"origami" poems
like cellophane wraps hard candy
like ink loves to dry
like hot sauce drenches noodles
like sunrise casts shadows
like band-aids sooth cut flesh
like irons crease linens
like origami folds paper
like water floats boats
like a tempest loves a teapot
like syrup and bananas drench waffles
like spoons love soup
like cats love fish
like french fries love ketchup
like wild girls dance
like a crow loves road ****
like eyes love beauty
like a circle loves a square
like buttered buns fit a bikini
like a kissed mouth hungers for wet lips
like moths love a flame
like dogs love ********
and like ******* hug butts
like howling ******* pulse hearts
like vampires love blood and castles
like dark grapes ferment in bubbling cauldrons
like madness loves a straight jacket
like a ***** loves a ****
and music gets you dancing
like suns fall through cobalt night all smashing diamonds
that's
how i love you
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
let it not be confused
let no one else's name
ring throughout these sentences
let this be a hatchet
let me put this to rest
this is not a test
i don't want to think
about shipwrecks anymore
i am tired of folding apologies
into origami birds
and placing them
at the headstones to your tantrums
this is not is not geology class
these are promises
written on razorblades
*& if you are getting choked up
then maybe you should be*
maybe we should be buried
with our telescopes face down
my mouth is full of sorry
all for being honest
we are falling out of orbit
we are burning bystanders
so cast away your callous condolences
because no one is clapping
in this waist deep water
this is not a baptism
so do not tell strangers
that this was a chance to drown
any differently
i am not a catalogue
of constellations you cannot name
this is not mythology
so stop believing your horoscope
i am not a wishing well
i am just a wall for you
to paint post nuclear fallout & antonyms for catharsis on
we destroy the things
that are not ours-
the wanton ways
we embody wrecking *****
and then cry over the rubble
this is not a heap or a mosaic
this is leaping
off a thousand story building
with no one to catch you
at the bottom & maybe
that's why some quiet moments
are so fragile, maybe that's why butterflies have mimicry
your words are black powder
and poetry is your musketry
i guess that makes me your blindfold
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Fold me like you always have,
Run your nails to set the creases,
Shape me to the form you crave,
Bend me into the art of your wishes,
My form forever yours to toy with,
I conform to your will and desire,
Expose my surfaces, above or beneath,
I will always be there for you to admire,
I can be flexible or I can be stiff,
That depends on what you want,
I am here to help fill your rift,
The one who says you can when you can’t,
Craft that which you seek of me,
I am but your art, your origami.
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
Close your eyes
Your world, not extending
beyond the soft quilt under
your skin, unending
Soft ripples of cloth, and picturesque seams
Nothing here but
You, me, the sky, and soft dreams
I'll reach up and take the stars from the sky
If only to lay them at your feet
to place them in your hands
to bring light into those glazed eyes
or give a glow to a world so bland
and each one would be folded
into a beautiful origami castle
I, the lord, and you, the vassal
Or perhaps me as the king
and you as a queen, whichever
My gentle playmate.. which one is better?
I'm a majestic creature of the sky
You're an empty-faced child on a quilt
Each star shall be used as a stepping stone
so I might meet you in the place I built
Let us meet, as lovers, or
at least equals
on this starry floor
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 9:33 AM UTC
you told me to take up new hobbies
to distract myself from the pain
you were causing me
you told me to learn origami
so i did
and now my room is crowded
by paper cranes folded each time
your name came to mind
and you told me
to learn how to juggle
so i did
but not in the way
you were talking about
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
Origami cranes
Twelve steps, forty eight pure folds
Peaceful paper cranes.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
there, now -
Fukushima sakura unfold
in perfect pink oblivion.
here, now -
wind tears a madman's
origami from umbrellas
wire crane's feet
curl to the sky.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 7:37 AM UTC
i am
monday nights filled with
candlelit journal entries
and sipping hot tea while
watching rain bounce off
the roof and open windows
in autumn and messy hand-
written letters and white
tees and cuffed jeans and
pb&j; with the crust cut
off and folded origami
cranes and watching the
sun rise while everyone
else is tucked away in
their beds and midnight
car rides and candid smiles
and lists written in blue
ink and wildflowers and
mountains and birds singing
and books and movies that
make you cry and nicknames
and flannels in the winter
and soft music and loud
music and moments recorded
only by memory and pumpkin
pie and forever stamps
i am all the little things
and if you don’t make an
effort to understand why i
love all the things i love
you will never understand
me
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
fringed in anger
runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
blasting from blacked out tints
weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds
beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
where bar tenders play therapists
and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes
beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels
That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
yourself
your friends
your country
she challenges you to
STOP DRUNK DRIVING
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
A wish unfulfilled
She'll never be reached
But we'll keep on flying
Higher and higher
Above the clouds
Beyond the horizon
Till the air turns thin
Where like blade cuts the wind
We'll keep on rising
Higher and higher
Till our hearts turn blue
Till the blue turns black
And then white: nothing
And then perhaps
We could touch her heart
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Origami cranes
Fly towards the crescent moon
Amongst paper clouds
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
Small and observant,
this girl child already loves her solitude.
Dark eyes taking in everything for much later,
long hair a little mussed-up, tumbling over feet pyjamas,
she stands quietly in the doorway of her little bedroom.
Across old parquet floors, into spare white rooms
she gazes at the grown-ups in their party clothes,
secretly planning that someday she will be one of them.
Plain white origami birds, suspended from the high
vintage ceilings, hand-made from her poet-mother's
typing paper, are the only decorations.
The soft, indirect lighting, all invented by her father
out of simple things, creates a perfect visual tone.
This quiet inventor has also chosen jazz he loves
to animate the evening for his friends.
These grown-ups in their party clothes,
yellows, greens and reds, puffy skirts, stiletto heels,
men in simple suits, white shirts, thin black ties,
talented painters, holocaust survivors, intellectuals,
talking, laughing, smoking too much, martini glasses in hand.
What stayed with her most was the music, and the way
it brought the whole world right to her.
Jazz from here in her native city,
Soft, sultry Bossa Nova that her soul knew even better.
Only some of what she saw that night became the life she chose.
The intimacy of observing, of silently forming words around
what she saw, talking and laughing with friends,
loving passionately, getting scorched to the bone,
and the music, the music....
The music would always stay with her, leading her across
wide expanses of this beautiful old world
to the parts of it that she would someday taste, and see.
Her life would become the stretching wide open of her heart.
To love it all, to write about it all.
to give this back, someday,
to the music, and to this big, beautiful old world.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
.
*And so he sits
once more
folding his life
into an origami box.
Paper walls,
cellophane ceilings.
Counting out syllables.
Sequenced
to twist-fuck the mind.
And quietly
he sits
ghosting the room.*
© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 5:55 AM UTC
I folded what remained
of my weak paper heart
and made an origami elephant
hoping to create a façade
of being stronger than
I really was.
*Never forgetting,
but always moving on.*
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
My world is folded
My mind is bent
Manipulated by
And itself
manipulating language
To counter the real
The brutal
With fragile structures
Language
A simple
Immaculate beauty
Though filthy at times
It can be turned
And flexed
with verbs and adverbs
Mistakes can be erased
Folded and written
My mind
This world
Where we meet
Is beauty
Imagined and executed
It is my escape
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Your origami snapper came along
tucked into my wallet
things like that don't travel well
but I managed
they suffered a lesion to the spine
snappers are apparently weak there
maybe we can work on growing a backbone together
handmade gifts mean the most
less, when it was made in whimsy and flimsy
more, because it gave me false hope
maybe it's a sign
like a uke-playing octopus
maybe friendship is all I need right now
your origami snapper is a great listener
It sits on my desk
Either mocking or pondering, I can’t tell
Snappers are hard to read that way
Maybe if we showed more emotion you’d
notice
but action requires reaction
and somehow the origami rose I made forgot it’s origami thorns
But there could be blood on my hands
From a beautiful friendship I so recklessly slaughter
pulling up roots like weeds
adding wistful thinking to inimitable memories
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
A waste paper bin
Left in the corner.
Containing little folded up letters,
Discarded as the heart was.
A gang of stupid teenage vandals having a laugh,
Disregarded what they had done.
Disposed of the butts irresponsible after having their smokes,
In the bin.
Not doused.
The silly lads.
Wandered away.
They did not see the smouldering,
the burning in that bin
The origami scraps,
Folded as swans,
Too charred to fly away.
Sadly written on the innards of the origami swans,
Words carried on love letters never to be seen again.
Their love was carried away on a puff of white smoke.
(c) Livvi
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
Crushed Crayons
Strewn pastel shades
Origami boats
Report Cards
Algebra
Geometry
Detentions
D+
D+
Hoots
Shrieking
Mocking
*****************************
MAMA – YOU CRYING ?
No-just a little chalk dust…
MAMA – WHERE IS DADDY ?
Close your eyes
Place your hand
On your heart
There’s Daddy …
MAMA – YOU CRYING ?
No- just a little star dust …
MAMA – WHATS THAT ….?
Twinkle..
Twinkle…
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 1:01 AM UTC
I never understood “made in God’s image” until I saw her.
Anyone who’s seen her has higher expectations for what heaven looks like.
We’re both sensitive enough to know what love feels like,
and reasonable enough to know that it can be broken.
The first time you use a new toothbrush is nothing like the first time you kiss a girl,
But I still love them both.
Her laugh is a paradox; an outsider would think she either just said the cleverest thing ever or she wishes she could retract it faster than it was said.
Only I know it’s simply because it’s beautiful. It’s easily my favorite language.
I have considered wearing a wiretap so I could go back and listen to all of our conversations again. And I hope that it picked up her heartbeat. She told me, it’s beating exactly like life should sound like.
She offers to iron any wrinkled clothes. I don’t have any. But I have a wrinkled heart.
I thought it was made into origami but it’s just a wadded ball that missed the wastebasket.
The way she dances to hip-hop shows her versatility,
yet you can tell she doesn’t do this every day; but she still dances.
I’m almost too nervous to hug her - knowing it will have to end.
Whenever I let go, I feel like I made a mistake.
Her voice trails off into silence,
like an hourglass that’s trying to hold itself together.
I like that “click-clack” of her boots.
It lets me know I’m next to someone really going places.
She goes to the mini mart with me even when she doesn't want to get anything,
besides more time together.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
you draw your self hatred out like a kid draws out small pictures
and play double dutch with the hands on a clock, knowing how
unsafe it is out there, flirting with death and flicking me off when
i wrote out the reasons why you should stay, that this autumn fallout
is only a misconstruction of your mind's witching hour, that dystopia
won't linger and utopia will be home soon, it will blossom into your lungs
and turn the simplicity of your broken soul into something completely
quintessential and complex, like an origami rabbit, i fold my sharp edges
and twist myself to be malleable and secure for you, maybe i'm not too certain
of myself or you, but i'm not too certain on a lot of subjects, i'm worried
of being thrown into the arsonist world you started, covering up the sky with
black dense fog, the type of fog that would happen only in dangerous wildfires
i'm a controlled wildfire, but i let my fire spread just to help control your fire
- kra
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
I think in Japanese,
write down my thoughts in English,
then twist it all back into sushi:
a tasty bite to eat.
My mind is like origami
folding thoughts into meditation;
meditation unfolds
into a crisp sheet of city lights.
I love you big much,
love you big time;
I love the way you giggle nervously.
Titter-titter,
"Tee-hee-hee!"
It must be amazing to find everything so funny.
Big city, sake sunset;
a karaoke moon rises
over a robotic, neon inception.
(transmutation)
Transformers, Transformers:
autobotic-neurotic Bumblebee
comes to the aid of Samurai Prime.
"Autobots, transform!!"
Bored of the bright lights?
Weary of the snappy-happy gaijin
doing photo-photo
while they look for a sweet sakura-panpan?
Then take a leisurely stroll up to Hokkaido,
where there's less sucky-sucky,
and more bow-down-low-austerity
alongside the 108 gongs a-bonging.
Chant a few prayers,
speak with the sacred cedars,
take a dip in the hot springs
with some smiling monkeys,
and watch snow fall, together.
Nippon, you offer everything.
I can eat 20 times a day
without gaining a pound.
There's always more room
for miso, chanko nabe, shabu-shabu,
gyozo, okonomiyaki—
I am going to stop writing this list
so that I don't drown in my saliva.
I refuse to look back,
refuse to go back to the boredom
of white picket fences and hamburger dreams;
I want to stay here forever.
I love you big much,
love you big time;
totemo ureshii da.
March 1st, 2012
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
is a beautiful art
but
you can only fold the paper
so many times
before it rips
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
THIS is what love is.
banana bubblegum and magnetic poetry
the crickets on my front porch at three in the morning
making origami cranes out of butcher paper
even when I forget whether it's mountain fold or
valley fold and my crane turns out looking like a
seamonkey in a blender
wildflowers!
striped button-down shirts and plastic dinosaurs
singing Juanes at the top of our lungs
(Gah, you know
I can't speak Spanish.)
laughing at the serious parts in movies
having the patience for when
the words don't come out
and I have to stop
and think
(for a very long time)
and half the time it doesn't make sense anyway.
impromptu dance sessions on the side of the road
doors flung open, radio up
chocolate chip pancakes
out-of-town adventures
mailboxes. LOTS.
balcony raves with lots of glowsticks
and let me borrow that top!
just letting me sleeeeeeep
the smell of new pointe shoes
of New Orleans
of bluebonnets
telling me when I look awful (please)
making me eat things that I don't like
SNUGGLEBUNNY TIME
drive-thru people who hate our guts
That's What She Said's.
praising Buddha naked
dysfunctional kites
paying in change at Chicken Express
late night phone conversations
when I sound drunk
(but I'm not,
I'm tired. I just would rather
talk to you
than sleep.)
silence.
cupcakes, uniform closets
not shaving our legs in the winter
shadow puppets, rap songs,
Slumdog Millionaire
making once-in-a-lifetime faces
looks that speak oceans
pecan pralines and symphony orchestras you'll
never play with again but for that night
you're family
and you'll never forget it.
matches (aren't always for candles)
thousands upon thousands of candids
and the not-so-candids
saving kisses in your pocket for later
Neverland, Disneyland, cats
yellow dresses and stage make-up
watermelon Jolly Ranchers
saying my name like it's wrapped in blankets
and knowing that
even though I don't say it
as much as I should:
I do.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:51 PM UTC