"pompoms" poems
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick
Lacing my skates
after walking two miles
in girl-strictured delight
Mom's stories of Sonja Henie--
No, not ever
Lacing my skates
with snow-ball pompoms
felt skirt
and nylon tights
Cute little hat with matching scarf
My thighs and fingers
already freezing
icy burn
from miles on foot
to get there
the lake where--
I must get out
I must get OUT!
Knowing what
to expect from my body
the quick-twitch of muscle
Could always sense
specific--
gravity of water
at 22 degrees
Desiring to feel
the motion between ice and steel
Read speed's vibrations through my body
The brain registers relation
to weather's effect
Tell of velocity
possibility of fall
Feel the slash of the blades beneath me
Throw my weight sideways, sudden
to hear that furious hiss
An object in motion tending, dire
to stay in motion
Threatening to stay there
always
in its heights-- of speed
away--
from the crowds of skaters
swirling distant in the lights
Seeking instead
the farthest reaches of Porter Lake
speed and speed and more
to overcome
inertia
of what it is to become
undone
at the outer edges, of humanity
A force
centrifugal unto myself
Avoiding
Pregnant and slow
with years and babes....
The best
must be broken and tamed
of what it takes to stay free
catching the edges with every stride
catching my toe in the quick
180
spray of frost
to the sudden still
Listen to the frigid chill
and the heave of my breath
tumbling into evidence
Gliding
Once
Forever--
on, into darkness
of woods on frozen water
The wildness of it all
So infatuated with flight
so full of grace
I forgot Sonja
The moon rose
from her seat in the treetops
and applauded
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Oh Muse! endow my verses like the
grease
which in a pliable state, straightens
the choppy motion.
Dear Apollo! enlighten my words like
the hell fire
that light gives, yet a sharp gaze
broils the eggs*.
Oh wretched Hydes! weep but one
more time for me
for the constellation bears rain no
more.
Oh Jove! rain the one pacific upon me
for I will to drown myself today.
Ah flora! the color of spring has
blanched away
for the pompoms bloom ashen
Lovely Aurora! why you withhold
yourself from me?
She's glum with me, why trying you
too be?
Eye some Aphrodite! take care of and
preserve the winsomeness.
for the lass** knows no value, it has to
me...
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Now the first leaves, golden,
Falling, fluttering tranquilly.
Breeze becomes wind,
A slight chill present.
Summer ending,
Fall in the air,
You can smell it, see it,
Touch it, even taste it.
Saturday, Freeway fills with cars,
Flags flying, team colors displaying,
Car Horns honking, people waving.
Mighty Ducks are beating their wings,
Getting ready, who could have known?
That Ducks having no teeth,
Could be so very ferocious,
Tenacious, combative, thrilling.
Tailgating celebrating,
Throngs of laughing people, moving
Pennants showing, blowing in the wind,
Through the gates into the huge arena.
Filling the stands, waiting spectacle’s beginning.
Band blares spirited tunes, people and
Students cheering, Ear splitting, the grandstands
Vibrating, spines a tingling, tension mounting.
Among great fan fare, the Gladiators emerge,
Regaled in colorful Costumes for combat,
Helmets gleaming in the sun,
Muscles bulging young men strut and pose,
In spirited pent up raw anticipation,
Soldier-players moving now as one,
As a well practiced oiled machine,
Each part supporting the other.
Each knowing its own function,
Resulting in precise synchronization.
A time and place where boys become men.
Beautiful young women, under dressed,
Bosoms bouncing, pompoms waving
Add to the Circus flavor of spectacle rising.
Only a game? None in the bowl knows that.
No one cares to think so, it is more than that,
It is war, it is life, it‘s aggression without death,
It is pride without regret; it is a melding of hearts,
And expectations, of loyalties to a common goal,
It is a Saturday in the sun and fall air, a chance to
Yell and cheer for youth in flower, to feel and fear
An inevitable outcome not yet predetermined.
To ebb and flow all human emotions,
To hopefully all, end the day a winner,
Or perhaps display compassion for the looser.
To feel alive, to participate in life’s cycle of living.
Football, just a game? Don’t you believe it.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
The ice queen attempts to be more fact than fiction, but her eyes are covered in placenta. She can’t see through the burden of her mother’s expectations, the pompoms and Bible shoved down her throat at an early age.
The ice queen attempts to be more fact than fiction, but her eyeliner is smeared and so is the world. She’s always loved women, and hated herself enough to be with men. She’s always drowned out the protests of her own mind with liquor, finding refuge in the ability to ignore.
The ice queen attempts to be more fact than fiction. Is unsatisfied. Disgusted. Displeased. Dear Academy, for your consideration, would like a new self image.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
Rickrack, got cataracts
My vision is so blurry.
Surgery done, not much fun
I wish healing would hurry.
Zip zop, roota zoot.
Hate backless hospital suits!
Clap clap, standing ovation.
For a successful operation.
Wave pompoms, ziss boom bah
For magic modern medicine
In just one day, as they say.
The right eye is all fixed again.
Go back in a few weeks
And have the left one done.
Huzzah hurrah and yippee kai yay
And the healing has begun.
Colors I never noticed before
Are now bright and shiny.
If I had known that before I
Woulda been petulant and whiny.
But, nothing noticed, nothing lost
I am looking forward to the day
When I can see completely better.
Harroo and blinking hurray!
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 11:35 PM UTC
Not the prettiest
Or the skinniest
Or the curviest,
Not the insane party girl with a brain,
No growing into my looks,
Or glasses to take off,
Or mini skirt to don,
No pompoms to wave,
Or dying of cancer relatable teen story,
Or whatever is in style these days.
You’re not quite the reformable ****
Just good from the beginning.
Not the cautious nerd
Who can’t talk to girls,
Or the bad boy with a heart,
Or the secretly smart prep,
Not a lonely outcast,
Not the most popular guy in school,
Or the least,
Or whatever is aimed at insecure teens these days.
No peers to tell us
We’re from different worlds,
No exploitation of a killer illness to make us more romantic,
Neither of us can dance,
You were never my best friend’s boyfriend...
Just two people,
Not dramatic enough
For a teen movie.
Just two side characters
Who fell in love.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:53 PM UTC
i want
lavender beaches
strawberry bubblegum
willow-wood bed frames..
i want
sweet summertime
on crumbling tectonic plates
with my burlap baby..
i want
grapefruit pompoms
painted on my cheeks
telling stories in the fluorescence..
i want
everything
everysinglething
everylittlefraction
and that still won’t be enough.
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 2:15 PM UTC