"quirk" poems
Sometimes beneath close eyelids
I quest to bring you back
As if you were driftwood floating
Downstream on your back.
I dip my hands beneath the veil
And dry away the death
And from my parting, weeping lips
I give you back your breath-
Just like the rising sunset burning
In the summer sky
Paints and saints the mountaintops
And casts their colors bright.
*Unrhymed Notes:
Sometimes I dream I can bring you back
Just as simply as dipping my hands into the water
To retrieve a floating piece of driftwood;
Dry the death from your skin
And breath life back into you
The way the sunrise reanimates
The Dark Mountains
Each and every day.
I see your Ocean eyes open
Embrace you like I'm trying to
Fold you into my skin
Where I can keep you always
And feel your summer peach warm flesh
Tangible against my permafrost fingers.
If the dead could talk
Nothing profound would leave your lips
They'd only quirk into a Cheshire smile
And you'd tell me to let go
Relinquish
Move along and stop standing still
Life is for the Living
Death is for the dead
And dreams are for the foolish.*
"You *******
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
A haunting stare with a serious note
Originates in a lad just thirteen
Ready to command or to set to task
Obedient, mature, and quick to rule
More comfortable with adults than peers
An old soul has he, loves cars from the past
Collects Civil War relics and antiques
Spends most his time reading and researching
Reads historical fiction, lost in time
Analyzes plants, insects, and ol' coins
He could be described like Chaucer's Cleric
"And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach."
He desires, especially, silver
Yet, gold and ex-presidents faces too
Protects younger members of his small clan
Only his hand will be attacking foe
It might be his fine grades, his quirk or two
That humbles his parents. Proudly they stand
And admire their first born miracle
A babe no more, his age will meet his soul.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
I have this friend
(it's really me)
Who has this girlfriend
(who's really she)
Who has this quirk
(really several)
Which she'd deny
(which is another)
She's not anti-gay,
Sees right past color, creed and ethnicity;
Sees women for being women,
Men for men,
And any combination thereof,
And vice versa.
No, she can see right past bigotry,
Is blind to prejudice,
But has an innate drive that goes straight for wardrobe.
From the gowns of celebs,
To the color of Alex Trebek's tie.
A sartorist, that's what she is.
*I heard that.
And I am not.*
(contrary too)
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
The room was dank and dreary
The past hung in the air
There was a scent of mildew
A smell of history was there
The paint was old and faded
With stains all dark and brown
The wallpaper too was dated
And it needed to come down
It was a home for 50 years
That stood so strong and proud
It comforted all of our fears
Far from the madding crowd
We stripped away the paper first
Each layer a strip in time
It showed the old room at her worst
It really seemed a crime
To tear it down, and think of when
Each layer was first applied
The walls that seemed so tall again
I just stood there and cried
I thought about the birthdays
Celebrated in this room
Of getting covered all in glaze
That we cleaned off with a broom
The roses were much redder
Than I remembered them to be
In fact it now looked better
Than it did when I was three
I remembered Mother loved this
And of how it made her smile
And she gave Father a light kiss
After toiling all the while
The next layer though was not as nice
"Twas beige and a sort of lime
It made the room feel cold like ice
It spoke of another, somber time
I looked at the wall and I noticed the lines
Marking our heights as we grew
This was on a paper all covered in vines
Mom loved this one, we knew
It seemed surreal that Mom was not here
To see these passages pass
But we knew in our hearts that she was stil near
As we looked at paper covered with Bass
That was from when Unlcle Jim came to stay
And our folks gave up their room
To help out a brother who I still love to this day
One who can always help brighten my gloom
They changed the wall just for him
To make it seem more like it was his
They put their life on hold for Jim
And the wallpaper choice was his
The years pass by more quickly now
The paper doesn't change too much
Jim moved out and that is how
The paper changed just a touch
Mom got sick and Dad quit work
He did the room in flowers for our mom
It was at this time we noticed the rooms quirk
One of those things that made you go hmmm
Far up in one corner behind a section of curtain
Dad had left a small square showing the years
worth of papers we were certain
It was to help mom with her tears
Now as we finished we looked to the man
Sitting alone in the old corner chair
He smiled at us as best as he can
But I don't think he knew we were there
I handed him some paper and I looked in his eyes
He stared clear on through me
And then he started to cry
This was the last of this paper he'd see
Dad and the house now have gone into dust
The years get short and have tapered
But to go back in time I know all I must
Do, is look at my small square of paper.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
I am a controlling boyfriend.
No, I am not a male, nor do I have a girlfriend to abuse. But I am the crazy stalker controlling boyfriend.
I have realized something in myself:
I am free with my boy and his casual flirtations, but am extremely jealous and possessive of my girls, when I have one.
Or even in my present case of not having one, I want to possess her as she has possessed me. I want all your time, all your thoughts, as you inhabit mine.
“How do you handle the jealousy??" It's funny, I don't get jealous when I have both partners in my bed, or in my arms. That is when I’m most content.
I get jealous when outsiders are flirtatious or show interest. It's also funny, I'm more annoyed when people flirt with him thinking he’s unattached.
I don't get it either; just a quirk of mine.
Perhaps my nonchalance with my boy is merely grown out of our time together. In nearly seven years, not one has managed to create a rift. Those who have tried have failed, and he and I have come out the better.
Patience is a virtue I do not possess, and the longer I go on incomplete... mayhap my own fears make me dig my claws into a new potential. Fear that someone else will charm such a rare unicorn away from me/us, and we’ll be left again, searching.
Nor is this a new feeling, for this young woman. A year ago, I felt the same overwhelming possessiveness. Then again, it would not do to compare the two; they are two different people, who hold different qualities.
The bitter jealousy I now project I have tasted before. The shock that I’ve become my own controlling high school boyfriend fills me with disgust.
Unbeknownst to her, I imagine her not only in my bed, in my arms, in my life… but also on my knee. I’ve never before considered someone as both lover and submissive.
Unbeknownst to me, would that make my jealousy grow or fade, were I to possess her in every way I’ve imagined?
Obviously I have some things to work on.
Firstly, finding our unicorn.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
She kept all her emotions
Monitored by a rather
Peculiar body part
Her eyebrows
They were
The distinct way
She used to communicate
I learned to read her impeccably
A sudden shift; low drop
Of dark blonde brows
Was displeasure and
Soon brooding
A quirk
Or amused twitch
Meant she liked whatever
Ridiculous pickup line I’d used
Those golden ridges became my
Guide to a mystery
I always tried
To solve
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
We always looked so happy but I’m starting to realize we never were. Maybe we were lonely and that’s why we said our “i love you”s . Maybe all the words were empty because I know for sure the promises were. This pain can’t be explained. When you love someone so much, it makes you vulnerable. I gave him everything I had. Every hope, every pain, I showed him my entire past, and I welcomed him into my entire future. I gave him so much.. but he gave me just enough to get by. The stupid part is, I still love him more than life. My heart ******* aches with his absence and it will only get worse with time. We could fix this. We could work together and make this better but he isn’t ready. He isn’t ready for anything. Everything I do is with good intentions for him, but where does that leave me? So so so utterly devoted to a man who won’t take a simple risk to save our relationship. He says he doesn’t know who he is and he is still figuring it out, but he knows one thing for sure. He is certain he wants to be with me. Yet how in the **** should I believe that? He changes his mind like the weather. One minute he loves spring and the next he wants to be frozen to the winter floor. But does he realize that whatever he chooses, I will be there too? If he wants flowers and sunshine then that is where we will go. If he wants to freeze in the snow, well then I guess I will be just as cold. He needs his privacy and time to himself. He needs structure and to have rules to follow. He says he want a forever, but he puts no effort into creating one. I want to go with him, no matter where it may be. But it seems to me he would much rather leave on his own. Why can’t he think of me for once. Why does he think it is okay to leave me in this burning hell without him. How is this called love. How dare we smile and pretend things are okay when in reality I can’t even breath. I have given this man so much of my heart and I have look past every odd quirk he has, yet he can’t give me what is best for us both. This relationship was all I had left. These pictures were my favorite. But its all down the drain now. He was my everything, my future. But now all I see in my future is a bottle of clonazepam and a nice warm bath, praying my body liquidizes enough to flow down the drain with all these emotions.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
I’ll paint the colour of your eyes
toffee brown
contrasting the crinkles beside
that always appear when you lie
I’ll paint the blue of your smile
the corners of your mouth
slightly upturned
with a quirk of your brow
I’ll paint the yellow in your laugh
your cheeks slightly tinged pink
the way your eyes twinkle
without uncertainty
Every tone and every hue
captured in brushstrokes that end too soon
But darling
I’ll always draw you gently, like a soft croon
Here is the finished
portrait of you.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
People say I’m always late,
And that I always make them wait;
I take so long to arrive,
They could **** me with their eyes.
I don’t mean any disrespect;
And if I could I would correct
This awful quirk of mine,
Of never getting there on time.
Could I have a broken clock?
I wish I knew the method to unlock
The secret to a scheduled life,
And thus avoid so much strife.
I’ve tried the systems, plans and schemes,
To change my life has been my dream;
But interruptions plague my day,
Distractions lead me all astray.
It’s not that I am unaware
Of Time’s passage or don’t care.
No, I savor every minute;
I wish I had them without limit.
The seconds pass, I feel them go;
I mourn them all, you know.
I want to hold them, keep them fast;
Not let them slip into the Past.
And that’s the reason I’m a mess
At schedules and the rest;
I can’t work fast, I can’t resist;
The weight of Time I can’t dismiss.
I hope the world will understand
Just why I botch up every plan.
Confusion is never my desire;
Each moment’s like a jewel to admire.
I ask your patience, if you please;
I’ll try my best to appease;
But if I’m late have sympathy,
I mix up Time with Eternity.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
everyday i find myself here
sitting in a bar stool drinking another beer
it's already been half a year
with my memory of each day not always clear
and yet i quaff and i quaff
with no ability to turn it off
then i stumble back into work
telling myself this is only a perk
just a little quirk
to get me through work
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room
I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out
after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout
or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff
children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare
Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get beaten, black and blue
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
My mental health is not a quirk. It is a malfunction.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
Each quark
A quirk
In a cosmologically-
Inspired orchestra
Each theory
A verse
In a star-
Driven poem
The study of
The very nature
Of this universe
Is art
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
just now my heart gave two great
and heaving beats
that shuddered my whole chest.
i know this is just a symptom
of the cardiac quirk i inherited from my mother
but it felt to me like some sort of physical closure.
for a moment after it happened
my chest didn't have that emptiness anymore.
my body is healing my nonbody.
that's what it felt like.
for a second, anyway.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Just a little off the top.
Drawin' a dotted line
'round the skull
takin' your shears
just above the ear.
Cuttin' a close crop.
Burrowin' into the skin this time
'round the skull
now your clippers
smilin' so chipper.
Leavin' a head clean smooth.
Whistlin' at a near-finished work
'round the skull
peelin' back the skin
bravin' a peek within.
Grabbin' that comb with its fine tooth.
Unfurlin' that pink mass of quirk
'round the skull
eyein' where tendrils append
trimmin' the dead ends.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
In the middle of the night
as the breeze soothes the mind.
A lonely owl steps out to the light,
leaving his nest behind.
The moon shines
and the wind blows.
A nightingale hymns
while the gaslight glows.
Nocturnal creative artists at work.
The night fuels their quirk.
Then a sudden cacophony disturbs the air.
A noise no one can bare.
From a distance it can be heard.
It whistles, but it is not a bird.
It slows as it reaches its destination.
Breaking through the peace with its whistle.
The train stops as it reaches the station.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
Meteoric Buick
Slick *****
Frantic frenetic
Majestic kick
Chick shtick
Shashlik
Nicotinic stick
Lick flick
Hermeneutic heretic
Magnetic rhetoric
Hick logic
Strategic
Plastic music
Tick click
Bucolic Bardic
Peptic druidic
Rustic emetic
Sceptic
Polymeric quirk
Sick trick
Turmeric trimeric
Septic *****
Wick crick
Derrick
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:27 AM UTC
I sit in front of my dressers mirror,
Stare at the plain adequate girl staring back at me,
Is she enough?
Can she walk out this door and hold her head up high?
No.
And so I pull,
And tweak
And brush
And dry,
I look at the girl in the mirror again,
Her hair is done up,
Pretty and well kept,
But dead dry and limp because of damage,
And I can’t help but think it represents my inner self,
Though dead,
I look substantially better,
But is she enough?
This girl staring back at me?
Can she hold her head up high with the confidence of knowing what she wants?
No.
And so I apply base,
Concealer,
Try to fix my uneven complexion and blemishes,
Eye shadow,
Then eye liner,
Mascara,
Lipstick….
And again I stop to look at the girl,
She looks like women now,
As every feature is defined and highlighted,
Her complexion even,
Blemish free…
But is it enough,
This women staring back at me,
As the make up smudges and rubs off,
She’ll become the drab adequate girl underneath it all,
I can put on beautiful clothes,
Amazing jewellery,
But I remain the plain adequate girl that stares back at me,
With her sad eyes,
Set jaw,
Lips that barely ever quirk upwards with a hint of a smile,
That girl who’s cried so many eyeliner smudging tears,
That girl who fears,
Everything,
Everyone,
No matter how much I do,
To hide her away,
Keep her from the world,
No matter how many layers of,
‘Happy’,
I try to mask her with,
She will come out,
As my clothes grow rumpled,
My jewellery loses its shine,
Its glow,
As my hair turns grey,
My make up smudges,
I become her again,
And is she enough?
I stare at her long and hard,
I notice the high cheekbones,
The strong set features,
I realize this girl is only adequate,
Because she believes it,
Only plain because it’s all she’s ever been convinced to see,
With all her wear and tear,
She is beautiful.
And so I grab my make up remover,
Wipe away the mask suffocating me,
I shake my hair out to its full volume,
I remove the jewellery that’s cold against my warmth,
And I look at this plain adequate girl,
Not so plain and adequate anymore,
And I ask myself,
Is she enough?
Enough to face the world proudly as whom and what she is?
Is she?
Those sad eyes stare back at me with a new found spark,
Those set lips quirk up into a hint of a sly smile,
And she winks at me.
Yes.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
Life is not a game.
We are not all the same.
I am a minority.
Having a job is a priority.
Taken for granted by the majority.
You can make this world a better place.
Express a pleasant nice face.
Live each day live to the fullest.
Visualize a destiny, a wish.
That's how you will create it with a kiss.
My past i don't miss.
I have been cursed with the Devil's destiny.
It has ****** but not corrupted me.
My path to middle class success has been interrupted.
By unfortunate circumstances erupted.
All i need is full time work.
The fabric of times quirk.
Minimum wage will get me out of this cage.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
Blood on a show white landscape
Grace of the dancer in silk wrapping
She seduces, sleek and ornamental
Wearing a masterpiece of the sunset
Burnt orange and gold adorns her
My Geisha, my ultimate Queen
With eyes like the sea, she flows like water
She’ll break down my **** without exertion
With her sash of mahogany around her stomach
Binding back her heart and free will
Eventually I will cage this fluttering bird
Steal her and keep her in my guardian walls
With eyes averted she keeps the sake flowing
Giving me a quirk of lips before fleeing
A sigh escapes my wary body
Will my white dove ever follow me home..?
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
Ultimately, language will be replaced by subtleties.
The amplified magnitude of your true essence commingling amidst another's - unbounded and effortless.
Parallel perspectives - instinctive and raw
Each quark and quirk facing the void
Evoking recognition of confidence wrought amidst the entwined advent of your ability to manifest emergent and fresh.
Hewn vibrationally in the full spectrum of presence, we lightly upon wave form.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
She was a friend of Amber Clark
You know, you've met her before
She's the girl who listens secretly
To Bach behind the door
The Closet Classic ******
Who wears shirts of the Ramones
But listens to Rachmaninov
whenever she's alone
Jennifer McSweeney
known by all upon the street
She had kind words for everyone
She liked everyone she'd meet
She ate meals at Giannis
Knew the Pawnbroker, Old Cy
She listened to the bluesman
Whenever she came by
Like all the folks upon the street
Jennifer was dark
Not gothic, but you could say grey
She was set to make her mark
She was going to be famous
Her face upon the Silver Screen
She was going to be a movie star
Like The Truck Stop Beauty Queen
Jennifer loved movies
Not the ones that can be found
At the local dvd store
She liked the movies without sound
Her little quirk was that she
Liked the movies from the start
They told tales in black and white
These were strong in Jenni's heart
Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Fatty Arbuckle, and more
Zasu Pitts, Charlie Chase
They struck her to her core
L and H, The Keystone Kops
She loved to see them grapplin'
But none of these compared to her
deep love for Charlie Chaplin
The Cineplex would show a film
They would host a special week
When silent movies were the shows
When nobody did speak
Jennifer would take the time
To watch each film they showed
She was so happy when the week came round
She positively glowed
The kids she knew, all thought her odd
Because of what she liked
But, when the silent week was here
Jennifer was psyched
One year she went to the next town
To get a small tattoo
It was all done up in black and grey
It was what she had to do
Like other girls who have been inked
It was in the same place
But, it was little, very non descript
Of her favorite actors face
She told few friends about it
And though she never did get violent
If you laughed at her tattoo
Like Chaplin, she'd be silent
She kept it to herself most times
Her little bit of ink
As she aged she'd show it more
For the cost of just one drink
She would take them to her bedroom
And by the light of her small lamp
She would show her tattoo proudly
Chaplin....her little ***** stamp
It's the thing that she is known for
She's the girls with Charlie's face
Where others all have Chinese Words
She has Chaplin in this place
She is known for loving movies
In black and white, and though it's camp
She gives a whole new meaning to
Having a ***** stamp.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
depression
is not a boy with oceans for eyes kissing your scars and telling you that you are beautiful
it's not beautiful
it's foggy and tight and suffocating and heavy and exhausting and vast and quite possibly infinite and it ******* hurts so much and yet you can't feel anything and the whole world is in some sort of dense smog and nothing makes sense anymore and your head is constantly pounding each dull thud is another reason to pull the trigger it's being chained to your bed and crying for an hour when you finally have to get out from under the covers and face the world because the smog outside is blinding compared to the storm inside your head it's not being able to look your mother in the eye because you're afraid of what she'll see it's pulling and tugging at your soul it wants you it wants you dead it wants to drink up all you have it feeds on your sadness and your worry and your fear and it's having itself a proper ******* feast and it just keeps getting stronger and stronger and it laughs at you when you are far too weary to pick yourself up from the dirt it is the thing that kicks you just for the **** of it and it kicks you when you are down and when you are too tired to even cover your face you just let it hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt because the hurt is better than being numb and you are just so tired
depression
is not tragically beautiful
it's just tragic- no- it's pathetic
it's pathetic and disgusting and it's a miracle i've got any friends left
depression
is not a fashion accessory
it is not another quirk for you to add to your godforsaken twitter bio
it is real and it is pain and suffering in its most potent form
and i hope, for your sake, that the boy with the oceans for eyes that you dream of
will not kiss your scars
he will look at them and he will not feel sorry for you, he will not fall more in love with you, he will be angry
he will be angry that it hurt you
he will make you promise to never ever ever hurt yourself ever again
because you are a creature of this earth
and you deserve better
(and I do too.)
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
I used to think there was something
I dunno, attractive
about disorganization—
a scattered mind, having too many thoughts
to say at once, unable to focus on just
one thing because their attention is caught
by so many things they consider interesting
or insightful—I found it quirky, intriguing; a mystery
to be explored, a mind in need of dissecting
But it’s really more of a burden than
anything endearing, because it’s frustrating
to never feel like your words are correct
or your own, like you ripped them from a book
or only spit them for this poem
it’s disheartening to never be taken seriously
because of how frantically you lose track
of your subject and yourself
It’s shameful to be invaded because of this quirk,
but only for a short time
because the baggage is too heavy
and everybody’s hands are too full
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC