"skylights" poems
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.
We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.
My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:
*We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.
In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.*
years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
often isn’t.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
listen -
hear no sound, feel
only wind on its way, ghostly
nothings, but hush to sharp wings
of ocean birds so fraying as they cut
the sky, shuttle to fairways, far aways,
in plaintive cries, i hear what they say,
sailing into the jeweled skylights, but i
am only weight of air, still on ground,
i mumble out, sidle the bone tides
that roll to land, grains of clarity,
i am mist and tear, a world
of hollow, i am that sound -
of ocean in a shell.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
“Wherever you go, there you are.” They warned as I crossed the first three state lines.
Now, I’m here. Far.
Yes. The change is significant
In that I can’t feel your pull quite as hard from this distance.
…Though then, pull you do,
Regardless of miles.
But night falls and the same speckled skylights up brighten the distance the same. Between you and I.
I feel the pull, eye to I.
As our stars dance ‘round the moon
Just a tease, while we close our eyes.
Aug 10, 2021
Aug 10, 2021 at 2:52 AM UTC
*for R.A.
our northern friend*
~
one foot in two countries,
she is enjambment symbolic,
running a single stanza
without a syntactical break,
by standing simultaneous
in two neighboring cultures
causing her dear readers
from near and far,
some, like me,
from across the borderline,
considerable multifarious symptoms
of
well considered verbal confusion
this,
a gifted special talent
from
she
who straddles
all kinds of borders
that divide
her
and
unite
her,
that
can be understood/revealed tho,
when observing the northernmost night skies
eh?
expert in modulating
extreme snowed under bay
winterized temperatures,
counterpointed by
drivingopen highways
on summer plains
where the dotted line is
all there is to see
for miles, thousandths wide
she-poet
oft goes quiet,
expelling her breath
between word roarings,
gentlest of periodic
verbal sweets
genteel
my word version for her
gentle so,
in a way that
makes gentility
deserve the nobility
inherent
that is the
work word
that always comes first
when we need to place her,
another star
in the night
flying frying
firmament
enjambment - her word
means I am
all in,
with both hands,
resting on both jambs
of an arched window
that she architects,
peering in,
Making Sure,
I have come to the right place
where she-poet
builds skylights of
northern lights,
igniting
adore her sweet
confusion,
but better yet,
her poems
of clarification
that explain all in,
why when,
we
all look up,
thru her
window exquisite
that she
meant
for us
we always first
turn our glacé glance
northwards
strangely, seeking, illogically,
but not really,
warmth
in the she-poets
northern way
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
~
Shadows move on sheet rock barriers
framed in time of late
Spaces filled with unknown visions
dance about with feet of clay
Gowns of nightmare carpetbaggers
thunder on the floor
Drippings in a mist of nervous breath
blanket my safe haven
and the sounds scream
in voices of past mishaps
Lost in lonely corridors,
wailing on aching skylights
permitting barely a moon glow psalm
to echo of their meaning
in songs from a distance,
of pleading skeletal desire
“I fear for I have no choice”
Doorways yawn in weary ovations
Slanted photos dot the landscape
Windows prove little relief from the cold
as heat pierces my cavities
Gaping wounds of frail memories
clutch at my last ounce,
measuring the words I am reading
Taking a breath, sweet, stagnant
Clawing for an exit only to find
it has stood before me all along
Baby steps, I have been told
Find that trust, slowly…make sure,
reach out for the hand
offered on a dreamscape message
“I fear for I have no choice?”
Eyes, so tired, weeping pools
out of focus since that day, open
(As if sunflowers float on silken wings
and glorious becomes an understood word)
slowly and tentatively,
blinking sorrow’s pathway free
to lead me to you
The imprint of that butterfly
marks my palm in red lines of love,
mapping my skin with a long awaited
smile, dry lips curve as I take your hand
trusting, for the very first time
realizing the feeling
which hath finally…set me free
“I no longer fear, for I have a choice”
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
the brain and mind are not the same thing.
a brain floats, suspended,
down to the tips of my toes
and the blue rivers underneath my skin.
it is a box; simple tasks and quiet construction.
the mind has no such manuals.
it sees baboons in filtered skylights,
eyes as red as the blushing dawn,
gushing about over the hilltops of my shoulders.
it sees stop signs in the glass cracks
of my wooden closet door,
where the dark seeps around the green-light-go.
it sees fingertip to lip,
raccoons at rusty roadways,
Remus and Romulus locked in eternal combat;
preserved in the grains in the cherry tree trunk.
the brain is in the head,
but the mind is somewhere a little above;
hiding away in a doomsday bunker,
loud warnings burning the air,
bathed in cobwebs and blue lights.
away from people who haven’t quite learned,
that the brain and mind are not the same thing.
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 2:37 AM UTC
sitting outside, staring at the stars
it’s almost midnight and
i’m not supposed to be here but
the night sky always draws me into its
eternal abyss
when i’m older and have my own house,
i’ll make sure that it’s somewhere
where the stars aren't obscured by city lights
i’ll have a skylight in my bedroom so that
in the minutes just before
i fall asleep
i’ll be able to look up at the sky
at our past, present, and future
and know that everything
will be okay
this is what i’m thinking about
when i am getting the first injection
the one to put me to sleep
this is where i am in my
uneasy unconsciousness
this is where i am pulled out of
when i wake up
only to be told that my body is
rejecting the foreign tissues
this is where i will go very soon
when i die
i will become a star
shining in the sky
watching humanity
waiting to guide
the lost souls
on Earth
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
I could cast my gaze toward anyone,
but connection comes in small moments of understanding:
When we direct our attention long enough to contemplate the colors,
To regard the size of the darkness we see the world from.
Sometimes we only catch a hit-and-run,
But when it sticks, when souls connect, and we see the other for who they really are,
It leaves me with something I can't forget,
My mind has yet to find a greater but just as simple communication in adoration of another creation.
There's something powerful in the one-on-one,
Undeterred by surrounding crowds or events in motion all around,
Eyes still meet and lock, no passing thing can break their talk.
With every burning second the mirrored sensation of optical reception resembles the sweet weariness of a Nordic midnight sun.
And then it breaks as thoughts swirl in passion heated from skylights.
The warmth runs through the whole body, just seconds filling every cold spot.
As the windows close no one knows, but those dark spots and colors burn in the silence.
I think you may understand, relate in some way, but in reality these words aren't for everyone.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 2:52 AM UTC
What would I do without my fondest delirium?
he stalks my outside musings
he surprises my sharpest joy within
the dullest treading tumult.
I love the embrace of his watchful eye
he peruses my dreams,
a chef sampling caviar laced Hors d'oeuvres.
I speak to him through every reflection
the blank stare of vending machine glass,
the audacity of bathroom mirrored lashes,
the subtle wink of windows, skylights, vistas
every portal into another expanse
blasts me into the remainder of his silhouette.
What would I do without my fondest delirium?
he is the simplest clarity upon my devoted retinas
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
You never told me your wish
so I do wonder
if I am making it come true
scavenge for your sweet hands
pin them, bite the freckles
off
I do not just want you
inside of me
I want to digest you and
be
what you want.
The blonde rain
little daisies from angels say
you love me, love me not
you love me like a stone
we did not skip
but sheltered in a wooden box
with
plastic holes as skylights.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
They are a stranger.
Their hair falls in waves
Crashing against the shore
Of their forehead.
Their eyes smolder,
With a heat that keeps
Warmth seeping into your soul.
Their skin is canvas,
Painted with rusty dots
Highlighted by dusty skylights.
Their lips are a crescent moon,
Curving upwards
in a soft smile.
They are an essence
of beauty and
imperfection personified.
They are a stranger.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
The Chinook and Monsoons have no effect.
Bring rain or snow, sleet or hail.
The Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn
Can shift or stay.
The wadi and oasis can pool or dry.
Fogs can roll, jet streams can carry their worst;
Hurricanes and tornadoes can wreck havoc.
This is my Kouri, my Oued, myTog.
All the animals are welcome to eat and drink.
There's plenty.
Migration is unnecessary.
The watering holes are wet or arid.
The desert can bloom or hide.
The skylights can shine or dim;
Moons can be full, new or in between.
This is my Nahal, and my Nala,
This is my Dry Season.
As expected,
Feast is followed by famine;
Plenty by scarcity.
Inhale, exhale.
I shoot a shot of Jamie,
Having watched it pour,
That dram of gold
Eclipsing all that shines.
That one diluvial ounce:
Then my cave calls.
This is my Akhet.
My Wet Season.
I enter sapien-like
And grow hair.
The animals scatter.
The cave fills with bones and bottles.
I eventually emerge
With the changing of the season,
With the return of reason,
And see;
Then hope
My dim familiar shadow
From the dry season
Will lengthen.
All I need is water.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
~
Choices
Shadows move on sheet rock barriers
framed in time of late
Spaces filled with unknown visions
dance about with feet of clay
Gowns of nightmare carpetbaggers
thunder on the floor
Drippings in a mist of nervous breath
blanket my safe haven
and the sounds scream
in voices of past mishaps
Lost in lonely corridors,
wailing on aching skylights
permitting barely a moon glow psalm
to echo of their meaning
in songs from a distance,
of pleading skeletal desire
“I fear for I have no choice”
Doorways yawn in weary ovations
Slanted photos dot the landscape
Windows prove little relief from the cold
as heat pierces my cavities
Gaping wounds of frail memories
clutch at my last ounce,
measuring the words I am reading
Taking a breath, sweet, stagnant
Clawing for an exit only to find
it has stood before me all along
Baby steps, I have been told
Find that trust, slowly…make sure,
reach out for the hand
offered on a dreamscape message
“I fear for I have no choice?”
Eyes, so tired, weeping pools
out of focus since that day, open
(As if sunflowers float on silken wings
and glorious becomes an understood word)
slowly and tentatively,
blinking sorrow’s pathway free
to lead me to you
The imprint of that butterfly
marks my palm in red lines of love,
mapping my skin with a long awaited
smile, dry lips curve as I take your hand
trusting, for the very first time
realizing the feeling
which hath finally…set me free
“I no longer fear, for I have a choice”
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
Those **** things
lurch around each turn
as if they are lost children
who's mother is also lost
in some isle at Costco.
I know those arching
towers of rows
that hold cardboard boxes
reaching to skylights--
where each passing cloud
blinks for me
as I wander wide eye
for Costco brand cat food
hidden somewhere in the back.
*** holes are not the best at digging
but it's impossible for
my town to fill them,
as each one is a reminder
to our people
that we are irreplaceable.
That when time comes
and the clouds find their resting place
we will no longer crowd the isles
of Costco nor will clouds keep
blinking for us.
Instead our personality
will have dug it's trench
a minor engravement
into the cements and asphalt
of which we called our home.
For us they will leave
our history, appraisal
to the life that has thrived
a marker
that there was beauty
before us
and beauty with us.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
If I lie awake tonight
Roll another smoke to fight
A cloud of passing dreams again
Skylights flood the floor
Roll over just to hear the door
Closing in on my last breath
My lungs will work again
Just because of course they can
In spite of destitue and shame
If I stare at you too long
I'll never sing another song
It's my addiction to over-think
...I'll never win this war...
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
the hungry moon possesses a mysterious silver blowtorch
we burn in the neon deliverance of
reflected light
a baffling massacre of comprehension
this universe
that moon
a barbaric balloon billowing, bobbling
suspended, aching above city skylights
an orb filled with the cinders of everyone's
feverish dreams
this night has eaten our sun
in a sauce of stars and churning
cosmic milk
narcotic planetary stallions
galloping across the black vast
marbled table
of space
my bed a casket, my head an airpot
of dangerous fradulent circuitry and
rusted ginger
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC
And the moon seeps through the runs in my stockings,
Snow melts off ruddy cheeks and boils to the atmosphere
Patchwork skies and yellow air.
We threw snow behind our shoulders for lack of any salt
Steeped, stewed and warded off our demons,
Invoking the wrath of the wandering cars
And the moon seeps through the runs in my stockings.
A lonesome traffic light directs the phantom engines
The dewy skylights have yet been good to me
A fog of breaths entwined lift up to the
patchwork skies and yellow air.
As our tinny music on cell phones dampened the stillness
The lamps shone out to nobody still
Loud, jarring, paling the night sky’s starlight,
And the moon that seeps through the runs in my stockings
Our riotous whisperings
Were but cracks in the ice
Our cigarettes were torches held against
the patchwork skies and yellow air
This city is a tyrant
Its icy stillness grasping through my clothes
The stillness sears my inhibitions,
the moon seeps through the runs in my stockings
We fell into the yellow cab
Made inert by our indiscretions, plagued
By the moon that seeped into the runs in my stockings,
The rosy skies and clearing air.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
late
in lamplight's hiss
I sat and watched the attic dust
dance under spotlights cast
by moonbeam
skylights
on a stage of memory
and forgetting
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 10:14 AM UTC
like a renaissance the way you
curl your lips is
raising the dead
this sainted air of emptiness in bed with
the distance touched off of unkept promises
of woolen clouds and a shroud of sundown kisses
christen the scorched skylights from bedrock to core
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Where the skylights meet the highway
Where the rubber meets the road
Hell in my rearview mirror
And my mind on overload
Can’t outrun the ticking clock
Or distance myself from destiny
Spun out in the middle of my life
By the reckless heart inside of me
Drag myself from under this wreckage
Can’t say I feel no pain
Only a matter of moments I’ll be
In another hit and run again
Speeding cars they never stop
Just because you forfeit the race
Clear the track and they go round again
A faster car to take your place
This blur of life makes me slam my breaks
I was never built for speed
Cut the nitrous and the adrenaline
There’s something more that I need
Calling out over the roar of the engines
Shut the door and throw out the key
Walk away from this race to nowhere
There’s a better path that waits for me
TL Boehm
02/15/14
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
there is something you should do,
if you could
remember, but
history is bipolar,
each moment splits in two
rifts, opening
skylights in hallways
days go into days, go
into years
and still nothing.
Nothing in the daisy fields,
nothing in the fields,
white hills vanishing
behind clouds
us, here
on the side of the road
and the wind whines
through the tussock grass
and cars drive past,
bright lights speeding through darkness
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
water
freezing us to shore,
the illusion of safety
and whatever else is left out here.
my clothes on the grass,
his and hers in a tree
this drug—
so unkind to the tortured mind.
i left my brain smeared across the
common room,
with bits and pieces on my best friends cheek
while she cried for me.
i’m walking alone
and i’m tripping through
the softness of a midnight
swing,
we kept talking about
california
like it was a solution
to a problem.
i’m still quite
convinced that it is.
but like i have said before
i’m starting to really lose it
and everyone likes to tell me
that most things aren’t beautiful
and i see it less and less in the
moonshook skylights.
but my friends came over to my house
and it was late
with lots of different vices
and we sink
into our addictions,
maybe they’re not always that bad
if they mean
i can share them with the only people
to watch me shrink under the weight
of all of this ******* agony
still thinking i could paint the sky pink
cause the night time is
always illuminated
with our words that melt into
each others skin.
learning endlessly
about each others atoms
and i want to take the pain away
for whatever its worth and
carry it in my shoes,
walk to the nearest sunrise
and talk for a while longer.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC