"soirees" poems
Slimy sea feet.
Sandy salt tongues.
Gabby gulls and cautious *****
Boardwalk smiles and sticky ice cream fingers.
Ripened hearts and eager tide eyes.
Tears in my ears from the satisfied sun seeking silence.
This is where I belong.
This is where I know God.
I don’t belong in a town that can offer me nothing.
I don’t belong in a massive city that’ll swallow me up.
I don’t belong at silly soirees or late night parties.
I don’t belong at the top tier or down with the underdogs.
I belong on the shores.
I belong arm in arm with my confidantes, walking through downtown streets of some sweet town.
I belong hand in hand with my true companion with our toes in the sand.
I belong sipping soda with my sisters giggling endlessly as we watch some cheesy chick flick.
I belong hugging my mama who I will never stop loving for an instant.
I belong sitting with my father drinking tea in the purest, sweetest silence, for that is how we were made to be.
I belong listening to my dad’s tall tales and my mothers soothing words.
I belong holding my stomach with my face streaked with tear drops from some joke that is only funny if you were there.
I belong forever in the future with that one, the one whom was made for me; the Tilney to my Catherine.
I belong holding the gazes of my friends as we try to hold back our cackles, tears, and even our own words.
I belong in the waves of the sea.
I only belong in the happiest of salty tears.
I can’t belong where I’m too afraid to face my fears.
I won’t belong in broken gears.
I’ll not for a moment belong in heartbroken wares.
I’ve never belonged in them, but they live inside me.
They have and always will be
My demons and my skeletons
Yet you will always see them on my sleeves
So everyone can see they do not devour me.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
My parents would take me,
on Sundays, at times,
to visit their friends
who lived in West Farms.
Their five year old daughter
and five year old me
would play out in the porch
while the old ones had tea.
Ann Marie was an imaginative girl,
and our playtime involved
her imaginary world.
Music was played
on invisible strings
and her "friend" Purple Lady"
was invited to sing.
I never did "see" her
the Lavender Lass.
But I'd pretend to greet her
to make the time pass.
Ann Marie would tell stories
and include her "friend" in
We were always a trio
in her imagination.
I'm the only survivor
of those Sunday Soirees
Half a century older
and tending to gray.
So imagine my shock
when my sister described
A girl who'd been murdered
in that house in West Farms:
It had happened some years
before Mom's friends bought the place.
A young girl, dressed in Purple
Amethyst graced
was killed by her father,
who, divorced and disgraced,
sought his ex wife's blood
but killed their child in her place.
Her Mom died then of grief
of her dear girl Bereft ,
but I'm beginning to think
that her child never left.
It was always quite cold
in that room where we played
as children
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 10:17 PM UTC
*I'll swath my cliches
in over verbose decadence
and ask forgiveness in the morning.*
Edging
toeing
the fine line in between
Fighting to live
- or -
living to fight
in champagne surged soirees
of surreptitious allergens
Some ******* ballad
donning metalcore methods
aggressive to a fault
that is to say, earth-shattering
unyielding, unwavering, unapproachable
un-fucking-believable
You, me,
they, we,
truncated
but never forgotten
Had
but never spent
Forgotten
but never lost
Your name is in my autocorrect
with siren songs and call signs
from generational grievances,
Chivalrous misandry,
chorus discord
callous
Chandeliers swing
low like chariots.
Samson told us to keep dancing.
We were only listening,
abreast one another,
clad only in our genres.
We were so much more
until we were
lost,
but never mattered.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
sonorous symphonies simper at the
soirees of my sincere
sibling while I
stand by
scowling
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
there's an alien inside you,
gnawing on the tinsel and the ticket stubs
of forgotten soirees.
it weeps in the basement
of your third
floor.
it pounds on the pipes of madness
and stomps
it's tentacles
behind your dreams,
where your eyes
believe in
God.
and everything
stings.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Before I begin, I must tell you in my native tongue that I love you. I adore you with every fiber of my being. I am not telling you this out of promise for future romance; nor out of unyielding compulsion. None of these. No. I can only express these verbal incantations of affection to you due to one sole reason, and this purpose alone. You cannot understand a single word pouring from my silent lips. I watched you from atop of my Spanish villa as you bathed in the rays of Apollo. I tried, oh how desperate were my attempts not to look. Not to bask in the warmth of your beauty for all of eternity, as I wish I could. Doubtful are my beliefs that you will ever know my name. Never will you notice my admiration of you amidst this crowd. I love you only in the privacy of my own heart, although I wish I knew you. Not the 'you' everyone knows through casual conversations and late-night soirees. No. I wish to know the real you. The you of presence. The 'you' you keep concealed in the walls of your sandy skin; shielded by a broken heart no one bothered repairing. I would have reconstructed these shards then, as I would now. You need only ask. Only glance this way.
So, my dear, sweet, whomever, if this sonnet, dedicated to your evanescent frame, were to ever become published, only to be translated into different languages and dispersed among the continents, like so many in the past have; I pray this poem, singing praises to your illustriousness, and yours, alone, finds its way into the palm of your hand. Only then will you know, without knowing, what I have known since that day. You are forever immortal. Forever young.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 5:43 AM UTC
Sometimes I just have to admit it.
Things are happening and I don’t get it.
What the hell is going on here?
Is an explanation from anyone near?
It makes a kind of sense, if you squint
But soon it caroms off on another bent.
I mean, it’s all in my native language, true,
But so much of it feels like visiting a zoo.
My life can turn into a monkey house
And without a decent kind of warning
And suddenly I’m dealing with issues
That weren’t there in the morning.
Some batch of politicians on the right
Are busily trying to steal my serenity
And maybe even trying to imprison me
And at least take away my dignity.
They say they are doing all of this
In the name of holy Jesus Christ
But it still works as a ripping off,
And an indecent but legal heist.
I may not be an attorney myself
But I was also not born last Tuesday.
These rotten scalawags in suits
Are trying to take my rights away.
It makes a kind of sense, if you squint
But soon it caroms off on another bent.
I mean, it’s all in my native language, true,
But so much of it feels like visiting a zoo.
It always amazes me that these jerks
Somehow manage to sleep at night
Because it’s plain enough to see
That what they do really isn’t right.
For example, for two hundred years
It was legal here to own negroes.
But that it was an sickening atrocity
Was as plain as their white nose.
But they held cotillions and soirees
And treated slaves like breeding stock
And sold off the black babies which
Seemed to happen around the clock
Because it made sense to these Christians
To ignore everything that Jesus said
And treat these people barbarically
From their birth until they were dead.
Sometimes I just have to admit it.
Things are happening and I don’t get it.
What the hell is going on here?
Is an explanation from anyone near?
There are plenty of modern references
Like treating immigrants as villains
When every white person in the USA
Were immigrants, most of them willing.
But rich people here are so upset
That these people are not the right kind
And that gives the rich white people
An excuse for them to be rude and unkind.
I could go on and on with this complaint
For pages and chapters without end.
I’m still waiting for someone to tell me
“Enough! We conservatives agree and say 'When!'”
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
It's my party, so lets party hearty
downing drinks and food
stumbling round, hoping
my neighbors, don't up and sue
Speaking of Sue, she's in the pool
bobbing for Bob, who's floundering
Bob's not really all that handsome or cool
Sue in the morning, insane pondering
Perusing the back of Peggy's legs
she used to be a Cosmo debutante
now, she simply trolls for Greg
he's been called, I quote "an idiot savant"
Todd never quite fits in, always quiet and shy
Alice always wants too, giving him the eye
Rosy has the hots, for my best friend Sly
he's a surfer *** wearing an off-color tie
Benny always drinks too much
and ends up passed out in the yard
Elle always the gentle selling touch
into real estate, handing out her card
Harry plays the DJ
all day and all night long
he's really not that good
but the music's, loud and strong
I have these soirees, almost every year
for neighbors and for friends
it's always my greatest fear
some too embarrassed, to attend
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:05 AM UTC