"retrieves" poems
1508
You cannot make Remembrance grow
When it has lost its Root—
The tightening the Soil around
And setting it upright
Deceives perhaps the Universe
But not retrieves the Plant—
Real Memory, like Cedar Feet
Is shod with Adamant—
Nor can you cut Remembrance down
When it shall once have grown—
Its Iron Buds will sprout anew
However overthrown—
6.4k
Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.
Rushing,
mother and child ride along.
Greasy, ***** malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.
Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes
His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…
He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration
I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.
He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.
I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.
I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.
He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.
The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.
What do you do,
what can you do?
The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat."
It goes straight to my heart.
Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?
That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…
Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…
What can you do?
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC
A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the *** of vowels
Your poems explode in the mouth
like torrents of ***** on a night
full of zebras & bootheels
Your ghost still cruses the river-
fronts of midnight assignations
in a world of dead sailors carrying
armfuls of flowers in search of
your unmarked grave
Your body no sanctuary for bees,
Death was your lover in a rain of
broken obelisks & rotting orchids
In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat
I offer you the shadow of a double
profile,
two heads held together at the bridge
of the nose by a nail of *****
smoke
in the long night's dreaming
& memory of water poured between
glasses
In my mailbox I find a letter from
a dead man & know that for every
shadow given
one is taken away
Yet subtraction is only a special form of
addition and implies a world of hidden
intentions below a horizon of lips
thin as your fingernail sprouting
mysteries in the earth …
The ace of spades dealt from the bottom
of the deck severs the hand which
retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty
sewn together peer over a black lace fan
in the ****** sunlight of a Spanish
morning without horses
The Belt of Orion is loosened
before you as you remove the silver
fingerstalls from your mummy hands &
kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of
bitter diamonds.
(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps
for a lover.)
Peace to your soul
& to your empty shoes
in the dark closets of
kings with no feet!!!
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
balking, then walking into the suburban night,
I have escaped the TV, the PC, the clutter of memories
and the last two hanging, breasty incandescent bulbs in the galaxy,
soon to have their filaments burn out amid the indifference
of florescent pigtails and their infinite, incessant hum
I have escaped into this night
marching on, marching on
the sullied, sacred sidewalk squares
past the dentist’s house, past the woman whose husband was murdered
by his best friend over a case of beer, and had her eternal fifteen minutes on Dr. Phil
past the retired educator, past the woman who…hell I don’t know what she does--she drives a gold Avalon
and never retrieves her Sunday paper before noon
marching on, marching on
I count cadence, move as if I am headed
to another battle, and I am, but I won’t see my enemy tonight
he is yet on the black horizon, waiting for me, and you
marching on
when I pass the widow’s house a second time, a third (?) time
I smell her cigarettes and see the orange glow in her garage, like
a lonely firefly moving to and fro, in the universe she creates for it
before flicking it to her oil stained concrete graveyard, stomping it out
never to let it fly again, though by my next circle she will have birthed a new one
and given it a foul fickle journey of its own
marching on
a truck passes me on my final lap
its fumes mixing with the cool moonlight
I hold my breath, wanting neither lunar light
nor carbon monoxide for my evening repast
when I breathe again,
the scent of tacos soothes my olfactory,
I do not know its greasy origin in this dark place
nor do I care, but I inhale again more deeply
daring the odor to tease me again
and help me forget what
I escaped to find
marching on
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
XXVII
My own Beloved, who hast lifted me
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,
And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully
Shines out again, as all the angels see,
Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,
Who camest to me when the world was gone,
And I who looked for only God, found thee!
I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.
As one who stands in dewless asphodel
Looks backward on the tedious time he had
In the upper life,—so I, with bosom-swell,
Make witness, here, between the good and bad,
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.
2.9k
You see me Hurrying and scurrying
Gathering my food cautiously,
Looking around constantly worrying
Sneaking around precociously.
Weaving; bobbing, always dodging
Bushy tailed little scavenger I am,
So may despise me as I dwell in their lodging
But all I want is a home so don't give a dam.
Climbing my tree like a famous mountaineer
Old and young will wave or sit and say hello,
Quickly I think it's time to evacuate from here
The all clear I see and again on the ground I go.
Fluffy and Grey sometimes even Red
Speeding around among the leaves,
Time to nest and put my children to bed
Until once more the summer itself retrieves.
Grant Dickson 04/09/2017
This poem was inspired by a Squirrel
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
Just pebbles on a lonely shore.
Eroded by a constant ebb and flow.
Once were rough around the edges,
Quartz stones,embedded far within.
Bring forth the merman, who chips away with all his heart.
Only happens at midnight you know.
The merman, breaks the pebbles down, retrieves their gifts of crystalline dreams.
Requests permission from Neptune, the father of the seas.
To find a lonely mermaid, to be betrothed to him, so mer folk can continue, to ever live and breed.
Free to rave those wild seas.
In love, they breed on rugged beaches, discreetly out of eye -shot of the eyes of man and beast.
(C) Livvi
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
There has to be a way
To say
Whatever I may
Losing myself again and again
As the pain grows in my chest
Trying hard to restore my sane
But none retrieves,
To stop the pain
Tears give way to potholes
The depth unknown,
Hiding my face
With silent mourn
Beggy, sunken eyes call to you
None pay attention for
Some may just come along,
Asking for more
A drink or two is good enough
Thanking the bar when served at night
Counting my tears, bearing this love
Emotions, rise to fight
A guilt in my throat, struck my senses
To wake up from this hangover feel
Pleading myself in a hurry
I made death, a fine deal...
©sim
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:29 AM UTC
He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
Symphonies of unknown,
A mote of light piercing eerie night,
Through branches, where the moon retrieves.
An ancient tale with a spectral embrace.
Twisted trees whisper fear,
In shadows deep, where echoes leer.
Yet 'midst the darkness, beauty gleams,
A veiled, forgotten bride,
Once believed in happily ever after,
Remains in solitude in her own realm,
Wandering with her gown, her crown,
Waiting for a glimpse of hope, an unfulfilled oath,
A humble smile binds her to demise,
The beauty veiled behind the curtain of mist,
A haunting dance beneath the moonlight chandelier,
Untold grace remains in mystic trance.
Beneath the boughs, shadows weep,
A love unsought, a secret to keep.
Her spirit mourns in the lone kingdom of ruins,
A princess lost, in silence, adorns.
Oct 15, 2023
Oct 15, 2023 at 9:49 PM UTC
Achilles does not sleep.
Instead, he seeks the lover’s embrace and curved lips alongside which he went to war;
Those same that he did not find,
Once the dark mist had come swirling down over his eyes
And his soul went winging down to the House of Death,
with a soldier’s sigh of relief.
He had whispered in Charon’s ear, “Take me to him.”
Charon had rowed on, but held his silence.
By way of greeting, a thousand faces turned away,
And no trace of his beloved’s sweet smile as he disembarked, no warm hand to take his own.
“Patroklus,” he cries,
And goes unheard.
Thus; Achilles does not sleep.
He is Achilles; he does not wait.
He is Achilles; instead, he aches.
He is Achilles; instead, he searches.
Over the horizon, he chases Patroklus’ laugh and the turn of his wrist.
He lingers in all the shadowed corners of eternity,
Leafs through the pages of unforgiving, unyielding posterity,
Whispers “Patroklus, best of the Myrmidons” and sends his name through the winds.
The headstrong runner does not drag his feet as he scours the world,
As he chases ghosts across the face of the earth.
Restless, he is never still,
Knows that each step must carry him closer,
Knows that each ragged cry may be the one
That is finally answered,
Each rendition the wound to be finally salved.
He haunts, and is haunted.
‘I did not feel it,’ he thinks. 'It should have been as though Hektor’s pierced my side, in turn. Did they not say we were one?’
As if what he felt, when they told him, had not been enough.
(Scamander would disagree).
One day, smiling among the cypress, he will cease.
One day, the thousand faces turned away will melt to the one alone that within itself holds his heart.
One day, his greeting will be that sweet smile that he found only in the dawn.
One day, a warm hand will take his own, and the word with which his beloved left him will be the same as that which retrieves him:
'Ἀχιλλέυς.’
Until the day when his heart pours out golden,
Achilles will not sleep.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
Spring, cherished maiden ambivalent:
three parts rain, one part intemp'rate sun.
Show sympathy for clouded, rueful weather -
and let her weep 'til she, at last, is done
for there is no permanence in her grief.
She's winter's lover, moreso summer's child:
clutching daisy chains like bespoke rosaries,
new petalled life retrieves her golden smile.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
It's deeper than you think
Faster than you blink
Brighter than the day
Darker than the night.
Blurier than the rain
Sharper than a knife
Works in different ways
The result is always the same
It retrieves a new topic
For your time to drain
It repeats itself again
After a certain time frame
As much as it works
as much as it pains
You will never stop believing
In the decisions that it takes.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
trunks lit by lightning
trees drunk on rain, their roots loose
in saturated earth
rain falls from the canopy
long after the storm moves on
awake when the house goes down
he knows the power is out
drunk on sorrow
reddened eyes aching
naked and powerless
he pulls on yesterday’s clothes
air still thick with words
he finds a box of matches
dusty jugs of water
lights the gas burner
from dim memory retrieves
her wooden coffee grinder
grinding coffee gears him
to an old slow rhythm
his heart caught off guard
turning backwards in time
the scent of her grows
with every turn of the crank
a man with a steaming mug
in a pool of pale morning light
he wills himself into a world
familiar and dangerous
stares in silence at a small knot of life
green frog on rusty leaf
hauling himself up the road
away from the wreckage
he nods to neighbors
not yet trusting speech
hears what they’ve heard
anybody’s guess how long
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
The one who grieves
the fallen leaves
weary eyed, closing eaves
they are taken by thieves
The one who believes
the fallen leaves
are a past he never retrieves
interfering with the life he weaves
The one who perceives
the fallen leaves
as parts of him plucked off his sleeves
an unfolding he peeves
The one who achieves
to see fallen leaves
as past gifts one receives
for the growth that relieves
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 2:29 AM UTC
How vast and deep the oceans of my heart,
My story holds great storms in winds of revelation
And yet you still love me with open arms
A generous smile and very little hesitation
I would give my very soul if I could
Only learn to love the way you do
I would give in gently to your demands of truth
If you could stop trying to fight your way through
Into to the depths of ocean floors
The sleeping blackness that hides leviathan eyes
Holds monsters unknown of great despair
That the stormy waters can only disguise
A beautifully deadly creature
Moves with grace and ease
Holding to you with venomous words
That your open arms could never appease
I would use the clouds like devious cover
Moving in and out of your mind as a stealth
I would use the salty air that rusts my steely emotions
To ravage your emotional and mental health
This life has been a graveyard of great sunken vessels and ships
This is the place where they go to die beneath waters that eclipse
The stench of death carries to the predators of the waves
The darkness with its blackened eyes retrieves the souls it craves
Far beneath the waters brink of madness
I look up to the shimmering light that dances
If I could only breathe right now Like I do in your arms
I would let my love surface and take my chances
The emotions run deep in treacherous waters
Who can control the flowing tides?
If I used your affection to calm the imminent storms
Would you forgive me for the hate that it hides?
I built this ocean with tears of my past
And before I knew it, everything around me was sinking
I know you’re going to tell me you want me forever
And I know everything you don’t say, that you are thinking
I wish that I could love as openly as your arms are wide
I just don’t have what your heart and soul would require
I am destined to sail this ocean on the winds and waves
I can’t live within the boundaries of your heart’s desire
I was born with a taste for freedom and salty kisses on my lips
Your kisses as sweet as your arms are open, deserving much more
But my heart is as desolated and empty as this ghostly ship
That accidently washed up on your shore
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
Your hands caress my skin as if I am the most delicate of flowers,
and your mouth retrieves the nectar from within.
You consistently lock eyes with me and express your love so willingly.
That you are so determined to give sweet love to me.
That you promise to do what God intended passionately.
And with that, my temple is yours.
Every motion, every ****** validates this for me.
The rhythm we create arouses me.
You leave marks on the most obvious of places so the world knows you've explored my canvas like Columbus.
Navigating your way from my neck to my inner thigh.
Moments so divine that I still get chills like the coldest day of winter simply thinking of the time we've shared.
And for some reason, you hold my body like you'll never see me again.
Maybe because it's clear that there's someone else.
I know this because at the break of dawn, the only thing I feel with my eyes closed and my naked body buried underneath these sheets with your presence all over me is the warmth of your body disappearing.
Maybe it isn't love. I'll assume that it was never meant to be.
Even with the sweet nothings whispered in my ear and
the vivid memories of you fondling me.
Every single time, you quietly say that you have to go, apologize for the mess you made and you're sorry about leaving.
The ****** escapade you were dying to experience doesn't suffice.
The look in your eyes says enough.
My body you so desperately wanted to see has done no justice if you leave when the sun begins to rise.
I wonder when I will hear the creak from my bedroom door once more, and your heavy footsteps going across my floor.
I wonder if you'll be reminded of how vacant this space has been without you, and how much my body yearns for more rounds with yours.
Sure enough, the next night you realize it was time to start over.
Time to give you exactly what you need.
I guess I confused lust with love making.
21914
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
In a broken bond,
Uncontested disarray
Retrieves this love,
For which, neither convey.
In an unholy testimony,
Vows they bleed
Upon half-heart promises,
And lies we believed.
Contradictions and misconceptions
Are the sum of our demise.
He wallows in self-pity,
This comes as some surprise.
All of these truths
Hadn't long been subdued;
Yet he weeps incessantly,
As if he had no clue.
As if he had no chance,
No reason or rhyme.
As if I never told him,
As if he hadn't had the time.
Whites now blend
To blacks and blues.
Increasing injustice
Distinguished the two.
In this tainted love,
Sedation suggests-
Temporary comfort
While we fail this test.
Retrieving this love,
For which neither of us convey,
Our bond is broken-
Uncontested disarray.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
1:07 a.m.
wake up
shake
it's foreign
my legs are being clung to
i just want you to let go
it's a beg,
it's a cry for help
in the back of a black suburban
a scary place
where headlights are not used
a hand cannot be seen an inch in front of you
but somehow my body is found
and you invade
without permission
the words to shout
"Please stop"
3:34 a.m.
wake up
shake
sitting on the rotting dock
the cloth i wear
falling through
the salty rain
burns my cuts
lashed
the Norman in the yellow boots
and the white beard
retrieves my soul
he is not the gangster
who disturbed me before
4:56 a.m.
wake up
shake
powering into the church
stumbling over the invisible crutch
nothing more strange
it's a place i've rarely been
all eyes are on me
they know i am the spawn
of the heathen
but all i can do is cry
into the open arms of the church goers
and explain my long travels
and running away
the horrid torture that has reached my city
6:21 a.m.
wake up
shake
the white beat up car
holds a young mom
with her baby
who just stares at me with envy
as if i hadn't just been hurt like she
my parentals were called
and i was on my way out
something the young mom seemed
to have never seen
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
She's leaving soon
[Masked bandit runs onstage and stabs in heart, leaves]
And it's going to be excruciating for
The next month and a half
But there is no such thing as goodbye
Goodbye is, in truth
A word, a phrase that should have no place in this world
Seeing as all it does is transfer its dark tail to an
Unknowing and usually unwilling recipient
[Bandit returns, retrieves knife, leaves]
The vast majority of the masses would consent to labeling my ideas as
Idealistic.
Fine then, I suppose they could be thought of as such by people who consider
Them to be impossible, improbable, or merely unlikely
There is a rhythm to my thinking, however, to
Take a good thing and expand upon it, learn from it, live with it, grow
[Clowns dance across screen]
Until all the self-righteous fools and their cemented mindsets become old and
Sodden with unknown wealth
Intellect can only get one so far before one must understand that
Not everything will be understood
[Large dog chases tennis ball across field]
And to persist in questioning, in excess discovery is to eliminate the wonder
The beauty that persists in all things, or at least to
Diminish it
Keep the volume up
The love strong
The fire burning
Your heart sound
Your dreams huge
My will stone
My mind clear
Our lives intertwined
Our lives intertwined
[Sunset fades to black]
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 6:05 AM UTC
Seems Daunting.
Does it not?
External. Outside. No longer part of You.
The place where All and Nothing Exists.
Seems a tad...Relieving, now doesn't it?
It is Everything You once held True.
Feelings, Actions, Desires, and Conversations never spoken.
These things may not have been shared by two Intellectual Beings.
Some would say this makes them not Real.
In certain circumstances, they may be correct.
Yet, There exists a certain realm where they could have happened.
Had You Acted.
There is but this Time. This single ticking Clock.
Those Feelings,
That Every Desire.
Running through Your Mind.
Is Real.
Once Eclipsed Your Soul.
All is Moving,
Constantly Turning.
Each Action Bares Your Soul.
Is a Decision.
Follow True Hearts Content.
Rise and Be Free.
Exactly as it is Meant to Be.
Chances will Happen Again.
Bound to Come Around.
In passing Time some believe another life.
Exactly how much do we remain the same over these passing years? How far do our memories actually reconnect? How often do You remember childhood laughter; lessons? How many things does our subconscious actually hold on to; Guides us and Retrieves us from acting so wholly?
Each Individual possesses a Bound...
Their Universe.
Their Thoughts.
Their Energy.
Their Lives.
Are thoughts, once spoken
Not Ideas Shared?
Is Energy Not Felt?
Though Almost Incommunicable,
Instincts, Body, knows Truth.
Do Lives Not Collide?
In every passing Stranger.
Is the Chance to Become a Friend.
Each way
Eyes will turn.
Always reminded.
I am Not Alone.
Forever surrounded by other passing lives,
Another ticking clock.
Until the Face is Broken.
Until someone Extends a Favour.
July 9, 2014
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
My shirt today is a hand-me-down
from my grandmother
on my mother's side
who likely wore it better that I.
I can so easily picture her,
in the giant house on the coast of Maine with
flowerbeds and
the ocean and
seagulls hopping over the ashtray
that she and Grandpa share.
I can see her,
standing on the fluffy sheepskin rug
before a mirror (twice as tall as she and half the breadth of the room)
and reaching down
to the antique drawers below,
wincing at an ache not yet forgotten in the morning's pills
as she retrieves the shirt at random.
It's a pretty enough shirt-
white with thin black stripes
running horizontal most of the way up.
Sleeves hang to the elbows-
and hang they would off her palsied, wrinkled frame-
and the whole thing is thin,
light,
screaming "old lady."
I bet,
as she sat down alone at her dining room table,
eating her marmalade on an English muffin,
that she didn't slave over
the fact that she was wearing sweatpants
or the fact that she was wearing the same pink slippers
that she's had for twenty years.
I bet
that when her husband came down
for his toast with butter and raspberry jam,
they didn't speak a word,
that he didn't notice her shirt
(which is much like any other of her garments).
Was that the moment?
The moment she decided
that with her next letter she would send this shirt,
with a sticky note on it,
"For Abby."
Or was it later,
as she sat with a book she'd read a dozen times
(and was too old to see the print besides),
smoking a cigarette
and watching the tide recede?
Did this shirt walk
through the grocery store parking lot
in search of
laundry soap and 2% milk
when she chanced upon the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets
and thought of me?
I guess we'll never know.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
The wandering wind bangs your hair,
then the glossy hair sways into your visage.
you wipe it back but then
it still retrieves its vicinity,
you blew the breath from your nether lip
such that the lower jaw leading
and the obsessive arena exists,
the undulating hair gets back into the realm,
sensing the resonance of the breath.
Bumped into the wind anew it salvages,
the more you adjust it,
the more it ensues.
what is that?Is that the repercussions of love?
Is the hair smitten with you or
Is it the enamour of the wind or Is it both?
the latent expression of love from the nature,
so does my love....
let me the wandering wind that is winding into your hair...
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC