"soundtracking" poems
Crashing whitecaps peaking
A sound tsunami
Shingles glistening
Groynes mossy
Seaweed pungent in the salt filled air
The rhythms old as time
Remind us of our insignificant mortality
A marine metronome soundtracking our existence
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
It takes just a word or sight
To cry about lonely nights in a room
lit by streetlight glow;
To cringe at silence soundtracking the evening;
To loathe smiles dancing on the walls of your mind or
the clink of glasses ringing your absence;
To fear the season of youth slipping,
falling away like
silk-like water off smooth skin;
To imagine life not lived.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Imagine this:
Crystal blue persuasion soundtracking cigarettes smoked in parking lots.
We spent the night crowded around a small table with glasses of wine and a variety of beers. One was blueberry, and they let me try it. It wasn't very good but I also don't have the same affinity for ales that they do.
We played Sorry and smoked cigarettes. We talked about our intimate stories and the things that we take pleasure in. We played scrabble until the sunrise and I lost and we all grabbed blankets and drunkenly stumbled to the front lawn.
We pondered on what color the sky was for some time. We even pulled up a chart of different shades of blue, but couldn't find a perfect match.
I still think it was pretty close to cauliflower blue though.
I ran inside, too tired to try to stay awake any longer and found myself in blankets of white and walls of grey.
I slept in the bed of a minimalist.
I rolled over and looked into the one pair of eyes I could never see the soul of.
Those eyes, like crystal waters, hold a world beneath them no one would dare to endure the pressure of on their shoulders to explore. There's something about them, an aerial view of large black pupils swimming in summer pools surrounded by snow.
They're mysterious, they're wise, they're a word I've been searching for, in that antique dictionary, in tiles of finished games on scrabble boards, that I just can't seem to find...
Like trying to match the exact shade of blue and having to choose cauliflower blue disappointedly.
Staring into them makes you feel vulnerable, like he can see straight through you, like he knows everything you're thinking and feeling and everything you've ever thought or felt, and it scared me.
So I adjusted my gaze to the light freckles on pale skin, the blonde strands lining his chin, full lashes lining his lids. And I fell asleep peacefully.
****
When I woke up, the sun from the blinds split into lines along your white sheets, your hair, your spine.
It looked lovely.
I stood up and took a step back to take it all in.
There was a stillness in the hourglass on your bedside table, piles of white sand lying silently at the bottom.
I smiled softly.
You woke up.
The tea kettle screamed.
You left for work and I left you a note.
Thank you for lending a pillow, and a contentment and appreciation for the softness in my life.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
Your heaped whispers are soundtracking my hobbling days. Not all of your words landed so softly.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 3:29 AM UTC