"showerheads" poems - Hello Poetry

I am a mermaid but you can’t see it I have no fins but I gleam and glisten Under streams and showerheads My skin glows, it’s soft to the touch Caressed by the water Oh so shiny and slippery against the light I’m usually granted no such embrace For only water kisses the skin and holds the soul -- Air, so light and plentiful, is but the touch of a finger I am greater than what I seem I traverse rough seas I captivate, I navigate In the porcelain tub And I am a mermaid -- but you can’t see it

0

Feb 23, 2016

Feb 23, 2016 at 6:56 PM UTC

imperfect-visage

mermaid

I am a mermaid but you can’t see it I have no fins but I gleam and glisten Under streams and showerheads My skin glows, it’s soft to the touch Caressed by the water Oh so shiny and slippery against the light I’m usually granted no such embrace For only water kisses the skin and holds the soul -- Air, so light and plentiful, is but the touch of a finger I am greater than what I seem I traverse rough seas I captivate, I navigate In the porcelain tub And I am a mermaid -- but you can’t see it

15

transcendent it was the first time when it was of faint memory to touch but voluminously told, exacting itself like the pretense of the heaviest pages the curve of your face the entry of light through momentary indulgence nerves their city buoys and the pedestrians salt of skin in intense heat begging for details, ways to sewerage of mind and previous blunders and the purest landscapes of feeling, the underpasses of eyelids where glances hit first, stalk swiftly – to wait underneath their shade in the fleeting Maytime sun coming back with renewed fervor, remembering that from there, waiting in that margin, there are things that may only strike a potential but never learned, memorized, collapsed into the absolute, and that lostness is imperative to the finding – the river of eyes where pilgrims are in transit, well-constructed like the mausoleum that keeps its secret of hills and cathedrals kept unmarred in the silence of your refusal, pulled out to be nailed taut into origin the blankness of your face taken as mechanism of marvel – to whoever god drew lines on your face and to whoever foolish wanderer would dare traverse your collapsible bridges, the sonorous depth of your being when back against the dash of beating back to senseless origins, your name similar to the prepared countenance of Manila, passers-by in awe of your slow Moon unraveling behind curtains for showerheads, humming behind, a conversant tune where not one being ignored and it was true to the form of first whispers this whole new world mapped out made naked to the twisted augur of shadow reared by light through innocence, a whole city I know but cannot touch.

0

Mar 22, 2016

Mar 22, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

Kartograpiya

transcendent it was the first time when it was of faint memory to touch but voluminously told, exacting itself like the pretense of the heaviest pages the curve of your face the entry of light through momentary indulgence nerves their city buoys and the pedestrians salt of skin in intense heat begging for details, ways to sewerage of mind and previous blunders and the purest landscapes of feeling, the underpasses of eyelids where glances hit first, stalk swiftly – to wait underneath their shade in the fleeting Maytime sun coming back with renewed fervor, remembering that from there, waiting in that margin, there are things that may only strike a potential but never learned, memorized, collapsed into the absolute, and that lostness is imperative to the finding – the river of eyes where pilgrims are in transit, well-constructed like the mausoleum that keeps its secret of hills and cathedrals kept unmarred in the silence of your refusal, pulled out to be nailed taut into origin the blankness of your face taken as mechanism of marvel – to whoever god drew lines on your face and to whoever foolish wanderer would dare traverse your collapsible bridges, the sonorous depth of your being when back against the dash of beating back to senseless origins, your name similar to the prepared countenance of Manila, passers-by in awe of your slow Moon unraveling behind curtains for showerheads, humming behind, a conversant tune where not one being ignored and it was true to the form of first whispers this whole new world mapped out made naked to the twisted augur of shadow reared by light through innocence, a whole city I know but cannot touch.

40

we’re ***** people like made from cracks in walls and spurting showerheads. we used to be clean kids, i guess, but the grime comforted us. it’s a way of life. stained carpets mean we belong someplace. i hope it’s because we’re pure of heart.

0

Nov 1, 2019

Nov 1, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC

ifyouhaveaheart

thinking about who I've been and who I've become.

we’re ***** people like made from cracks in walls and spurting showerheads. we used to be clean kids, i guess, but the grime comforted us. it’s a way of life. stained carpets mean we belong someplace. i hope it’s because we’re pure of heart.

5