"rink" poems
Friday means parties
Friday is coffee
Friday means shopping
Friday is a netflix date with her pillow
And
Blankey...
Friday means long car rides, blasting music with your friends hoping to maybe get that one kiss
Friday is the breakfast club, twisted with easy A with a pinch of 16 candles
Friday means the late night skating rink
Friday is a messy bun with her pink piggy slippers, bringing out those old ugly black glasses
Friday means tight jeans
Friday is a sweater that covers all the way down to her knees
Friday means short shorts and raves
Friday is popcorn on the couch alone (yes, alone)
Friday means selfies
Friday is just a quote
nothing more
Friday means friends
Friday can't even remember her last sleep over
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
i need it: the concrete floors
that send electricity through the soles of my shoes,
the ascent up stairs, cold metal under my palm
as lana sings to me and i give her my own words in return
and the pillars of my past rise up before me.
i need the now-familiar halls, the gleam of wood and glass
appropriately placed. i need the embrace of cold air,
heavy with home smells: vulcanized rubber, sweat,
fresh ice. i need my wall, my stairs, my home address: 112, 3, 12.
i need my family, related by blood and ice, by joy and frustration,
by elation and tears. i need the ceiling off its trusses,
the pitch black, the red lights, the resounding bass,
the cold and reverent silence as the bulbs sizzle back to life--
the opening face-off, teeth gritted, fists closed.
i need the smack of sticks against ice,
pucks stinging red pipes, blades scraping up snow,
the crunch of the boards, the red light and the deafening horn,
six thousand people erupting in screams, one entity,
every hand pointed to one end of the rink. i need the urge to
bite my nails, an adrenaline rush, i need to clock-watch,
i need to ***** and laugh and yell and grin, i need to
collapse and breathe when the buzzer sounds, three more points,
closer to the penrose, closer to the ncaa's--
i need hockey.
i need home.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey
sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms
side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****
sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others
********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others
sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty
sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
Silver blade makes me feel nice.
The only thing I trust.
As the blade slices through the ice.
The blade turns to rust.
Years and years.
Of practicing and falling.
Of sweat, blood and tears.
Sometimes all I want to do is play volley.
But I would rather skate.
Skating is my best friend.
I am never late.
I am in the rink until the day ends.
Skating.
Ice Skating.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
Dolphins talk,
The good old talk,
Wish they'd walk,
Love to talk,
the good old talk,
Like dolphins talk,
Talk and smile,
Swim, chat for a while,
What do they think?
Calm sea like a rink,
What do they talk?
When dolphins talk
the good old talk.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
I think I have control by now; I know
you want me to instruct you how to love.
I lack the tools for idleness; I go
crazy when you weigh yourself above
me. I know you’re in the rink – I know you are!
It’s just my paranoia’s acting out,
and then I call you twice and go too far,
that’s just a macho, jealous, loving bout.
But still you love my fighting tender thoughts,
and look in our shared corner when you’re scared.
But then the jitters, stomach ties in knots.
No gloves came out each time an old love stared.
I do not care for who you used to love,
keep razor blades tucked in my boxing gloves.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
looking out your window
sun kissed hair in my eyes
watching while the wind blows
through the cloudless skies
thinking of our first date
you, in that red plaid shirt
I was so ****** nervous
doesn't mean it wasn't great
the way our legs entwine in bed
there's nothing I want instead
everything feels warm in here
nothing else could ever compare
or that Friday night at the rink
I slipped and scraped my knee
but when I see the scar I smile
because it jogs my memory
walking through the forest all day
sharing with you my happy place
the trees and leaves outside are bare
but not my heart that's yours to take
the way our souls entwine in bed
there's nothing I'll ever want instead
the safest place for me is here
nothing else could ever compare
that Charleston week was when I fell
completely like a southern bell
for the perfect guy I'll ever see
you're everything in this world to me
the fire in your solar eclipse eyes
is something I can't live without
this crazy world is upside down
but all I need is you around
we elevate each other right
the universal beat of life
never felt so high up here
nothing else could ever compare
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
You're so beautiful darling,
your words can move mountains even when you think
they can't touch an anthill.
You are a rebel with a cause and the cause is me.
You are Janis Joplin in the evening, without the ******
"Darling, I love you"
"I love you, darling" and there was no need to say "too"
Three words were enough to throw a curveball in a hockey rink,
to ride horses in a car race, to love someone at night
and even more in the morning.
You are an earthquake, I know you'll break my heart but I welcome it.
It would be such an honor to be broken by you.
You are my guilty pleasure and all of my proud ones.
I want to tattoo you on my skin in places only I can see
so that every time I take off my sweater and my tshirt and everything
masking my scars and tree rings of age, I will always be surprised to find you.
I want to hold you in the crevice of my elbow like a baby and never ever let you go.
Darling, you're a willow tree that I write poems under.
In the most poetic way, I found you in hallways, always.
In my high school where I hid in the bathrooms, Jane loves John
and everything else scribbled in hearts in bad ninth grade writing.
I found you there. I find you here, in my heart.
You are filled with blood, you are 72% water that I would gladly drown in.
I think if I kissed you you'd poison me with your lips.
You are the forked tongue of desire.
I want to talk to you about dreams, I want to be your sweetest nightmare.
I don't want you to question reality but if you do, think you're lucid dreaming.
Because I want you to want me around; even when you're sleeping.
You are 2am with the lights on and the music loud.
You are a five hour time difference dancing inside of me like a storm.
If my knees wouldn't give out, I would run to you.
And when they did, I would crawl to you.
My hands scraped from debris from car crashes, you are electric.
You are heat lightning. You give me flashes of hope on a humid day.
You are a winter breeze through a cracked window in all of the glorious ways that could be glorious.
I will whisper to you that I don't know why I'm whispering,
there is nobody home, "I love you" sounds better in hushed tones.
You're so beautiful, Darling.
The prettiest pictures you'll ever take will be self-portraits.
Don't argue with me, I know you're stubborn.
It's written in the stars.
You can move me like a mountain or an anthill
because your strength is a blood diamond permanently placed on my left hand.
I did, I do, I will.
You are forever.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
jeweltoned and silent figeating fidgeting
mayqueens of vienna:
morituri te
salutant.
cupidfresh bruises on your thighs brought to you by
johnson &
johnson a family company amen they will do right by
you.
honeyed dew sticks to
morning eyelids (sugarwater my eyelashes
hummingbird tongues)—
vague rifle form at constant alert
attn. california capricorns:
your winterspeak eludes me yet.
lighteyed candle-holders and
coffeeringed eyes tell me
all I have ever needed to know about
yelling fire in an ice
skating rink
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
Hello Poetry is a blue place this calendar year
for we have seen many a good poet disappear
their inspiring words not around to delight in
of this expression the site is somewhat thin
Hello Poetry has experienced a considerable loss
gone all of that imagery so beautiful in gloss
the colors they deftly painted faded as they left
which makes the heart feel palpably bereft
Hello Poetry members those of excellent ink
missing from our writing fellowship's rink
we'll not forget the contribution they made
as each one of them showed the finest parade
Hello Poetry our brothers and sisters of the quill
departed us with yet more stanzas to spill
their individual styles we'll not sight again
truly a thought which is so downcast of refrain
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 5:12 AM UTC
Shackled hands and bowed heads,
Screams of those who slowly bled.
In the middle, laughing in cold demise,
Fuelled by all those howling cries,
Stood a man with heart black as ink,
Pain and sorrow made his rink.
A little girl, with a golden smile.
Her father was her eternal mile.
Love of a mother, stolen by ink,
Tears flew from every blink.
Stolen away was her father too,
Truly hidden in the blue.
An oath of revenge, sliced the night.
In search of ink went, her eyes bright.
The pen of life replaced by a sword,
In front the inkheart known to hoard.
Slice, the sword cut through his heart,
And charred black ink stained the dart.
No one with an ink black soul,
Can live for long in galore.
Slowly Karma takes its place,
And no human can create a brace.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
The ice skating rink
The Rockefeller tree
Cielo on Thursday night in NYC,
The holidays, Christmas
New Years Eve,
The Orange bowl
Church
My baptism
Two months and twenty nine days of memories
I am left with these
And you?
Happy without me.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
The dark winter sky was draped with stars whose dainty shimmer
mimicked the sprinkle of snow
caught up in the crisp winter breeze.
The white flakes winked as they came to rest upon a silent sheet of ice,
accumulating on the sleek surface until abruptly–
a clatter of loud and excited voices interrupted.
Skates slashed and
sticks crashed onto the cold, hard ice.
A black puck cascaded haphazardly across the rink, bombarding the once settled snow.
Chunks of ice catapulted recklessly,
the smell of sweat rose relentlessly into the wind.
Furious and frozen wisps of breathe were choked,
as bitter cold filled eager lungs.
The ruthless weather, however, could scarcely graze the laughing dimples on rosy cheeks.
But just as hastily the clatter was silenced,
the commotion halted.
Footprints crunched softly away, their noise secretly swept away
by the sprinkle of snow
caught up in the crisp winter breeze.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
Aine sits in our big chair,
Her legs stretched out,
Her feet are bare;
I'm counting ten wee toes for her,
Toes I love so dear.
They lead her from the crib to stairs,
Though never far from loving care;
Those ten wee toes we love so dear,
Will take her far,
Will lead her there.
They'll get ***** in the garden
While laughing in the rain;
They'll be her fins
When she swims,
They'll wiggle
When she sings.
They'll tap out eighths and quarters
When she plays her songs;
She'll slip them into runners
For a race to last life-long.
They'll get cold on the rink
When she plays our game;
We'll rub those toes quite vigorously
To warm the ice-cold sting.
They'll fit right into heels and pumps
When she plays her game;
But for me those liddle toes of hers
Will always be the same.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
In the vacuum of that kiss,
Those hugs
At all the terminals
Of farewells.
In that void
What you be to me,
Lost in traducción,
Is transformed
In adiós.
Our bond
Of foods
And looks.
Smiles and rubs.
Is gone.
You're not in my day,
I don't wait for you on Sundays
I don't think of you
Dancing
At the rink,
At the club,
In my arms.
Entre emociones
Divididas
No te hagas responsable
De las mías,
Demasiada empatía
Es peligrosa.
Aug 5, 2022
Aug 5, 2022 at 4:08 PM UTC
We sat outside the coffee shop
next to a fire,
watching the sun set behind decrepit buildings.
I lamented over the lack of a roller rink in the area,
reflecting on memories of wobbling around in circles
with dizzying lights and blaring speakers
ejecting Pink, Daft Punk, and Eiffel 65 onto my critical youth.
I felt like a king.
We finished our smoothies and retreated
to an empty hotel parking lot,
where I taught her to skateboard.
One foot over the front bolts,
the back foot over two of the back bolts
but resting over the tail,
kick, push,
it's in the ***** of your feet--
weight distribution.
Tic, tac, scrape, thud--
she falls repeatedly
and gets back up.
I admire her resilience and perpetual smile--
This is what skateboarding is all about.
We roll around the hotel parking lot,
our endpoints being a lone luminescent lamppost
and a telephone pole beleaguered by a plot of shrubbery
that demarcates itself from the pavement.
We circle around the poles for hours,
forming an imaginary oblong track between the two,
our laughs carrying into the cool summer night lullaby
that sang the drowsy small town to sleep.
The fading throb of the wedding reception
at the bottom of the town square by the wharf,
carrying over to us.
The stores closed up hours ago,
silent empty windows reflecting the lonely streetlights
and our ambulance back at us.
We skated on unperturbed into the night hour.
A man walks outside the hotel
to have a cigarette on the sidewalk--
I imagine he is watching us and admiring our glee.
Rolling between this telephone pole and lamppost,
the glare and reflection of the empty silent windows,
the soundtrack singing above our heads,
our laughs, and the tic-tac of skateboards
and groaning of wheels over stubborn pavement
bringing my melancholic reverie to a halt,
recognizing and understanding happiness in the present moment--
This is my roller rink.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
just look at the overgrown flood in the field
that was an ice skate rink
it's for the kids to skate but they won't
skate they'll pout and shoot is what
who the **** ice skates I have a tiny
pistol I stole and I want your wallet
I walk past the sad sodden ice rink
a cold flood in a forgotten field
where children would skate but now
they can only lurk
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 7:23 PM UTC
Lost in the club on the way to the bathroom
American dreamless, existed in a vacuum
Every day, another way for us to consume
Raids on the senses, a general consensus
of the senseless, reprehensible amendments
The armaments by the tenements, diffused
Confused, never used, lonely in the fugue
And you
You who assume, presume, eschew the ruin
of the brewing times, rising tides, the lies
and of ties that bind - us to the times
and to meaningless rhymes
By illuminated rooms when the eye blinks
Think, blink, the pink rink - closed
By the hours that be, powers that see
Subversive naturalism
in a state of debate, compensate the reckless
Feckless and dick-less, compost of the senses
The sexes have wrecked us, ****** of the spectrum
By your septum reset them, mind wiped
Iconic lights gone
The new light's on
Right on
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
falling in love with you was kind of like
putting on ice skates for the first time
even before I stepped on the ice, there was
all this tension coiling up in my stomach like a nesting cobra
there’s this momentary joy when put my foot into the rink
the unity, the coolness,
for a second I feel graceful, I feel poised
for a fleeting moment I am beautiful
I gain in confidence and I am gliding like I’ve been doing this my whole life (which I haven’t)
or at least pretending as though I know what I’m doing.
I leap in the air, like a black&white; photograph
I am suspended, a trapeze artist swinging through space
Time has stopped and there is nothing
but the beating of my heart,
and I laugh and laugh at the absurdity of it all.
but there’s always that moment
inevitable, inexorable
as gravity sends me crashing to my knees, wincing
each time, it gets a little harder to put the skates back on
and try again.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
I went down to town's center looking for you.
but a mouth full of anger blocked my view.
he took your hand there in the skating rink.
god will give him blood to drink.
saw the two of you leaving.
I didn't want to follow behind.
but I could see the rest of your evening,
burning in my mind.
the sky's black. the moon's pink.
god will give him blood to drink.
I looked over the railing. ice was white
on the northeast side where I saw you and your boyfriend
on a friday night.
I went mining for gold. I struck pure, fresh zinc.
god, god will give him blood to drink.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
It’s all a bit of a dream
Don’t you think?
Nothing’s ever certain
And once you know something
It’s all crystal clear
But just wait, soon
You’ll begin to question, wonder
Possibly forget
And be back at square one
So what should you build from there?
Well
I have a house
That’s a **** good place to start
Cement goes into the cauldron
Goopy soupy and delicious
It bubbles of beginnings, and permanence
As it boils and squeals in the background of the world that surrounds
Me, I drift off into space
Who knew a few random fumes could get you high!
I see a dancer
A girl in bright blue torn tights, with a boy next to her,
and a friend
She’s a good student
But
She gets terrible grades
And there’re flowers all over her bed
You could call her a bumblebee the way she wraps her self
In them and inhales
Softly
She never cries
Well not that often
And when she does she regrets it
Things aren’t too serious with her
Depression, adhd, death available,
Verbs and adjectives far too strong
She can taste manipulation
People throw things around in her world,
And she’s been programmed to throw back
It hurts
With each hit her opponent brings to the rink
She often wonders if it’s all that bad. Tough, in a lonely sort of way
But every now and then
A breeze rolls on by
With a window
Always open
Honey, black tea, paper
Blurrrr
And it’s back to the grey soup of the day
But the spoons getting harder and harder to stir
Time’s running out
What is there that could possibly change?
A few things unlock this path… but which one should I choose?
No sé
No sé no sé
No sé
I should be me…
But honestly
Who am I?
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 4:48 AM UTC
Her Diamond Mind
Rests in Pure Carbon Mine
Shining Fluorescence
Never left her with obsolescence
Light refraction
Quite the distraction
Ice rink on her finger
A monetary stinger
Gem best friend
How much did he spend?
Frozen Pond reflection
of the hardest affection
Ice rock speaks to only her
Don't be a gem amateur
Clear crystal quartz won't do Sir
with its dim blurr
Follow the four C's
Scintillation gleams
Cut determines its prism
At first sight brings hypnotism
Color - a rainbow brilliance
Smiles with each glance
More clarity for radiance
All eyes may be romanced
Be prepared for a trance
Carat weight
Might be the bait
Year after year
Continual glimmer
With every light flicker
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
My mother used to tell me of her dreams of being a figure skater. She made sure to start my brother and I early, so as soon as I could walk, I was on the ice. I wasn't bad... Nothing special, but potential was all I needed. I remember watching the big girls in their pretty, sparkly costumes jump and twist. I remember saying to myself "I wanna be like that." Sunday mornings flew by, each one becoming harder and harder, and soon I was offered a private instructor. At this point my mother had given me the choice to continue. Ten years old and well aware of my strengths and weeknesses, I quit. I wanted to go shopping on Sundays. I wanted to have play dates and eat ice cream. I didn't want to spend it in that freezing cold arena, working on something that I may or may not be good at. So I quit. Gave up.
Occasionally I miss it and go back to that arena. I put on the bright, white 'big girl' skates that I used to look forward to growing into. Doing laps around the rink, I try to recall what I'd once known... Crossover, jump, spin, turn. Not as grand as they used to be...
I see the little girls in the middle, they look about ten. They wear pretty little costumes and shiny white skates as they hop, spin, crossover, jump, effortlessly.
I wonder about where I'd be if I'd continued...
One of the girls falls out of her spin and lays there helplessly on the ice. She looks as if she's going to try again, but her face reads: I want to quit.
She sighs and stands up. I skate over and tap her on the shoulder.
"Don't give up. I promise, you'll regret it."
I hop off of the ice and compare what I could've been to what I am.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
We blossomed in the hot brilliance of discovery and the deep cold of grief, eating social norms alive, tracing deathly hallows in dusty window panes, standing chins-up eyes-shut arms-out in that flood of September sun, calling ourselves wild, because we were.
Beautiful days, I remember. Days of soft. Days of blueness and falling leaves. Days of numb fingers scrabbling with ice skate laces and racing each other onto the rink. Days of studying our fears. Days of madness. Days of converse sneakers and combat boots and teasing height comparisons. Days of mutual insanity, sleeplessness, midnight conversations. Days of standing shoulder to shoulder. Days of unspoken things traversing the silence between us, a communication entirely our own. Days of laughter up to our waists. Days of belonging. Days of young.
You’ve asked me many times, dear, if there’s anything you can do for me. I always say no, but there’s something this time, and it’s this, just this. One small act.
Don’t forget.
Years from now, when everything is different, keep this in you, alive. A second heartbeat. For me. Please.
Don’t forget our days.
Don’t forget how we felt.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Round and round,
a flash in fluid motion,
in the desolate ice rink
she skates and dances
embracing freedom,
my sense of time
shrinks and expands
at her own sweet will
the fiery flight of an angel,
it's spirit hits her lover's heart
but only tickles and explodes
in a rain of bright love signs.
I've been watching this
breath taking phenomenon,
without batting an eyelid,
how long, I lost all estimates,
my sins go up in smoke
when my heart,is up in flight,
benediction is the result
of watching her write poetry thus.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC