"scrapbooks" poems
She saw the world through a camera lens
And that's just how it was
With filters and Glares from strangers
Who didn't feel the sun
She took photos of the rain
And dewdrops on the grass
Of smiling warm faces
And things that were just crass
She dreamt of her pictures
Under bylines and over books
Her documents of others
Filled with stills that could speak words
She took pictures of her girl
Who was black and blue in depth
Who wanted to be colored
But her filter shown red
She captured her in pain
And in her rare bright smiles
She told her that things
"Just take a while"
She made portfolios and scrapbooks
Of their adventures and their muse
She never knew that her girl would take her life
At a quarter after two
She cried and cried weeks to days
Until the tears just stopped
When she took a photo of the rain
And felt her sadness drop
It shattered all around the floor
And she fumbled with the keys
She printed all the pictures
And posted them with ease
She scattered them around the town
Then fell down to rest
For she could feel a burden being
Lifted off her chest
she went to the school
Of the boy who had hurt her
And her girl
She stood up
She told them
"Has she finally done enough?
She ripped her skin with blades
And fasted for days.
She lit skin on fire
Just because you are liars.
Look at this picture
Do you see her
Look mister
She was beautiful
Yet you made her feel
Like she was void of zeal
You're the ones who told her what to do
And she took her own life
Just like you told her to do.
Are you happy now!
Or are you feeling blue
Are you regretting what you told her to do!"
And with a single crack
Of a baseball bat
she took a picture
Of there bodies cracked shells
As she plumbed them to hell
She saw that red filter
And she felt the pain inside
She could feel herself laugh
Mania arise
The she took one final shot
A picture with the the two
Then killed herself to rise anew
And she got her picture under bylines
And became famous for her art
For everyone loves the artist
Who kills for their art.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
no count-downs for birthday parties
no arm wrestles, no jump shots
no go-cart donuts
not even a snowball
where did we go?
blond hair
up to my shoulders
surrounded by jewels
some empty-paned picture frame
couple sprouts beneath a pine
saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak
red clay on your feet
pink frosting in your teeth
me, sheathed in my favorite shirt
"I'm the big sister!"
with a butterfly depicting
what I've yet to become
how wrong have we gone?
well, I'll be twenty
once spring rolls around
and brother
you're not far behind
I can't tell time
to change its mind
but I promise you
it won't be changing mine
from the photographs, scrapbooks
I'll forever feel your laughter
just like goosebumps
the brail I'm reading into
let's gaze past glares
straight through white sunbeams
spiking your brown eyes
twice as deep as mine
the truest shades
on the face of the earth
to this very
foggy day
this mirror, this moment snagged
before shutters snap
and capture us, splatter us
on matte paper, or cell screens
with brown hair
up to your shoulders
way to go, little brother
but I'm still keeping that tee
because the only thing
I've always been proud to be
is your big sister
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
He is who you want to see at the airport,
half asleep, pastel sweatshirt half zipped.
Half length shorts ending just above the knees.
Eyes matching the green and blue abstract swirls
patterned into the carpet to hide passenger sick-up.
The background to travelling japanese circus photos,
they’ll look back in their scrapbooks,
past the ponies on the baggage carousel,
see him waiting for the delayed international arrival.
Stiff legs tread quietly down grey hallways,
stringing a stickered suitcase along moving walkways,
thoughts caught between continents, in escalator’s teeth.
Tiptoeing over the hot coffee spilled like oil,
the taste of morning breath clinging to the back of the throat,
chalky as chilled ashes, abandoned and unswallowed.
When the taxis are cold and the day’s been worn out,
before it’s even begun; patchy fabric stretched over toes
rubbing thin on the inside of your shoes,
he’ll circle your head like a daisy crown.
To hold the tiny scars on his broad shoulders,
traces blemishes like a mine sweeper,
would be like orange juice at 40 000 ft.
Intimate in a way only TSA agents know how to be,
looking for explosives behind the ribcage, to the left.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
Vultures breathe like dragons,
old chalky smoke dissipating into the two story windows.
They silently stalk the curvature of the walls
each step freeing grimy steam,
the constant chugging of a train.
Can’t keep their scarves under control
weaving like salmon up stream,
their stiletto heels making no sound
washed out by typing and keyboard sighs.
Apotheosis (Latin): to become god,
each word in these shelves claim emperor status,
fiction novels start their own scrapbooks
encyclopaedias reach the 5th floor
committing literary suicide.
Don’t keep books open
the words will float away.
Letters will do anything to escape their pages.
History on hierarchy
exploiting the 19th century microfilm
making a hierarchy in the history section,
jamming the 20 cent printers with advertisements.
Riots silently blossom,
hidden in broken globes
from Ecuador to Kenya.
They are uprising
burning the library down.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
There's lots of books out there on marriage
But one thing is a must
Your marriage will just crash and burn
If it is not based on trust
Ma and Pa were married now
for 40 years or so
When asked what made it last long
dad said mom knows how to....
keep a house and run the kids
she finds the deals out at the malls
and when the day is done and dusted
mom is good rubbing my....
back, dad he likes his hunting
going fishing and his truck
mom, likes to make up scrapbooks
and mom also likes to....
work the church bazar each month
she is always baking food
while mom is working for the church
dad is running around...
driving us kids everywhere
he likes to takes us to the lake
we fish for bass and afterwards
he pulls out his large .....
*** of bills, so we can buy pop
still in bottles made of glass
he always buys one more for mom
to take and stick it in her....
fridge, they always say I love you
before they go to bed
and then after they say goodnight
mom gives daddy...
a good night kiss. (what did you think?)
There's lots of books out there on marriage
But one thing is a must
Your marriage will just crash and burn
If it is not based on trust
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
My poetry's really meant as decoration
For the days of life that we get rationed;
My lines for scrapbooks, wrapped around vases;
Words embroidered utilitarian places.
My words antimacassars for things nearby;
Some dangling sentences passing by,
Upon the latest quilt or jewelry box;
Or purse, or duffle, or coffee mug.
Please use my poems as flourishes and frills,
To substitute for things sans time to feel;
Shabby chic poetry, for every need:
Then there's always something to read.
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 3:06 PM UTC
I can’t wait to grow up,
to have the freedom to dress how I want, whether that’s sweats or skirts;
to talk how I want, and have my opinions matter;
and do what I want when I want, and not be held back.
I can’t wait to look back on life,
and see that what I thought was an endless mountain of troubles,
was just a grain of sand in a desert.
To laugh at my old journals and scrapbooks,
admiring the innocence and individuality,
vowing to never forget.
I can’t wait to run my own life,
to be my own authority,
and not be inspected like a creature under a microscope.
I can’t wait to get a job,
follow my desires and dreams from childhood,
and to be able to support myself and be my own role model.
I can’t wait to live on my own,
to spend endless days in a cozy apartment reading, getting lost in someone else’s story,
and playing my guitar, washing away my worries and stress like a waterfall.
Singing at the top of my lungs,
having movie marathons every weekend,
and going to bed whenever I please.
I can’t wait to find my one true love,
to spend the rest of my life with them, trusting like I never have before,
fitting together like lost puzzle pieces.
To exchange the classic vows,
dressed in white and black, with a touch of pink,
our families crying and laughing all night.
I can’t wait to have children,
to give them my heart and soul,
watch them grow up, déjà vu at its finest.
Taking care of them day to day,
from scratches to unstoppable giggles,
their green eyes shining with wonder and innocence.
I can’t wait to grow old,
still with my one love, in a little house with a white picket fence,
watching our grandchildren laugh and play.
Passing down years of wisdom,
young ears eager to listen to our mistakes and stories from a long life together,
helping them prepare for their futures.
I can’t wait to grow up.
I can’t wait to love.
I can’t wait to live.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
<>
Saturday
September
21st
2019
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
I used to believe in love
at first sight
I'd always trusted that fate
would bring me to that boy
that I would fall in love with
and one day I thought I had found him
I was with my friends at school
we were talking about the upcoming dance
I was going to wear pink
my best friend Tegwyn was wearing ocean blue
and my other best friend Lily was wearing red
Two boys came up to us
we had no idea who they were
when they were near and we realized
that they were headed in our direction
we rated them
the brunette was an 8.5/10
and the taller brunette was an 8.5/10
as well
us three thought they were the cutest things in the world.
"Hey girls" said the shorter one
we were giddy and afraid and all just said "hi"
The taller boy made the move first
he went for my best friend Tegwyn
The shorter boy went for me
we soon found out that they were best friends too
I felt sorry for Lily
but she had said many times that she had no interest in boys
at least not yet
no matter how many times Tegwyn and I tried to convince her
Us four went on a double date
I knew my boy was for real
I didn't know about Tegwyn
I'd ask her later
After I met my boy
and that first date
I decided then to believe in love at first sight
He was amazing
he was so sweet
so caring
and he told me he loved me as much
as I loved him
We continued our relationship
from that grade 7 January
to the July after our first year of university
I stayed in love with that boy
for all that time
I never thought we'd separate
I had scrapbooks,
scrapbook after scrapbook in my room
with different themes
Our wedding
our baby girl
our baby boy
our honeymoon
our twins (if we had them, boy boy or girl boy or girl girl)
our retirement
our jobs
our vacations
our home
I had it all played out carefully
in my head and those scrapbooks of mine
he didn't know about those though
they were my secret
And one day in that July
he said he didn't love me anymore
that spark had disappeared a month or two earlier
he said he couldn't see me as beautiful anymore
he couldn't see my glow anymore
he couldn't see me anymore
But of course
he couldn't see my broken heart either
I had kept in touch with Tegwyn all these years
Lily had a boy to herself too
Tegwyn couldn't believe it
but I couldn't believe it more than she couldn't believe it
It was all so sudden
but of course, nothing lasts long
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 2:07 PM UTC
*They met on rainy days
when the air was thick,
laden with the
scent of old musky
scrapbook memoirs
& salt tears' reminisces*
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
Hi! This is about music so scroll on if you don't care.
I'm working on my debut album, Drama Kween, and decided to share some of the mini songs that will be in between subject changes throughout the album. They'll have simple instrumentals later on, but for right now are acapella. Give 'em a listen?
To Me
it's on soundcloud.com/iguessimbaileymartin/to-me
lyrics:
"Sometimes I talk to myself, sometimes I sing to myself.
Sometimes I talk about talking and singing to myself,
sometimes I sing about singing and talking to myself.
Sometimes I talk and sing about talking and singing about singing and talking to myself (to myself)."
The Hippie Song
it's on soundcloud.com/iguessimbaileymartin/the-hippie-song
lyrics:
"No one says lice and no one says gay, but your modesty and life you better throw it away,
'cause in a world where the media
replaces scrapbooks
and hearts,
if you're livin' like a hippie they will tear you apart
if you're livin' like a hippie they will tear you apart
if I'm livin' like a hippie they will tear me apart
if I'm livin' like a hippie they will tear me apart
tear me apart
t-t-t-tear me apart!"
Goodbye
it's on soundcloud.com/iguessimbaileymartin/goodbye
lyrics:
"I'm so tired, I'm so tired.
Of feeling I have to cry.
I just wanna lay with you in my bedroom and watch the days go by.
But I'm so tired, tired of feeling shy.
And counting how many tears make up for a year.
Is this hello or goodbye?
Is this hello or goodbye?
I wanna know if this is the last time.
Is this hello or goodbye?
Well it's goodbye! Baby it's goodbye.
I was tired of the games and the pain and the lies so baby it's goodbye.
It's goodbye! Baby it's goodbye.
So I'm gonna rid you of my bedroom and get on with my life.
I'm so tired, I'm so tired.
Not gonna waste my time!
So I'm gonna rid you of my bedroom and get on with my life."
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
we sink half an inch every year
"soon, we'll be up to our ears
in water"
not a creature of fury, just of habit
the moon pulls her to churning, to crashing.
hotter water temper tantrums
rush the brine into our basements
soaking scrapbooks in salt
until it crystallizes faces
and yet i cannot blame the marsh
for reclaiming what was never ours
and taking even what was as penance.
but i refuse to condemn us
for shaping shorelines into lives
because things are so much clearer
when they turn with the tides.
we’ll grow gills in time,
we have to.
the ones who stay on land
could never handle shifting sands
don’t know we cling onto the inlet
with white-knuckled hands.
they never grew from buried roots,
seeds are just flotsam in the sea
so they’ll call Frank O’Toole crazy
when he can’t bring himself to leave.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC
My bond between a daughter and a mother
In unlike any other,
We’re silly and wild
Like an immature child,
We laugh, we cry
We get through the hard times.
Even though there is no dad,
She is the best friend I never had.
The worst, the good, all the memories,
Will be in our scrapbooks for all coming centuries.
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 8:48 AM UTC
Looking through the scrapbooks of a past love
Is like walking through an art gallery alone,
Your sad, lonely footsteps breaking the taboo silence.
You look at different exhibits
And wonder if they are truly deep
Or just a simple combination of colors;
And in the search for something grander,
You begin to question yourself
And what kind of a person you are.
And at the end of your visit to the past
You are left feeling sad, small, and insignificant
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
You fell too many times til you fell on your face,
Taking problems into your own hands,you need space,
I Don't know what this means for the human race,
But I'd give anything right now to see your face,
When you were younger, you had dreams that faded,
When you were younger,* you had things you loved*,
When you were younger, your friends moved away,
When you were younger, you had things to say,
theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
now theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
now theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
fall in the rabbit hole,
The things that you've been through in your life was a phase,
you kept scrapbooks of everything just in case,
and even though to your parents you were a disgrace,
And i don't care,
cause I'd give anything right now to see your face,
When you were younger, you had dreams that faded,
When you were younger,* you had things you loved*,
When you were younger, your friends moved away,
When you were younger, you had things to say,
theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
now theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
now theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
fall in the rabbit hole.
/
I swear they always want something brand new..
I swear they always want something brand new..
when it comes back around, what you gonna do?
I swear they always crave something brand new..
Why you try to come around pulling my card..
looking for a problem straight out the yard..
And i'm like why you gotta be brand new..
I swear they always gotta be brand new.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 10:12 AM UTC
There is an old, cherry oak Grandfather clock perched atop the hearth of my girlhood. In the early days, I never knew the absence of its ticking. Every room, every season, every dream— superimposed over a perpetual rhythmic symphony. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Until one day, many moons ago, I found a garden filled with garden sounds. An Earthsong played all through the summer, and as my limbs grew, so too did the space between that clock and me. So too, did the choir of humanity in my ears.
These days, I have sewn seeds in a lifetime of gardens, and I have heard each and every hymn. The harmony of the world clawed its way into my heart like a river-carved canyon and never stopped singing. But sometimes, in the stillness of the night, it fills my spirit once again, that clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. In scrapbooks and old letters. Tick. Tick. Tick. In a broken silver locket and the remnants of a poem written long ago. Tick. Tick. In the arms of the girl I love. Tick.
There is an old, cherry oak Grandfather clock perched atop the hearth of my girlhood. I am a woman now, but I listen for the ticking still.
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 6:34 PM UTC
We should be finished by next fall. Last autumn was a good time and I hear history repeats itself. Sleeping under trees, smoking Lucky Strikes and tending to our hobbies. Lackadaisically bent over antediluvian scrapbooks, I hear this winter's to melt into a flood. The ark is under way, we should be finished by next fall.
It was something in the calm drift of the clouds or the tick-tick of the water meter. There was us and then there was them. We were flushed, the world was bluffing. There was us:
Deep breath.
We were the lost children roaming 'round Cair Paravel; the boxed kit youth unboxing on a caravel watching hypnotic YouTube videos and firing fire out of firewood; that was when I fell. Beside the flames under cover of conversation of God and Hell and all the proper nouns that we fear so much. But fires burn out, so let's be civil. We should be finished by next fall.
But how can I be civil when I hope that your spit flies back in your face; that when you flick your wrist, your muscles tear because I've torn too. It's torn past the heart into my legs, immobile, and my arms, useless. These hands are cramped and shredded; scraps and pieces and bits, drill bits carving their way in. You carved your way in. They say an animal in a tailor-made niche is an animal in a found home. So carve away, carver, we should be finished by next fall.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
To shine
she lay before us the night sky in
somnolent waves dusted with
her own chimerical astrology
studded and dimpled with
compressed carbon and
time made material
sweeping her hand across it
like Asteria hanging her mobile
over the cradle of civilization
nodding gently to Zorya
brilliantly conjoined twins spanning
the Slavic night sky
dotting our lives with
multi-faceted tears of joy
like champagne held immobile
bubbles suspended in gold
at unions and births and
fading scrapbooks with worn edges
as a pulsating joy vibrated
trembled
meanwhile
shared
like the wind chime hung near
though not next to
the one disturbed by the breeze
a breeze that bends the path of raindrops
glistening toward new summer meadows
to kiss blades of grass with
a dusting of diamonds and
pearls floating on the wind like dandelion fluff
seeking a relative weight
and a landing spot
with color
to call home
with clarity
to rest easy
a cut above
and
to grow
to bloom
to shimmer
to sparkle
to shine
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
I kiss the spliff as the neighbor
across the street stares out his porch windows.
He clasps his upper lip
with his left hand—
thumb and pointer finger
split like a horseshoe.
The difference in temperature
from outside and my porch
is hardly measurable.
The feathers in my jacket
fight to keep my body heat
captive beneath my MAS*H sweatshirt.
His porch must be a four-season
because he hovers over his desk
in a t-shirt with a cigarette
in his mouth.
Maybe he’s writing, or reading,
doing homework or work work.
Whatever it may be,
it stirs a bit of jealousy in me.
I wish to be home, sitting
in the warmth of my four-season porch,
where many stories are saved.
Scrapbooks full of memories.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
I have arms made of china that break whenever you let go
I am an alignment of stars that you seem to disregard for the moon
I hold ownership of waterfalls for eyes
I have a body made of one-hundred sheets of college ruled notebook paper that kids like me used to make scrapbooks out of
I am a collection of bruises holding up photos of a Father's fist,
My hands were only made to hold those who feel empty when not holding a glass of wine
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Messy love,
is there any other kind?
Lives entangled, untidy lives
bringing together
all the sins of the past
and questions of the future,
grief and wounds,
baggage,
trinkets wrapped
in tissue paper
yellowed by the years,
orchids pressed flat
and brown in cellophane,
trunks full of dim memories,
outgrown dreams,
and crumpled hopes
packed away and kept
like worn out clothes,
scrapbooks
with faces familiar
yet unclear
as in a dream
gathered in piles to be burned.
Before the match is struck,
rescued
as if worth an equal pile of gold
and clung to
like
an eyeless doll.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
Don't take my picture
it will steal my soul.
But the snapshot is taken
despite what was said.
And up high on a shelf
it in mute witness stands
to the flow of life
in the household.
Or as others before it
it is tossed in a box
forever entombed
fleeting glimpses of light.
Albums and scrapbooks
adorn it with cheer
to be shown off to many
but few really care.
Trapped in wallets
it sits grimy and smeared
buddied up with George.
Living in fear of a camera
afraid it will take you away.
For our time here is short
as the shutter flies
Don't take my picture
it will steal your soul.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC