"mealtimes" poems
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
i miss the old wooden swing in my backyard
where i used to sit and think and write for hours
i miss being lazy on the living room couch
and watching cartoons with my youngest brother
i miss sitting in my room, hearing footsteps from the floor above
and being able to know exactly whose they were
i miss waking up late on saturday mornings
to the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen
i miss being able to tell my little sister she looks pretty
every morning before she goes off to school
i miss sitting on my mother's bedroom floor
and listening to her tell stories about Tennessee
i miss hearing my father constantly whistle and sing
while he walked around the house doing different things
i miss living four minutes away from my best friend
and sleeping at her house for days just because i could
i miss talking to my brothers at 2 o'clock in the morning
about absolutely nothing and positively everything
i miss taking pictures of my backyard, even though nothing
about it has really changed in the past twelve years
but i think that i miss home the most at mealtimes
- m.f.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC
I’m a Barbie girl
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic! I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an 18-inch waist
because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
a neck so slender I have to choose
between eating and breathing;
there’s not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a 38-inch bust and
3-times the average amount of forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine shoe squeezed to a three,
spending three to nine avoiding meal time
because my weight-loss book says,
“Don’t eat.”
I’m a Barbie girl,
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic, but I’m
not plastic.
Bile tastes all too organic,
its taste chasing after me
if I exceed my daily nutritional limit of
2,000 calories.
I’m skinny enough that people think I’m healthy.
I’m not skinny enough for people to think I’m unhealthy.
Anorexia is as familiar as the back of my hand,
poised like a gun to the back of my throat,
waiting and ready to blow.
I’m a sixteen-year-old suicide case,
product of the war of production,
wearing battle wounds in the form of uniform lines
across the tops of my thighs.
I’ve been rewriting this poem since its conception.
I feel like the rough draft: concision is key.
(Be smaller.)
I’m trying rewriting,
trying to leave out things that aren’t
important enough, like:
four of my ribs
and my esophagus
and my stomach
and my small intestine.
I’m testing the limits of realism.
But here’s the thing:
I’m a real girl
in a real world.
Life’s not always fantastic,
but I am not plastic.
I am not plastic.
I refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range
based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
eating and breathing
like both are vital aspects to living.
I refuse to be plastic,
an actual hip-to-bust ratio
for not a thirty-year-old but a teenager.
I refuse to be plastic,
shoe size nine in size nine shoes,
trying to start enjoying mealtimes
because my “weight-loss book”
has been chucked down the chute.
I’m a living girl
in a terrifying world,
trying to remind myself that “Life in Plastic!”
is not fantastic.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
I celebrate this journey in the desert -
I am but a traveler in my time:
in this pasture of my fathers, land,
where stands this miracle of glass
now calling manna down
from the high home of eagles:
I am but a helpless everyman, lost
in the desert, on a journey out
from the clutches of misery, and pain;
The world is making progress.
As I see the oases running farther
away from my sights: on
elevators to the skies, numbers
of the young call on benefactors
across the seas, for a ropeway
across the quagmires: a home, a car
and the family life; saving for a
better day, in the future, while
my home went from mudbrick
to thatched grass, then out on streets
by the gutter with the dogs;
I am a cleaner, cobbler, janitor
in the land where I was the tiller.
Wiping the sweat on my brows
as I loaf on the lawns, awaiting
labour days hyphenated by mealtimes,
there is no witch-doctor now, and
no money to pay up at the hospitals
that the wealthy from afar line up to,
but to die helpless a wretched death,
I celebrate my helplessness!
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
My life has become a bit like a fishbowl:
the glass is thick and durable, it's supposed to
be smudge-proof, but you never fail to leave your finger-
prints behind. There are rocks at the bottom, a blend of neons:
blue and orange and pink and green and yellow, painted with the
cheap kind of paint that eventually chips away and gathers at the tip-top of the water...always mixing in with the the flimsy food flakes you toss in at mealtimes before watching with disinterested fascination as I swim to the top and sort through what's edible and what's not, as if the food is much better than the chips of paint and the dust bites that gather after a few days of sitting on the counter. My bowl stays in the sun as though the pink and purple fake plants you've given me require time spent in
the light to grow and prosper, although it is fun to check every
now and then to see how much you really care when I let
myself drift to the top of the water to bask in the glow
of either the sun or the artificial lamp that's been
placed next to my bowl. Some nights you
forget to turn it off, but I don't mind
so much because at least then I
can watch over you at night
the way you watch over
her, instead of me.
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 11:47 AM UTC
The last times I wore a french braid:
17, laying on my stomach in the psychiatric intensive care unit, (adolescent)
I reach for my hair, and let them grow tired,
tirelessly overlapping the strands until the entire mass is taken care of.
I stay on my stomach,
I try not to move too much or the orderlies will think I'm at it again.
A few days later, in the unit common room, my new roomate has me sit in front of her.
She runs fingers through, twists and playfully tugs she says if we hadn't met here she'd be in love.
I agree.
Still braided by her delicate hands my hair flicks as we giggle together into the early hours of my 18th birthday,
sipping at ***** dipped pepsi she had her sister sneak in.
The nurses chant "this isn't a sleepover! Get back to your beds!"
But we are kids,
So we feast on the cookies and crackers I'd been shoving down my pants at mealtimes then she waits patiently as I purge them.
We make blood sister bonds in our skin with razorblades and she braids my hair one last time before they move me to the adult ward. Because I was no longer a kid.
So the next day I cut it off.
I cut it off the next year too.
And half way through the next I cut it again,
keeping my hair just out of braiding reach,
Just out of length of fingers running through,
twisting and playfully tugging,
I like it a mess, so they won't fall in love with me anymore.
Braidless, I can stay distant, unattached like the feeble, overdyed locks matting on my head, but I can feel it growing every second
20, I lay on my stomach, hospital bedsheets unruffled in starch allegiance,
Reach behind my head and see if it's long enough, and I braid.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
Lizbeth finds
dinnertimes
a right chore
sitting there
at the oak
table with
her moody
mother there
facing her
her father
glum as hell
beside her
and Lizbeth
trying hard
to ignore
both of them
its beef stew
thick gravy
and drowned out
vegetables
you're quiet
Mother says
anything
wrong with you?
nothing's wrong
Lizbeth says
gazing at
the beef stew
you've a mood
I can tell
Mother says
if the girl
wants silence
why complain
Father says
I know her
and you don't
Mother says
to Hubby
Lizbeth stares
at Mother
I'm just on
nothing else
Lizbeth moans
on the rag
Auntie's come
sandwich week
THAT'S ENOUGH
Mother shouts
rattling
the windows
I won't have
you talking
like that here
at mealtimes
it's not nice
Lizbeth stares
at Father
as he mouths
the beef stew
in silence
did you know
Lizbeth says
that Tudor
King Henry
the 7ths
mother was
married at
12 years old
and had him
at 13
Mother sighs
your point is?
that's my age
she sprouted
her king sprog
at my age
Mother glares
at her child
with her dark
angry eyes
Lizbeth thinks
of Benny
pretending
he's upstairs
in her room
stark naked
all waiting
eat your stew
Mother says
no more talk
of those things
outside it's
countryside
fluttering
butterflies
a bird sings.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
Eating disorders are not always dainty, pretty models.
They’re not sticking one finger halfway into your mouth, to immediately get rid of everything.
Or not eating for one day and losing weight automatically.
Eating Disorders are not going shopping with your friends and having a good time because you fit in the same size as them.
Eating disorders are laying on the floor of the shower willing yourself to just do it already.
It’s starring at the shower drain for so long that when you finally look up it’s highlighted on the tile wall.
Eating disorders are shoving all your fingers down your throat and scraping your knuckles on your teeth to only throw up an oz of what’s in your stomach— and so you repeat and repeat until your body shakes and your nose burns.
Eating disorders are crying as you look in the mirror because even if you reach your goal weight, you know that it won’t be enough.
Eating disorders are being so weak that you don’t want to go out, all you want to do is lay in bed until your stomach stops hurting.
It’s not wanting anyone to worry, but also wanting to know why your heart gets sharp pains through it sometimes.
Why your head always ******* hurts.
Or why you’re so exhausted all the time, why you fall asleep in class as soon as you set your head down- but when you lay down at night you can’t fall asleep because there are voices screaming at you to do better.
To eat less.
To weigh less.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
He showers each day,
and he takes out the trash.
He works in the garden at times.
Mostly he sits in his cell and he reads.
He has never admitted his crime.
He seldom gets visitors
and hasn’t made many friends.
He sits by himself at mealtimes.
He serves a life sentence-no hope of parole
Until death he’ll remain here inside.
Conjugal visits? It’s been several years.
Since last she was seen by his side.
At lights out, sometimes,
you can hear gentle sobbing
as a little bit more of him dies.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC
Okay, so what was normal? It sure as hell isn’t me. So is it the average American white family? With their clothes all starched and their kids in suits and dresses? And they all come together at dinner or breakfast and eat like one big happy family? Like they don’t fight none or get on each other’s nerves? Or is it the hard working man, with barely enough money to support his small family? A family that doesn’t seem to have it quite figured out or quite right to sustain, yet somehow they find a way. They still seem to be surviving somehow, through all their toils.. They come together at mealtimes to eat what they have, and sometimes they get on each other’s nerves. But you know what? That’s normal man. It’s common, godammit, to not be a perfect family. The poor and struggling family is the real one.. the humble one.. the normal one.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
I went for an early morning shower
thinking the bell
in the abbey clock tower
had struck four
but after the shower
it tolled again four times
and I had got up too early
and so went back
to bed until five,
tempus et tempus,
the French monk weeded
the beds in the garden
his broad back bent
almost in two
I spoke but he looked
at me with his peasant eyes
and smiled,
take me from the rear she said
so I did and she said
her husband didn't understand
neither did I,
man is justified by faith
without the deeds of the law
said saint Paul
I read it in that Bible
I'd bought in my home town,
bell tower so tall
and we rang the bells
to learn the way it was done
release the ropes
or you'll go to the top
Dom James said smiling,
amare Dio ed essere salvati
the Italian monk said
as we worked in the sacristy
before Sext and lunch,
the reader in the refectory
read about ****** Mary
he read in a monotone voice
his voice alone in the air
and we just sat there,
the higher one is placed
the more humbly one should walk
Gareth said quoting Cicero,
Dieu voit dans le cœur
the French monk told me
he was old and came over
from a French abbey in exile,
we made love as she wanted
to be loved her husband
was on a long trip with his lorry
and wouldn't be back until late,
loqui ad vos Deus scit
a monk said and George
who Latin told me
what he had said
while waiting
for Vespers to begin,
the huge table napkins
we wore during mealtimes
could have covered a bed
which made George smile
as we tucked them
around our necks,
fühlen Gott hier
a German monk said
pointing to his chest
then to his tonsured head,
that old monk Dom James told us
whom we helped last week
is no more
he is dead.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC
there were occasions
when your forehead cracked
against the white tiled wall;
your cheeks swelled up from
the impact against the underside
of the porcelain wash basin;
your palms bearing red angry
lines and claw marks in tiny crimson
crescents, and those faded scar marks
decorating your once emaciated body?
Do you still remember
your hair being teared out
from the roots, your fingers
forced backwards with such
brutal force until you thought
you won't be able to write anymore;
your blistered back from the
simmering liquid leaking from the white
kettle, not to mention those blue-black
marks on your chest and upper thighs?
Do you still remember
those days you stood like
a statue facing a wall of whiteness,
your tiny feet with flaking soles
fitted within an equally small square tile
and you wondered how long to mealtimes,
bedtime to rest your aching body?
You continued to live through
the whole cycle again:
Wake up after being yelled at
to get out of that bed.
Eat.
Stand.
Being showered hastily because
you were like a disease to be
avoided at all cost.
Get lost and go to bed.
Repeat.
When people asked about
your scars and bruises,
you told them you fell
down accidentally and that
you were careless.
They must not know the truth;
you must not tell them.
One word out-
Bang!
You are dead.
One thing that you would remember
were the words that made you
feel worthless and a waste
of space, the screams, the
death threats, the insults.
Those were like knives plunged
into your battled body, deep into
your shattered heart, which hurt
more than those pains inflicted
in your weakened flesh.
You tumbled down into a deep
never-ending darkness,
wishing you could forget
and never had to relive
those memories again.
As if you could.
You couldn't forget so easily,
no matter how hard you'd tried.
So you continue to feel all
the pain,
except now you are the one
hurting yourself.
It's your own fault.
You have only yourself to blame.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 1:49 AM UTC
all of this confusion—
all of this delusion—
the figure in the mirror—
the expectations in the frame
The bones to be blind and sharp—
Like jagged edges on cracked stone—
Like broken feelings and weak minds
The eyes to be empty—
The smile a smirk—
The lips to never part at mealtimes
To deceive the loved ones—
To bury their souls with your skinny leftovers
Once the disease seeps from your brain
But the longing to be delicate—
Fragile—
The longing to cry for help in quiet woods---
With no one to hear your truth
So what can you do but suffer
Let your thoughts take over—
Enjoy the ride—
This path is a one way street—
A flowing motion—
To the rest of this life
So spend every day trying to please the voice—
The voice is your purpose—
Your suffice
So stop winning—
Start losing
~~
like a fire that consumes all before it—
I melt away with the wind
I am so delicate—
The slow lap of waves breaks me—
And pulls me into the sea—
Deeper and deeper—
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:32 PM UTC
all of this confusion—
all of this delusion—
the figure in the mirror—
the expectations in the frame
The bones to be blind and sharp—
Like jagged edges on cracked stone—
Like broken feelings and weak minds
The eyes to be empty—
The smile a smirk—
The lips to never part at mealtimes
To deceive the loved ones—
To bury their souls with your skinny leftovers
Once the disease seeps from your brain
But the longing to be delicate—
Fragile—
The longing to cry for help in quiet woods---
With no one to hear your truth
So what can you do but suffer
Let your thoughts take over—
Enjoy the ride—
This path is a one way street—
A flowing motion—
To the rest of this life
So spend every day trying to please the voice—
The voice is your purpose—
Your suffice
So stop winning—
Start losing
~~
like a fire that consumes all before it—
I melt away with the wind
I am so delicate—
The slow lap of waves breaks me—
And pulls me into the sea—
Deeper and deeper—
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:32 PM UTC
all of this confusion—
all of this delusion—
the figure in the mirror—
the expectations in the frame
The bones to be blind and sharp—
Like jagged edges on cracked stone—
Like broken feelings and weak minds
The eyes to be empty—
The smile a smirk—
The lips to never part at mealtimes
To deceive the loved ones—
To bury their souls with your skinny leftovers
Once the disease seeps from your brain
But the longing to be delicate—
Fragile—
The longing to cry for help in quiet woods---
With no one to hear your truth
So what can you do but suffer
Let your thoughts take over—
Enjoy the ride—
This path is a one way street—
A flowing motion—
To the rest of this life
So spend every day trying to please the voice—
The voice is your purpose—
Your suffice
So stop winning—
Start losing
~~
like a fire that consumes all before it—
I melt away with the wind
I am so delicate—
The slow lap of waves breaks me—
And pulls me into the sea—
Deeper and deeper—
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:30 PM UTC
father bumps around the house.
-
at night, the night is naked.
-
before one can say
decorate
the interior
she powers on
the television.
-
if twice,
pinpoint poverty’s illness
and
aim a pop-gun.
-
mealtimes
I cough
and the pups
congregate.
-
our bloodied hero’s
shoes
burst.
-
if I am not with shovel
I am had
by a vision.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
A home is not home when you hide in your room to escape the loud screams,
Coming from him who tends to take little things to extremes.
A home is not home when every word is spoken with bitterness and anger,
The kind of words with the intention to hurt one another.
A home is not home when mealtimes turn into a war zone,
Grim looks, tensed shoulders, making dear self feel alone.
A home is not home when depression waves hit you whenever you think of the word "home",
The word "home" that still tastes bitter in your mouth,
The word "home" that you thought was the definition of happiness and truth,
The word "home" that is never home.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 7:18 AM UTC
I love how you concentrate on it
Even when you are not seeing a thing
How you scream out
Not sure if it's joy or frustration
How you move through phases
In minutes or even seconds
How one minute you laughing out loud
And the next you got tears flowing
How you make rules
Even about meals and mealtimes
How you smile
When your clothes are being taken off
And how you're all grumpy
When the same clothes are put back on
And your incredible ways of saying no
Lovely, isn't it?
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 12:45 AM UTC
Minutes are counted in sneezes and coughs
Hours in trips to the bathroom and mealtimes
Weeks are the time between sunday brunch and sunday brunch
I could ask the sun what he thinks of time,
But he just sits there smirking
Spinning in aimless circles while the clouds dance around him
Someone says something
Someone laughs
Someone else farts
The same person laughs again
Has a few minutes passed or an hour?
How's the weather someone asks
70 degrees inside and dry,
The flurescent light flickers like a dead moon
Sometimes i go outside and watch the planes take off and land
Their large grey girth heaving in and out of the sky,
Like rhinos who know where they're going.
Can I do this for an additional 6 months?
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 4:45 AM UTC
Sheila sat at the dinner table.
Her mother had dished up
for all. She sat down and talked
to her husband. Sheila forked food.
What'd they say if I told them?
Too young, Mum'd say. Boys
are for older girls. I suppose
she'd say that. Wonder how old
she was when she and Dad got
together? She eyed her older sister.
Older by a year. Not so up with it.
Bit religious. Crosses herself as
often as not. Sees sin in all things.
Sheila sipped water from the tall
glass. Licked lips. John has nice lips.
Wants to. Kiss them. His fingers
touched hers on the bus. Sitting
beside her. None saw. Good. Just
as well. Tongues wag. Her big sister
at the back of the bus saw nought.
Sheila forked more food. Cat got
your tongue? Her mother asked,
eyeing her. O leave the girl alone,
Father said, best thing silence at
mealtimes. You can talk, said she.
Nothing but work matters or who
did what. Work matters, he said,
spend half me life there. Sheila
sipped more water. Her big sister
stared at her. Big eyes. Dark as
prunes. Miss G said I'm good at
music, her sister said. I got the
Schubert symphony right on, she
added. John has a lovely smile.
His eyes so hazel. The quiff of
brown hair. Some say he has an
Elvis smile. Good on you, Father
said, that Schubert fellow and his
unfinished. He laughed. Mother
stared unimpressed. Silent girls
have secrets,Mother said, eyeing
Sheila. What was school like for
you? She asked. History was good,
Sheila replied. Boring as duck's *****
she mused, eyeing her big sister.
What was the history? Mother asked.
War, I told you earlier, Sheila said,
killing people, bombs, bloodshed.
That's life, her father said. Mother
eyed Shelia darkly. Mouthed her food,
looked away. John's hand in hers. Warm,
soft, flesh on flesh. Something stirred
in her ***** On fire. Odd sensation.
Well it was. Was on that one occasion.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Without you,
my son,
there's just
the indentations
on the bed
where once you lay;
the echo of the words
you used to say;
the sun's gone in
and left the sky grey;
and the words,
like ancient manuscripts,
crumble in my mouth
as I try to pray;
time drags its feet
from night to dull day.
Without you,
my son,
the room's an empty space;
the mirror
where once you gazed
is missing your face;
and mealtimes,
long after you died,
I still laid your place,
and I feel
an emptiness
when I ask
for God's grace.
Without you,
my son,
my heart seems
torn in two;
my mind
a bog mire
of stagnant thoughts
of what to do;
I try to sing a song,
but it ends up
a dark depressing blue;
I go to places
where once you went too,
but you aren't there,
just a wind blew.
Without you,
my son,
there's a hole
in my aged heart;
my wounded soul
is torn apart,
thinking of
each aspect of you,
ticking off a chart,
naming each
precious part.
Without you,
my son,
all things
seem dull and dark;
life has lost
its spark
without you.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
A glass of wine
I long for this morning
End of the day mealtimes
Us lucky citizens
Our pantries loaded
Stores full to the rim
Fourty percent waisted
This claim just came in
More food than we need
Yet hunger persists
In huge areas of this planet
Due to inequalities sin
What's wrong
Citizens priorities make that list
Socialists find your place
Liberalism a middle ground
Questions remain
Strongholds of religions
If not used for righteous claim
Boundaries on this earth
Delete wars and pain
Now
Bring back Compassion's Dame
(c)near_lane7
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 7:32 PM UTC