"skaters" poems
For my cousin, Chris Goldrick
Lacing my skates
after walking two miles
in girl-strictured delight
Mom's stories of Sonja Henie--
No, not ever
Lacing my skates
with snow-ball pompoms
felt skirt
and nylon tights
Cute little hat with matching scarf
My thighs and fingers
already freezing
icy burn
from miles on foot
to get there
the lake where--
I must get out
I must get OUT!
Knowing what
to expect from my body
the quick-twitch of muscle
Could always sense
specific--
gravity of water
at 22 degrees
Desiring to feel
the motion between ice and steel
Read speed's vibrations through my body
The brain registers relation
to weather's effect
Tell of velocity
possibility of fall
Feel the slash of the blades beneath me
Throw my weight sideways, sudden
to hear that furious hiss
An object in motion tending, dire
to stay in motion
Threatening to stay there
always
in its heights-- of speed
away--
from the crowds of skaters
swirling distant in the lights
Seeking instead
the farthest reaches of Porter Lake
speed and speed and more
to overcome
inertia
of what it is to become
undone
at the outer edges, of humanity
A force
centrifugal unto myself
Avoiding
Pregnant and slow
with years and babes....
The best
must be broken and tamed
of what it takes to stay free
catching the edges with every stride
catching my toe in the quick
180
spray of frost
to the sudden still
Listen to the frigid chill
and the heave of my breath
tumbling into evidence
Gliding
Once
Forever--
on, into darkness
of woods on frozen water
The wildness of it all
So infatuated with flight
so full of grace
I forgot Sonja
The moon rose
from her seat in the treetops
and applauded
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
i hear the rushing water,
i feel the soft breeze blowing my tresses out behind me,
i see the water falling in slow motion,
every drop has light reflecting through it,
casting the world in a blanket of rainbows.
i hear the roar of the mighty waterfall,
i feel the spray as the water splashes on the jagged rocks,
i see the light cast a heavenly glow on my body,
and on the water in a pattern i cannot understand.
i hear the wind whistling in my ears,
i feel the cool water running over my bare feet,
i see birds dancing in the air like ice skaters on ice,
the clouds above are colored with the vibrant paintbrush of god, the strokes lighting up the world around me.
the waterfall is beautiful, stunning, majestic, breath-taking,
a wonder of god.
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
Rock and roll wheels
thump and trill
a roller skating rhythm.
Z-ray suits light
colors all a-glowing.
With the greatest of ease
roller skaters' moods
dazzel us with wheel music.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
From a pavement bistro, enjoying an alcove espresso and jam scone
After fresh rains, scenic smiles yet the road is of red sand
Young children play ball in park adjacent, some teen skaters pass by
Skirt-tugger hangs on for dear life, while she perambulates the baby.
The little, old man places with care, two stones behind his back wheels
His car stuck on the muddy, wet road
A small, slow push by stranger passing; it rolls easily from soft, red ruts
A wave of thanks, a friendly smile and off he goes.
Anna steps in ruddy hope, septuagenarian in jaunty hat and Sunday best
Ready to meet the one of a lifetime, widow of a decade
Correspondence long-time with namaste-man, final reward
Ribcage busy, beat in mouth, eyes flit eagerly, hearty salutes.
But nobody knows that someone is being watched,
From across the distance of the park, a clutch of strangers
Their beady eyes, hooded expressions, they wait
Fate is sealed when car drives by; irrevocably red.
S T, 11 May 2013
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.
A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.
When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.
I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—
A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.
What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?
Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—
delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.
Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.
The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—
The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.
A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.
Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
I don't have a problem with
hipsters, goths, jocks,
skaters, rockers, preps,
farmers, plumbers, executives,
Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Caucasians,
gays, furries, bronies,
foodies, junkies, abstainers,
republicans, democrats,
atheists, monotheists, polytheists,
etc.
People are people.
So, why begrudge them that?
I do, however, have a problem with mean, hateful people
who's greatest joy comes in a form of shadenfreude.
Be who you are,
but don't impose your self-image onto others;
impose others onto your Self with a healthy dose of salt.
You may learn a thing or two.
Live and let live.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
Sun feigns heat
in a clear slate of blue above;
I gaze upon pale, brown hills and fields
through the smoke of my breath
wishing it would at least snow.
There was talk of cow-tipping
when I was in fifth grade,
but cows would've broken their necks.
Ground covered in frozen grass
is no comfort for fallen cows at 15 Fahrenheit.
Our small lake
transformed into a debating ground for skaters and hockey players,
each vying for control over the weekend's
primary source of entertainment.
(The dreadful alternative: afternoons shopping with parents.)
When it finally snowed, a wonderland was made,
a knee-high, get-out-of-school-free card.
We charted expeditions in corn fields, wooded creeks
and stone-colored barns that were beguiling in the white
of Chadds Ford pastures like untended English castles.
Woods like a Pollack of burnt sienna and white,
their only sound is weight of snow bearing down on limb.
Beyond those whispers, just a roaring silence
when I'm still as ice fingers
trying to touch the ground from the roof.
The cats of Baldwin's Book Barn nap easily within,
as we dig for a pearl amongst makeshift shelves
full of hard-bound reads for snow-bound youth.
These felines, grown, need not the words,
but the pages themselves for fine beds.
A blue-white glow from outside casts a cold light,
illuminating prints of Helga and Christina's World,
a reminder to all who live down the road.
On such a winter day, I didn't care to remember
that soon there would be Spring kittens in the books,
and a lake full of children's swimsuits.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Hadn’t changed numbers.
A voice bristled in my ear,
said why not then, it’s been years.
Months passed.
An amalgam of frail strained hearts,
smells on pillows we tried to lose.
Chose the boulevard in the end,
gaudy nostalgia blazing
like a forest fire in my eyes.
I waited.
Ran a finger over rails
those skaters we knew marked,
back when something called lust
fizzled between you them and me,
through the airwaves;
the lyrics can still trickle
on my tongue if you ask nicely.
Peroxide-blondes, men with muscles
the size of marrows,
a summer pick ‘n’ mix
lacking in looks, in fine taste.
Went to read a book in the sea
for a while,
slurped up half a pint in chapters
then lost the plot again.
That’s when you came
in polka dots,
a pack of colourful taffy
swinging idly from a wrist,
peanut-butter cups
like lily-pads on your palm.
As if you’d never left,
same number, name, face.
Forgot what goodbye was,
tripped over a lost hello.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
37
Before the ice is in the pools—
Before the skaters go,
Or any check at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow—
Before the fields have finished,
Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
Will arrive to me!
What we touch the hems of
On a summer’s day—
What is only walking
Just a bridge away—
That which sings so—speaks so—
When there’s no one here—
Will the frock I wept in
Answer me to wear?
1.8k
Just taking time out to see who's on the park. Been here for a while and there are a few guys who know what the board's for. There's a lad from Deptford who can turn a neat Olley on a Grind. Bit of a curiosity with my long board and northern street style. Had a couple of skate offs and found where the cracks are. Pulled the shoulder AGAIN but nothing serious. Thought there might be the odd ramp here seeing as it's London, the South Bank and all.
Been working on my rotationals. Three Sixty is just fine but the Five Forty is **** I don't think any of these guys here know what a One Seventy is. Well they do now.
Nobody here seems to skate off-park even though there are some well good grind rails and step jumps. Too many people about I suppose.
Saw this lass hitting Toe Edge to Heal Edge turns - VERY bright. Wappo better watch out! She's got him covered. The guys from Wakey would probably clean up down here, but we're guerilla skaters and would probably have the 'ol blue boys on our backs if we did the business. Maybe we should do a recce one weekend? Sleep on my sister's floor.
Reckon Paris is better though - there's those parcours guys about to show you the space. When my Dad goes to Centre Pompidou there's all these great buskers - some serious **** Nobody playing anything round here.
Ok back to the park and a few Primos I reckon. Seen no one doing a glimmer of a Rail Stand so time to clean up a bit.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
Every generation
has the leaders and the followers.
The popular kids and the geeks,
the kids who get high on the streets
and the kids who get high on cloud nine.
The artists and the poets,
the skaters, the stoners,
the musicians and the actors,
and we all have the kids
who are all of the above.
We all have the kids
who are none of the above.
Times change, yes
and trends come and go
but don’t tell me that I’m exceptional
not because of what I know
but because of the children
that surround me.
Don’t tell me to speak my dreams
and release my strife in the form of rhyme
because “few others you know do it”.
Passion is limitless,
passion is ageless
and while I’m being raised
in a generation of technology
and dramatic social media,
yolo and swag, pregnant teens
and 55-hour marriages-
I’m growing up
in a generation of artists,
a generation of dreamers,
a generation of doers,
and a generation
of freethinkers.
Freethinkers whose words
drip from their tongues like honey
and stain their pages in the world
like wine.
Students who get bored
with teachers wanting them to think
in 1’s and 0’s,
fit into standards,
speak in slanders
and begin to hyperventilate
because they can’t translate
what they think.
Kids who haven’t forgotten
that breathing in binary isn’t healthy.
Apparently, those that find
enough creative destruction in life to cheat the system
are going against the greater public’s
better judgement,
feeling free to sit and glare
at those who swear that they’re normal,
but I’m not growing up with those kids.
People who sit back and cry crocodile tears
for those who don’t know
what to think of themselves,
sitting back and laughing
at those who shudder and shake
at the thought of being caught in between
different sides of their minds
that they don’t know it’s okay to have…
but I’m not growing up with those people.
I’m growing up in a
group of rebels,
a group that will one day
run the nation-
a nation of tenacious activists,
wearing their minds
more professionally than
politicians wear their suits-
and with better ideas.
Because we have voices,
we have pens,
but most important
we have ideas,
ideas that can change the world,
change the world more
than poker-faced suits
and hate commercials
and picket signs
ever could.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
From marble and granite to steel and glass,
we were discussing Rhina Espaillat’s On the Avenue in class,
was it 1950s or 1980s NYC and were the fifties
the city’s halcyon days or is it now, the 2020s,
the boroughs teeming with immigrants
from the round earth’s imagined corners,
Hasidim and Muslim, Haitian and Russian, as we
Italians and Irish in an earlier era were. Everything will
be ok or not, the recombinations which make
prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless
and each individual an experiment gone well or wrong.
On the avenue God speaks by spewing
toy and clothing stores, breakdancers and ice skaters,
the Brooklyn Navy Yard seen from the Brooklyn Bridge,
the skyline admired when my car broke down on the Triborough Bridge.
The numbers of us overwhelm, there exist powers
overwhelming for the human body and mind.
I don’t mind but I can’t make sense of it.
Gandhi said What you do may not seem important
but it is very important that you do it. By that what is meant?
Linda complained Why does God always have to be a man?
I replied He could be a she but She’s probably really
a Tyrannosaurus rex. I like to be in America!
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 7:21 AM UTC
Soft palms applaud
Winter’s arrival: Welcome Snow!
So glad you could come, take a chair on the lawn,
Or lounge on the sill, and worship the starlight.
We knew you were coming,
When little Earth threw the annual arctic fox over her shoulders,
Peeping through chiffon hairs, her green eyes
Met its black lipped smile,
Hers; hidden.
Sounds of snow so singular, so awkward to place:
Perhaps the closure of wings on feathered flanks,
Paws on rain-soaked oak leaves,
The pearl moon laughing in the kitchen sink,
Until his alabaster lips part into a yawn,
And all is frozen as a lake in the sky.
Did you know the stars are Russian skaters?
They twist on one toe
Wrapped in the silver furs of foreign foxes.
Closer to home,
My window opens like an unblinking eye
Onto an army of pine,
Needles turning upwards
As an apricot afternoon chills to ivory.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
skater kids doing flip tricks
motion of a jelly fish
they glide
they move faster then space and time
in thier minds
there rulers of this city
and how they make it look so pretty
they tremble with excitment
carvin there names into history
twish twish the sound of there shoe laces rubbin the pavement
they roll front and center
spray paint cans in hand
tag there names across the land
bandanas cover there faces
they leap the staircases
they are merely a imagination
swoop in grab a few cases
drink while they ride
taking pictures of the night sky
with no camera
but plenty of eyes
oh how they move
the wind carries them in a silent groove
how do we understand this nature
of kids kicking and pushing into a future
full of trial and error
they have there own flavor
a taste of danger
aromas of marijuana lingure
in the crisp air
the wind flows through thier hair
they have not one care
they have there own melody
metal clinking
wheels scrapping
car horns screaming
as they come flying into traffic
because that gap could've been tragic
when they land it
they know that it was some kid of magic
they kick on pushing
wheels creaking like floor boards in the attic
tired they ride till the sun brings its shine
when all there wonders can be seen by any traveling eye
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
if you're walking in puddles to soak up the rain
you gotta look cool to mitigate the pain
skaters and ravers alike will agree
Judge None Choose One and buy JNCO jeans!
Nov 19, 2021
Nov 19, 2021 at 2:10 AM UTC
In the chapel of the glitter ball
in the hall of the dance machine
I am the suburbanite alone, a
dream on a white
horse.
On the steps to the crypt where many
angels have slipped on the wrappings
of condoms,
the silent ****** plays.
The vicars in hobnails prey on those
who travel high trails,
like vultures from the mission and
there's a ****** of churches all flocking
as one to ****** the kindness that once
flashed in the eyes
of his son.
**** them with kindness his Highness demands
but his blindness defeats him and the white horse
will only meet him
half way.
In the chapel of the glitter ball where we
see nothing but the diamonds fall and in
the hall of the dance machine his Highness
becomes the Queen.
It's all alter it now and we'll take refuge somehow
in the flower of the sixties
where 'please please me'
was an anthem for young men.
I can't see, but I think that suburbia's a skating rink
and we are the skaters darting away from the sharks
to be eaten by alligators, or
to be saved at some cost by the one on the cross where each point that he points to
is a station that I've been to.
So I shuffle the view and turn the glitter ball on
and everything's gone
like it used to be
except for me.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
The snow leopard
A snow leopard is walking down snow covered streets.
In these empty streets, she walks alone, a vision to be seen.
With skyscraper buildings on either side,
All the cars are silent,
The apartments only have a few lights on,
As she walks outside in the night-time.
With every stride the snow leopard creeps along,
These empty streets with her eyes fixed upon,
Her destination; the local fountain has become an ice rink.
She needs a place where she can sit and think
And the frozen water is calling.
The scratches on the surface from skaters earlier in the eve,
Are sliced crisscross by fur-covered shoes;
Her claws dig in deep.
With perfect balance she moves along;
Tail flat, she is relaxed, no pressure is on.
No need to flee, no-one to be seen.
The snow leopard lies down to relax; her cub inside is heavy.
Before dawn has arisen, the snow leopard has awoken.
Her ears pointed skyward to listen to distant sirens.
From early risers, phone calls have been made;
The zoo keeper is on his way…
But with a flash of her silhouette, the snow leopard is gone;
She was only seen close up for a second,
Before she disappeared into the thick winter’s fog.
Never to be seen again, but the lights in the skyscrapers remember.
The snow leopard stood here, on this cold night mid-December.
From where she came, nobody ever truly knew;
Some people say she was here simply looking for food.
She had been hiding a long time in a snow cave;
Her footprints were filled by the snow and her tracks began to fade.
She never was found and never again did she return.
The snow leopard was just passing through, her image just a blur.
Like a wind through a narrow street,
A piece of ice falling through a cloud;
A memory of a snowflake that disappears as soon as it is found.
There was no sign that the snow leopard had ever been around
And there was no way to know why,
The snow leopard ever came walking through this town.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
I keep telling myself our love is like
a lake in winter; cold to the touch but
beneath the ice is dormant life
waiting to reawaken
And on its surface are both ballerina
figure skaters poised with perfection and
toddling children wearing scrapes like
first place medals
Sometimes the surface cracks and out
pours freezing entrails and watery
remembrance - but now is no time for
nostalgia. The lake scabs over with
persistent breaths from the father-wind
and winter's secrets are secured
Some things are best left forgotten
until the season is right
But I know our spring will soon come
melting away the frozen crust and turning
skaters into swimmers as the Divine Sun
breathes life into our slumbering hearts
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
her veins stick out real dark and her skins as pale as her cigarette smoke.
they look like deep blue rivers running through the snow.
her lips look like rose petals floating in milky waters.
and they're soft like them too.
her eyes are the beautiful red brown color of the trees,
surrounded by snow.
and the way they light up when she looks at me,
it's as if they're wrapped in christmas lights too.
her hair as dark as the winter night sky and soft as the light of the stars.
and her skin, always cold to the touch.
no matter how close we're cuddled together,
pretending it's for the warmth but really it's for the pleasure,
her skin always feels like an ice skating rink
and my fingers turn into little ice dancers and figure skaters,
giving her even more chills.
and when she moans, and i can see the fog of her breath rolling out,
i can't tell you how good it feels to literally watch the pleasure escape from her.
or when her entire body shutters under mine
and i know it's not because she's cold.
she's like my favorite season come to life
and maybe that's why i adore her so much.
↠mndi➣
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
imagine if i could
glide across life,
like the way figure skaters
glide across the ice?
a triple salchow,
i’ve taken flight.
my biggest dreams,
those fearful nights.
if i could glide,
the wind in my face.
how easy would it be,
to make a mistake?
and ruin the whole program.
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 5:39 AM UTC
it used to have me bored
till the roam saw greater overpass
lacking value, lacking cash
in these times even the brokest can catch some a*s.
2018 scene , was the year of thirteen
confused then till I hit the pen
the skaters always been too “bold”
too “crazy-like” , yeah we fight
all in our right.
these same parks saved me from a sin
reminiscing the first time to one watching “cherry” with a grin -
now peaking with motivation
rather than bored
let’s cruise down in the Valley
learn something more in high hope
may be a little demure
when skating though,
the wheels turn to show -
who’s really true
who’s really pure.
and that’s from your$truly
Feb 2, 2025
Feb 2, 2025 at 7:06 PM UTC
Weary eyed shop workers curse the sight of dawn,
A drunken Hen stumbles and her tutu gets torn,
The smell of burning chip fat invades my nose,
‘Chips for breakfast?!’ I cry, chewing marshmallows,
I venture towards the tower feeling free as a bird,
When SPLAT on my shoe lands a seagull ****
Rough with the smooth - that’s what this town’s all about,
I think as a man pulls his Jokebooks out,
‘It’s for charity!’ he lies. ‘I live here mate..’
‘Oh right, soz love, fancy a date?’’
I ignore the geezer and gaze out to the sea,
Wondering where the Lochness Monster might be..
Soaking up the sights as 2 drunks start to fight,
‘OI’ I shout, as a kid sets a bin alight.
Skaters jump like kangaroos on the bandstand,
As health freaks tut, running rapid on the sand.
Children charge like apes in supersensory mazes,
While parents eye arcades with terror on their faces,
Suddenly crisp packets dance in the air,
As the wind picks up and whips at my hair.
‘It’s hometime for me!’ A hailstone hits my eyeball,
And the blue sky runs behind some grey clouds of storm,
There’s not many places with 4 seasons in a day!
So don’t let the weather throw you into disarray.
‘Blackpool’ I say, ‘a town of stark contrast…’
As a horse driven carriage then a rat stroll past.
A town to make memories no matter how worn,
That time never erases as new ones get born.
Back in Bispham, where the prom’s a bit safer,
The oldies don’t buy 3 Hammers, just pies and papers,
I step off the number 11 bus and shout ‘Thanks!’
The bus driver grunts, takes his hand out his pants,
Then speeds down our beautiful, glistening prom,
Full of lights that probably shouldn’t still be on.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 4:16 PM UTC
your metre blackens the page
beautifully dancing fonts
caress the delicate surface
like skaters tracing their dance
across the ice in blades
an expression of genius perhaps
your gorgeous muse laughs
joyously titillating imagination
positively prostituting herself
to your phallus stylus ***********
your fertile imagination
spawning verse birthing phrase
and I don’t understand
a single ******* thing you said
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 6:44 PM UTC
Today I walked into a used book store
looking for anything that could distract.
The air was cool,
the atmosphere serene.
I walked down the isles and looked at nothing in particular.
I found myself in the poetry section.
I looked up and saw cummings.
My favorite. our favorite
I pick it up and leaf through. Painful memories come flooding like blood into the syringe.
Make it stop.
I began walking towards the door when a familiar song comes on.
"Oh baby baby it's a wild world,
it's hard to get by just upon a smile."
I can't stand to be in this place any longer.
I can't stand to be in this ******* town with these stupid ***** and these stupid bookstores and these stupid vegans and these stupid ******** kids and these stupid cool kids and these stupid writers and these stupid stoners and skaters and singers and football players and drama kids and choir kids and band kids and these stupid ************* Ag kids.
I can't stand it.
I need to get it.
I need my strings to melt.
I need this towns grip on me to lighten up.
I need your grip on me to lighten up.
please, you gotta let me go
You gotta let me go
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 12:54 AM UTC
1.
Then comes the day when
I on a clay-tiled floor lie spread-eagled,
a box of chess pieces toppled over the checkerboard,
wracked by phenomenal indecisions--
should it be the rook, the bishop, the pawn?
Oh from all directions checkmated!
2.
And at sunset,
when the birds on tired wings fly to roost
and the whole earth is suffused in a golden glow,
a door opens
at the far end of a dark corridor.
Light skids down the floor,
like skaters sliding down a silent slope.
Words vanish to open a void...
The strains of a poem
trip lightly in!
3.
Was it long ago, or just yesterday?—
In a flickering moment of revelation,
when the distant lighthouse swung its beam
past my windless sail,
did I quiver?
Like this, did I quiver?
Was it the chill on the open seas?
Or, was it
your soft tread on my cabin floor?
Do I remember? Don’t I remember?...
4.
At your touch
I turn a bubble,
a bubble,
balanced on the tip of a thorn,
On this windless evening!
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC