"pushpins" poems
Gold glitter
Only stays on the ceiling
When the upholstery is gray.
Church gyms are suddenly
Piggy banks to play
Basketball upon.
I will draw a city on
The bulletin board
And owl pushpins will inhabit it.
My mind is no longer in a
Casing of gray rick-rack
And suppositions I do not feel.
It is a precarious thing to
Play a solar piano
Under the midday sky.
Have you ever heard
A pumpkin-flavored
Volkswagen van?
It happened suddenly
That everything I could possibly
See became a photography contest.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
I have fought with my wings with a disrespectful son
I have fought for my wings on a garden of fire and rage
and I will be painted across the stars
eternal, all-knowing
So give me my wings
let me fly away
Stop holding me down
Pull out the pushpins, I need to fly
I need to be
Pull out the pushpins and let me go
Stop fighting so hard to keep be grounded
let me fly across the sky and find my way home
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC
-Parsley flakes
-Cheap pens
-Memo notebook
-Breaded fish filets
-1% milk
-Bleach for the bathroom floor
-Brillo pads
-Italian Wedding soup
-Instant meals
-Pushpins
-2 cans of fruit cocktail
Man, I grew up on fruit cocktail.
Waxy cherries, see-through grapes, grain pineapples,
and wrinkled peaches bathing in thick syrup,
waiting to see 1990s kitchen lights.
But it probably costs $2, or more, now.
And I've got a car I need to keep runnin',
a house I gotta keep standin',
a job I have to keep goin' to /
keep bustin' my *** for.
I guess I can see how things go
in the next few years.
Maybe it'll be in paste form then.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
In that,
the tiny pushpins
that invade my clumsy pulse.
In that
I find you
in that-
the electric scarf
I wear around my neck
Insomuch I find
you choke me
so I am not wordless,
I am not without screaming-
dripping and falling from my lips
wrapped like gifts of mortar
more out than in
no I am not wordless.
I see you and tiny electric pulses
dance on me
dice through me
I feel you
touch so perfect
like a violin string
strung-
strung taught
tight against my mouth
tight against you leaving.
I am sensory.
I am sound that bounces angry
I am sound that chisels
the prayers of the prayer wheels
upon the bumps of my spine.
listen, listen
for your footfalls
and you will touch me,
perfect touch
of space and air
and fingertips that have no bones
no skin
just a note on a
cello-of a touch
and a kiss from behind my neck
a strangle,
such the kiss is tight.
tiny electric pulses through me,
oh, love,
for the tiny electric pulses
that bounce through,
move me.
prayers on the prayer wheel
spinning.
sahn 01/22/15
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
are you
a sunflower?
growing from
my palm,
like i am
the fertile dirt.
are you my
skin? pushpins
and scars
are not yours,
or mine
they are the both of us
personified
are you the night?
and are you the stars?
there to guide me
north
when my heart
is silent
are you my
love?
holding me
in the middle of
the day, when the sun
is brightest and obscured
by clouds
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 6:37 PM UTC
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now empty.
i packed everyone's bags,
gathered the last pushpins
from the wall in the kitchen,
and went on with my life.
i made sure to grab
the books we'd hidden in the attic
as well as the photo album
you'd stashed under the floorboards.
i opened the curtains
and then swept the floors.
i made our bed for the last time
and collected the closings
of the dust on the mantelpiece
that nobody ever cleaned.
i got two extra boxes
for all of the medication unfinished.
i marked them "fragile", for they were glass capsules
containing the substance needed to keep my daughter alive.
but her illness didn't **** her.
i was well aware of the dog's bed,
and it found a place
in the passenger seat of my suv.
his quiet whimpers and cries
were all i heard that evening
as i drove away from what once was my life.
when i finally got to my feet again,
i returned to making dinner for myself.
i only knew how to cook for seven,
and i found tranquility in washing things in sevens.
now i made food for one
and washed for one.
i accidentally brewed two coffees this morning,
in hopes you were still here to take it
and laugh at me for making it too strong,
but you're not.
i awoke at noon the day before and sobbed,
for i was used to being awoken by child's laughter
and small bodies climbing into our bed.
tomorrow, i will bring your briefcase to work
and leave it on your desk.
i'll collect it when i go to leave
and frown at the fact you never opened it.
i'll dispatch you three times in the field,
but you won't respond.
i used to see our wedding day,
but now i see your funeral.
i used to see our children's births;
but i've gotten used to their bodies in morgues.
your physical features
become the trauma described during your autopsies,
and our family photos
became the ones used in the funeral program.
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now a house;
a house with things
that even i can't pack away.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
well, she's a pretty scene
but the characters keep passing out from lack of sleep
and the understudies don't kiss the way she's used to.
a cardboard backdrop of exaggerated proportions
with its painstakingly painted mural of smiles
couldn't hold up to the critic's deep scrutiny
(he later bashed it in a local newspaper review that no one would read)
packing my father's vinyl collection in each ear, i left you.
or you left me; i can't be sure,
but i vaguely remember us stepping out the fourth-floor window at the same time.
you run like a stain through an oxford shirt
handing out your unemployed business cards (blank on both sides)
but once i grabbed a handful of pushpins and tacked you to my door.
i have this laugh-out-loud feeling that says you won't be coming 'round anymore.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
your words are pushpins.
pushpins that held my dreams in place
on the wall of lilac lies
that you built around me.
they left termite holes
in the gypsum board
that remind me
of how useless a promise can be.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
In this house
sticky thin floorboards
slinking from wall to wall.
Everything dripping down,
pictures taped,
a story told through
ticket stubs
and pushpins.
The amount of stuff
is astounding,
every piece exact,
writing an encyclopaedia.
Teal doors chipping,
holes at hand-height
with paw prints
adorning every corner.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
She's numb
To the last crumb
Eyes like stale bread,
Lying there as if dead
Her bed no coffin,
But wood not lacking
She welcomes no feeling,
Her hair pushpins
Nails like chalk,
She won't talk
All her thoughts are sins
Send her reeling
Hear a cat hacking
Fur ***** and she's coughing
Blood into her hands
Blink again
And it's saliva and phlegm,
Clouds and rain
Are all to her; pain,
The skie's greys are black
Makes her heart a heavy sack,
To push much less carry
She can't even cry
Just sigh all dark and dreary,
Return to sleep, living lie,
As her hope is flickering
But she's a Zippo among BICs
And though her thoughts are bickering,
No heart beating is just she's a Rolex with no ticks...
© okpoet
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
It was in the gray fall clouds that I met her. My hands
quivering as my nerves were shot with lightning
and out to the world around me.
My northbound hair done neat and tidy, her hands
were colder than the breeze encompassing us. It was
the start to an age eclipsing seasons. But
like all else, everything ends. The crisp leaves
and our optimistic qualities fell at equal rate. Winter
came around and stomped out all the seedlings
too undeveloped to withstand it. For all of our journey,
good and bad, went out the door. And this
cold and bleak finale consisted of screams
and shells of what once stood in it's place.
After tears evaporated, so too did all we stood for.
A monstrous, cyclical, almost-love.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
I remember when Twitter was
what your heart felt like when falling in love
I remember Pinterest was when you put pushpins on
the map hanging on the wall for where you planed to travel
I remember back when the only Facebook
was Mom's photo album
I remember when Tumblr was
rolling down the hill for fun as a child
I remember when Gay used to mean you were happy
And a Joint was a bad place to be
When I Hooked Up it was usually my stereo
All these newfangled meanings are so confusing to me
Or when Bad really meant Bad
And sick was what you did all over the floor
Now they both seem to mean a good thing
Can anyone tell me what for?
And don't even get me started on Thongs
That we wore on our feet to go to the beach
Now they're used to cover up what?
The rear with a piece of string?
I remember when we did not have to worry
about being politically correct
Or even have to worry about
who we might offend back
I remember back then
we were free to speak our minds
And not have to worry about how
everything would be perceived by society as a whole
I sure do miss back then
But at least I still remember when...
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Once, I fell for a traveler
whose eyes sought the beautiful.
But even those who were simply mundane
didn't even have to worry a thing,
for he always saw the best within.
Never have I ever been a destination.
More like ruins that give the illusion
that abandon could exhibit beauty.
But his map was never way too full
for more pushpins on places he'd rule
with polaroid films and blank canvasses,
that only his eyes and hands can caress.
But little did I know that he was
more on an adventure than just a petty tour.
That when time came for him to move on,
I'm sure I forgot, here wasn't his home.
At least, in the roster, I exist.
One of the places he chose to visit.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
My body is a map
One that isn’t pinned up by pushpins
On plenty of pinning boys bedroom walls
Too big to see individual trees but big enough
To hold hopes and dreams
Strung together by red lines and black words
That title places they have yet to have seen
But man, how they wish they could visit me.
No, my body is more of a landscape
Still sitting on a easel that belongs to an artist
Who cannot bring himself to hang me up yet
Who can’t yet declare my permanence with a tac
My body is like that that.
Held in a state of constant change but only minutely
My mountains and streams haven’t changed for years
But the leafs on my branches transform ever so slightly
With aging paint brush strokes
That only I and my artist know are there
My features have no home
No place on a map to pin
They hold a kind of secret place that only
Few have seen but none could not say wasn’t me
But I still look similar to places they have already seen
No, my body is more like art.
When I was born I was naked like you
Pale with promise
And over time I was colored with age
I was wrinkled with paint
And damaged with a sometimes heavy hand
But even with the same wood skeleton as you
My un-uniformed array of colors
Only represent what I really am.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
I never cared much for
politics or
the jam between my toes
but I guess it keeps me
company
when winter loves
December and
my feet sweat pushpins
I’ll sometimes catch
snowflakes on
my tongue but who really cares
I’ve always suffered from
seasonal depression
but I think it’s just an
excuse
to tell people I hate them
or to count
fingernail clippings in the sink
Maybe I have a snow globe
for a skull
thawed out and marinating
in a pool of
whiskey hung over
a bucket to conjure
Flies
or was it Spiders harvesting
my insides
I pray they lay eggs in my
lungs
so when I speak, someone will listen
Spiders to keep me company at night
when the lights turn off
to eat the toe jam I’ve collected in
mason jars
but the sound of a match striking
always scares them off
so I light a cigarette to
summon my Demons
Because maybe they will be my friends
But I plan on dying alone
with my whiskey and Flies.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC