"miniatures" poems
*My little helium filled heart
floats off into the clouds,
free from the weight of itself.
It makes miniatures of buildings
losing sight of material things.
From its' skewed perspective,
high in the stratosphere,
It has grown bigger than
the earth itself.
There is poetic sadness
in finally reaching happy;
a lust for inspiration
in the openness of the
universe it creates.*
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
I want to be a Disney Kid.
I want to swim the seven seas and fall magically in love,
Never grow up and fight the evil pirates.
I want to grant my wishes and soar on a magic flying carpet,
Marry a beast who lives wealthy and loves me for me.
I want to go into war for the sake of my ill father,
Dance at a ball and lose my glass slipper.
I want to wake up surrounded by miniatures dwarfs,
Be pricked by a spindle and kissed to be awakened.
I want to be a Native American, who falls in love with a man who sees me different,
Grow my hair till it touches the ground.
I want to kiss a frog and fall into a magical world,
Swing on vines while beating my chest, yelling the mighty call.
I want to grow my nose till I can’t tell a lie anymore,
Soar through the sky with my floppy big ears.
I want to fall into a hole to find another crazy dimension,
Be a black spotted dog with 101 puppies.
I want to land with my umbrella to interact with kids,
Eat spaghetti behind the garbage dumpsters with classical music.
I want to be best friends with a beagle,
Be a deer who meets all sorts of animals.
I want to be a pirate fighting on the Caribbean,
Eat honey all day till my tummy gets full.
I want to be the king and rule the jungle kingdom,
Be lost at sea and touch the ****
I want to be a live toy and go on mischievous adventures,
Be a race car and drive the highways.
I want to be in New York and hang with the big dogs,
Fly in a house full of balloons.
I want to turn into a bear and see life differently,
Have a humpback and be treated so unfair.
I want to be Hercules and become powerful,
Become friends with a bear and boogie all down.
I want to scream to the world the sky is falling,
Become a cow on the range.
I want to be a pampered aristocat.
There are so many things I want to do and see in the eye of the magical fantasy.
I want to be a Disney kid.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Mr. Golden sun casting long shadows
Salty breeze hitting across
Acres of sand lying beneath our feet
Ups and downs like craters on the moon
Crows cawing, horses galloping and dogs basking in the sun
A straight line of ocean doodled below the empty sky
Gigantic ships appear like miniatures farther away
Hushing sound of waves
Four feet amidst frothy tides creating footprints
Carrying back some rustic soil on the toes
A little dirt never hurt
A bag of sea shells
Small, big, coloured and white, all with a coat of sand
A bag full of sea shells
The sun sets down
The radiant moon creates a guiding path in the dark shore
Following us back home
After a long evening at the beach
With my dear son
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.
Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.
Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.
For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.
And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.
Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.
In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.
But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.
I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
On my fingers, on my tongue-
Your taste a sweet and pleasing one.
I unwrap you greedily
And nibble on you speedily.
Milk chocolate, I can't resist-
in miniatures or in a kiss.
Three musketeers are worth the fee-
all for one and one for me.
In a pudding or a bar
I enjoy you in my home or car.
In drink, you warm my winter day
once my shovels been put away.
Intoxicating like fine wine,
Your antioxidants are all mine.
I sneak away with you, my treasure,
an old fat man's one guilty pleasure.
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
Carl didn't finish school
Preferring to work on my father's farm
Breathing prairie dust and smoke
Seeing suns rise and fall
Living under the weather
Freezing or sweating to the season
Reading the wind
Cursing the heat that brought migraines
Smoking Salem cigarettes
Alone in his bunkhouse
With his regrets
Three meals a day with us
A car or truck demanding payments
Kept him coming back to work
The draft cards came;
Neighbors left, but Carl stayed.
One day I asked him,
"Why didn't you finish school?"
"Why weren't you drafted?"
"Are you going to marry?"
"I can't," was his reply.
I asked him why.
"Because I tested as a border-line *****
At 10, I had no idea what ***** meant,
Had never heard Stanford-Binet,
Didn't realize the damage of labels,
But now I do.
When authorities mis-measure
the capacities of a man,
And labels shackle,
They fail to see or know
The genius in a Carl.
They didn't stop to think
What gifts he had
Nor had they seen
The perfection
Of his creations
There on the bunkhouse table.
Perfect miniatures of our farm machinery:
Tractors, cultivators, harvesters,
Cut from plastic and metal stock,
Measured intricately to scale,
Fitted with loving care,
Glued and painted
Complete and ready
For some small-minded man
To drive into a miniature field.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
There are many instances,
those I have not been proud of,
when I have scoured the colonies collecting tiny, ornate cigar boxes
to house the bodies of dead, miniature emperors of the
Imperial realm beneath my floorboards.
Cheap pine does tend to hide many things,
for it is god-like, this Empire.
its beauty: arresting and unearthly.
I discovered it as all great historical finds come to us,
on an unremarkable, and unplanned afternoon.
I felt not unlike an ancestral WASP,
stumbling upon the new world, or at the very least, new to me.
how presumptuous, to think that this great majestic thing beneath my feet is my junior.
Surely, then, I am the discovery,
bringing my primitive ways,
attire, tribe and desires
to the Imperial Court.
From them, I learned secrets,
a pantheon of miniature gods,
and thousands of years worth of minute literature and culture.
all of it in lovely,
resplendant whispers only the miniature can voice.
From me,
they simply learned of our endless,
tireless wars in futility.
From me,
they took ill and died in a quiet,
unassuming plague,
the sickness of our humanity.
We **** beauty,
at all times, and at all places.
We **** what we touch, and hold closest to us,
our bodies made solely of trillions of happy daggers,
primed and sharpened
for the great, sweeping massacre that resides in us all.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 11:59 PM UTC
10:39:47
She should be married by now
I watched
The black hand on the white basel
tick on, reflecting my poker face
with the Patek Phillipe logo
10:41:35
Numb. Pain. Pain or numb?
It should be me, she was the one
I had her, she was mine
She likes tomato juice, miniatures
Black Louboutins in size 4 and a half
Tatler, oreo cheese Dairy Queen blizzard
Mint tea, kebab and omakase
10:42:23
Dance. Pole or Burlesque?
body rock hard, eyes on me
It should be me, down the aisle
Her lips always red, her eyes
curl up when she smiles
cat eye, plushies, flowers on fields
Books, panels, her wit sharp as knife
10:44:45
She should be walking out of church
Eyes stared at the door
I had no blue in Tiffany, red in Cartier
Blood on my hands, pyramid top
No time for her, I made it all for her
So she left me in the middle
Of an Hermes store
10:45:13
I saw her, white dress smiling
She didn't look at him
the way she looked at me
10 years ago, today, 10:45
First time I saw her, in a red dress
I opened the car door.
I crumpled my Loro Piana in the rain
10:46:34
I grabbed her, her mother screamed
Her best friend laughed, her dad sighed
The man reached for me,
I am not letting go
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
miniatures kept
appearing on the floor
under
sole pressure
a soft warmth pools
between fickle toes.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
There’s a constant anxiety on those tables
A perilous way to deflect the world and all its problems
A kind of insidious joy in collecting
All these miniatures, minuscule and exquisitely crafted figures
Bothered by life in their stillness
Like little swans and princesses
Lingering in a silence which is sacred.
These tiny clever ones
Shuffled on slightly scratched wood,
Wear their days like a cloak of doom
And push each other
Like Londoners out of the tube.
Fearless, little monsters
Repressing their hunger,
treading over the borders of life, they enter
forests from which no escape is granted
Where awakens a desire for mutiny,
From the abnormal perfection
Smothered under ceramic faces.
A bedside table full of whatnots
Doesn’t shield you from bad dreams
The little shepherd lies smashed on the floor
And no one’s going to cry for him.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
tiny dead eyes
and a wooden body
they posses teeth of crushing
waiting and watching
for what
for who
nobody knows
nutcrackers
the evil kin
to toy soldiers
and friend to puppets.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
Miniatures
micro-pictures
win me over
the macro distracts
as too large a canvas it does cover
anything that's in excess
dulls the senses
in the menu of life
there's just too much to choose
why would I prefer ten dishes
when the best I have tasted?
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 7:09 AM UTC
What a selfish child, she thought
Leeching the poor tree dry
Less than what she had been before.
She herself stripped of her jewels
Made into extreme miniatures for her children’s fingers and ears
The mossy fur ripped from her flesh
Her screams the crunch and creak as they felled her trees.
They give her no pause between the spasms of pain
An endless labor with no birth to show
No relief and her sweat has filled oceans.
The fires licking over her parched skin are a joyous pain
She writhes, reveling in the heat.
And now it is her children who scream and sob
Begging the man who cradles them in his palm to restrain her.
But he won’t
For they are hers while mortal
And he will not touch them
Until their ghosts have shrugged from their shells.
Once the sight of their broken bodies
would have caused her tears to pour forth
Drowning their tiny lungs and swelling the number held by him.
But now she is a mother who turns her face from her squalling infants
Cries falling onto calloused ears.
She learned from the many named man
How to be at peace with their deaths
And found from him comfort
With his mouth sewn shut, his eyes only for those he holds
His ears filled with the empty silence of their space.
And even though this last sanctuary has become contaminated
Still she stirs the soup of air rocketing her little ones around her.
Her ignorant children cause her agony
But what young do not?
Some even pray to her
Working to feed off her in other ways
And though they are only a drop in the bucket of her pain
She cannot deny she loves them.
So long has she watched them live and die
Broke down their empty bodies and
seen them rejoin their creator to weep
when faced with what they have done to her their mother.
A pity the dead cannot speak to the living.
But she quiets them
Shows her disembodied children
The wonders she still holds
Smothered, smudged and distorted.
Again they sob thinking she means punishment
In showing them her diminished beauty but it is not so.
She beckons them to look and understand
No matter the cancer growth of their chemicals
that poison her body
There is no permanent death for she will consume any and all
Even her own brood to continue on.
Her children may strip her of everything
As willingly as Shel’s tree gave herself away
But it is she who will remain long after their bodies
Have grown frail and decayed
For she is Mother Earth.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
As I was walking in a hall, wide and bright, I stumbled upon a mounted spyglass.
Right on the mount, it said that it could let me look at the past. I thought that something that allowed me to look through to the opposite would be much more convenient.
Nevertheless, I looked in.
There I saw 2009 when I worried about when I will get laid.
The songs I listened to were old and good, but never mine.
These memories are blurry, small, and insignificant. But one could never forget what that felt like.
On the other side was 2013, when my mind was somewhere else as I sat near the university pathway when I should be in a class.
The songs I listened to took me as one of their own, at least for the time being.
These memories looked like miniature figurines. Problematic, yet quite small.
Tilting the spyglass, I saw the end of 2016. I was near a superhighway waiting for a bus that might never come. Things were still quite problematic, but clearer. None of those miniatures blurs on the side that just focused on me.
These memories looked bigger, much more vivid. It felt closer. So I looked away.
There I stood inches away from the spyglass. I walked to the other side and it allowed me to see the future.
Everything looked small and unclear. It was as if everything you can see didn't even know where to go.
But they all felt like mine. Like things I never had but always have known that belonged to me forever.
They are Sunday afternoon naps, cups of coffee that are either good or bad (who can tell?), and a lot of hugging.
Again I stepped back. This time because I felt afraid.
There's always uncertainty ahead.
But I was certain about uncertainty then.
The future can come in any way, shape, or form but one thing will never change.
It will always be mine.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 2:06 PM UTC
well... back in the day,
in the days of Louis XIV...
they had their own unique
pronoun oddities,
like... the royal one...
and the royal we...
so... given those oddities...
then the kings used
to speak to their subjects
accordingly:
we are very much displeased,
or...
one should think so...
so...
we're dealing with pauper
miniatures of kings
and queens?!
seriously?
so now the "serf" imposes
the same rigidity of language,
that was inherent for a king
or a queen?
queen not queer or somethin'?
we've had this "debate" already...
but a king i can understand,
yet people of the same lesser
stock as i...
no...
not going to happen...
at least, if you're going to play the royal
spin on using pronoun oddities,
please...
don't **** at it...
they... they?
where are they?
they are far away
or are they in a matryoshka doll?
define they...
you sound like
primitive Heidegger with his da-sein...
the elaborated Heidegger
apprentice would add to that:
da-ist-sein: there's being...
there... where?
i can't see them anywhere...
but the royal we makes
perfect sense...
it's like...
you quasi-schizophrenic or something?
like... there are multiples yous in youuuuuur
concept of a coherent expression?
this pronoun ******** has been
borrowed from the kings and queens
of a few centuries ago...
but am i going to entertain this
******** enforcement from someone who
doesn't don a crown?
don't think so.
poncey little ******* who think
they're kings,
and possibly queer piss-pants queens...
no going to happen.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
Light years away..
I'm tracing
State lines
On an old roadmap
Time and distance
Shrunk down to scale
Miniatures make my dreams
More believable;
Spirit always fluttering
Like a hummingbird
Underneath my ribcage
Much like a bird
I'd like to one day learn
I'm not stuck in this rut for eternity
My great migration, still waiting
Compass in my dome piece
Magnets to map my pathway
Am I even able move away?
Oct 2, 2021
Oct 2, 2021 at 2:36 PM UTC
I
In her eyes, he could see
the boisterous nature of life
the visions of future, and the scope of silence in between.
II
All I'm doing is, living off my resources: inside a storm, maybe.
Still death cannot be simplified and its contours lie within me, despite the scales before me.
III
A boisterous seeker, peripheral and pragmatic in conclusions, beginnings without answers: the stone that sought fire and wore it off in air.
IV
Maybe you know this,
Our *** is not intuitive not impulsive neither terse, not the least deniable: a cadenza to the violent soul of nature, our language and its mistakes impromptu every second.
V
Look! the landscape- its frozen miniatures configured within: dwellers on its ***** and creases, cheering the new sun, its sheer magnitude -the sum of their lives now, this moment.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 3:02 PM UTC