"sandboxes" poems
Sandbox giggles and seesaw chuckles
echo around the park.
Little ones pitter patter on tarmac and grass,
oblivious to their age.
All they know is the sun is shining
and they're going to feel like this forever.
Rubber throwing and hushed whispers
echo around the classroom.
Schoolkids adding and subtracting,
oblivious to their age.
All they know is that they hate math
and they're going to be an astronaut when they grow.
Cheesy pop songs and girly giggles
echo around a bedroom.
She's curling her friend's hair and smiling,
oblivious to her age.
All she knows is that Jake is a cutie
and she's going to marry him when she's 21.
Birthday wishes and _lots of love!_
echo around the dinner table.
He's having his first beer as an 18-year-old and loving it,
oblivious to his age.
All he knows is that he's going out tonight
and staying up till dawn.
Baby rattles and first words
echo around the house.
The baby is mumbling its first word,
oblivious to the meaning behind it.
All it knows is that its mummy is warm
and it's daddy smells nice.
Memories of sandboxes and summer nights
echo around their heads.
They're laying in a bed in a sanitary place,
oblivious to the current situation.
All they know is that their time is up,
but they had such fun whilst it lasted.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC
There's room for your every
Blade between my ribs.
I have a thousand other
Cheeks to turn when
You need to fling
Frustration from the channels
Of your heart's palms.
I can take all your punches.
I am a statue to your weathers.
I am the sound of handfulls of
Dirt and pebbles against an empty
Casket. I can take out my every
Nerve, my heart, my pain centre
And place it in a pocket; take it
All back out when you need to
Dillute your tears with mine
Over some matter that weighs
Heavy on the hearts of little
Girls playing with big boys; falling
From swings designed for
Denser bones and hands rough
From climbing. I am the teddy
Bear missing an eye and a limb,
Exposing stuffing through seams
Torn from being dragged over
Stairs and through sandboxes,
Always a thump behind little legs
That carry love for it, unequal to
Any.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:25 AM UTC
Yesterday you died and I bought lilies for you.
But wait, back up, this isn’t where it starts.
:
Last year I was in an airport and saw lilies
And fingers touching the petals and the stems
Like a lover
And I had never looked at lilies as lovely before.
No, this isn’t right, this is still not the beginning.
:
I think it began when I was just a kid and I saw
A smile for the first time
It wasn’t for anything serious,
I didn’t know what lilies were back then
I made daisy chains instead
I got ***** in sandboxes and didn’t understand
Romance films. Still don’t, but that’s by choice.
But no, let’s move forward, there is too much
To tell
:
There is a day in which you fry me bacon and eggs
There is a day in which I mix the colours and whites in the wash
And everything turns pink and we laugh
There is a day in which your car breaks down
And I drive you to work.
There are some hours we spend in front of the TV
There are some hours we spend walking in the park
There are some hours we argue and
There are some hours where we just smile as we read in silence, Together.
There is the time you buy me a ring
There is the time I buy two tickets to Morocco
There is the time in Morocco where we dance in a bazaar
There is the time I argue with your parents about refugee policy
There is the time we spend Christmas in a tent in Colorado
There is the time you tap my forehead
When I say something funny, when we’re drunk.
And then there is the time
I buy you lilies for no reason other than I saw someone
Touching them in an airport, and you cry
They’re your favourite you say and
Did you know, you say
They mean purity, in both Christianity and Buddhism?
That it was formed from the breast milk of Hera, or
In the case of the Easter Lily, the sweat of Christ? You say,
You should be a Tiger Lily –you’re belligerent enough, you say,
Lilies are ****** and lilies are pure and lilies are death
And these are Lilies of the Valley
For our second year of marriage.
:
I had no idea, but smiled anyway.
So now we can return to the end.
:
There is an accident
There is a hospital
There is waiting
There is laboured breathing
There are machines beeping
There are tears.
Then there is a funeral
And I can no longer give you lilies
Because you do not have hands I can touch
So I give them to a block of stone with
Your name on it, instead.
I adopt lilies as my favourite flower
So I can never forget.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 3:00 AM UTC
What’s this?
A relic from my childhood.
Long forgotten.
Memories spring forth from nowhere.
My imagination is brought forth front and center
And history is repeated
For me alone.
I watch the movie
Every emotion (such joy, such fury, such sadness)
I feel again with renewed vigor.
Cringing in childish embarrassment and smiling the way children do.
Every motive (children are really such fickle creatures; innocence isn’t something learned)
Is held dear again in my heart, overriding my ethic, my values.
My senses are overwhelmed with old, dusty film reels and stale popcorn.
I grip the armrests of my seat; I cannot take my eyes off.
I laugh at every cereal-box quality joke and cry over every scraped knee.
I even feel the relief and comfort the cartoon-character Band-aid brings.
Sandboxes and freshly cut grass.
Bright, warm sunlight and the rabbit hutch.
Vacations with Mom and Dad together.
The movie ends but lives on as I walk out of the theatre.
Like a tattoo on my shadow, it walks with me home.
All of this in a blink of an eye.
I remember.
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 9:32 PM UTC
We are monuments.
Every one of us.
I see before me,
men, women and children
and each one of us is a pillar
upon which entire worlds were built.
Too often do I find this innate sense of guilt,
that stems from not becoming
what we should have been.
I've seen opera singers sell their vocal chords
and take up vows of silence.
I've seen warriors give up the art of violence
and become holy men.
I suppose everything will fall in doubt,
now and then.
But we are pillars,
built to hold up things bigger than ourselves.
If any single one of us fails,
our whole house grows weaker.
This is the place we have been given,
to walk upon and live in.
Each one of it's valleys and peaks
and ditches and creeks
has heard the voice that speaks
of humanity.
Our impact upon this land is timeless.
Yet it seems that yesterday's graveyards,
will become today's sandboxes
until they are tomorrow's graveyards.
We are the pillars that hold up the sky,
we will all stand and we will all fall,
without really knowing why,
but the morale of every story
is hidden behind the words
like the forest behind the trees.
I know we all have memories
but these,
these are for you.
Even if all they ever do
is get you through this one day
then that have paved the way
for tomorrow.
That's all you can ask for, really,
is tomorrow.
One day, we will be denied.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
One might say I loved you.
Sandboxes and puppy paw print tires
is what I remember of you.
Long hot summers spent splashing knee deep in plastic pools.
Cold winters spend building forts,
bundled up so tightly we could spend hours out there.
I used to sit at your fence and have conversations with your dog,
convinced he was the only one who understood me.
King,
Of the backyard you were.
I,
was your queen.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 11:25 AM UTC
you were a ******* masterpiece;
a shattered hurricane
of broken hands
and ****** knuckles
and mascara stains
that never really washed out
so impeccably broken
so wonderfully flawed
you tore the ocean to shreds
you scattered the sand
and ripped apart the sunrise
like an old picasso lost in the basement
like that god **** whisper in the oven
like poetry written in broken bottles
and empty sandboxes
i guess i've always had a penchant
for a beautiful disaster
i've always touched the edge of the fire
and waited for my fingertips to burn
but i didn't mean to fall into the flame
now i've got ashes in my bones
and embers in my skin
and when i touch the fire
it just ******* freezes me
i didn't know what it was like to miss something
until i felt it in every single cell in body
i didn't know what it was like to miss something
until i didn't know how to feel anything else
we broke twilight in half
and crawled inside the empty space
and somehow it still doesn't feel like home
nothing feels like home without you anymore
i'm still ticking off the calendar backwards
for when i can finally count time
on my own hands again;
i want to count for you
but my fingers just don't bend that way
and i want to prove to you i mean it
i always meant it
but i can't make my knuckles turn past
the black and blue
i'm sorry i couldn't love you like you meant it
i'm sorry i couldn't make you believe it
i hope the roadkill in your driveway
at least makes it to the graveyard
since you never did lay me to rest
i hope your own dreams at least get a eulogy
even though god himself knows you don't deserve it
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
The Cumaean Sibyl was the priestess presiding over the Apollonian oracle at Cumae, a Greek colony located near Naples, Italy. The word sibyl comes (via Latin) from the ancient Greek word sibylla, meaning prophetess. (Wikipedia)
Songs of prophecy on oaken leaves
Unread; unclaimed; unrequested
Fly from out either of the many entrances
To her cave chambers.
She doesn't mind. Poet or prophet, the
Wind has hands greater than human;
Words without willing ears wrestle away
Without struggle.
Only they and the wind see the beauty
Of it. She? She doesn't mind.
Guide to the Underworld, she has greater
Things to meditate on than
The Infants of the Universe
In their insignificant sandboxes.
*Here; more poetry. Come who may,
To read.*
Who may.
Apollo's twisted payment for her
Pleasures: As many years of life as grains
Of sand in her hand.
But she forgot to ask for youth.
After a thousand years, only her voice is
Left, whispering: *Children, all will
Be well. It already is.*
It already is.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
Arise! Arise you hopeful young tadpoles.
Come forth ye mighty messengers of joy.
To arms my children... To Arms!
This be no game. Don't let it fool you..
Can't you see our trickster ? I know I can.
He's always smiling, eagerly baring his teeth,
flashing them for our prying, unsavoring eyes.
And we, we my friends, are staring dully onward
Blind to his sarcasm, blinded by our own vision.
Oh you young hopefuls.
Why do you trouble us with such ancient questions ?
Why are you not of the learned ?
All you were destined to do was shine and light up the night's sky..
Like earthly Orion's celestial belt.
Why must you burrow now ?
Arise you tender hatch-lings... break your eggs.
Can't you see how fragile your shell shields actually are ?
I know I can.
To arms my children! join me in oblivion.
The fray is but a ruse.
Fear is a coward's excuse.
Be swift of hand and light of heart.
Your minds are but sandboxes.
Were they not once empty ?
Before mighty Morphius visited our backyards;
they were all empty, barren and oh so hopeful.
Oh you mighty brother of Delight... It was your cruelty that dragged her down.
Down into delirium.
where she now giggles, cries, screams and gasps in symposium.
you broke her, although she may have been broken earlier.
Arise you miserable tadpoles. The land is warm and welcoming.
Its soil, sands and snow all ache for your budding legs.
Say No to vegetative awareness.
Say No to boredom's persistence.
Come forth you mighty messengers of joy.
Slip on your armor, this is going to be a rough ride.
Our home awaits.
And now allow me to light your bottoms on fire.
And launch you into space.
I won't stand for no crier.
And when you face your brothers; those ugly friars.
Those frogs.
These acclaimed humans, your so called kin and countrymen;
Do not hide your hatred; bury not your malice, but your sympathy.
So when you see their beady empty eyes and power hungry lashes and whip like tongues;
don't fret and don't seek to befriend them.
For their sweat is poison and they reek of cyanide.
Don't seek safety by joining them.
Arise my children and step into my light.
The cakes are all warm and today's sun is still bright.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 3:51 AM UTC
It all used to be really simple.
And I'm not talking about
Crayons and sandboxes simple.
I mean,
These people will take care of you,
And these people will love you,
Everything is familiar
And soothing
And unified
And simple.
I'm just a casualty of a war that happened miles away.
I'm not sure of any of the details.
And the aftermath is foggy as well.
I just don't know what happened.
Just that everyone is gone.
Every one who used to love and take care of me.
And who I loved and took care of.
I don't long for sandboxes and crayon simplicity.
Just a time where things were....
When we all were.....
When I knew what the **** was going on.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
No milquetoast kids dare summit jungle gyms
nor dream from monkey bars suspended
o’er perilous mulches, heads filled by the sanguine
rush of juvenile enthusiasm for garden hoses
bruised knees and peanut butter sandwiches;
Only august lad or lass may escape those sandboxes
to tumble into the cavernous ball pit of emancipation,
last dino bones dug up and whirling whispers
lost soon as spoken across merry-go-round envisioning
fantastic autumn nights that promised monsters
Forsaken mud pies dry and crack, no more edible
with juice box than without, hopscotching into
sportsball cartoon boom box jumprope Sunday songs
of Jesus midwest bedtime prayers, sincerest supplication
application for wellness heaven and bully protection
We seesaw through scraps of nostalgia, frolic
into slip-sliding wet hot summer drops to mask
messy tears, swimming defiantly away from repentance
but begging a little help from God to keep the rusty
swing set chains from breaking now as we push higher
Sure, it takes some work to build a playground right,
and what sign do we have it's safely been constructed?
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC
2 fitted sheets, stretched and tucked atop each
other. A nesting home for soft bugs with thousands
of legs, in which you cannot see.
Why does it smell like Michigan basement
bathrooms, and size 4 feet in turtle sandboxes.
Painted, chipped, salvageable wood only shows
it's gritty teeth in the day light.
leaking through shower curtain rings on
the makeshift curtains like pool water
through the cracks in your smiling eyes,
blue goggles, the ones that cover the nose.
the longer you listen to the silence,
the louder it gets.
or is that the sounds of fan blades
ripping through the indescribable texture of
the stale air you swim through each night.
You'd swear you experienced a sonic boom here,
the bull whip cracking from over pressure. or is it
under pressure? I always thought that pressure
weighed like pounds and tons. I still don't
know if that is wrong.
I won't remember the sound of your laugh,
or the way you smell, or the clothes you wore
when we met. Like a good poet should.
But I'll remember all the things we forgot
to do together. All the times we spoke but
got too high to listen.
High, like the time I told you I thought
the trees and the sun were making
strobe lights for our long drive into
October. Flashing light in the car windows,
as we drove down the open freeway.
It's easy to remember the world
was made for us, when we are
alone, here, in this room, together,
like we were before, and will be soon
once again.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:17 AM UTC
it's your turn.
go.
"in muddy footprints i see faces
that Picasso would have drawn,
in ***** floors and
unwashed dishes lay the lies
and promises i told myself
in backwards orders,
with misplaced eyes,
glasses,
mouths.
and now, my turn's arrived,
and i've nothing to confess!
point taken.
i don't know what it is.
it's Picasso in my mind.
Van Gogh: self-portrait.
missing parts,
misplaced parts,
misinterpretation of an education
too-well carried out.
dirt piles up and i play,
a little girl amused,
like when i learned about
maps,
navigation,
topography in sandboxes.
i was so much older than a little girl and yet i still belong in sandboxes!
there i can pretend to be
Picasso,
there i can call this
'art.'
and i can't call it art anywhere else
because it's not,
it's not artistic in the real world,
and there,
there exists no ideal.
only confusion.
but of another sort-
not the kid described on these pages.
my pages.
my turn?
i've not much to say, not
that would mean anything to you, anyway.
in cloudy visions i see
smoke
that Picasso could have
breathed,
in,
out,
breath.
in,
out,
smoke.
his smoke must have been
so full of art!
oh!
what is art!"
you'd get along here, just fine,
you're friendly enough,
i can tell.
"so it's my turn?
i wouldn't get along
anywhere, no,
i wouldn't last a day
without him,
but that's a different life.
a life so far away,
built like castles in sandboxes
on playgrounds that wish they were
the beach,
wish to hear the ocean,
wish to feel the waves,
and. yet.
that is art,
is it not?
beauty in the wishes
of personified concepts.
the life that lives in
another time,
(where do i belong?) but
i don't remember and
i
am so tired
of 'i'!
oh. no.
in shattered windows i see
accidents,
injuries,
deaths.
but some of it is beautiful.
you must think i'm
sick,
sadistic,
too influenced by art.
i assure you i won't cut off my ear but it's
very possible i'll dream in
figures
misaligned.
missing eyebrows,
misplaced lashes.
bifocals keep me from speaking clearly,
fogged with every exhalation of
smoke:
1920's Hollywood actresses,
mascara too thick,
lipstick too red,
cancer sticks between slender fingers.
tap.
ashes fall.
in ashes on linoleum floors,
flourescent lighting,
i see-
never mind.
you'll think i'm more dangerously sadistic
than is safe,
at this point.
i don't see anything at all,
no linoleum, non flourescents
to reflect your muddy footprints,
no Picasso faces this time around.
in muddy footprints i see...
faces misaligned, i see...
wheels in overdrive.
and you say i'll get along there,
'just fine'!
go.
it's your turn.
i hope i haven't scared you away.
there's not much time
before another day."
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
For three years she has moved me
Through the wonders of her eyes.
Flowing wells that glisten,
And beckon within.
Her sudden movements
Change direction
To challenge or outwit
With the wonder of her eyes.
Furtive corners in the waters
Of her eyes, looking out:
A blink, a wink or shying tear
Disturbs ripples in my mind.
My heart's flow rises
When she smiles:
She is the well-spring of my life
With the wonder of her eyes.
Her hands direct the steerage
Of her course.
Sandboxes swell and dip,
And change to wonderous seas.
Her real dimensions are
Refracted, movements and directions,
Then defracted from my sight.
Imagine, her young colours
Looking out
Through the wonders
Of her eyes.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
the saying quaint is memory
I am surprised i remembered it
six almost long decades
since I tried to tell myself to never forget
how the day is wonderfilled
we have sandboxes
beloved pets
steel toy cars and backyards
we explore like jungles
swings and naps
when life gets tiresome
amongst the sunrises and hours spent
getting acquainted
to this life
a sister who is nice
at times
and moms and dads
peaches and
cream
longings to grow up and see
everything
sidewalks leading to
we do not know where
just dream
they have sights unseen
deep down in the
grey of now the
hard to read story of those years
all are written down
archived
like bubblegum on a bedpost
sweetness of that first kiss
that recall
of days
that are so malleable
just don't forget
or get all old
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 5:16 AM UTC
*Time is relative.
It can yell. It can scream.
But it can't run backwards.*
It takes 8 minutes for the light from the sun to reach the earth,
And hundreds of thousands of this exact timeframe
for the sun's inexistent sound to permeate in permanence.
A solar explosion would annihilate the human force.
Everything we know would sublimate into a vacuumed space.
All knowledge of everything,
Vanished in a fiery apocalypse.
Death would arrive before it even happens.
So what is the purpose of life if death could already be here,
Eight minutes from this moment?
The time it takes to boil noodles,
Take a shower,
Eat a bowl of cereal,
Could be the last spoken,
Thought,
Performed part of everything.
How should I believe time is real,
Death is cheated,
God is listening,
When this minute could be my eighth?
I swing my chainless pocket watch and count each of my five hundred seconds.
And wonder if it would be simpler to exist where time doesn't.
But each child climbs higher on the playground's jungle gym,
Reaching for doctorates and dissertations,
Their watches not as precisely examined as my own.
No worry of things that are all too possible
In just a matter of time-
School shootings,
Asteroid strikes,
Uncontrollable plagues-
While my watch counts nanoseconds as it falls onto Earth's surface,
Their watches spin rampantly,
Drilling into their sandboxes.
I see this,
The same age I was years before,
And these children melt into wheel chairs and death beds alike,
Their children mourning their passing,
While their children's children,
Crippled with tears,
Hold the hands of their parents in desperation
for an agony so ripping.
And all the while I see the sun exhale its time.
The trees ignite,
the sidewalks smelt with the burning grass and buildings.
And just as I peer into the beyond,
My rusting pocket watch clinks with the sanded surface of this childhood play box.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC