"phonebooks" poems - Hello Poetry

you are the tiniest of scattered things remembered in the cloudiest of dreams so vivid when i sleep, sink deep, or fly high into my head, you are the characters in the books i have read, the heroes, both living, and dead, you are among the greatest of my ambitions, you are a man, and to become one like you were is my mission, but you are missing, you were father, healer of hurts, great counselor, confidante, you were there when i was in the room, but i was not, when i broke into two, a shell of me, and i, wishfully, blissfully, irridescent moon, you are, silver-hair, scattered through the many rooms, the sudden, unexpected trill of an old familiar tune, you are sometimes the songs you sang, sometimes the silences sometimes the gentle rain sometimes my tears, or violences, the woods we walked, the talks we talked the cluttered house, faded graphite, scribbled in the corners of notebooks, on walls, in phonebooks, and on all of my cards, you are often here when i am gone and i am often gone when you are near it is the reuniting that i long for, it is the forgetting that i fear. you are all around me, but fading, you are a pencil drawing, losing its shading. a perfect snapshot, on aging paper once and only once a perfect snapshot, later smeared, torn, lost, or forgotten, burned, replaced with another, eaten by moths, found wet, molded, yellowed, or rotten. Returned to earth, or dust, or ash, and though i long to hold you in a perfect memory.. time... must pass. i miss you.

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Aug 29, 2013

Aug 29, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC

LuminUmbra

about my dad...a musing more than a masterpiece...

you are the tiniest of scattered things remembered in the cloudiest of dreams so vivid when i sleep, sink deep, or fly high into my head, you are the characters in the books i have read, the heroes, both living, and dead, you are among the greatest of my ambitions, you are a man, and to become one like you were is my mission, but you are missing, you were father, healer of hurts, great counselor, confidante, you were there when i was in the room, but i was not, when i broke into two, a shell of me, and i, wishfully, blissfully, irridescent moon, you are, silver-hair, scattered through the many rooms, the sudden, unexpected trill of an old familiar tune, you are sometimes the songs you sang, sometimes the silences sometimes the gentle rain sometimes my tears, or violences, the woods we walked, the talks we talked the cluttered house, faded graphite, scribbled in the corners of notebooks, on walls, in phonebooks, and on all of my cards, you are often here when i am gone and i am often gone when you are near it is the reuniting that i long for, it is the forgetting that i fear. you are all around me, but fading, you are a pencil drawing, losing its shading. a perfect snapshot, on aging paper once and only once a perfect snapshot, later smeared, torn, lost, or forgotten, burned, replaced with another, eaten by moths, found wet, molded, yellowed, or rotten. Returned to earth, or dust, or ash, and though i long to hold you in a perfect memory.. time... must pass. i miss you.

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I come from the low-downs, The after parties and the mornings, Tough to wake up from. I come from fast, domestic cars Driving ninety miles per hour Away from problems Down country back roads in Saxesville; I come from beaten children. I come from down under and up top- Places where it would literally be A miracle To meet anyone new. I come from a son and a daughter, A brother and a sister- Friends But only from a distance. I come from moments where, suddenly, It gets serious and quiet And everyone stares. I come from falling phonebooks And martini glasses, Dry, with two olives. I came to accompany my brother. I came from farmhands and family babies First borns and middle borns I came from children who grew up Too fast. I came from a man and a woman And I came to find my own way In lieu of theirs.

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Dec 8, 2012

Dec 8, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC

simon-g-tehle

Where I Come From

I come from the low-downs, The after parties and the mornings, Tough to wake up from. I come from fast, domestic cars Driving ninety miles per hour Away from problems Down country back roads in Saxesville; I come from beaten children. I come from down under and up top- Places where it would literally be A miracle To meet anyone new. I come from a son and a daughter, A brother and a sister- Friends But only from a distance. I come from moments where, suddenly, It gets serious and quiet And everyone stares. I come from falling phonebooks And martini glasses, Dry, with two olives. I came to accompany my brother. I came from farmhands and family babies First borns and middle borns I came from children who grew up Too fast. I came from a man and a woman And I came to find my own way In lieu of theirs.

29

I still haven’t bought gloves, though I had steel-toe boots for awhile. Callouses are waiting for you to lay hands bare to everything you own. You can go years without feeling the bottom of your own table. I moved Dad into his new house. This brings the total to 18 moves in 10 years. Mostly in 20 hour windows. You were around for 7 or 8 of them I read once that most of dust is actually stardust from micro-meteorites. It’s not true. It is actually dead pieces of you. I’ve inhaled more of us than anyone. Item highlights: 250 lb. End table with hidden safe inside Combination: unknown Garbage bag with mom’s clothes and one Phillips-head screwdiver Four landline phones tangled with their cords in a laundry hamper Seven phonebooks in a neat cardboard box Madalyn: Dad still has the small wooden sign you made him the one that says “Dad’s Workshop” in blue glitter-paint. Steve: Dad has recently bought a toaster oven, and he loves it as much as you love yours. He gave me the same speech about the difference in the taste of hot-dogs. You are both still in the pictures at his house. It startles me when your faces appear on the screensaver.

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Feb 22, 2011

Feb 22, 2011 at 3:01 PM UTC

tommy-n

Dear Steve and Madalyn,

I still haven’t bought gloves, though I had steel-toe boots for awhile. Callouses are waiting for you to lay hands bare to everything you own. You can go years without feeling the bottom of your own table. I moved Dad into his new house. This brings the total to 18 moves in 10 years. Mostly in 20 hour windows. You were around for 7 or 8 of them I read once that most of dust is actually stardust from micro-meteorites. It’s not true. It is actually dead pieces of you. I’ve inhaled more of us than anyone. Item highlights: 250 lb. End table with hidden safe inside Combination: unknown Garbage bag with mom’s clothes and one Phillips-head screwdiver Four landline phones tangled with their cords in a laundry hamper Seven phonebooks in a neat cardboard box Madalyn: Dad still has the small wooden sign you made him the one that says “Dad’s Workshop” in blue glitter-paint. Steve: Dad has recently bought a toaster oven, and he loves it as much as you love yours. He gave me the same speech about the difference in the taste of hot-dogs. You are both still in the pictures at his house. It startles me when your faces appear on the screensaver.

29

"for thirteen dollars ill tear apart 1 big Texan phone book no deal if raining . no refunds. you must provide the materials" "tear apart my phonebook for twelve dollars" says man "exit the area" I repeatedly bellow twelve dollars is chump change I'm better than that im like a siren I can't stop screaming at this man his face is turning purple he's choking from fear I continue it is nice to me I glare him in the eyebalks "HOPE YOU LIKE YOUR BIG TEXAN PHONE BOOK SAT UPON FOR MILENNIA" I SCOFF as I sit upon it he stands "that phonebook ain't yours feller" i am aghast he snatches it from me and shoots me in the gut i lay in the dirt writhing in pain he steps near my head and leans down to whisper calmly in my ear "no refunds" he stomps on my face and thus ends my reign as king of ripping big Texan phonebooks into two smooth halves for thirteen dollars

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Mar 20, 2014

Mar 20, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC

gsx

no refunds

"for thirteen dollars ill tear apart 1 big Texan phone book no deal if raining . no refunds. you must provide the materials" "tear apart my phonebook for twelve dollars" says man "exit the area" I repeatedly bellow twelve dollars is chump change I'm better than that im like a siren I can't stop screaming at this man his face is turning purple he's choking from fear I continue it is nice to me I glare him in the eyebalks "HOPE YOU LIKE YOUR BIG TEXAN PHONE BOOK SAT UPON FOR MILENNIA" I SCOFF as I sit upon it he stands "that phonebook ain't yours feller" i am aghast he snatches it from me and shoots me in the gut i lay in the dirt writhing in pain he steps near my head and leans down to whisper calmly in my ear "no refunds" he stomps on my face and thus ends my reign as king of ripping big Texan phonebooks into two smooth halves for thirteen dollars

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