"naptime" poems
i love you when we're alone
because you eviscerate me in front of your friends
but alone you kiss the veins in my arms
press your small hips into my hips & sigh into my neck
& blink so slowly that i can hear your eyelids whispering
you won't hold my hand in public
because you blatantly want to seem available to other men
but when it's only you & it's only me
we lie on our backs letting the summer rain collect in puddles
in our bellybuttons & you swear to god
there's only one way this can end
you say i can't meet your parents
but everything i do reminds you of your father
that tall strong man of your childhood
singing sinatra to your mother in the kitchen
just like i do when i sneak behind you &
tickle your neck with my tongue you're
giggling as i carry you like a bride
into your bedroom for naptime or playtime
you only miss me when you're by yourself
like a flower hidden in a fenced-in backyard
but you ignore my texts most days
because when your friends are around you're busy
dancing toward the sun & lying to them
about where you spent last night &
the blueberry pancakes you ate for breakfast
you don't mention the ticklish new rib spot i found
or the quiet music we make together at night
or the stars we wished on with our pinky fingers tied together
i love you most when we're sticky asleep alone
you humming in turquoise ******* snuggled into my armpit
with your warm hand melting into my chest
& me in the pinstripe boxer briefs you bought with
my arm under and reaching for your exposed breast
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
*To Nick, Love *****
Don’t grow old.
Don’t leave behind your
skinned knees,
chubby cheeks,
and toothless
chocolatey grin.
Don’t grow old.
Don’t forget that nothing is too big
to fit inside your pocket
and to forget about for awhile
(like your crayons.)
Don’t grow old.
Make time to pretend
the floor is covered in lava
and the only way to be saved
are the throw pillows from your couch.
Don’t grow old.
Remember playtime,
and naptime,
and snack time.
Retain your sense of wonder,
feel free to proudly display blankie,
and keep that childlike beauty you wear so well.
At least on the inside,
don’t grow old.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
*** bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Quiet.
It's something I thought I would never enjoy.
The lack of noise.
I couldn't stand the sound of the pounding of my heart.
Noise. Always noise.
Always boisterous boasting
cleverly roasting egos
(on more occasion than one, my own.)
Speaking, complaining
and
not necessarily
communicating.
But the hum of the fan just now...
I turned it down
to hear the quiet
not quite silence.
The hum of the city.
It makes me miss the still
absolute oblivion
that sometimes exists
in the country.
But, even then,
the time is thin
to sit undisturbed.
Three years is just long enough to learn
to love to learn...
and I have learned
how to be grateful
for more than just
quiet.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
Give me rest.
The kind of slumber
that toddlers protest during naptime
but succumb to with a stream of drool
on their rested faces;
the kind of slumber
that enables my grandmother
to nap in a rocking chair
with a book teetering on the edge of her lap,
the sort of sleep
that wakes me up
an hour before the morning trumpets blast;
give me that,
because I'm tired
of the sheets clutching on to me
like handcuffs
engraved on criminal wrists.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
the younger me
lies beneath my battered skin
frightened.
as if at any moment
i will tear her out
claw at her edges
and spit on her fragile figure
as if i will forget
toss her away
so she becomes a memory
of a nightmare
that can only be reached
by fingertips
and former friends
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
Hands off at sun
Hands on in candlelight
Thoughts in the sheets as bright at cold winter nights
Seductive squeals seep from your pores
Imposing emphasis on the ykk below my buckle
Staring at each other like under worked underpaid ******
Chasing after each other like the bull and matador
Anticipating love like christmas morning
Wanting you at dusks yawning
Craving you at Noons awakening
Needing you by nights naptime
All before life calls me and i cant have you
Until lost calls on love
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 1:08 PM UTC
I am pretty sure I should have been born a bug
These eyes have never been good for believing
But these hands
Stretch out like antennae
And will hold heartbeats till people make sense
I have never met a lap that didn’t look comfy
Or shoulders too bony to rest my head on
I have never met a bear
That I didn’t want to hug me
I am so much one man sized
Invasion of privacy
That I hand out **** whistles on first dates
Not that I’d **** anybody
I just need a painful reminder
Of appropriate distance
Even though
Distance is painful
I mean
I get lonely sometimes
And if you invite me to bed
And don’t ask me for ***
I will skip straight to the cuddles
Till we sweat salty *** puddles
I mean
Goosebumps is the human kinda Braille
For hold me
I know that
Because
I can read your skin with my fingertips
Every chill
Every pock mark
And scar
Has a translation
And If I were a louse
Or a flea
Or a lone cricket
Chirping cuddle-bug morse code
In the silence of your naptime
I’d take the time
To translate the language of your body
All you have to do
Is hold me
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 11:30 PM UTC
There we lay, our bodies tangled and our fingers intertwined, my hair in his face and our legs wrapped around each other. Such perfect knots make up the one image of our bodies laying next to each other. We can’t tell who’s finger is who’s, what leg belongs to which body. When we are together, we become one beautiful entity. A single being. His eyelashes are butterflies that are taking an afternoon rest. When I open my heavy eyes I notice that his lips are slightly turned upwards at the ends, and that is cheeks are tinted with pink. His jawline is constructed so perfectly and its chiseled edge cuts through the dim room. His fingertips press into my back so he knows that even when he drifts off, that I'm not going anywhere. I wouldn't dare leave his arms. They are my home. There I am laying next to him and I see perfection in front of me, and I listen to his heart give the beat to the song that is made by the rhythm of his deep breaths. My absolute favorite song.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
I asked myself to this day
Weather or not I would be the same
If they just stayed together, if they just didn’t split.
I had thought things would get better, that nothing would ever change
But that was wrong
and the longer I care
the more I drown in my salty lake of tears
That’s hidden under my bed from the world who thinks I’m smiling.
I wonder to this day
If only they let me watch as he moved away
Instead of sending us to naptime
And let us wake up to change.
Seeing him a reck and her in joy made me feel broken too
And the longer I care
The more I drown in my salty lake of tears
That’s hidden under my bed from the world who thinks I’m smiling.
I question to this day
If my mom told truth to us or lied to us to get agreement.
She said we were a packaged deal, he’d love us all the same,
Was I just a gullible four year old then
Or was it a truth that changed, I don’t know
But the longer I care
The more I drown in my salty lake of tears
That’s hidden under my bed from the world who thinks I’m smiling.
I worry to this day
If I’d ever get phased out
If one McKay was an up roar
What would the rest be like?
Only the three of us left and we all feel left so lonely and cold
But the longer I care
The more I drown in my salty lake of tears
That’s hidden under my bed from the world who thinks I’m smiling.
I still feel the pain, the morn, and the scrutiny to this day
Even after 10 years have past
Anxiety rules me
Making fear overstay its welcome
Making me care
And pushing my head beneath my salty lake of tears.
That’s hidden under my bed from the world who thinks I’m smiling.
I noticed to this day
That if I don’t care
I won’t feel the pain, the fear, the insane
The triggers might go away
And why these things won’t just go away, I really do not know.
I do know that the path I took had a lot of broken trees and dying flowers,
And I know that I’m tired of drowning over and over in my salty lake of tears
That’s hidden under my bed from the world who thinks I’m smiling.
But I can’t stop caring
so I continue to drown.
I can’t tell you why, simply because I don’t know myself.
But I think the world thinks I’m smiling because I let them,
Not because they don’t want to read the rest of this boring, dusty book,
But because I put a lock on it and hid the key.
So I care, and care
Until I am submerged by my salty lake of tears,
That’s hidden under my bed from the world who I let think I’m smiling
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
Oh, how I'll miss their smiles, and
Their pattering feet as they'd come to greet me the minute I'd walk through the door.
Their love so pure, and
Their hearts so full.
Their innocent,
But naturally smart-alecky comebacks to statements like,
"It's time to come inside,"
"We should wait patiently in line,"
"It's time to take a nap,"
"Let's give him a turn first, and yours will come next,"
will always put a smile on my face.
The love for them, and
The joy they'd bring to my heart
From innocent
And naturally earnest words to me like,
"Your earrings are pretty today,"
"When it's naptime, you're going to hold my hand until I fall asleep,"
"You should sit by me for snack time,"
"I love you, Miss Julia."
Though I'll never see these children again,
I hope, through the years, they'll remember me
The way I will them.
I will cherish each one of them, and
Every memory they've given me
Until the end of time.
jm
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 3:19 AM UTC
Do you know what time it is?
Is it springtime? It tastes like springtime in every word I wish I could say to you, but I choke on petals and potting soil in the meantime.
Is it Sunday morning? It tastes like Sunday morning every time I speak your ancient name that led me out of Egypt.
Is it naptime? It feels like naptime in every toss and turn I take, even though when we lay down, we don’t usually rest.
Do you know what time it is?
You don’t wear a watch. But if you did, it would probably be a Casio watch. Because you’re subdued and kind of smokey and there’s nothing shiny about you
Until you laugh from the pit of your stomach and I feel like I’m home.
You don’t wear a watch. And I’m glad because it shows off your arms more. You don’t need to cover them up and you actually don’t need to cover anything up, ever.
Wait. Is it naked time?
Do you know what time it is?
Is it dinner time? Like the time when you smeared barbecue sauce on my face and got away with it?
Is it wintertime? You make me feel kind of warm inside.
Is it bedtime? Because even though your eyes are the color of ice and your spine is made of steel and your biceps feel like bricks, you are the softest and gentlest person there is.
I’m afraid that the clock will strike twelve and you’ll see that I’m just a maid in rags who has mice for friends. And that I am actually not a princess.
I’m just a girl with a funny name who has completely lost track of the time.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
My boy told me the other day
That he didn’t have a mother
He only had a babysitter
I say my boy--
The boy at my daycare
The boy with seven siblings
Ripped from five of them
Gained another in the process
Losing mothers like pencils
The mother he has now is a teacher,
No summer job,
But four foster kids to her name
Her summers are free
Her pockets are full
But my boys
They’re still in daycare
Six to six
Or longer
They come with bagged eyes
one in pull ups at the age of five
My boys
Their sister's in the other room
Their mother sits at home
Alone
Doing nothing
Probably drinking
Or anything but mothering
Right now
She’s out of town
There’s a babysitter at home
She picks them up late and drops them off early
They're cranky
And tired
They're getting six hours of sleep
Plus one at naptime
My boys never sleep at nap time
None of them but Isaiah
Isaiah
He loves to talk about his home
Not where they sleep at night
But at home
In Africa
He’ll tell you if you ask
It’s beautiful to hear
The joy filling his face is fixating
But then you see his legs
How they wobble in at the knees
When you see how he sleeps
He rocks himself the whole time
Rocking even through his dreams
It’s all from the orphanage.
The workers couldn’t help him to sleep.
He just turned five.
He starts kindergarten soon,
And he just learned how to spell his name
Everyone else here can read all the names
His and theirs
My boys
I love them with everything I have
And they know that,
But I leave soon.
In a few weeks we all go to school
I’ve been doing this for years, but them,
They haven’t
It’s their first
And I’ll pray
But I hate that all I can do is pray
They deserve more than that.
They deserve attention and love
They deserve hope and security
I can only hope that the next teacher will give that to them
To my boys
To my wonderful boys...
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
I am from pancakes, from ovaltine and cheerios
I am from an empty street that welcomes bare feet at twilight
I am from a big green back yard
from lilacs and daffodils
valentines and Easter eggs
from road trips in the van
And tuna sandwiches with extra mayonnaise
I am from being late to everything
And bedtime and naptime
From Bactine and band aids and bee stings and remember to wear shoes
when you ride your scooter
or walk over the pine needles
or under the slide where the grass is dry and sharp
I am from everyone is equal and religion is not a bad thing
And no one is wrong to believe,
But you don’t have to.
I am from Cheese pizza and Chocolate Milk
From the dinner bell when dad gets home from work
Or the candy cookie at the end of the day
if you help mom with the groceries
I am from waffles and homemade peach ice cream on the forth of July
From water melon and doctor Suess on a picnic blanket
From Crayons and markers and coloring books
I am from stuffed animals covered in dust cause you left them outside
From ski school
From pink lemonade and M&Ms;
I am from no matter how cold that water is
I will swim in the rivers and oceans
I am from flying kites
From riding bikes to the end of the street
From sleeping outside on the deck
But not the whole night,
Cause you start to miss your bed.
I am from Halloween is scary sometimes-
And so is the queen in Snow White and Sleeping Beauty
And the witch in the Wizard of Oz
And the abominable snowman in Rudolph
From I think we will stick to the jungle Book and Lady and the *****
I am from snowmen and sledding hills and hot chocolate
with extra marsh mellows
From hanging Christmas lights in a snowstorm
And Dads sorry he let you jump off the deck
when you hit your nose to your knee-
He thought the snow was deep enough.
I am from Sprinklers and Trampolines
From Lodge Pole, Columbine, Bear Tree
From Ten minutes to bedtime
Junie B Jones Clifford the Big Red Dog and Bear in the Big Blue House
I am from Juice Coffee and Cinnamon toast
From broken heels and Sticky fingers
From counting stairs and sheep and pennies
and the days until Christmas
From the top of Dad shoulders at the tree lighting
From falling asleep with your head in Moms lap
in the booth at the restaurant.
I am from love
From hugs and kisses and holding on to one another so tight
Because what other way to show them you care.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
points of dust, moted light,
coded messages,
of indecipherable love,
from the sun and this day's dieties smile.
are....
siphoned through,
the dappled, green eucalypt
to become....
shafts of godly grace,
that tickle, wrinkle
and play hide and seek,
with the contours of your
handsome face,
weekend stubbled
and lax within,
the shadows of sleep's
suburban fringe.
curled up, on your lap
your child, golden, halo haired, head,
asleep.
ear at your heart's designation,
hand anchored,
in the flannel of your shirt,
foot tucked into, your trouser pocket.
a little, love limpet,
attatched firmly, to you.
you, and the littler you lie, serene and unaware,
in the old, striped deck chair.
quiet and together in,
restful, repose.
the remains of lunch...
now just, crumbs and
sticky fodder,
for busy trails of ants
and attracting the lazy bee's of bumble, that hover and hum, above.
and book reading's are open,
unfunished, scattered on the table..... waiting for the
eventual waking...
along with the cat,
perched imperial,
and purring,
on one ant free corner
of the old and faded,
rattan chair.
he stands watch,
dotingly, over,
his dozing clowder....
this is ... the wonder of,
sunday afternoon naptime.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
its funny how these dumbies play the situation
they silly acting funny like a bunch of bums
then you call'em out, and they all play dumb.
simple stupid **** ending with complications,
all because these little haters, try and play son
wait until i turn my back, then its game on.
some wan' play young like em' fool, then they find out young take dem to school - calling out the leader, is the number one rule. then the liter, got to follow the rules, and take care of all these young fools - and break'em down to size, like Happy meals at naptime at private schools. These goons never wake up, and it's all thanks to haters being tools.
Now, I'm back on track, dont get it confused.
getting to the point like the evening news,
you can keep taking shoots, but a champion nows to handle his *****
my wisdom worth more than all your silver and gold, I will always have heart even when I turn cold. All these materials things, aren't worth my weight when I'm stone cold. Instead of following the light, I let my heart set the goals. Now I'm headed up hopes road, silver tongue with a heart of gold, in full control.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
All smiles and giggles when six
Turns quickly to fussing and fits
Whenever is said,
“Naptime. Go directly to bed.”
Yet sleep achieves a great feat,
For when they are woken
The grumpies are beat.
If only all woes were
as easily solved.
Imagine a workplace
that had evolved
To give people a bed
Whenever they needed
more sleep for their head.
Can you imagine, “Siesta right now.
You may not metaphorically plow.
Until kindness to rule, you allow.”
If only siestas for adults
Would bring forgiveness for insults.
Perhaps sleep would like magic reduce
The times of backstabbing and power abuse,
The number of errors, but creativity loose,
And lead to more income and clients profuse.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC