innocence before you can even realize
That they are monsters that will hold your hand as they **** you
Make you believe that you are okay
But 4 years down the road you still won’t be able to breathe or concentrate
When you hear their name
Or when the anniversary of the day rolls around
You won’t be able to choke out any sound to ask for help
You can no longer let people in
Afraid they will blow you up like a balloon just to pop you with a razor sharp pin
I wish I could go back to believing in the silly things
I wish I could go back to flying in my dreams
Instead of drowning and being ripped at my seams
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 6:40 PM UTC
Shoes crunch onto the trail
Between the fences
Shortcuts, one of the wonders of life
Like discovering
the taste of a marshmallow
School is ahead
People, large hulking guys
Sweet smelling women
Teachers, mostly nice
Children mainly rousing
Stir fears, challenges
Sensations like one gets
When discovering a compelling
Book at the city library
Hand-in-hand
Meeting the day
Sibling love
Even better than marshmallows
Sep 6, 2022
Sep 6, 2022 at 8:37 AM UTC
no dead birds in the oven
no innards in the stuffing
nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured
the smell of roasted veggies
wafts through the wintry air
pumpkin and sweet potatoes
marshmallows green beans lentils
turnips & collard greens
hashed browns & black-eyed peas
quinoa sorghum cuscus hummus
carrots leak broccoli Romanescu
gumbo in southern regions
wild rice dishes in the north
tastily spiced with turmeric
cumin and baked paprika
Indian curry soy sauce chipotle
as well as with the usual suspects
of garlic salt and pepper
and whatever fits the taste of hosts
in short
a venerable feast to demonstrate
how nature feeds us a large cornucopia
of plants for our delight and sustenance
in short
no need to **** a bird
* * *
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
There's a funny sort of emptiness
that passes over me
as I walk past the paperback erotica that tuck themselves away
in the shelves of the local grocery store in places that are
simultaneously completely out in the open yet completely ignored
looking, as I do, with mock casual interest
and unfeigned disdain.
Who are these intended for, really?
Are they for the snuggly-wuggly, ***** cozy-woozy, wishy-washy and warm family of four
comparing chicken nugget prices and
weighing the health benefits of
vegetable medley versus succotash?
Or are they for the uni flatmates
walking huddled together for warmth or protection or both,
seeing as they're wearing only sandals and denim shorts
and this is the first time
they've been grocery shopping without mum,
that giggle loudly together to mask how homesick they really are
while they compare the calories in
Campbell's versus Progresso.
They went with Progresso if you were wondering.
Or are they meant for those who are cooking for one?
For those who have no need to compare prices
or calories
out loud.
For those who are well acquainted
with the old, familiar tiled aisles
as they have no one to take out to dinner.
Is this where they are to find company?
Betwixt the pages of a badly penned,
lighter than marshmallows,
more shallow than the kiddie pool,
more transparent than Casper,
not-good-enough-to-be-bloody-compost
"literary" garbage?
Is this -assumed- female
supposed to curl up with one of these slabs of drivel
and feel **** and aroused
in her baggy sweats and ill-fitting hoodie
after she ate a microwaveable chicken *** pie all by her lonesome?
As a single girl who often cooks for one,
I am offended by this.
Personally,
I think Lestat is ten times sexier than Edward,
Salai is way cuter than Fabio,
and Christian Grey couldn't S Mr. Rochester's D.
What I'm saying is-
Grocery Stores.
YOU are the primary reason for this pathetic f-ckery.
Everything else in the store can be compared for quality.
So why not apply that same knowledge
to the book arena.
Signed,
A Concerned Shopper
p.s. Please extend the validity date on the chicken *** pie coupon. Thank you!
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC