"rumpled" poems
I’ve finally stopped
writing
unrequited letters;
there were too many
wasted breaths
left unsent
Lapsing intentions
befallen on timeworn
tawny crumpled pages;
aging like spent flowers
in fading earth tones
and rumpled paper regrets
Multi-hued words uttered—
mummers of voiceless exhalations
spoken without a sound;
indelible spilled ink
left behind,
lays fallow for so long
A love once new, and
a growing silent ache—
a hungry heart
left for dead—Déjà vu
We leave a lot behind,
fallen leaves in unspoken ink
a restless soul laid bare
by a passing moment's
random gust;
atrophied
like unwritten poetry
stifled stillborn
in a wadded up paper lament
jesse stillwater ... July 2018
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Rumpled sheets
Stacked dishes
Heaped clothes
Agenda
Script
Novel
Novel
Novel
Slipping shoes on
Arriving almost
Staying after
Dedication
Perserverance
Optimism
Did anyone ask you?
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 2:13 PM UTC
What's this phenomenon called love,
That remains a puzzle no one can solve?
Love is the caveat for many broken hearts,
And the byword for many gracious acts.
Love has the characteristics of a witch
And the coldness of a vindictive *****
Love, the greatest of human emotions
Has many different variations.
The good book talks about agape love,
And Beyonce sings about drunken love.
Its nature nobody really understands
Yet men have worked with their hands and paid bride prices with cows.
Some have proposed to women at the super bowls.
And on talk shows, jumped on couches
leaving a few to walk on crutches.
Nobody knows love's true colors.
Yet many men have spent top dollars
To buy their women cars as gifts.
And later on, end up begging for lifts.
For love, Romeo committed suicide
And Juliet died right by his side.
Love is very irresistible
And unpredictable.
Love has many dimensions
and many complications.
For love, many people have died
And much more has lied.
For love, knots have been tied
many bank accounts emptied,
For love, wars have been fought
And many Diamond rings bought.
Love is a wrecking ball
I call it an emotional hall.
For love, tears have been shed
by many in their lonely beds.
Love is a mystery
But the reality in my poetry.
It's a kinda game in most men lives,
A game played behind their wives.
So what do we know about love?
Is it peaceful as caged doves
Or dangerous as wild wolves?
Is it contagious as a disease,
Or rumpled as a crease?
Is it blind like brother Steve,
Or silent as a grave?
Is it deep like the ocean,
and beautiful like Heaven?
Love can at times be as cold as ice
And at times, twice as nice!
IvanBrooksPoetry©️
21/8/2018
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
8.2k
You grew up
on the side of the road,
between sidewalk cracks,
in backyards full of
tall bahia grass,
pushing aside their
stems so you could
find the sky.
You grew up
beneath the sun
and out in the rain
and under every
booming thunderstorm
an Alabama summer
could throw your way.
Dogs ran through you.
Men, too, trampled you
but you sprung back up,
rumpled, but still bright,
unbowing, even when
they said you were just
a gangly **** that no
one would find beautiful.
(I found you beautiful,
because your face was
the sun, and I find it
everywhere.)
You grew up.
You had to grow up,
grew white and fragile
and one day the wind
came for you and
carried you away.
Fly far.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
this is not the path I wanted to go
this is not how I wanted us to grow
I’ve been down this path once before to know
this is the feeling of tumbling down a rabbit hole
what have I done
or rather, what have I let happen
I said I wanted us to stay pure please
please don’t push me down the rabbit hole I said
you don’t know how hard it was for me
to find my way out the first time
and you don’t know I haven’t been home since
haven’t smoothened out creases in this rumpled white dress
haven’t found how removing these stains work
and yet, here I am, again
you know, mud stains on this white lace seem fitting
you took my hand and led me down the aisle
an aisle I knew I’d walked before
I recognised the rotting leaves
the trees that seemed to wail “you should leave”
I knew soon we would arrive at the rabbit hole
I never pushed you away, only said please
white rabbit,
I should’ve known you were the white rabbit
entranced by pocket watches only counting hours
ticking off seconds and watching time closely
this is the hour you will take me by the hand
this is the minute I fall for you
this is the split second before I say “I do”
white dress, you chose this for me, white rabbit
just to see at the altar how I would look in white but sullied
“I still can’t believe how you look next to me,
just like a strip club bedroom scene”
we used to be so decent
mud stains, creases, the only things sincere about me right now
white rabbit, you knew the exact moment I would fall
down the rabbit hole
again
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
She's this insatiable urge
gaining on me,
like a herd of horses
galloping in the treachery of the wild,
their muscles brushed to a shine
rippling down their calves
to embrace the ground
beneath their ironed hooves
shaking it up, tormenting its calm,
whipping up tremors
that know no chains and travel far.
When she's around
dust and sweat break free
with muscles aching in symphony
the heart is all worked up
like a boiler room in heat
pummeling all of its adrenaline
in one fleeting indulgence
which the universe with all its hatcheries
is itching to contain
before the raging tides in
and floods my world.
She's the elusive horizon
used to passionate chases
and the sly azure lunging at it
for one sweet glimpse of the cleavage where it conjoins with the earth
looking for Elysium that never is.
Ah! But that is what it is
for the tamed to think of love
is an impossibility
for it grows in the wild
separated by a hundred chasms
and a million mazes
waiting for a fool to cross over.
When she isn't around
the rumpled sheets tell our story
for it has seen the storms
that raged in the cavernous nights
and filled up balmy noons
with the savagery of love
still crackling like embers of fire
which have seen better days,
and, light up still, with a death wish
to tell of our smouldering lives
that thrived in spasms of our last breath.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
Each night she pretends
a wholesome guy
will shuffle alongside
on the sidewalk and
gently bump her shoulder.
Wholesome guys are
good in the morning
like high-fiber granola,
and easy on the eyes
with rumpled curls
resting against
eyes void of blood lines.
A wholesome fellow
knows what he wants −
her.
Her wholesome guy is
adorned with blue denim
and passion spilling from
his crotch.
Her wholesome lover
lights candles on her birthday;
burns his way into her heart.
As they grow old together
she becomes his memory,
while his memories are sprinkled
with images
of her beauty.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
Just Like A Woman
You focus on the act,
The ridiculous derring-do,
Laughing at me
Cause I chased away
In my rumpled ******
The woodpecker that convulsed
Our house at 5:00 AM,
With a decorative pillow.
Focus on the results, says the
Results-oriented man.
Has Woody ever returned?
No and his fate is still unknown,
He may fly forever neath our trees,
But now he knows to stay away
From me and the risk of my pillowy pillory!
P.S. I may (or may not)
Choose to disclose
That upon my return
The house still shook,
From someone's uproarious, convulsed
Laughing at a city boys country heroics.
10:30am
June29 2013
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
A crumpled dress thrown like rags
upon the floor.
The hopeless, desperate appeal
of rumpled bed sheets, a fortress of
your own.
Waiting for a message in silence,
curled and surrounded by your
dismembered pieces.
The days when you shy away from
the light;
Wrapped in a wall of quiet,
except this isn’t calm.
It’s an unbearable weight,
marking impressions on your skin.
It’s a deep, roaring stillness;
gushing, rolling and sweeping around
everything you touch.
People can leer,
eyes prying to find what
little cracks you speak of.
But they are immune to what you feel,
layered beneath your skin;
what you see etched in coloured mixes,
painted brushstrokes making art around you;
what you hear and sense;
what you think, to yourself,
the countless visions and places you peek
behind doors unknown to them.
The freedom you alone shall know;
yet all the painful days to follow.
The brilliance you alone can seek;
yet the relentless torments you are to meet.
The feats of strength, russet desire and
hidden depths you could show;
yet all the nervous energy,
self conscious woe you show.
You can be the exhibit of both worlds.
You know what it is to feel the deep burn
of quiet pain inside,
yet the warmth of healing and the
fiery blaze of strength.
Be the exhibit you know you are.
Render even the most lonely and heartbreaking
of your moments beautiful.
Because they truly are.
You may feel broken, torn and ripped in places
you long forgot could be wounded.
You may feel empty, insides carved out for
another’s purposes.
You may feel bereft, lost, confused and vague,
feeling the frightening gaze of the unknown making you
their favourite puppet.
But burdens can be treasures.
Use them and invite people to your show.
Make them laugh, cry and grow.
Your burdens and treasures are necessary,
to be the exact person you are.
Without them there is numbing, nothing.
And you,
you can be more beautiful than that.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC
Once upon a time, there was me:
A simpleton of no account,
A dunderhead by word of mouth,
An addle-pate, a cracking crock,
A crazy who deserved a lock.
Not pretty, brainy, or well-bred,
Bespectacled, a short redhead
With hands too small and far too pink
Who’d trip or fall as soon as think.
Not many prospects, they declared
With such conviction I was scared.
But the cast was short one role,
The one who’d make the halfwit whole . . .
Once upon a time, there was you:
A lord of state, of high esteem,
The answer to each maiden’s dream,
A strong man, raven-haired, and tall?
No, not this person, not at all.
You had glasses just like me,
And freckles where your skin should be.
Your clothes were rumpled, torn and tattered
Not as though that even mattered:
You walked on set and came to me
You got down on one gawky knee
You took my pink hand in your red
And, as you fixed your glasses, said:
“I love your hands, your height, your hair,
I love you up, down, everywhere.
And I hesitate to ask you this . . .
But could I maybe have a kiss?”
And, for once, my tactless lips
Did not resort to stumbling slips;
I gave you one, I gave you two,
I gave every kiss I had to you.
Once upon a time, there was us:
Two simpletons of no repute
Two dunderheads whose names were moot:
Prince Not-So-Charming and his *****
And much as cynics tried to drench
The flames of addle-pated glee
I found in you and you in me,
As much as they enjoyed pretending,
They could not harm our happy ending.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 1:28 AM UTC
I tiptoe across the wooden floor avoiding all the creaks.
Moonlight streaming through open windows of a silent summer night,
casting shadows over rumpled sheets of a well-used king size bed.
I hear the water running in the bathroom across the hall,
grabbing clothing strewed around the room I move with ninja speed.
Hunting for the elusive pair of ******* I just can’t seem to find.
Forget it, time is almost running out, I need to leave before that door opens.
Rushing now I grab my stash and head for the front door,
lightly hopping, stealthily propping as I pull on piece by piece.
Last, my shoes, I grab as I unlock the front door,
grab my keys, leave the note and run out barefoot.
“It was fun, I had to run, see you again someday,”
get in my car, start the engine, drive, drive away.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
Will my heavenly wings be splendid
Will they sparkle like the dew?
Will they be rhinestones and pendants
In my halo all shiny and new?
Will my halo need adjusting
Or will it fit like a glove?
I better get my order in early
To the great shop up above.
Will they likely be tarnished
Smudged, dingy, or singed?
Soiled or possibly rumpled
Without and maybe within?
Might they be too heavy
Or even a little too tight?
I am hoping and I'm praying
They'll fit and be just right.
March 16 1993
2.4k
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
In the 2nd grade
a puppy love
crush on the
teacher steeped
deep in me
to my delight
her clear eyes
recognized the
promise of a
chubby boy
in all of his
quaint simplicity
her gentle
voice, friendly
and firm, filled
with caring instruction
the giddy class
attuned to her fresh
brunette bouffant, bunned
and perfectly coiffed,
speaking style and
youthful whimsy,
not a strand of hair
out of place
her svelte figure
flowed through
classroom isles
filling the space
with scented graces
of prescient carnations
that afternoon she
was abruptly called
from the class
when she returned
our beautiful princess
was sobbing
she concealed her face
then turned her back
on the class, crying
in a corner to dismayed
blushing blackboards
regaining composure
she turned
exposing her tear
stained cheeks
and dissheveled hair
to an unsettled class
“the President
hurt his back” she
announced. “He’s
in the hospital.”
Whoa… I thought,
the President hurt
his back. That's
terrible I surmised.
our beloved teacher
dismissed us
and resumed her
tearful grief
when I arrived home
my mother was
sitting on the bed
weeping. “President
Kennedy is dead”
she blared.
my mother’s rumpled
housecoat and
tousled hair flattered
her flowing tears and
anguished sobs.
the tears of women
marked the end
of many puppy loves that day
Bob Marley & The Wailers
No Woman No Cry
Oakland
10/15/13
jbm
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
Texas early night sky
nightstands
like deserted islands
next to rumpled bed
fake hibiscus in bloom
clipped onto curtains
favorite lip glosses
cradled in basket
on vanity sink
sparkly bead earrings
displayed in
see-through pockets
on stuffed closet door
silken blouse draped
on spare chair
awaiting an outing
candy wind hibiscus
sways in the breeze
a playground for lizards
my face
when I realize
you are looking at me
handsome man
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
The smell of life, roam the air
New life will flourish, in all its flair
Sky filled, with its bounty to bear
A bounty, for all, all to share
Rumpled old man, smiles at me, and continue his stare
Grey roll in, where sun, moon did stay
Young child and his dog, run home afrai
Mother and father, smile, nothing did they say
Thunder and lightning, kept me at bay
I’m so scared, why’re they all so gay
Water from heaven, my mind did race
Water it’s, it’s all over the place
Drops of rain, my sweat replace
Mother tried, to remove fear from my face
Rumpled old man, tomorrow, you’ll not recognize this place
Scared, I lay under my bed
Listening, to everything, everyone said
Even the passage of Noah, father read
How can this be, my dog hasn’t been fed
Scared, I fall asleep, under my bed
Dawn broke, to my surprise
Nothing came, from my thoughts of demise
I rush to the window, only to realize
Thunder and lightning, needed, for life to rise
Desert landscape, green, in front of my eyes
Dressed in pajamas, I run outside
My world turned, a carousel ride
I run, my dog aside
My foot slipped, I took a slide
Rumpled old man, laughs, with my every stride
Red, orange, yellow, turn as days passed
From where this bounty, so vast
I look at the old man, and ask
The answer, the desert landscape, only a mask
To see what you must, that’s your task.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
~~~
perhaps.
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery
leave that to the better ones.
cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming
the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.
these exteriors are comprehendable.
don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.
Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant
question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.
can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?
can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Late August mornings
The air is getting cold
Wake up, and pull me closer
The sun is rising slow
Slow, like a butterfly, when it lands on a blade of grass
Slow, like my eyes that open, once and then blink twice
There's no need to go faster, there's no need to rush
These late August mornings, lay still and enjoy life
Lay still and take it in; you're breathing, you're alive
Late August mornings
Feel lazy the whole day
Everything I planned to do
I might not do today
Today, life is perfect, no worries, no regrets
Today I plan to stay asleep and dream away the stress
I dream of pretty butterflies, of wind and scattered petals
These late August mornings, I get to feel alive
Sit there, and imagine, you're perfect, so is life
Late August mornings
Rays coming from the sun
Peeking through my window
Trying to wake me up
Wake me up from the perfect dreams inside my head
Wake me up so that I'll feel safe and sound again
Calm, and very happy, quiet all around
Outside I hear the crickets chirping, birds singing their sound
That moment is the reason I love this late summer month
Late August mornings
Coffee, rumpled sheets
Across the room, a pillowcase
Has landed by your feet
Feet that walked a hundred, a thousand million miles
Feet that carried you through everything you did in life
Nobody else will ever understand who you are, what you do
Nobody else will ever get what you had to go through
You stand there, please understand, you're who you need to be
Late August mornings
The breeze plays with my hair
The open window lets in light
With you, its cozy here
The way you said good morning, smiled and kissed my brow
The way you held me in your arms, I want to feel them now
Loved me unconditionally, but beauty has an end
I'm alone now, you're gone, I just have a head full of memories left
I wish you stayed for longer, but time came for you to go
Late August mornings
Like time came to a stop
I lay alone and think about
Nothing and everything
Everything I said, everything I didn't do
Nothing comes to mind of what I loved more than I, you
Not long ago, life was completely different
Changes will come and go, and you were one of them
You're gone now, and I miss you, a smile ghosts my lips
Late August mornings
It's time for me to go
Wish I could stay for longer
Sun came up long ago
Long time until I'll be able to do this all again
Long time until I'll be able to move on from this mess
But until next summer comes, I'll be here all alone
Until I close my eyes, and imagine you were never gone
Reality comes crashing, to imagine is a dream
Late August mornings
My bed is undisturbed
The sheets are straightened out
The floor has lost the pillowcase
The coffee cup is in the sink, the windows opened wide
The sun is up, the open blinds are letting in the light
Instead of lounging on the bed you can find me on the couch
Staring out the window, in my hands a cup of tea
Late August mornings...
They feel different without you; you are all I'd ever need
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
after the heat began to swell,
we’d never leave our bed
open windows, curtains yawning-the incoming breeze rose
goose-pimples on polka-dotted freckles
lying shirtless next to me,
our contours matched but gaped wide
because of the heat,
faded jeans cuffed
just above his ankles
the blinds flutter-a momentary brightening
flitting over the sheets, rumpled, creased
and tangled around bare limbs
His breathing deepened, and I fought heavy eyelids,
but after watching ants weave drunkenly
up and down the windowsill,
my eyelids won and
I slept.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 2:18 PM UTC
houses so close you can’t have sunlight without voyeurism
but how can one resist this air of night’s invigoration
her thick ankles can be seen through the lifted shade
next to the beer and rumpled magazines on her coffee table
it is 7:30, the kids are in bed, the husband, who knows?
it’s pull-tab night at the corner bar,
he likes that young girl who sells them
flicker, it feels good to sit down
how ironic that my long awaited silence feels so lonely
flicker, maybe if i bought that he would look at me again
flicker, do i even care anymore?
*** is more work than it’s worth sometimes
flicker, Jacque and Lisa keep me company, maybe
i DO want the deluxe faux ruby necklace and earing set
flicker, i wanted to be a ballerina when i was little
my god this house has awfully low ceilings
flicker, all this thinking is making me tired
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
a.) a crossed off to-do list
b.) crumpled toilet paper, used as a tissue
c.) white paper, rumpled but never used
d.) raisins
e.) sins
f.) a green plastic bottlecap, inscribed with the waves of a far away sea
g.) a mechanical pencil, out of lead
h.) a bobby pin, rendered useless due to short hair
i.) a small piece of string
j.) the small piece of my heart which contained affection for my father
k.) just kidding, that never existed
l.) the sleeves i cut off of a tshirt
m.) the heart i cut off of my sleeve
n.) a ****** poem about alcoholism
o.) the self loathing that weighed me down for nearly a year
p.) a list of the different gym classes available
q.) q tips, in the interest of alliteration
r.) one very old, very ***** sock
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
We met over 40 years ago. Floating buttocky halves
spooned into pastel fruit bowls, even drowned in
Del Monte syrup, love at first taste. Your flesh
a luminous hue, hovering on the border of cream
and August skies; your flavor pure as dreamed pleasure
grazing my waking tongue, a melting sweetness
streaming down my throat; your name, a single syllable
promising delight: pear, barely sound, mere parting of lips,
and hint of breath, apple-green p, the sweetest
diphthong ea, all the air in the world, closed in rounded rr‘d
finality. A perfect word, reducing your rumpled, pinnacled
self, to one gorgeous, Old English syllable: per.
Right now, six of you sit ripening on my windowsill.
A sky-blue towel shields bottoms against further bruising
from the wood even at birth you instinctively flee, hanging
off trees in swelling green-gold tears, yearning for earth,
or growing to maturity in bottled, olive-green light, your dying
breath suffusing aging liqueurs like the oldest I ever drank,
the summer I was 19, a century-old brandy served in snifters
the likes of which this working-class boy had never seen.
I tilted the giant crystal bowl; the fragrant liquid elongated
in mimicry of its remembered self and seeped into my mouth: a pear’s
ghost enveloped in flame lay down to rest on my tongue. We both
were saved, at least for that night. Pear. Look of women I love
but don’t lust after, I want to conjugate you: I pear, you pear,
we pear. Like raspberries, Mozart and love, for me, sufficient proof
of God’s existence. I trust you. Lead me by the tongue to heaven.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
Time is an old story teller,
he is all-knowing and all-seeing.
An old diner that sits in the west under an illuminated open sign,
holds the most twisted relationship there ever was.
Black coffee sits in an old ***** white mug,
false smiles highlight the masks of the two,
pastries gather together on an ugly dish.
Crumbs collect on their laps as they sit in their unhappiness.
Her skirt rumpled, his jeans creased,
her makeup smeared, his beard unshaven.
His wandering eyes, her lips turned towards the table,
their glumness leaves a distasteful air in the vacant restaurant.
Together they sit alone,
the rock clasped to her finger, a symbol of their struggle.
The man shudders in the cold, stands up, and walks away.
She does not follow.
Her coffee has become ice cold.
And yet the clock on the wall
just
keeps
ticking.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC