"pads" poems
As the glorious LION
Stands strong in stature
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with beauty
He guards the gateway to truth
and only the brave may enter
He is the king that needs no crown
as he holds a royal presence as he
sits in his golden coat and main
Lies spark combust just bounce off
dissolve in all his shine.
As broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lion's stare
As they are engulfed and swallowed
In the reservoirs of his strength
As the many wounded souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world
There is no procrastinating belly
Exposed by a lackluster display
No one insults his strength
By creating a make believe world
Or covers him with scaffolding so
That they may alter him
For he is the finished article
And he is never held up or supported
With anyone's emotional ropes or strings
For he no ones puppet
He is never silenced
By the Strangle hold of this world
Tightened with a multitude of gestures
For I hear his ROAR!!!!!!!!
His explosive self expression
As his throat bursts and beams like the sun
Breaking all collars, and his tongue is freed
As a thousand trap doors Open up in him
And boulders are lifted and rocks are shattered
within the sound of his voice.
His Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
As the power of his pounce
Is governed by both his strength
Of spirit and the honesty
With which he meets the earth
For he owns all of his own pain
And paces and growls to warn
Away any who seek to steal his fresh ****
And diminish him with pretty lies
For he owns all his space
As it feeds his strength
As somewhere in the fury of feasting
Lionesses and Lions
We find our freedom
For his power explodes like a volcano
When his soul meets the earth
As he shakes off all avoidance
To seek only truth
As streaks of white light
And pure Gold glisten in the SUN
As the world's projections
Reflect and bounce off him
There is so much to learn
From a beautiful LION
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Every day is the same; they wake up in the same bed, at the same ungodly hour, to the same monotonous ringing from the alarm clock.
They grumble their ‘good morning’s; whether they believe it is or not, rolling out of opposite sides of the duvet.
They dance around each other in the bathroom, the heat of the shower creating a fog through which neither of them can see; causing him to stub his toe on the toilet or the counter, and steaming up the mirror so she can’t apply her make-up.
They continue their ritual into the kitchen; flicking on the kettle, popping in the bread, pouring the orange juice; stirring the tea, catching the toast and spreading the butter and jam. Crunching and slurping together at the table, mumbling about what their days have in store; tapping texts on their phones, crinkling newspaper in their hands.
They peck each other a kiss goodbye and mutter a ‘see you later’ before going their separate ways.
But then Monday comes...
Mondays are different.
He knows she doesn’t like Monday mornings. It’s the very beginning of a new, long, tiring week. She never looks forward to Mondays.
So he changes that.
He sets the alarm on his watch a little earlier than other days; shutting it off before it can wake her.
He slips silently out of bed and tiptoes quietly into the bathroom to shower; leaving her smiley faces and love messages on the steamy mirrors.
He creates her favourite tea and makes her toast with raspberry jam; just the way she likes it. Picking a flower from the garden; whichever one looks the happiest and brightest, he places it all on a tray and pads back up to the bedroom to wake her.
She no longer sets her alarm on Mondays. She knows he’ll not let her oversleep.
He places the flower in her hair and drops delicate kisses; full of his love and affection for her, to the corner of her mouth, until she stirs gently.
She smiles on Monday mornings.
They eat breakfast in bed, covering the sheets in crumbs and giggling contentedly as the cat licks them up.
She hums in the bathroom while he clears away crockery, and always re-emerges with the flower tucked behind her ear.
It remains there ‘til night fall.
They never once look at their phones or the paper, far too focused on each other to pay anything else mind.
Their kiss as they part reminds them of their love for each other and of the good things in life; like strolls along the shore, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, smiling sunflowers that open to a beautiful summer’s day, and of course, Monday mornings.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Gemini,
I am always trying to understand you.
I am always trying to capture your shadow self in action,
Hold it in my hands, understand all of him.
You are the book I am always reading,
You are always on my mind,
You are always on my mind.
Gemini,
Love and fear.
To belong, to matter,
To be misplaced, to be forgotten.
Your eyes are like two different oceans.
One smooth and love.
One choppy and rock.
Both are hungry,
Both scared,
Both not worked up about much of anything.
Gemini,
I want to light you inside.
I want to crawl into all parts of you
And make you feel more than what appears.
Gemini,
I want to love you.
I want to love you as moss loves rocks.
And trees love time.
And cherry blossoms love spring.
And clocks love seconds.
I want to love you as lilies love pads,
As suns love moons,
As nights love days.
I want to love you as houses love homes.
As blood loves veins,
As hearts love brains.
Gemini, I want to love you.
Gemini,
There is nothing more.
There is nothing more.
One day, these poems will make me cry.
Gemini,
I see you as no one else does.
Gemini,
With me, you can be whole.
You can be both.
Gemini,
I want to love you,
I do,
It is a sick thing.
Gemini,
There is nothing like you.
You are all there is.
Gemini,
I already love you.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
You've read my rant from yesterday
About those Christmas Letters
But one thing just disturbs me
Those Ugly Christmas Sweaters!!!
You know the ones we love to hate
They're all so scratchy and they itch
You can barely get the **** thing on
And to remove it...it's a *****
Pictures of things Christmassy
Like a reindeer all in red
Mine looks like an emaciated cow
with a candelabra on his head
Snowflakes, trees and Norway Spruce
and colours....oh my lord
They can take them back to Norway
and throw them in the fjord!!!
My nan made one for me one year
It was silver with some blue
Turns out she used old brillo pads
Because she liked the soapy hue
They itch and scratch and don't fit right
They are a cancer to my eyes
I had one in green and red
With one sleeve down past my thighs
I thought it was a jumpsuit
The kind the paratroopers wear
The pattern pages stuck together
And that sleeve....went down to there!!!
We all have one hidden away
In a box, 'neath lock and key
In a place so nicely hidden
One we've had since we were three
We never plan to wear one more
We all know that we once did
but, if we had to wear one out
We're gonna buy one for our kids!!!
If you need to get assistance
go to uglysweaters dot o- r- g
They can help you with your wardrobe
Tell them you heard of them from me.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Crawl to me on all fours, and fix me with those eyes.
Gleaming ivory in the pale darkness.
Suitored to alien mires, foreign environments of crawling dust and spires of simplistic grace.
That we move into.
That we move into as finger pads touch skin and lips and wet tongue tips that grace the very edge of taste itself.
The sonata of flesh has begun as we begin this symbiotic ballet that signifies the end, the start, but not the middle of our burning tryst.
which burns brightly in summer night heat, washing down the walls separating me from you and you from yourself.
Fix me with those eyes once more,
tilt the timer; make the moments slow
And the gas lit beam dance and grow
to our scaly sonata of flesh.
Played without violin
or cello
or trumpet noise
or flute.
But with arms,
and lips
and hair
and bust
and drums.
There are always drums; beating on through the night,
beating their primal rhythm as you crawl towards me,
on all fours, in that oroborus of lust;
symbiotic with itself,
reflecting off itself;
encased in itself.
Crawl to me on all fours
Crawl to me -
And taste of my being.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
football is fun football is great,
pads and pants geting ready,
for the big game,waiting ,thinking
finnaly time for the game,
cheerleaders cheering,fans screaming,
kickoff is hear now as he kicks it,
its in the air, i tackel him to the groud
we start on defense maby will win we will try
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 1:18 PM UTC
Hear the LION'S ROAR
As the many indignant souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world as many
Broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lions stare
So let us all dare
To live life like a Lion
Lounging in the sun
Owning and surveying
His beautiful life
Storing great forces
Reservoirs of strength
To pounce and punch
Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
His appetite strong
He honors every parts of self
But there is no where
To hide in the cats eye stare
As my many fumbling phoney selves
Dissolve in his melting glare
As I am shamed by a look
As I approach life like a crook
My procrastinating belly exposed
In my lack luster display
As I breath a contempt
For my precious life
Standing strong in stature
And rich in golden shine
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with a beauty
Freed from all that is false
His being effortlessly
Embraces the fields
Of his own nature
As I am silenced by
The strangle hold of this
Bitter dysfunctional world
Tightened by a
Multitude of silent gestures
I sit to listen
To the LION'S ROAR
I feel my throat burst
My gagged tongue freed
My choked throat
Beams like the sun
As I softly delve
In to the LION'S ROAR
An open infinity
Cuts my many collars
Releasing my self expression
As a thousand trap doors
Open in me
Learning from the loving LION
Our self expression freed
And our appetite renewed
We live a new adventure
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.
The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.
The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.
Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.
My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.
Daddy is a shaman.
He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.
I watch him inhale.
His breath
stiff
as a braid of mangroves.
He exhales a ligneous cough.
I don’t mind,
much.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
I am a supreme
Light framed being
Who leaves ferrari's
In the dust
I am sorry for your
Jealousy as I am
Totally terrific
And love wearing
My fabulous coat
Fiercely independent I
Imprint the air with
My personal spots
My proud individuality
Nothing out of reach
I wait for something to inspire
As I hunt lightly
Positioning intelligently
And quickly
Pads on fire
I grab the ground
As I grip the world
With the sharpest claw
As evolving and revolving
Forces compel me with desire
My vibrant cells flicker
Waiting for the right trigger
Spinning and twisting
They collapse into air
As I rush and rush
chasing and chasing
My focus still like stone
Lands lightly like a feather
As I am clear as
Diamond or glass
Empty of thoughts I am a tunnel
The wind blows through
As I run and run
Soft and agile
I can quickly change
Direction or pace
Perfect balance my
Tail acts as a fulcrum
It is as though a
Silver thread was attached
From high up in heaven
Moving on an electric circuit
I am lightning through the air
Stretching like elastic
Expanding into spaces
I become a mile long
Reaching and Reaching
Into proud new places
Slipping through the air
As though someone
Had oiled my hair
I slide weightless
Air born on ice skates
As I catch my hare
With her swiftness
We find she lifts us
With her fire we catch desire
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Cellophane wings beating
against the heavy summer air,
back and forth, all day long,
the blue dragonflies
chase one another across the pond-
their tails turned up
like neon scimitars
poised for a ******
that never seems to come.
Occasionally, a truce is called,
and they settle into place
on opposite sides of the reeds,
momentarily oblivious to their war.
Twice their size,
the red dragonfly idles in the sun.
From time to time it leaves its perch
to challenge the silhouette
hanging from the iris blade,
its spent skin,
as if it were a bad memory
rising from the green depths of the pond.
Below the surface,
the fish school together- a current of gold
slipping between the lily pads,
each aware of its place in the stream.
My reflection circles them all.
Drawn to the water
that both mirrors and obscures
I lose my place for a moment-
hovering between obligations and idleness
on cellophane wings.
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
I swear I'm dateable!
well that's debatable
because I'm a complete nerd with a bad record, yeah that's relatable
Anyway I might as well put my cards on the table
I'm a poet but you know this but I'm currently available
I'm unswayable, once I'm yours I'm yours
I **** at making first moves but I'll gladly open doors
Texts every morning? you got that
Want food? I'll go out of my way to buy that
Bad day? on my chest you can lay or in between your legs My tounge can play while I get rid of that headache
Need to cry? I'll be by your side
Cramping? heating pads n chocolate I'll provide...
Now ladies you may wonder... why have all my choices been so rotten?
Speaking for guys like me.. we don't get out too often.
NERDS!
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
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Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
A coy fish in a pond with nowhere to swim nor splash. The clear water allowed him to see in all four directions, though there was nothing to catch the eye but four concrete walls and bunches of lily pads.
A tiny spectator circled the grass surrounding the pond. She looked as though she were only 5 years old. A second later she was hastily ripping a lily pad from its roots. Upon discovering no magic beneath its belly, she dropped it and began on her way.
The lifeless plant rested at the ponds edge for weeks before the wind carried it back to its place. It was somehow different now, wrinkled and stretched at the stem, though it floated uniform among the rest. The coy hid in the shadows created by the walls, and watched.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
I’m going to be honest,
I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning
And decide that I really wanted to write about love
I swear that my first poem…
It would be about you
About how I loved you the same way
That I learned to ride a bike:
Scared
But reckless
With no training wheels or elbow pads
So my scars can tell you the story of how I fell for you
~Rudy Francisco
I’m not Rudy Francisco
But every man has his own words
So if I was a love poet
God knows I would still write about you
But I would write about how
That smile of yours might only last a moment
But I'll do everything I can to make it last a lifetime
And then... I will make sure it lasts an eternity
If I was a love poet
I would tell you how
You make all of my days
So I'll make it my duty to make all your tomorrows
I would tell you
That the sun rises each and every morning
Because it wants to see you
Because as bright as the sun is
It is blinded by your light
And you make me want to see
What blindness is really like
So I can look at you for the
Short moment before I lose my sight
Because then
Your image will always be with me
However, If I really cared
I would tell you
You’re better off alone
Than with me
Because I know
I know I’ll hurt you
And I can’t bare the thought of that
I would tell you
I’m not enough
And I never will be
Because enough isn’t in me
If I really cared
I would tell you
Nothing
Because I don’t deserve the chance to speak to you
However to tell you any of this
You would have to be real
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 7:25 PM UTC
her mouth was sandpaper.
her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like
a smooth surface,
words scraped into fluidity
like a wooden sphere,
turned over behind teeth ‘til all friction
is lost.
she spoke like the walls of a birdhouse
in the room of a dead carpenter:
pretty unassembled things.
her mouth was sandpaper
and every kiss chafed,
rubbing raw my lips
and tongue
crafting with each touch
drawing blood like
juice from an apple,
like sap
from wood already cut from the tree.
her mouth was sandpaper
and she told me
*i bite my lips,
rip at
the inside of my mouth,
cannibalize myself cell
by cell.*
bone saws in her mouth.
the only difference between teeth of jaws
and saws
is mercy
(and she swallowed her mercy long ago).
her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like a carpenter’s hands:
rough palms,
tough pads,
a utilitarian artist
a crafter of dead flesh.
a mortician for dryads
and kodama.
the art and the artist
in lips
tongue
and teeth.
her mouth was sandpaper
and i brought mine to hers
again and again,
her bitten-rough lips
opening like doors to
purgatory.
less entrapment than addiction -
returning once more to nails and hammers,
hell’s blacksmiths below
heaven’s painters above.
coming back home
to the space between,
to bone saws
and a carpenter’s hands.
her mouth was sandpaper
and her voice was carpentry,
her teeth bone saws
her words
birdhouse walls.
her mouth was purgatory
but her hands
were hands.
her mouth was sandpaper.
i held her hand
and chafed my lips raw.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
My jersey is worn
My pants are torn
My pads are busted
My joints are rusted
My shoes are old
My gloves were sold
My gear is out of date
My helmets not so great
I may not be the norm
But I still wear my uniform
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
It's the lights, the crowd,
the fight, the brave,
the proud.
The two a day practices in pads in the heat without a single cloud.
Its the lines, the grass, end zones, and the field.
The offense, the defense,
The sword and the shield.
The heart, the hard work, determination, the glory.
The present that will become your kids' bedtime stories.
The storm, the during.
The euphoria after,
The before with the fear, practices and learning.
The sacred flag you wear on that helmet,
It's your cleats, your pads, and the gloves.
The tackles, the picks, the runs, TD's and the hugs.
That air that you inhale and the h2O in your cup.
That feeling of pride, knowing you'll never give up.
Cause you came to do work, and get a taste of that winning heaven,
We'll see the conclusion,
Bring out your 11.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
The Heat, and not the sports team
Has come here for a while
It's enough to set some records
And to **** the farmers smiles
Humidity and high temperatures
Add to make our life like hell
It's drying up our creeks and streams
There's no water in our wells
We do not use our ovens
To cook our meals, not now at least
We just leave meat on the counter
The outside heat will cook the beast
Our lawns are brown and dormant
But the weeds are growing strong
There is chickweed and crabgrass where once
Green grass did once belong
The splash pads are on overtime
To help keep people cool
We've cooling centers everywhere
They're in all of the schools
In order to cool down at home
I have my a/c set to freeze
And if at times this doesn't work
I watch Christmas DVD's
Remember hats and sunscreen
to keep the heat off of your head
In fact it is so god ****** hot
I tan while I'm in bed
I remember as a child
Summer never got as hot as this
Compared to recent temperatures
Is like a blow job to a kiss
We pray for heat in winter
And in the summer, the reverse
I know I would like the snow
The heat is much, much, worse
Instead of just complaining
I should just take it, brave the heat
But for now, I'll watch my movies
Sing my carols, cool my feet
I know that come this winter
I'll be crying for the heat
Just remind me of this little poem
And I'll shut up, and take my seat.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Fill the silence of our discontent with the sound of a swishing liquor bottle and the popping of pills.
We are rocks in each others’ sinking worlds but I’m
not your rock anymore.
You threw me out of your life
The night I let you
Hold me
The night I let you
Touch me
The night I let you
Fell the love I have for you through the touch of my lips
The pads of my fingers
And the walls of my ******
The night I gave you everything I had
And asked for nothing in return.
But I’m not yours anymore
I’m just a ***** on her knees begging for something more than ***** flavored
I
Love
Yous.
I’m not yours anymore
I’m not begging or crying with my heart torn open
Ready for you to pack another bowl within it
Waiting for you to forget
hername
myname
yourname
Waiting for you to slip past hateful sobriety
Waiting for you to drag me down with you to the bottom of a bottle
Waiting for you to
Love me.
Waiting for you to smile and tell me all the things I want to hear
and trust you.
But I’m not yours anymore and I hate you.
But today when you
Smiled, spoke to me like a friend
While she looked on from the corner
I felt my heart eager for more ashes and resin of some
late night whispers
that sound so sweet
but in the morning light
float away like the smoke that slipped
out of your mouth and into
mine
My legs ready to open
But then I remembered
I’m not yours anymore.
For you
I’m not worth
the lighter
Cigarettes and love
You stole from me
But I don’t give a
****
Because **I’m not
Yours
Any
More.**
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 4:43 PM UTC
Red birds flew into my window every day for years, especially during Spring
and I asked my mother
what they were called.
“Cardinals,” she said,
“but I think they’re called to you,
I think—
I think they are for you.”
“Mom, I’ll give that one a name.”
And I did.
——-
I still see cardinals.
The red shocks me,
like a bloodstain in a new house.
——-
When my father almost died,
I was not worried and I did not ask many questions,
only saw his body in the bed, a green-blue-yellow-black mess,
a broken-bone nest,
with sticky pads stuck to his skin, sending electricity to his nerves, lest
they forget themselves.
——-
He had the car turned into a cube, and it is somewhere now,
the cage collapsed,
the rust blooming inside of itself.
The day my father chose to drive into a wall,
going somewhere from 100 to 200 miles an hour (I never asked him), they dubbed him Rocketman.
He flew.
The car toppled and twisted and regurgitated what it could;
it was an illness,
and it could have killed us.
My father is okay.
——-
My father went to an air show months ago to see how those streak clouds are made by planes,
and there was an accident
and he saw peoples’ bodies lying and dying.
He told my mother how he saw hands separate from their owners.
He has not told me these things.
——-
The cardinals have started to scare my father.
He sees them too
like bloodstains in a new house.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
I was fit and feisty at fifty
It was no big deal,
Because that's how half a century
Is supposed to feel.
In my sixties I'll take stock
Start making great plans,
Ignoring all the "you cant's"
And embracing all the "I cans".
Can I be **** at sixty?
And try all the fashions and fads,
Wear stockings and suspenders
And Joan Collins shoulder pads.
I can deal with **** at sixty
And wear Vivienne Westwood clothes,
Dress up and go out on the town
Wearing all my buttons and bows.
I'mgoing to be **** at sixty
I'll wear Gok Wan lingerie
Find myself a Toy Boy
Then maybe lead him astray.
Swift and **** at sixty
When I get my Jimmy Choos,
Dancing the night away
To the sound of rhythm and blues.
Oh! I want to be **** at sixty
'cause age is a state of mind,
I'm preparing my body at keep fit
So as not to be left behind.
But, first I have to deal with
Old Skin, Bad Teeth and Grey Hair,
Then remove the unwanted growths
From just about everywhere.
Then I'll definitely be **** at sixty
And undoubtedly done it all,
The only problem is that most
of it I simply won't recall...
© Hazel
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
Health department signs litter the grass areas,
"Do not make contact with the water;
Swimming forbidden".
Less than twenty years ago I learnt to swim here
And fish too, once i even drowned!
Sometimes my friends and I would
Catch Eels then sell them
To the local Chinese restaurant.
I treasure those memories of my childhood.
This fresh water lake surrounded
By trees taller than buildings
My beautiful haven from the city, hidden
Between main roads and highways
that only the locals know.
Sitting on sandstone rocks
I see my reflection amongst the lily pads.
Beyond the depths an entanglement of
Roots, seaweed and *******
Natural mandalas made by tadpoles
Ripple across the murky brown surface
Whilst a rather large water dragon
Sun bakes on the riverbank
And ducks glide by reminding me
Of the canoes we used to capsize
And I appreciate how simple life
Used to be.
ELEETE J MUIR
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC
What's usually blemished considered a sin
Your accent marks on porcelain skin
Each crafted by caring clean hands
Crafted like a Persian Carpet
Each imperfection intended
So imperfectly perfect
Rich, pale, silk tapestry
Lily pads that dot a foreign river
Falls last leaves on Winters first snow
Paint splattered on white canvas
Each inch speckled
Every crevice freckled
I'll find each one you wear
The Astrology of your body
Making constellations with my finger
Your back is Gemini
Orion on your shoulder
Leo for your inner thigh
Serpens, Sextans, Ursa Minor
Late night skies for lonely eyes
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
Back when it took all day to come up
from the curving broad ponds on the plains
where the green-winged jacanas ran on the lily pads
easing past tracks at the mouths of gorges
crossing villages silted in hollows
in the foothills
each with its lime-washed church by the baked square
of red earth and its
talkers eating fruit under trees
turning a corner and catching
sight at last of inky forests far above
steep as faces
with the clouds stroking them and the glimmering
airy valleys opening out of them
waterfalls still roared from the folds
of the mountain
white and thundering and spray drifted
around us swirling into the broad leaves
and the waiting boughs
once I took a tin cup and climbed
the sluiced rocks and mossy branches beside
one of the high falls
looking up step by step into
the green sky from which rain was falling
when I looked back from a ledge there were only
dripping leaves below me
and flowers
beside me the hissing
cataract plunged into the trees
holding on I moved closer
left foot on a rock in the water
right foot on a rock in deeper water
at the edge of the fall
then from under the weight of my right foot
came a voice like a small bell singing
over and over one clear treble
syllable
I could feel it move
I could feel it ring in my foot in my skin
everywhere
in my ears in my hair
I could feel it in my tongue and in the hand
holding the cup
as long as I stood there it went on
without changing
when I moved the cup
still it went on
when I filled the cup
in the falling column
still it went on
when I drank it rang in my eyes
through the thunder curtain
when I filled the cup again
when I raised my foot
still it went on
and all the way down
from wet rock to wet rock
green branch to green branch
it came with me
until I stood
looking up and we drank
the light water
and when we went on we could
still hear the sound
as far as the next turn on the way over
4.2k
you swallowed prunes as if your life depended on it, and to your mental state, they were better than any gateway drug or needle implanted into your muscles
the rough exterior cracked and ripped apart your lips unforgivably; tearing down your esophagus with the force of a peach pit
you rubbed dried apricots onto your skin as if that could cure you of all your sadness; as if it could take the need to get away and drown yourself
until you were buried deep into the soil and there are flowers nestled into the crooks of your bones and you tasted of sweat, ***** and tears
when at night you sit on the edge of your bed contemplating life or death between sobriety and a drunk that lingers for days on end clinging under your nails
and to all the people who roll their eyes at you and say ‘you’ll get over it’
tell them to **** themselves; tell them that when they see apricots, they see sunshine, but you see death to infinity and beyond;
you see all the broken promises that were whispered into the knots in your back
you see the lily pads of roses that dripped with regrets and words that were never said
words that gripped your lungs like a vice in the back of a car
when you thought of love, you thought of apricot kisses rubbed against your lips;
of rolled up aluminum foil
of lighters drained of their fluids in a week time
of the close to boiling water that invaded your personal space and reached the tip of your nose
and of peach kisses from Georgia that dug its way into you; promising another day
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC