"patio" poems
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)
was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation
living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to
perspective
we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children
a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands
miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment
stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps
then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:
”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”
bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:
“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”
”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”
write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles
***”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet***”
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
the river is
drinking it
sequins
blankets
the river runs past
hobos
unidentified
water fowl
two trolls
taking shelter under
the bridge
there’s conversation
in another language
fiendish brains connecting
fiendish yet
beautiful
thunder
tampons
a turtle
a naked boy
on the patio
rain
definitely
rain
unmatched
and the steam
coming from the
bridge
*once there was a troll
on my face
and I swatted it
with a broom
but it came back
it came back
with you*
laughter pounds
with the rain
laughter that wears
emotion like
skin
soft
elastic
still pink
bouncing
on the river’s surface
breaking
absorbed
sustenance for
the trolls
like fiends with faces
like minds with names
these two connect
with spark
and the rain
falls
the stillness under
nature’s
machinery
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Street lamps play
As they have before
Dim walkway
Leading to a door
Careful steps
Strewn leaves
Breathe between gaps
Skulking like thieves
Rustling trees
Otherwise nothing
Mind at ease
Heart rapidly beating
Usually stops here
Usually I'd stir
But still in slumber
I drew closer
Eyes on door
Familiar scene
Stood here before
This dream I've been
Up the patio
Door was ajar
Accompanied by my shadow
Stretched far
Tunnel vision
Dripping eave
Door handle beckons
Hand raised to receive
Usually stops here
Usually I'd rouse
Allowed to enter
This time... This house
Handle I seize
Door seemed light
It did not freeze
Hinges did not fight
Revealed the insides
Scanned surroundings
Unlit lights
Stairs climbing
Footsteps I heard
Coming my way
Sounds absurd
But yet I stay
Usually stops here
Usually dream is done
But still was clear
It only had begun
Darkened figure
Descending on bare feet
Beauty light as feather
Ever did I meet
She did not see me
Planted at the doorway
Impossible it may be
Nothing did she say
Walked right by
My eyes followed
Seconds fly
In eternity they burrowed
Usually stops here
Usually I'd wake
Yet still I'm here
Chance I'd take
Stood at the fridge
Back towards me
Under siege
My mind set a flurry
Fridge was opened
Light casted her silhouette
Her back darkened
Curiosity grew fat
Illuminating beams
Accentuated her hair
Like golden streams
Flowing with flair
Usually stops here
Usually I'd startle
Connection did not sever
Continue I was able
Spellbound I gawked
Rooted like a tree
Wide-eyed I stalked
This siren before me
She drank
Not knowing I was there
Stiff as a plank
I was locked in a stare
Finally broke free
Shifted my weight
She turned to me
And then said...
Then it ceased
Then I awaken
Surprisingly pleased
Slice of heaven
Who was she?
Silhouetted face
Perpetually...
Mysterious grace
Foreign albeit familiar
Strange but true
Now rings clear...
It is you...
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be ********
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
(across from the McDonald’s and next to
the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.
the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.
it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
two large
separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms
then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter
I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom
but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they
then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time
but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia
I bawled
there wasn’t
even
a
stump.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
the clay patio was baking
just hot
enough for the dough to rise and crisp
and for you to spread your blanket
in the sun
perfect for a picnic with the kids
and observing the man on that really tall bicycle
it’s times like these when you think
why doesn’t everyone just shut off
and bake in the sun
with a glass of peach tea and a pair
of well behaved kids
who share life like it was their job to love
each other
their mother
dad
and especially
the old dog
even the young lovers get jealous
as their gaze from the park to
your front patio
witnessing that there is something more to love
than just body heat
chocolate-dipped strawberries
and jazz clubs
that children grow like spinach flowers
in mellow
medallion
heat
until the training wheels come off
and they feel earth’s balance for the first time
and the peaches!
they shackle the branches
like juicy bombs
and you decide that
mothers are like fruit
unbruised
unwashed
and perfect
something that God
herself
keeps in her finest
crystal bowl and replants
in the summer
mother
sister
friend
shoot me some of that peach tea
you’re drinking
that sun you are soaking
that air you are breathing
the world needs more of you
and you deserve the last taste
of its summer light
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
found
grounded bird closed in
ribboned-box and buried
underneath a willow snapped back
to finally relax
to decompose and nourish
by the lake in drooping shade
the felled leaves pile
candy wrappers gray snow in
parking lot corners
with pumpkin spice scented candles
with charred letters skirling up
the arm dropped to sizzle and puff out
white beanies
flannels
leather boots and jangly bronze-leafed wind chimes
I sit on the patio and listen to you speak
the chill of your words
perched like a squirrel barking on a fence top
hibernation preparation and breeze
the gospel of your autumn
it’s lovely.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
It begins with the ominous clouds that roil and billow over the sky.
Then they darken:
Soft whites...
Seductive greys...
All the way to the purple black that haunts the skies on the cusp of a winter night.
The smell that follows this sinister nebula of vapor hanging over your head is that of life bringing relief.
The smell of dry earth mingling with that of the fresh water above reminds one of summer breezes, freedom and relaxation.
The cool but warm drops of moisture start gently stroking your shoulders and arms.
The strength increases, forcing you to squint as you take in the beautiful composition of nature above.
Soon you're covering your head as the rain pelts down and you race for shelter.
The puddles appearing on the floor disrupted by the matter consistently falling into them.
You peer into the world, completely changed, as you visibility decreases and smile, the metallic twangs to the rain hitting the patio roof fill your ears and soul with its rhythm and music.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
Where the sunlight splashes through
The barely moving branches of the Magnolia tree
It makes a fascinating pattern on the patio.
Amy Lowell wrote of patterns in a lovely, angry verse
When she was writing about how she hated war.
I bend to trace the patterns with my toe
And focus on the possibilities of now
With monster canons rolling down the boulevards
And goose-step imitators marching by
While in the stands a devilishly evil Buddha smiles.
A zephyr gently stirs the leaves
And all the patterns rearrange again
I look at them with half closed eyes
And I can’t find the symmetry
That I saw just an hour ago.
The Kraken still is held by chains
And though he gushes fire and venom
The patterns on the wall contain him
As he thrashes to replace the sun
With a new one of his own creation.
Amy walked a peaceful garden path
In dappled sunlight long ago
Creating lines that live today.
I trundle down a brick-lined walk
And hope that I will have tomorrow.
ljm
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
Mum spilled wine on the patio
The may flies are going to be drunk tonight
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
Something about the woven leather
Reminds me of sandals you once wore,
In the garden enjoying the sun.
Your shorts and that old cotton vest
the one that was probably once white,
but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore,
and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter.
The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair
and into the garden,
Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones.
Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp!
The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture,
The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us,
The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees,
The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers,
The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care,
The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs,
The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision,
And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed,
They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken.
I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw!
Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again.
So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together.
Bluebell
Bluebell
Bluebell
And be back in that garden, once more.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
smile while you're growing, child
smile as you walk
smile on the patio
your hands powdered with chalk
smile at all your friends, child
smile while they play
smile when they go back home
they'll be back someday
smile when they don't come back
smile nonetheless
smile while you miss them
no need for distress
smile when you fall in love
smile while you sing
smile when your heart breaks
repair your broken wing
smile while you age, my dear
smile at the sun
smile with your eyes as well
it's not too late for fun
smile at the end, dear friend
smile as you go
smile at the beautiful
above and down below
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
The Lego men.
Sat in the toy box playing with their bricks.
Johnnie the little fella took them out to play
Daddy put a board in the garden just upon the patio.
What was just a piece of ply grew before Johnnie's eye.
He tipped them out onto the board.
Went inside to fetch a drink and get a spot of near noon brunch.
A thriving hive of industry, was hidden in his plastic box.
He came back outside and all was built.
Castles and gardens, palatial palaces.
The Lego men had built a perfect village.
Nobody knew they could.
Just a little shocked.
His little sister Jennifer, she hid behind the garden wall.
It wasn't the work of the miraculous Lego men after all.
Who would ever have believed that the toys came out to play.
(C) Livvi
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 5:22 AM UTC
I’ll have you know that this started out
as a love poem
but then I got lazy
and distracted when the dog started biting my leg
and I decided that this process wasn’t
worth it all together
and went outside for a smoke
that’s when I tried to call you
but you didn’t answer
I guess it’s Valentine’s Day
and you’re probably
with some other guy who’s more
sensitive than me
but can he smoke as **** as me?
or cough as loud?
or breathe as heavy?
well probably ******* not
and maybe that’s a good thing
that he’s healthy
and doesn’t smell like the inside of a Texas Roadhouse
before they decided that smoking killed everyone
and no one could do it there
no
not even the good looking people
you always said I was good looking
well
above average
and I cooked good too
and that one Valentine’s Day you said
If you asked me to marry you right now, I’d say yes
that was after I killed the bat in the attic
bought you a bouquet of bleeding hearts and
brought home the puppy
since then
my typewriter has busted
and you have left
P.S.
I still have the dog and
I renamed him Juniper
because that’s what happens when you’re
drunk
and sad
and alone
but now I’m happy
smoking a cigarette
listening to my neighbor’s massive wind chime
conk and sway in the crosswind
and I feel as alive as ever
knowing that you’re
wiping off that red lipstick with a poem I wrote you
because your date just got done
and he’s not sleeping over
and you’re just about to
walk to the back patio
and smoke a cigarette
because you want to die
just as bad as I do
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
oh my sister,
there are 77 dreams
I wrote in a journal
there is a glass of water I left
on some patio
there is a box of wisdom
I buried at a dusty crossroad
there is a beach where you are
I can see you in the waves
the razzle of the sand
like a billion speckled stars
and the horizon—black galaxy
next time I see you
you’ll be tan
like Cary Grant
but alive
and without the baby turtles
I asked for
I’ll ask how it went
and you’ll say
*like a book
like a dream
like a starfish*
are there even starfish
where you are?
if there are, please don’t
eat them
it would hurt your mouth
until then
look at the sun
she is beautiful—even I
a wannabe recluse poet
can appreciate nature
through my window
Dewy
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Trucking on the country road
Welcomed citizens waving in behold
Trucking wheels making the hill climb
Checking my rear view mirrors at the same time
Country music playing on the radio
I am observing families having a good time on their patio
I am blowing my trucker’s horn
It’s the cars I want to warn
Driving at 65 miles per hour
I have a tight schedule, and must be on time in arrive
I have very important cargo and that’s no jive
I stopped at a diner for a little bite
As it is going to be a very long night
It will be my trucker’s headlights
But to my fellow truckers I must be polite
It will be driving through towns and pass cities downtown
A moving highway into destination bound
But smoky will be on my tail
So I can’t speed being the trail
As my truck heads into the sunrise, it’s the flashing lights that make my wheeler’s wise.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
Distant island shapes beguiling
Floating ghosts of far off land
Appear sentinel as we lay
Hot and sunbathed on the sand.
Scorching beach has tricked our minds
Ever beckoning cool seas flow
Finely placed as time stands still
Myths of people long ago
Heat above the deep caldera
Yet at water’s edge a breeze
Every wave a stroke of calmness
Drags the black sand out with ease
Pushing, combing lava rock
Once a liquid burning hot
Hearts massaged by the tender noise
Deep sighs as the day burns on
Windy gusts caress unclad torsos
Smiling we hold hands out to catch
Throwing our heads back with the pleasure
Letting our warm brown frames collapse
Lazy resting towels on bodies
Sunbed dreaming, time for lunch
Decisions on the midday menu
A carafe of red or white, too much!
Later when the sun’s behind us
Deserted beaches for the night
Couples then prepare for evening
Soon tavernas come alight
Poolside dwelling welcomes back
Two weary souls from day outside
Scorching sun takes all about us
Thanks for love where we abide
Since we came and soaked our souls
In this perfect atmosphere
Love has blossomed even further
All is wonderful never fear
Patio evenings lying out
Herb aroma fills the nose
Drifting in and out of sleepy
Eyes feel heavy in repose
Cool wet noses brush our legs
Warm fur strokes a silken pass
Feline friends have come to visit
Glad that we are home at last
Nervous ******* lying still
Mewing loudly all surpassed
Two so gentle but true survivors
Bright eyes hiding traumas past
How lovely to have given respite
As more and more attached we grew
Warm and tender stroking softly
Alongside us as if they knew
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
morning dove
or is it the mourning dove?
speaks this morning
of melancholy
rock and sheep
and a drunken friend
who each night
ended his day
the same
each minute
was nothing I knew
it was the sound of the bells,
around their necks
and from the church.
Above in the abandoned castle,
defenses down
in rooms
open to the sky
looking down
on the village life
the smell of the beach
fish and retsina
the wisteria sheltered agora
I came there
like the gypsies
we never saw
who snuck in at night
took our clothing
off the lines
and potted plants
from the patio,
leaving only what was missing
as evidence
they'd been there
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC
Everyday there are moles
Lifeless rodents
Strewn about like some cat massacre
Sheba! Sheba is who brings theses gifts
Hunting at night
Leaving presents to be admired
What does she think about while in this pursuit of mole families?
Does she think?
Once, I saw a mouse being killed…
Today there were two
Yesterday one
Last week there were five on the patio
I wonder if there are warnings out in the mole community?
“Serial mole killings” they might say
Do they fear the dark now?
Dead moles, dead mice
Just death
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
When I think about the Forth of July,
and I am right now because
a. it is the Fourth of July and
b. I am writing a poem that purports to be about the Fourth of July,
I struggle with it's icon, the one thing or picture or symbol that hangs over the day
like the patio umbrella I should have purchased
when I had the chance
for the deck out back where the temperature in the sun is over 100 degrees.
Sure, most of my bible-thumping, self-proclaimed patriot friends would say
The Flag.
The American Flag or Amurikin Flag...
actually the flag of the United States of America, because even though we seem to think that we are the only Americans,
we're not.
Some would say Fireworks.
In fact John Adams himself even said fireworks was an apt celebration for the Fourth.
I like fireworks...
Now that my daughter is old enough to sit through them without our needing to hurriedly pack up and run screaming from the field after the first launch.
I have one symbol for The Fourth.
Potato Salad
Yes, potato salad...actually non-specific potato salad.
It doesn't have to be a fancy recipe...like
German potato salad, which my mom made a great version of by the way,
or creamy potato salad,
or the Egg Potato Salad from the store here in town.
Just Potato Salad because the humble potato salad reminds us that
together is better than individual.
Mixed and sitting together over time brings harmony,
brings out the best in the combination,
the best of each individual.
Working together in the same bowl
is better than holding ourselves apart
in different little round-walled porcelain or glass fortresses
cut off from the rest
wondering why the potatoes have a bigger bowl,
who invited the cilantro,
or what the hell the bacon is doing here in the first place.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
Patio umbrella waving like a fan
Beer numbing my face, nightly planned
I hear broken music from an ice cream truck
I hear the thunder as it struck
Almost like a demented fairytale plucked from my imagination
God's ****** up creation
A gorgeous mess with a yellow and pink sunset dress
Slowly, we watch night
The look lies as the heat hugs tight
The smell of peppermint suffocating memories
You take another sip and try to remind yourself to live
To bad your kindergarten ambitiousness ended in a bottle with lipstick stuck to the rim
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
strawberry flavored pancakes and milk
and her under the beige umbrella on the patio licking the red top off the maple syrup bottle
dinner never tasted so good
- Martha Grace Hsieh and Daniel J. Flore III
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
my father sat in a pool
of mid-morning sunshine
on the raised patio
overlooking the garden
an open book in his lap
the dog asleep at his side
the lightest of clouds
decorating the horizon
and a whisper of leaves
his only distraction
as i rushed to the kitchen
for a hastily made
better-than-nothing version
of a flat white
that i wouldn't even enjoy
only ten minutes to spare
before yet another meeting
i paused for a moment
to take in this scene
resplendent as he was
peacefully present
behind the radiance
of diaphanous lace
breeze-rippled curtains
suffused with sunlight
a pertinent reminder
of something which
i didn't have time
to consider
Aug 3, 2023
Aug 3, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
River bamboo arrayed in lace tiers
consoles the birdbath on its loss of robins
Intemperate August staggers in liquored air
of wavery heat and layered sighs
Leaves relinquish their rush
toward this “ripe on time”
Blackberry brambles have ceased to reach
now bow to ponder their plunder
while petunias, those bold delinquents!
bloom as if the frost’s lethal cling
were some myth
the antique roses had made up
Bud, bloom, revive!
See the generation of the bee!
Bud, bloom, survive—
to do it all again
for the single sake...
of treasuring beginning in the end...
Her bicycle, my geranium
have found eternity together
on the sun spattered patio
She—
opens the screen door
as I—
climb the morning stairs
She—
squints smiles amongst sleepy freckles
who has not brushed her hair
in a late August moment of not caring
And I know it will all happen anyway
no matter what I do....
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
I imagine sitting on a porch somewhere humid and calm,
a tall tree, full of hand fruits, providing shade to foot traffic.
In this imagining, the lemonade is almost too sweet but doesn't stick to the table when it dries, and the mesh lining of the patio denies mosquitos all entry.
Their buzzing is drowned by the sound of ice being crushed three or four times with margarita mix and my favorite sin. Here, life has halted so dearly in a way I've always wanted, and in this, there is peace.
My parents would have kept a container of peanuts nearby to have with their Pepsis for days like this--
days where sound and warmth and humidity mingle, and fanning yourself with an old church pamphlet was better than being
bored, comfortable, and air-conditioned.
Apr 15, 2023
Apr 15, 2023 at 12:04 AM UTC