"regularity" poems
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,
And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.
The moon, too, abuses her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.
No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
53.9k
Why do poets always talk about the ocean's waves,
about their single file march to shore,
and yet never talk about my grandmother's farts,
which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal
regularity?
Are these poets too holy to comment on anything
less than nature's flashiest gestures?
Are we going to spend another millenia searching
for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls?
Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy's ****
and away from all that pretty stuff,
and hear that foul, muted trumpet sing,
marking the end of an era?
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
As one chosen by God, certain attributes
are demonstrated with loving regularity;
despite one’s beliefs, showing kindness
requires a daring of spiritual temerity.
For The Lord expects His children to give
Love towards people without expectations;
know that being tenderhearted, helps one
to naturally extend actions of compassion.
Don’t think lightly, about the richness
of kindness, it may one lead to repentance;
its warm embrace softens the heart, while
Salvation overrides Death’s life sentence.
The merit of kindness can’t be overstated;
being accepting, forgiving without judgment
means not rigidly imposing beliefs on others.
As His children, one should make investments
in the individualized development of others.
With the “Fruit of The Holy Spirit”, growth
and maturation can be properly accelerated
when applying by the principle of God’s oath
to “humbly walk in Love” (as He requires).
Kindness is patient, when paired with respect,
justice, long-suffering and unconditional Love;
the value of kindness, no one should neglect.
.
.
.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Eph 4:32; Gal 5:22-23; Heb 6:10; Rom 2:4;
Luke 6:35; Col 3:12; Prov 3:3; Mica 6:8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
Humanity has no support to duty
Both contrary in dealing and punctuality:
Non-the-less deny each claims still their validity
Former needs emotional skip where later regularity!
Humanity is a thing roundly soul concern
Fancies of many idles, despotic and obligated.
Estimate not to beautify active approach return;
Deserve aid remarkable quiet pleasing black arts.
Duty declares the deed must accomplish statutable,
Gratitude, greed and gratification are sub-judice here-of:
A crazy caution compel to foil inapplicable
Yonker's pride, old hand cultivated doctrinal of.
Certain condition humanity plays role of pre-eminence
Duty looks wanting help out of heels,
Depending on probation passion of sincerity convince,
Rejecting deep binder satisfactorily set aside exceeds.
If stands duty and humanity both together,
Glorifies the spirit immortal as His name
And also deal showing clean impersonality further,
None appeal to mercy could not dare blame.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
In the name of democracy
An entire state is terrorized
Decade after decade
Freedoms are curbed
Protests are brutally suppressed
People are brutally oppressed
Education is diluted
In the name of democracy
The Army turns from protector to oppressor
Every soldier marching past
With his head held high
Sounds the death knell
For every man, woman and child
In the name of democracy
Soldiers break into houses
Wielding their massive rifles
As if it is their birthright
As the peace and harmony within
Is replaced by abject terror
In the name of democracy
All morals are flung out of the window
As the women are *****
The men who challenge this unspeakable atrocity
Are swiftly silenced with bullets
As the children begin screaming in terror
They are molested, one by one
Until the trauma overcomes them
Such that, they lose their voices
They lose their minds
They lose their hearts
Meanwhile, the soldiers slip away quietly
Having completed a good day of work
In the name of democracy
In the name of democracy
India and Pakistan, warring for decades
Use Kashmir as a bait
As a means to satisfy
Their unquenchable thirst for power
As the potion simmers on
Fuelled by hate on both sides
Curfews and lockdowns follow with alarming regularity
Schools and colleges are shut down
Political organizations are banned
The Internet is crippled
Mobiles and landlines are killed
Even the most feeble of all protests
Is brutally quelled with bullets and grenades
In the name of democracy
Consent is dead and buried
As nationalism takes centre stage
The world watches on silently
Allowing India, the oppressors-in-chief
To reclaim the moral high ground
And suddenly proclaim themselves as saviours
Leaving the beleaguered Kashmiris no choice
But to bow to their captors
Their dreams of self-determination
Shattered ruthlessly in the course of a mad, mad day
In the name of democracy
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC
Wind swept
Wild places the grass it puts on a veritable orchestra of movement as it undulates to the power of the breeze that passes
Mountain meadows splashed with a profusion of flowers they jiggle as if there tickled about something or other
The crest of the hill bordered with trees sloping down the hill children are running reminiscent of Jack and Jill
This utopia of nature sets aside the hurly burly the curvature of the hills still the wind hold the sun just right you it invites
Cross these pasture lands the feeding ground of many cattle and sheep the pride of the farmer who keeps
Inexorably bound by breed and creed for centuries this way of life flourishes among these native grasses
Tender shoots these roots give of their riches the sun and rain gives them a time to reign with joy all reaps
Pleasure in the walk letting fingers glide over the heads of tall grasses the silent telling of harmony filled poise
Future generations will be brought to these shadowed grounds they too will by their lives express and know contentment
Hourly they hold in sod that has known the breath of time as it has passed time and time again it enlivens breaks fourth
Sturdy and resplendent it shows all its dependability the same respect settlers knew is found the builders of this continent
Long shadows grow upon earths shoulders she knows the good and the bad but through resilience remains unconquered
The distant mountain stands eternal guard, it affects rainfall, mutes the winds force guarantying a peaceful valley
Perpetuity is taught in this land tomorrows unfold from days gone by with regularity they build and keep the way open
Stewardship the blessed hope working in harmony with all that surrounds at days end this will be the final sum and tally
The herdsman knows the time he invests it well always with broad vision does he act in this wisdom all will be victorious
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:45 PM UTC
They once asked
If we looked forward
To trainings
Well I know
I do
On top of the
Cold regularity
That calms
On top of the countless
Hours endured
Under the sun
Like statues
There is one thing
I look forward
To
That is meeting
The lot of
You
Twice
A week
Two blessings
In five days
Of chaos
The seventh batch
The remaining five
Somehow
During those two
Or three
Hours of training
You guys somehow
Manage to take
All
That weight
Away
Introducing me
To new sound worlds
Teaching me
How to dance
Or just watching
And listening
To your amusing
Conversations
On all sorts of things
So
Open
Carefree
Not
Judgmental
No comparisons
And always
Each time
Each session
You'll never fail
To pull out
A genuine
Smile
Or
Laugh
From deep inside
This Abyss
One that cannot
Be contained
Or restrained
Or just simply
Watching the
Plain
Innocence
With all your kiddish
Knick-knacks
Just for a little while
It banishes
All that
Complexity
And through
All the gruelling camps
All the scoldings
All the punishments
The yelling
The pain
The standing
We still stuck through
You guys
May not know
How much it means
To me
To have such a platoon
Keeping me going
Through the tough times
When I really want
To give up
And give in
But just seeing
The five of us
Huddled together
In the smallest
Circle
Making small laughs
Small jokes
The complaints
The whining
It somehow makes things
Feel
Right
Pulling up that
Swinging end
Of the graph
Into a positive
Curve
At the end
Of the day
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
Inconclusive patterns
Form indented regularity
In flowing drifts
A panoply of tropical orchids
In my mind
A menaced distortion
Straining forward
Like an isolated image
In an old photograph album
Disclosing only the fragments
Of an insoluble puzzle
Its atmospherics of frequency
Disturbs me somewhat
It is identical to hidden speech
Or the resistance to time
Of exclamatory reminders
Of forward motion
That momentarily fascinates
Then falls through a hole
In a central vortex of vision
This is the architectonics
Of a thought
That can never be articulated
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
*feathers or snowflakes
nighttime,
unimportantly,
cannot differentiate
on the 16th floor
balcony
each an individualized n-vite
fall downy into down
of snow blankets of
freezing releasing cold comfort,
ice cream for the body entire
oh yes,
a sad one penned,
the nullity of his
throbbing everything,
sore tempted for quenching
by the soft permanence of white,
most tempting,
soft offering a laundering downy state
they say
see the good stuff
do,
but I* feel *the bad stuff
with heartbeat regularity,
temple pounding repetitive asking
what's the next best
and other naming questions
the way in is not
way out...
this hole I dug dark,
no hand holds, dank, elongated
this time
happy you,
brevity suits
for the downy fall
fleeting floating abrupt and
suggesting
wonderfully right-sided answers
to questions his names asks
where is the humble path,
where is shelter at long last..*.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
You got her from the tailors
All neatly wrapped in pink tissue
Plenty of pretty dresses
But he did not attend.
The phone calls appeared promising
In the beginning, even excited
But then it was always six o'clock
And inconvenient.
Loving can't be part-time
Need is a regularity
Not a hundred pouches of food
When you promised to be around.
Bluebell smiles in the silver bracelet
A trophy baby for a quiz night
And you can't move on
Because your lighter is broke.
And you can't see in the dark
Because your scared to death
Because no one knows
Bluebell wriggles her toes.
Love Grandma ***
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
There are times that I wish I was normal
That I could be care free, as average as anyone can be
Made within standards And regularity
As orthodox as the eyes of most can see
Statements boosting individuality Is easier said than done
For in life there's no such thing as black and white
One can't decide without thoughts to brew
Nor think of things only from other's shoe
The world we live in is nothing but a complex irony
A domino of things which differ and contradict in every rational
reason human beings knew
I can never be an option to think of nothing but you
You want to do something that in your heart you knew
But If that will cut ties with those dear to you
What will you do? Can that drive push through?
Will you throw your conscience and push?
I don't know what to do my heart is thrown in crude
Watching endless chains of sacrifices and disappointments in a loop
Even a libra can never weigh things through
Going back to square one not knowing what to do
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
Dear J,
Happiness is a relative thing, or so I've learned. There are different versions of it. Your happiness probably differs from mine, which is most likely the reason we don't talk anymore. Your happiness didn't mesh with my own, causing some friction that lit a fire, at first starting love but then flaming into contradiction. That's okay. Happiness being a relative thing keeps us all from enjoying too much of one thing.
You see, as humans we always expect that the people we love most share same interests and ideas and joys. However, this is wholly untrue. The most compatible couples have completely different opinions on what makes life better than others. This ensures that we have a wide variety of happinesses to choose from. If we were stuck with one our whole lives that happiness would eventually become nothing more than regularity. And that's another reason we became nothing more than acquaintances.
Our happiness became so norm that we abandoned it in hopes that a new joy would come along, taming the fire of contradiction. When nothing was directed our way we instead became bored. And that's also okay because a little boredom reawakens our old happinesses.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I hope you found your happiness. Whether that be the way the sun falls on her laughing mouth or the music you write or the poems you read, I really hope that they make you see what life can be about with this happiness in it. I loved you so much you became my happiness, and then you outgrew the position. Become someone else's happiness now.
Love, Claire
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
Soulful Migration
Dedicated to all whose names are only spoken from headstones and now flowers is the only representation of their sweet presence that use to be aromatic and change our moods and thoughts with precious regularity now we are left to recall their words from memories grand in a much sadder land
A stream of faces and lives collect in a desert pool man’s measure stands in the stature of those he
Knows life’s heat he assuages from this spring shadowed and cool the best medicine man knows is
Family and friends formidable are the mountains the arid land belongs to no man although Georgia O
Keefe revealed its hidden Burnished glory time is the relentless stalker youth falls before its will surly
The bugler stands at life’s sunset to play taps so life is ran this one thing I know he will play reveille at the
Eastern gate the hair has turned snowy white soon the soul will know freedom we who are left will
Celebrate and speak the truth of your nobility you placed in our soul’s steel and granite enough to defend
A kingdom the majesty of God declared your lives must be or all would be vain life can best be described
As grand theater the elderly are the stars and we are the understudy the divine architect designed the
Physical stage in perfect ascetic severity the symmetry is flawless no angles are hidden from view the
Cost to play on this stage is everything you have or ever hope to have the consequence is eternal the
Low and frivolous are denied any central part
Good by Uncle Floyd aunt Kate
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
you fall down, you have no choice but to get back up.
when you get back up, you lose something; a piece of your strength, energy, will... something. keeping on is not free.
you spent the day in bed. too exhausted to get up. you're so sick of bed. your body feels angry for being so still. you just didn't have it in you to move around today. this is fatigue. it isn't fair. in fact, it's cruel.
there is no feeling good anymore. there are what some poor souls refer to as "good pain days" which is just another way of saying
"I know what it's like to be in such bad pain that you want to die, and I'm just thankful today's pain was at least not the worst it has ever been"
you're on no kind of schedule. it'd be a blessing just to eat and sleep at normal times, with some regularity. you feel like crap all the time. you gain weight and lose muscle. you feel weak and heavy.
lie in bed. peace of bedtime is a foreign concept, your body aches to be comfortable, and you may doze off for 3 seconds before jerking awake by inconsiderate muscles that don't really care that you haven't had a solid hour of rest in 2 days.
pills are a blessing and a curse. relief and side effects. they allow you to rest and they mess with your brain. you'll get so sick of taking pills and you'll begin to hate them for needing them.
the very best you see in your future is surviving. that's what fibromyalgia is. your job is getting through the days of pain and exhaustion, the physical and mental detriments that come with it. your life is a fight, and you are so, so, so, so tired of fighting. you always, always, always feel you have no more fight left in you.
you're 21 years old and you fondly and bitterly remember a time (not too long ago) when you thought some things in life would just be givens; career, family, adventure, accomplishments.... health.
you're 21 years old and you learn that you get none of the above. you're too tired, you hurt too much, and this disease seems to only get worse... it seems to have taken everything from you
and then it takes some more.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:34 AM UTC
When I was 17
I wanted to be just like it.
A girl of the heedless, of a twisted wind
And lashing overstory.
Bold in choice eyes burning gallant
When I stood not alone
On screaming nights
In crowded habitation
Writing my future’s
Threatening tumult
Apart from regularity
Prerogative, accompanying grail
Withered leaves of change.
Left with nothing more,
But to turn them over.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 12:23 AM UTC
Innocent saucer eyes open wide,
Sweet budding lavender laughter.
We’ll all go down-
One by one.
Silence aggravates the wreckage
Of what I used to be.
Into an abyss of false love
I’m falling.
A love that is mistaken,
Shown in the form of tender kisses
In detested secret places-
On a moldy couch
Covered in cat hair.
The crippling angst of your fingertips
Against my cold youthful cheeks-
Tracing the outline of my fatty jaw.
Slow circles of smoke escape your chapped crusting lips,
As chunks of flesh turn to rotting hostility
Against ones own body-
The bitterness of the cold turns to sweet comfort
As a lovely numbness becomes my regularity,
And emotions and physicality become one
Persisting to disintegrate-
my soul has become
a boiling bubble of spoiled milk
With the putrid stench of pillaged skin-
The devastating devouring desecration
of a ravaged--
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
Shuttering in the in between.
Trying to search for some sort of normalcy.
Some place I'll never know.
Some place I've never been.
No sort of consistency has ever maintained me.
No established foundations.
No branching deep roots.
No part of me has any sort of regularity or normality.
It is how it has been, it is how it will always remain.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
An internal stutter
I see you again, for the first time.
The sting of reality’s slap
Makes my inside collapse.
You are here now –truth.
Did you ever have any feelings, --you probably never felt any
They have long since hit the road, if you did.
I think deep breaths will help clear my head.
Oh no.
I almost had forgotten,
But I am instantly reminded of
Just how heavily you have always worn that enchanting scent.
I say…
You say, “I don’t know”
I say…
You say, “I am home for some unfinished business.”
Suddenly a blossom of hope strains,
Trying to reach the ray of sunshine that your words send.
But instinctly I know,
Those memories I have
Need to remain
Faded from the pain,
Never to be fully visible again.
I have faltered --A slip that will cost me much.
This moment of internal turmoil lasted only for a blink,
No more.
Blink- you have already turned.
You introduce me to a girl --the New girl.
You don’t know yet that she has a lover on the side, (is that my place to step in?)
Like you did with me.
Blink. Stutter.
Why do you always do these things here --at my job?
These meetings happen over and over again.
Since that faithful day a couple of months ago…
You broke my heart in your first breath
Your second breath you asked me to be your bestest friend.
How cute.
Blink.Stutter.DeepBreathe.
Now you bring girls to me to rate, compare.
I told you then,
I couldn’t handle something like this,
Can’t you understand that I need to heal first?
(I have to heal first)
How did you retaliate?
You said, “You have been the longest one night stand of my life.”
Stutter. Blink. Stutter.
My world collapsed with your words.
Now, you come to me to flaunt your new flings,
To rate, compare?
Stutter. Blink. Stutter.
She casts me a devious glance,
She knows who I was --who I am.
You turn your back.
The girl is still trying to cling to your arm.
She will be thrown to the wayside soon.
I lay on the floor,
A puddle.
You never look back --you never would show that kind of weakness.
Acid rain corrodes everything
I have tried to rebuild.
You never look back.
My heartbeat staggers
Back to regularity.
But my backbone disintegrates
Leaving me in a heap.
If only, if only, the blackbird cries.
I used to be love struck.
Now I’m just ****** up.
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 7:12 PM UTC
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not
~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~
the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.
Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.
thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.
Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.
The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
I'm
Done
I simply
Refuse
To be
Pretty.
Cute, maybe
Adorable, sure
I could stand a shot at
Beauty.
But I will
Not
I repeat
Not
Conform to
Pretty.
It's surely
Nice to be
Pretty
But I'd rather
Take my
Sincerity
Or hilarity.
And I won't
Sacrifice my
Dignity for
Regularity.
Pretty faces are
For sale at a
Dime a dozen on
Our magazines
But I'm looking for
More than eyeliner
And lipstick
Guillotines.
I moved past
Pretty
Lost my shot at
Perfection
When I found a
Crack
In my gritty reflection.
Not to say I'm giving up
On my beauty intention
But woman cannot survive
On wardrobe interventions.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
The Seesaw Poem
A seesaw is a sorrowful thing, though inanimate.
I know it must have emotions deeply seated,
Though they do not show,
It rises upward and then drops downward repeatedly,
With monotonous regularity,
Upward, and downward, then upward once more,
It travels with no forward direction.
It hears the weeping children injured, when they fall,
And listens to the angry voices of their mothers and their fathers.
A see saw appears to be a simple plaything,
A board balanced upon a wedge of wood.
Sliding boards are thrilling;
There is joyous glee for a child upon a swing,
Carefree, gliding through the air.
There is no repose for a child upon a seesaw,
Who has no forward direction.
It raises acrophobiclally,
And falls downward towards hell.
Lacking motivation,
It rises upward, downward and upward again,
And descends towards hell.
There is more pleasure playing in a sand pile,
Where children bury their heads hiding from the world.
If you pass by a playground,
You shall always see children falling off of a see saw-
Can you hear these children crying?
Listen to their voices screaming out in fear,
As they rise upward without control,
And drop downward, downward, and downward towards hell...
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
-I notice I'm a single singularity destined to be single with some regularity
-what? well when broken down I'm not one to be broken down for your reality
-why? I'm a single Hispanic male that notes your wrinkled pale panic rather easily
-how? I'm not one to kiss and tell but your windows have a tell; ever so slightly
-when? when you fail to comprehend that all the stories that we said aligned so naturally
-where? in the only place that matter most but ignored for someone less otherworldly
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 1:18 AM UTC
The cab moved quietly
Beneath the street lamps
Pleather seats: torn, faded
There we sat, silent- content.
The driver, a portly man, hacked
Struggling, his breathing deepened
Panting, gasping to regain regularity
Quickly, his breath filled the
Confined, litter-shrouded,
Van with the stench of
Cheap cigar smoke
We arrived at her home
The driver approached slowly
Carefully avoiding the icy snow
Banked earlier by the cities plows
Sliding the van door open I step out
Still holding her hand, the night air
Enters my lungs, sobering me
Just for that brief instant
Hastily, she leans in
Without hesitation, I meet her
Ambitious advance, reciprocating
The kiss is brief; I’m no longer cold
Her lips are warm and soft against mine
Retreating, she smiles. I gently brush her hair
Behind her ear unveiling a dark brown eye
My glazed, drunk, stare meet hers
Her grin, now beginning to fade
She looks down in confusion
I sense the cab driver behind me
Growing impatient he lights a cigar
Before turning away she whispers night
Her hand lets go of mine; our fingers part
Complacent, tomorrow she will return to him
Revisiting that feigned, simulated, infatuation
The kind they falsely advertised as ‘love’
Standing alone, I’m cold once more
Keying in, she doesn’t look back
Reaching into my pocket
Scrounging for what cash is left
To the cab, I surrender my last five dollars
This pays just enough to get me where I stand
Dissatisfied with his tip, the driver departs cursing
Unsure what to make of the evening, I begin my walk
Now, not so sobering, the night air dries my throat
The chilled breeze that once blushed her cheeks
Now stings my nose, ears, and finger tips
Alone, I continue west- home
Cold, I have miles ahead
Spirit torn in twain
I walk them.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
I sit still and watch
With eyes sharp enough to cut
As the grey ocean foam
Crashes on the sea wall
Hundreds of black stones
All with difference and irregularity
Stacked layer upon layer upon layer
Now wet, but still greatly unwashed
I sit on the edge
And look down on my feet
I scrape the callouses on stone
The sea foam washes but doesn't clean
I watch as the ocean turns black
My feet kicks the relentless foam
The stone wall remains intact
So I crumble in its place
The sea drags me out
I drink the abysmal drink
I sway to the whims of a lonely moon
I crash on a wall of indifference and regularity
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC