"pinkies" poems
There are some people who drape themselves across others
like rugs,
who beg for physical affection
like a dog waiting to have its belly scratched,
who hook pinkies and elbows and knees
with their best friend from childhood while huddled under blankets
in the middle of the night.
I am not one of these people.
I sit on the arms of couches,
feet turned away from the pile of mismatched body parts
that occupies the cushions.
I am not used to being touched gently.
But something about you
makes me crave contact.
Hand to hand
Hip to hip
It doesn’t matter.
All my life I have been balancing on the edge of
fear and desire
in a world without all of my senses,
and I think
one touch from you
a brush, a spark
would send me falling.
No, not falling.
Flying.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
So there I was, and there you were, all of us,
everyone, dangling their feet off the rooftop.
Four distinctly different artists caught in the same painting
yet, none of us holding the paintbrush to our passions, yet.
Ambitious, yes, focused, not so much, motivated? Most definitely.
Dedicated to manipulation,
to making a masterpiece for the masses,
a decision to "form a more perfect union".
To map a new demographic before our deaths.
If our desire was to make a mark, well,
we'd be done already.
The mark's been made, but not engraved,
and for it to stay we need to stomp on it until our own foot decays.
And these days, most pictures will fade,
So as us four sat there, dancing with the devil,
we dared to begin drafting on our canvas.
With no brush, but our own fingers,
our own blood, sweat, tears, and elbow grease,
finally finding the paintbrush to be figurative,
that we were manipulated ourselves.
We learned to picture the paintbrush as our pointer,
our palms the palettes, our pinkies the varnish,
a promise our piece would never be vandalized.
The world is your oyster, they say,
and the city was our canvas,
where we painted nothing but pearls,
rare commodities for the communities to cherish
until our masterpiece, the indefinite work in progress, is completed.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 2:13 AM UTC
In the street full of flowers,
I saw you again.
The sound of film can be heard,
Didn't care if what I captured was blurred.
You probably didn't know when you started hurting me.
I approached you and I want to be honest with you this night.
I still wonder, wonder, beautiful story.
I still wander, wander, next story.
You were hurting too,
Now promise me,
Don't throw yourself away.
You should be your light baby.
Like the other day,
Come in front of me baby.
I want you to be your night.
In this scenery full of flowers,
Interwine our pinkies,
I want to make you mine.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 5:45 AM UTC
Hands together
Hands not
yours in mine
mine in yours
let go
hold on
tighter
tighter
--Ow you hurt me!
let go
--Just our pinkies then?
and we walked down another aisle
of a not so crowded store
in a not so crowded town
a promise dangling between us
and forever on my mind
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
1) It's not your fault
2) You did nothing to deserve this
3) It's okay to cry
3) It's okay to cry for hours
3) It's okay to never stop crying
4) the alcohol will not help
You'll just see them in
everyone else
5) It's okay to hide inside of yourself
Just don't dig too deep
You just find them again
6) They do not control you
They do not control you
They do not control you
7) The leaves moving behind you
are not them
6) they do not control you
7) If you need to run,
******* run,
run until you can't breathe
run until you can't see
just run
1) It's not your fault
It's not your *******
fault
don't you dare let anyone
tell you it's your fault
1) It's. not. your. fault.
2) You did nothing to
deserve this
this isn't karma
biting you in the ***
2) you did nothing to
deserve this
3) Cry
cry until you can't
breathe
cry until you can't
see
cry.
4) The alcohol will not help you
they are not demons
you can't drown them
in whiskey
5) It's okay to get lost in
yourself
Try to find yourself again
I understand they tore down
everything that was
real
just don't dig so deep
that you lose everything.
6) They don't control you
I know you still feel
locked.
They do not control you
They don't ******* control you
7) Run,
find release
8) Don't forget to breathe
9) Build yourself from the ground up
your legs are strong
your torso is the exact image of power
your arms can lift buildings
your pinkies can pick
up cars and you
don't even blink.
You are strong.
10) Pick yourself
back up.
These pieces are yours
put them where they
fit
put them where you want
them
put them down
throw them away
leave them exactly where
they are.
Pick up yourself
This rubble doesn't
mean you're broken.
These ashes just mean
you are a phoenix and
you will burn
who hurt you.
1) This isn't your fault
2) You did nothing to deserve this
3) Cry
4) The alcohol will not help
5) It's okay to get lost inside yourself
6) They do not control you
7) Find release
8) Breathe
9) You are strong
10) You are a phoenix
11) Everything will be okay, you are your own
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
Standing here at the pier,
I take in my surroundings,
trying to keep my heart steady and my mind clear.
A crowd envelopes me as we all wait for that one person.
Men are holding flowers,
Women holding children,
Children holding signs.
Standing here at the pier,
I hold nothing but my heart in my hands,
Waiting until we may embrace again.
My mouth waters while my stomach twists into knots.
The air tastes of candy scented perfume.
Trying to get rid of the taste,
I take a swig of cold, refreshing water that also helps ease my stomach
Standing here at the pier,
My stomach ties in knots,
Waiting to see your face again.
Figures start to head my way.
I gasp.
Frantically, my eyes search the crowd,
Searching for just a glimpse of you.
Standing here at the pier,
My heart will not steady,
My mind hectic with just wanting to see you.
The crowd starts to disappear,
They've found they're family
They're heading home
With their family, and I'm
Standing here at the pier,
Longing to find you,
Wishing to find you soon.
A tall figure starts heading in my direction.
I squint to see
Is that you?
My lungs fill with air and I run.
My vision blurs, but its okay.
I know where I'm going.
I'm running.
Running home to my family.
Our bodies collide in a warm embrace,
I'm lifted up off the ground and swung around,
"I've missed you so much, Dad."
I tell him through sobs.
"I've missed you too baby girl.
Lets go home."
Linking our pinkies together, we walk
Together again.
We're headed home.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
Penny got married young, she idolised her new man
Penny turned 16, said, I do I do, priest wed them both
Penny was happy, never complained to anyone, too shy for that
She crashed a party once, and met a gal named Sally
They became friends
And she confided in her
Shared little secrets, lips sealed, shook their little pinkies, never to tell
Then hubby walked in with curious smile, said you going to stay awhile
I'm not coming back until sunlight, best thing Penny had heard all night
‘Cause her new beau, wasn’t all that he seemed
But only Penny knows so go go go oh no go
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle-up
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup
Penny started staying inside, never going past the front gate
Some friends called saying you ok you ok you ok girlfriend
Penny searched websites, looking for a way out, deleting history, nobody got suspicious
While trying to play the good wife, reality started to sink in
Then she thought
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup
And I don't want anyone knowing about the abuse, just in case
I've covered up since day one, swollen face
A nightmare, ever since our honeymoon
Childhood dreams were locked in a cell, but kept them alive and still didn’t tell, even while being slammed unconscious
It's like my security blanket, it's the reason that I'm alive
Everyone has childhood dreams, but most will never survive
They don’t always come true, maybe one out of five, be wise
Believing Hollywood tabloids, that they are still very much together, all lies
So go about your ways, put up with the one, that doesn’t love you anymore and continually hurts us and says sorry, again
Always just after they have, again bruised us
Forgetting about the pain and coverups that were made
Thinking it was just a sleeping nightmare, oh no
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup
Go now, Go now
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Penny get away, far away, go, Penny go
Feel you hurting beneath, when we cuddle up
Fooling some, but mommy sees past that makeup
Go now, Go now
Jan 14, 2020
Jan 14, 2020 at 1:58 AM UTC
everything is in boxes
in my mother’s house
in my father’s house
in the back of my trunk
different things in each of them
books and vinyl
jesus, innocence, mirrors
paintings that my little brother and sister
made for me at school
and i can’t find my journal in any of them
i didn’t used to have to tie strings
around my pinkies
to remind myself to breathe in words
i used to write too much
with ink smears tattooed on the
side of my left hand
i carried it around
******* on my fingers
tasting the poetry drip
from my mouth like sticky mango juice
and people read it
and my muses hated me
and i didn’t even have to try
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
We pressed our palms together
And my fingertips
Grazed a third of yours
You wrapped your thumb
And little finger
Around my wrist
And said that you could come
To my wedding
Mine couldn't reach
Around yours
I should have seen
Straight away
We made promises
Under falling
Purple flowers
That kept getting stuck in my hair
Using the curves
In our pinkies
Instead of our souls
And we thought it would be enough
To use our hands
To make a heart
Representing our love
Couldn't we see
It was uneven?
When our words
Were too much
Erasing the maps
To our minds
We would reach out
Coming closer
Drifting apart
Why didn't we notice
Our bodies
Not lying beside our shadows
Underneath your cracking window
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. Two fingers limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, ***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, **** guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild **** as tool is to you as to yo ***** Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ****** Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a **** "What you want, ***** You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.
Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ****** flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
We are the beginning
Of the end
The hope pulsing
Behind brown sugar skin
Dissipating
Fading with the setting sun
Darkness settles
Cloaks thrown over bare shoulders
Goose flesh dancing
Waltzing across pale skin
Raw
Tender to the touch
A freshness so ripe
It drips with youth
Raindrops across ***** window panes
Born anew
Flooded with the glow of promise
Balanced nimbly on our pinkies fingertips
We will surface again
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Dear Angela,
When was the last time the wind blew threw your hair or did it go through your body too? I didn’t know the last time we saw each other, the cat would stain on the wall with its **** and then you would miss your date. Your hair looked like a crown in the sun. Did you ever get the energy to come out of bed?
Dear Angela,
Soot collects in the hollows your cheekbones, the eyeliner you have rubbed off in your sleep. The last time I saw you, you were cleaning the cat’s **** from the walls and missed your date and we laughed it off and had pizza instead. Angela, I know you are exhausted from simply opening your eyes. Angela, do you still hold your body at night like it is something holy?
Dear Angela,
Do you remember when we had tea in the August heat in clear plastic cups with our pinkies up and your mother showed us her corrugated cucumbers? Angela do you remember when you were swimming in the Y with the ladies whose bodies could hold your body and mine and still have room for more.
Dear Angela,
Do you remember when we walked out of class during your first panic attack and how I told you to lay down on the plastic benches that littered the hallway and you said you suddenly felt calm again? Angela do you still lie down on your side sometimes and think about going back to your prime days? Did you know then?
Dear Angela,
I can tell you to stay strong but I don’t know what that means either. I can tell you that it is winter now and it is cold and campus is a dead white man’s tomb but there are still flowers that stay in the winter time. They call it a winter garden. Angela, maybe you are a winter garden, maybe you are the softest footprint in the snow.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC
Toad sand and frog pebbles,
warted rocks kicked and toed.
Tease the ocean with chocolate dipped feet,
spiced and salted teas.
Taper off mid-sentence, paragraphs tepid
long arms and zebra stripes, a crosswalk tepir.
Tocsin alarm clocks poison innocent bystander’s sleep,
slipping things in their drinks, filling their ears with toxin.
Tie a scarf around the forehead
of the middle child. Teach them beginning syllables of Thai.
Throes and spasms of overachievers
motivate for longer strides, faster throws.
Tense shoulder muscles
hide in sleeping bags, badly pitched tents.
Told injuries snuck in when the door opened,
we heard the miniature silver bells as they tolled.
Ticks count every second second, punctuated by tocks.
With each, a twitch, conscious nervous tics.
Titan tool boxes hold spare screws,
on Coeus’ threaded axis, we spin and tighten.
Terne sardine cans filled with mercury,
pollute our science tests, killing tern.
Tied red string around our pinkies so we don’t forget
when to go to the beach looking for clams at low tide.
Tacks pin talented teens to cork boards,
alongside instructions on regretting the harmonised sales tax.
Tire prints border the country,
left by jeeps that never tire.
Tails directing orchestras,
swarms of swan swim, tattling and telling tales.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
i've picked apart myself
the pieces that make sense
looking through a rose-tinted lense
of being content
i'll walk behind them
my friends who dance
along the lines of more than friends
and i'll clap and smile
i'll keep tabs on them
their pinkies intertwined
awkward and flushed, i laugh at their faces
as i feel a pang in my chest
these glasses are broken
maybe, i ask myself
i don't need it, i say
but i know inside that
i will always wonder what it's like
i'm at the end of the bridge
steps slow and quiet
to not make a sound
i give them privacy
as they share a kiss
tender and discreet
discreetly, i sigh
i'm at the bridge's end and they've walked past me
but i lean against the railing and think
"when will i?"
Jan 2, 2022
Jan 2, 2022 at 2:31 AM UTC
My
ANCIENT
English teacher told me
In
English class
Today
That we had
To do
A
Poetry
Project.
And
WHAT
did she assign me?
Free verse.
Not just a free verse.
A free verse about
MYSELF.
And I sat at my
Computer
This morning
With my pinkies
On the semi-colon
And
The
A
And I thought
A
Lot
About what to say.
And I thought
"I'm blonde
Should I write
About
That?
I'm
Short,
Is
That
What
My poem
Will
Be
About?
But my
Stupid,
Stubborn
Free-verse
Just
Would not
Come out.
So after coaxing
And
Calling
And pulling
Its hair.
I've just gone
And
Left
It
There.
So, my
ANCIENT
English
Teacher,
Ma'am.
Feel free
To bump
My grade
Down
To
A
D minus.
I won't whine or pout
Cuz my
Stupid
Stubborn
Free-verse
Just would
Not
Come
Out.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
He fell in love with the way she slightly parted her lips when she was almost asleep
But not quite
He fell in love with the way she wore large glasses for fun
And how she would bite her pinkie to hold in a laugh
The laugh in which he loved
He loved that she had three freckles in a triangle below her left eye
And the way she tilted her head when she was thinking about very important things
He fell in love with her eyes and the way they longed for him
He loved being wanted
He fell in love with the pitter-patter of her feet on their bedroom floor
Because that meant she was thinking too much and he could hold her
And make her fell okay for just a night
He loved being wanted
He loved her for everything she was and everything she was not
He was falling out of love with the drool on her pillow
He thought it was silly she wore large glasses for no reason
And how she always had bite marks on her pinkies
He began to find her laugh very loud too loud and always ringing in his ears
He was falling out of love with the three freckles beneath her left eye
Or was it her right eye?
And he defiantly did not love the way her head was cocked when trying to decide between one ply or two
Or the way she always was looking at him
He hated her clinginess
He fell out of love with the noise she made at night
He never woke up anymore
He hated her desperation
He did not love the little things about her anymore and he was not in love
-(e.h)
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
<?>
god gave us little toes so when we are rushing our socks on,
the little toe has something to cling to, and a way to say, hey!
slow down
god gave us powerful pinkies, the littlest of the five fingers,
to give us balance, and reflection, that being upright
is a good thing
god did not give us eyes in the back of the head,
because he forgot to order the integrated circuitry
and was too embarrassed to admit it, but if you look closely,
you can see where they were supposed to go...oops,
no can do
<?>
*she, a voracious vicarious, reads a new book almost daily
when I dismissed the time spent as an investment
with a finality of no return, she demurred, purred,
au contraire, my dove, every book expands the who of me
and with so many ahead, yet unread, I'll live forever*
<?>
she inquires why I write so many poems, easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living, it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation of who I am...a miner of the wealth in my veins
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
I am at this point of my life
where it feels like strings are attached to my pinkies
& they are at the tips holding what's left together.
At a loss for patience with this same weather that feels & smells like rain,
here waiting as I am physically, mentally, & emotionally drained.
No salvation, no help, no mercy,
feels like everyone is entertained by me hurting.
How long can this continue?...
{RP}
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 10:01 PM UTC
I promise.
A pinkie swear of sorts that clasps on my lungs
and makes my breath grow heavy.
You sigh.
Fingers becoming fluid as they trickle around my waist
and make promises about a nonexistent forever.
We're stupid.
So ignorant we can barely comprehend the word,
but than again no words make sense.
Eyes close.
Cartwheeling farther away from unfamiliarity
and approaching the inevitable detachment.
It's coming.
Denial is a cruel parasite that builds comfort
when future distance grows with each heartbeat.
But I promise.
With a failing prayer that pinkies cannot be broken
and that hearts and promises are invincible as well.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
This big a commitment,
And this tiny an assurance!
But I guess when a guy
So tall, so tough,
Takes his finger
That too the littlest,
And with a face
So earnest,
Curls it around yours,
While making a side remark
On how easily the two "pinkies" fit,
He means to keep his promise,
Oh yes, he means it.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
We crossed pinkies and you led me into a house full of rooms that I didn't know.
We saw a rooms full of old clothes
A room of people with dogs and cats everywhere
A room where I laid my head in your lap and stroked your leg while you played with my hair.
A room where we sat down and I realized that I couldn't go through with it; couldn't go through with us
So I ran into the next room where there was a garden and at first it seemed nice, but with every step that I took the garden died and left me without air to breathe.
And then you pulled me out, into the last room where you held me in your arms nd danced me around the room until I realized that I wasn't gasping for air anymore.
You held me close and we walked out together.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
Everyone wants to just stick it in the hole,
And pound the pin in,
Ask them to tie some nylons with their hands,
And they're all pinkies.
Kids these days,
Can't even play an F chord,
Three string chords
And verse chorus verse,
It gets worse every year.
Thank the lord above, that guitar geeks are born periodically,
To make that thing neigh, like a Bad Horsie,
And prove, a three piece garage band can still rock the block.
For every one hundred and fifty parttime power chord players, hiding their lack of practice behind digital effects,
And excessive distortion,
There's one Jimmy Hendrix or Dimebag Darrel born.
I see the brows furrowing now,
As you wonder, how does this geezer know about Dimebag?
Just because I prefer the feel and vibration, of a classical guitar in my arms,
Doesn't mean I don't Listen to Sabbath,
and I was a Dime bag fan in the seventies.
Power chords are fine by me,
It makes my tutoring sessions, much easier,
I don't even bother trying to convince them that there are more chords,
Unless, they have that thing about them.
That little floating sign that says
"You are special",
Or the eight year old,
Who mysteriously has thick callouses on his fingers,
Even though he never picked up a guitar before.
What I'm trying to say is,
There is nothing wrong with the kids these days.
I hated learning my scales too.
Rock and roll is here to stay,
As long as the next Hendrix isn't
Aborted.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 7:08 AM UTC
I.
Meeting your gaze for the first time
Electricity arching between our eyes
Silly grins and embarrassed laughter
Pinkies brushing against one another
Nervous glances and sly smiles
Hands slipping comfortably together
How do they fit so perfectly?
II.
Meeting your lips for the first time
Bright white sparks fly between us
Blushing cheeks and soft giggles
Noses bumping into each other
Intense quiet and wanting looks
Hands running through hair
How does this feel so natural?
III.
Meeting your body for the first time
Burning fire spreading through our skin
Gentle carasses and longing stares
Hands bumping awkwardly together
Hushed moans and passionate kisses
Flesh thrusting into flesh
How badly have we wanted this?
Feb 18, 2022
Feb 18, 2022 at 2:07 AM UTC
you should see the way they look at each other
as if the universe exists in the specks of their eyes
as if the sun and stars
were brought to their knees at the parting of his lips
both depraved of soft looks, soft lips, soft fingertips
they think their eyelash flutters go unnoticed
but you could practically feel
how the air softens around them
the earth herself couldn’t help but smile
and when they sneak glances at each other,
each when the other isn’t looking
there is an obvious moment of genuine awe
and i can see them fall head over heels again,
as if from the beginning
the moments and memories slow,
as a halo hovers above him,
galaxies gather to admire the angel and his lover
anything is possible when they’re together
death cannot grasp them,
disease and dissatisfaction try in vain
but the warmth they feel towards each other
fuels them for lifetimes to come
the red that bumps in his heart seeps through his smile
and for once,
the cold evenings that once were filled with eternal darkness
no longer feel so lonely
they don’t say it, but i see it
i see the way their pinkies brush when they walk together
and the way they admire the sunrise together
earth stopped rotating to give the lovers
a moment of silence
as the waves, foaming at the lips slowed,
and hover over the sand,
completely still in anticipation of impact
he stared at him then, and slowly took in the boy’s face
he focused on how his eyes glazed over when he was admiring the seagulls,
their wings outstretched in the pink purple sky
and he knew then
however many lifetimes he had to sacrifice
he would do so without hesitating
for the boy with smile lines that gathered at the corner of his eyes
for the boy who could make his heart speed and stop altogether
for the boy who, while so unaware, was so beautiful
in both their chests, they knew it was love,
and from both their eyes, they professed it
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
Cold hidden hands holding each other under
a plaid fleece blanket. . .
Pinkies latching for just a second down
the cereal aisle. . .
Chests pressing an overdue hug between
the backs of library books. . .
Shadows snuggling in the back row of
the dark movie theater. . .
Lips kissing censored by the rain on
the fogged windshield. . .
And because we’re two men in love, living out
these innocent acts,
Such displays are still too public for
you.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC