"sparkler" poems
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass
Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps
Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying
Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”
That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of stupid-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress
Some images just stay with you, ya know?
July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
Misogyny,
The hatered, objectification, and sexualization of women
His hands were too big for my eight year old body
My stomach turned in ways I could only describe as "icky"
I screamed until I could no longer feel any breath left in my lungs
"Stop it! Please! I don't like this game. Daddy stop!"
Time slows
Seeming like an eternity
Every touch was like a sparkler
Burning while tracing the path his fingers left on my body
When he was finally done
I gathered my thoughts and prayed to God to save me
When I went to the bathroom to clean up
I saw his handwriting on the mirror
Scrawled across it was a verse saying Hell was my only destiny
My body is not a bag of bones for you to play with and the burry
Poisonous words foam from your mouth like rabid dogs You pick pieces of my pride from your teeth
You think it’s okay to mess with women
To make them feel vulnerable
Just because you have a Napoleon Bonaparte complex That does not give you the right to steal our self-esteem To make up for the lack of your own
You say “Well maybe YOU shouldn’t have worn those slutty heals,
Or that dress,
Or your hair that way.”
You say “Maybe YOU should have done something
to avoid being a target.”
You say “Stop being so disrespectful.
I just wanted to see your ****
You have a real flair for excuses
So excuse me when I tell you
You will regret messing with a woman like me
You see, I keep my heart strapped to my steel-toed combat boots
And an army of mistreated women of speed-dial
We will hold you captive and make our war paint from your blood
As ransom notes fall from your mouth
With the words “I’m sorry” scrawled across them I hate to break it to you
But those words won’t sew up the open wounds you left us with
When you came in to *** in and steal our innocence
The thing you don’t seem to realize is
You might have taken our innocence
But that’s not what we are made of
We consume strength for breakfast,
Courage for lunch,
Wisdom for dinner,
And guys like you for a midnight snack.
We’re not just warriors
Were survivors
What you do to us doesn't define us
Were not broken
Were beautiful
And the more I think about it
You’re just dogs chained to a tree
While I’m the person
Who’s going to put your treachery to sleep.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
blood red diamond
tops tender green emeralds,
rose quartz and morganite
in a feast of polished deposit.
teardrop laden,
glistening against the stirring sun,
the world waits in dew.
crystal drops wink,
the blood diamond contemplates emerald tightrope,
slick escape.
with a bubble here,
a drop there,
Little Lady Beetle
attempts to dry its wings.
the flower that rests beneath
bends low,
and too shimmers
like a July sparkler.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
mean beam bottom ***** without reluctance.
\\ air above \\
since forever baby boy: since forever liquid sparkler.
he has sense
& peanut butter jelly geography to his page.
his romance is of the west.
his eyes are of dandelions kicked & to the wind.
he moves like ancient turtle migration.
reaches feet to sidewalk \\ sand to depths \\ ride \\
night:
velcro-tightened mind withstanding.
party lights, ***** willows, retro punch, he
is orpheus descending: with all the elements positioned just so.
\\ jellyfish electric \\
he says he likes the loneliness.
he says it’s the water.
& so he moves \\ wills himself into the next measure.
liquid resolute bits.
so move \\ orca \\
curl of eye \\ so ride \\ black rollo wave \\
basilica \\ & \\
coral reaches below \\\\\
he likes to tell it, with warmed exaggeration.
slow-motion buffalo stampede. ride the railroads free & easy.
orange glowing bars of elsewhere. oscillating seal calls.
oily portland hipsters howling on the beach. those
juno cheeked rosy-red lips.
somewhere, sister getting married.
spring, summer, fall, winter, spring.
africa girl on a branch of a tree of a forest, overlooking elephant burial grounds.
color & white material:
plantations, gas stations, diners, & sharks.
this is the morning lunar \\
sweet blue beach of the old & awakening.
he crawls out & into her breaks.
her deep heights & bombora reef. the serotonin
functions twice, exposed between thin tissues of warm-blooded neurochemistry.
human, shown.
he is as a raw page, blank, yet
dipped \\
\\ so ride \\ bulbous waves of air mother agua \\
ride \\ &
\\ ride \\ &
brew by light these occurrences forever.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Aluminum
Have you memorized your storybooks
How does it feel to catch on fire
You go where bugs go in the winter
Surface waves
How does it feel to be momentary
An oven timer
Or a sparkler
Sidewalk
How does it feel to be cracked open
To bleed to death
Blunt force trauma for 200
Rooftop
How's the autumn
The air's quite nice
But the ending is blurry
Oh winter
How does it feel to melt
To simply
Stop existing
Open ocean
How does it feel to drown
I thought there were bandaids
And you never even saw me
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Uncounted words on the page, attempting to mimic brilliance
Predictable as playing Russian roulette with an automatic
Forced sterility, impossible as drawing a straight line
The wrist won’t comply, simply cannot, no reason to attempt it
We fool ourselves with second hand ambition, discard our
own greatness
Quiet and sublime, carelessly letting our spark burn out
Do you remember what it was to be a child?
Nothing but used up memories with no sound
Black and white like some old movie, lips moving, no voice
Barefoot dreams are all that remain for me
Empty promises made to one’s self, surrendered so
easily
Nights of Bach on the radio, hiding behind closed doors and
cheap wine
Days of endless monotony, dark stairs and the smell of
scrubbed mildew
An afternoon spent in your arms, making love under the
pecan trees
I almost saw your yesterdays, beautiful creature, when I met your
eyes, laying there
A little girl, running with a sparkler in each hand, screaming her
defiance to the world
Holding onto what’s left of each other, two halves, trying to make a
whole
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 9:17 AM UTC
“Words are beautiful, but emotion is divine” (patty m)
~these are the divine words of a beautiful soul, patty m~
this Missouri grandmother writes and I am willfully, duty-bound,
to comply for she commissions a poem with every insightful pithy and
ever one of her dear hugs, of which these is no limit and each one a treasure of a gratitude that flows contra-directionally, surpassing given-grace and lawful gravity, for all of her words flow simultaneously north and south, heavenwards, and earth planted, east / west, magnetic poles attracting divinity wherever it can be found
and all I can do is proffer
just one more only love poem, which is the blessing and the curse the lord blessed me with, love is beautiful and it is divinely originated in each of our humble hearts, plucked from trees and fed to us wherever fruit of the fields grows, shaped like sweet and **** berries…not all that is divine, of necessity to be beautiful, words, them too, a mixed blessing, vulnerable and subject by the abuse of human weakness and fragility…but this much I assure myself with confidence,
and you too,
her words, well,
limitless, her every poem is hand woven, unhid, in the fooling
plain earthenware that the potter’s wheel created,
all gifts to each of us;
*But my fragility mandates I speak slow and hesitantly of things beautiful that contain the white glow sparkler light of divinity, for I have attracted and deserved many failures, far greater than the rarer success, so my knowledge yet oft suspect, is mostly merely well imagined but know this:
her skill,
her expertise
her intimate comprehension
within the beautiful and divine expressions of her kind appreciation she deigns to share…words like a mighty, beautiful like a powerful Missouri river, driven by all specie of love…but none more powerful, more divine than that of a loving womanly grandmother*
this, yes, only a love poem to be sure,
for the beautiful,
The Divine Miss (Patty) M.
Jul 24, 2023
Jul 24, 2023 at 5:44 PM UTC
delicate yellow jasmine
why are those succulent lips sealed?
or is it just that
blossoming flowers seldom speak?
as the shy half moon
steals a glimpse of our union,
your sparkler eyes gloss just a bit
don’t you know that
you and only you
get to rest your head
on my aging shoulders?
as you fly away
to that adopted land,
remember that
i live for now
by dying for you
© 2021
Nov 14, 2021
Nov 14, 2021 at 10:05 AM UTC
Your eyes are the sea at a boardwalk on a sunny day,
with the sea foam splashing small children holding onto their drippy ice cream cones,
begging their mothers for "one last ride".
Your eyes are the sparkle in a sapphire stone,
Precious, something to be coveted and treasured.
And when you smile...your eyes, they glitter and dance,
like sparks flying off of a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
What will that day be like,
When the ink finally runs dry?
When the gas runs out of that gas station lighter,
When those remote batteries finally die?
Will the muse dry up,
Or will passion finally run out,
Fizzling like a sparkler at its base?
When will it go,
Will it be on a bus one day,
A startling realization,
Or something that can be seen far off?
If that's the case,
Will it come after some magnum opus,
Planned out in excruciating detail?
Or will it go out in a rapid fire of words,
A race against time to put letters on the page,
A desperate act of the unprepared?
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 12:41 AM UTC
a sad poem for my dinner
one gloomy for day meal
my smiles are getting thinner
dying my living will.
give me some fun write
am crying all the while
break me if you might
break me into smile.
a dark poem for my dinner
a crier for breakfast
my joys are getting thinner
sunshine is into rust.
make me one a fun read
a sparkler jolly bright
so joyous tears quickly roll
blur words from eyesight.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
Surrounded by obscurity without gloom:
the depths of calignosity suffocate every speck in ebony ink.
Yet, every molecule breathes with ease.
It is the crushing, bewitching hour of eternity in nightfall.
A sigh exhaled is impassively terminated by the midnight dusk;
sound is silent here.
Emptiness gapes as the leviathan's gob
thick with gelatinous mucus,
vast, however jailing:
closed and unknown to the living universe.
The saliva sparks in a moment, as a release of static charge,
even though no solid is sensed, never-mind two touching
loaded with electric friction.
And then again, as a sparkler of summer's independence
now holding for just more than a whim.
An explosion.
Flecks of bright stains scattered within the physical aura breeze past;
they ripple like wave crests under a kaleidoscope moon.
Colors arc in the resistant free current: endless lightning.
The vacuum is an overpopulated city
of which the blind could never take census
and the ignorant believe to be mute.
Visual speech fills the void of sound.
It is the starlight of a body.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Outside the barn ached weakly in the autumn cold,
The air was still against the magic movements softly exploding in the parallel rows of the hissing sparklers,
The bride and groom would soon pass under their faux glory,
You said I was a good man,
"I know, so are you",
You turned to the ground and stumbled over your confession,
Tripping over the light fog of alcohol in your breath,
"No,
"-no,"
"-I"
"I'm not."
And you walked away
Then the photographer came up to me looking through his one black glass eye and told me
"Say four of the most profound words you ever said."
The hissing stopped,
The light died,
I looked into his magic eye and said
"My sparkler went out."
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
amazing
in a ******* way is how I can be a genius at being stupid.
All it takes is one wrong word to set me on the war path!
One hit from the pipe or one firewater sip too many,
I can be off scalping writing my name on bare heads.
I am a sparkler lit, at times, that is why I have singed eyebrows.
Wear Goodwill clothes, drink from neighbors faucets.
Walk, most times, where I go, I have gone through
1000 pairs of mocassins in just one year.
I no longer have any desires, to be smart, nor smoke the peace pipe.
I am on a warpath. Wondering where this is leading.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
i. Here, there is sand in your mouths when you kiss. Sweat and long hair. A shared water bottle glinting in her hands. She finds a succulent plant and slices it open, drawing her finger through the clear gelatinous discharge it bleeds. She touches that finger to her cheek and glistens heavenly. You are dry heat desire and she is your oasis. You drink her with stinging eyes.
ii. In this place of neat grass and gridlocked streets, there is not much to do except make chains of wildflowers for her neck and yours. There’s no one around to hear you tell each other how you feel. You feel like a sparkler, so you say so. Like a lit match. Condensed brilliance. She holds your hand in the middle of paved suburban wasteland, squeezes it three times. You know what she’s saying. You say it back.
iii. She draws your initials in condensation clinging to subway glass, while you thunder beneath the metropolis in claustrophobic darkness. You can’t see all of her in the changing light, just fragments. Her lower lip. Her nose. Her jaw, holy. The city makes your want electric. Her mouth on the edge of a cheap coffee cup and crowds jostling the two of you together. Curry and gasoline and the sapphire smell of her hair. Adoration in alleyways and open streets. Here, you can be two girls in love and the world will not punish you for it. Here, you blow her a kiss and a bearded old man says che dio ti benedicta. Bless you.
iv. To love her in the mountains is dizzying. High altitudes and mist. Leaves caught in her hair. When you stand at a precipice and look out, she photographs you without you noticing, dilating the lens to catch the rosy burn of your cheeks above your wool scarf. She finds you painfully becoming like this. You against the violent, beautiful sky. You in love and unhidden. Her heart is thumping as fast as yours when you turn and move into her, wrapping her up as if she were some ephemeral thing, a moonbeam from a passing orbit. Together, you breathe the thin blue air.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
He was a Breathtaker. A royal, high-class, naturally-born, take-it-or-leave-it Breathtaker. I had never seen one before in real life, only heard about them in the tales of a girl's childhood.
The first day he took my Breath was in a parking lot. He stood there alone in the parking lot, with his sparklers in hand, and wrote words in the air for no one but himself to see. He hummed while he wrote, haphazardly opening his mouth slightly, in a never-ending melody.
Later, I found out that the words he wrote in the air would later be turned into music, beautiful songs that could lift your feet off the ground and give your soul the wings to fly. But this first night, I knew nothing of the breathtaker's ability to create such beauty.
The lit end of the sparkler seemed to be a metaphor for the Breathtaker's aura. Shining, energetic, with a tendency to mezmerize. One didn't want to stop watching his mind at work.
So I sat there in the grass and watched him. Looking at the swift motion of his arms, I became entranced by the passion with which he worked. So quickly, I couldn't even pick up much of what he was writing. One could easily tell, however, that he wasn't going to forget a word of it.
I, however, had brought my typewriter for such an occasion. I sat there and typed words that he made me feel. The first line was "intrigue. night sky. man. electricity fingers. fizzled feelings. stranger. lips. curls. air. no breath."
And so my Breath was hardpressed to move. It entered my mouth and stopped, right below my soft palette, not wanting to enter further. My Breathing was very shallow, almost a soft hyperventilation, caught between time moving and time paused.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
Illuminated by incandescent brilliance
she is feeling celestial,
Radiated by the sparkler
held in the only gloved hand.
The curvature of blonde hair
folds around her face,
as you smile graciously.
Cast in shadows but never forgotten,
a penny in a wishing well.
You stand tall, a benign being.
He told her you are golden.
Looking down upon her,
in promise of prospect
as she wavers and wanders
loping around
like a small pixie,
spreading dust through
the swelling Garden.
This night, full of wonder,
enchantment, entrancement.
Mystical.
An alchemist appears to her.
She does not blink.
You gazed at bursts of light,
those thunders of giants
imprinting the smoke infested sky,
as you imprint her mind
with the stories you tell
and your accounts of life.
They cannot be retold.
Descending
Drawing in.
Now, vacuum packed
you are shrink wrapped,
enclosed with no air.
Mounds of cement run down your mouth.
That night you were strong
and you watched her with glee.
But now she’s bigger and bolder
and you’re weaker, older.
When her sparkler fades
The supernova stage,
A final moment of absolute glory
But will not linger,
Or last.
Now your eyes are melancholy,
Distant,
Enigmatic.
Wandering phantom orbs.
Her sparkler grows dim.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
I’m proud of all the things I don’t know
This morning I woke up
and opened my third eye
and in the simple act
of receiving
the whole world spread
out in front of me
Like the pages of a book
Like a blueprint unfurling
Like a farm fresh golden egg
Like a biblical parting of the skies
Hyperbole?
Maybe,
but it feels like a spark
ignited
a “good morning”
long lost twin
all eyes open
sweet stranger
memory of me
almost long gone
forgotten
hello again
to the me
that sees with her third eye
who leaves a trail of golden
burning pieces
a single sparkler
just waffling all alone
down a dark driveway
in the hand of some innocent kid
such a small burning ember
and capable of such great joy
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
1919, peanuts and pine, and the tangy smell of cologne and sweat mixed together
Ocean water lapping at my toes, bringing me back to cleaner days, reminding me of her.
The train to Roosevelt Island, of black rail, steam and fog, lurching there and back again.
Sparkler candles from my sixteenth birthday. A miscellaneous collection of bottle caps, all donated from friends. A book of pictures.
Cable cars. Hot spicy soup. Three quests for a sunset, three kings for a prince. Addendums, beginnings, and wandering the hospital hallways. The boy with the arab strap.
That my aunt persevered, and taught herself to smile.
That the sun rises after every dark night.
That beyond the horizon lays more land, more sea, and more wonder.
That you can start again and again, and no one can tell you when to stop.
The sky right after a thunderstorm, when it's still a furious dark gray, and yet sunshine creeps through its cracks of the clouds (which I always hated, but learned to love).
The soft morning glories in my hands, showered in sunlight and love. That Nature could be so tender, delicate, and pure. That yellow was no longer my least favorite color.
The way wind brushes my bedroom windows, and the willow trees call to me, mournfully shaking their leaves.
4am, lamplight, softer than the rain. Dried flowers. Guitar music wafting down the streets of Boston.
How the only one that could forget me was me.
How I could be alone.
How I could love every small thing.
Jul 21, 2021
Jul 21, 2021 at 1:56 AM UTC
I am the summer sparkler,
Clutched between the
Sticky fingers of a child.
I burn bright and fast,
My shivers lingering
Behind closed eyelids.
I shutter with light,
Brought to life with a match,
Dripping with flare.
I am kindled and caressed
By the night air and
The eyes of all.
I am a short lived passion,
Marveled and held tightly
Until I sizzle into darkness.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 12:35 PM UTC
I'm doing this no justice.
Saving my tongue for dryer days, keeping the ones I actually love from losing their own pinkish tails in my waning nonsense.
Sane and civil... because I am my fathers shifting chameleon; his white blazer and my mothers blood orange; her Lorazepam.
My name alone is treaty.
One lonely gabble lodges itself inside of my esophagus.
Get lost founding father.
Burn harder rebellion.
I need me on my surface, not buried under the expected ammunition of ink.
End your sparkle, sparkler.
Here, your exploding gold only crushes the windpipe of flowers.
I have nightmares that stretch my fears towards our waking sun.
Yawning out the last sighs of moon.
Once again, I hesitate and stumble on tongue.
I've seen my words startle rust like the flat cat call 'boos’ of halloween towards November.
Since I've been buried, halloween hasn't missed a year.
And the gibberish of its mask will always sting as resonant.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
I followed a mob march of taillights
back from work. Two rows of thirty flames
spaced out streaked the darkness
beneath the looming sparkler
adding stars to midnight sky.
Roman candle travelers eager to burn
out tried to shoot past traffic
on slivers of unoccupied sidewalk.
The closer they got to town,
the more stars faded above
their hoard of torches.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
blood BOILING
nostrils flared
can't believe I ever cared
fists clenched
drenched in rage
now on a completely new page
I erupt
but those around
remind me that I am
just a sparkler
not a fire
and so my anger must retire
good riddance
I'll be dancing
dressed in silver
matching the stars
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC
Bob's father was an operator
At Dow;
He ran Firecracker Day,
Bless him;
In the back beginning at eight.
Perfect timing,
But the wait to cross over
Was worth it.
The bangs and booms
Were hardly noticeable.
You must've been there too
As the school burned down
In upon itself;
The joy of the dark
In bright flashes
Of appearing and fading faces.
I'm hearing the explosions again
On this Victoria Day,
And see your face
Disappearing
In the last light
Of a sparkler.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
~
She reached for the ribbons of her gown
not knowing why, but she held them in her hand
as she floated through the ever changing mist,
whites and grays in a swirling pattern,
mesmerizing in blends and shifts,
blurred yet possessing a clarity she could not explain
or cared to think about right now
She looked down on herself in her bed sobbing,
clutching tightly a dampened pillow, lonely, missing…
*now confused as a peaceful awareness
wrapped about her warmly,*
caressing her spirit, washing away the pain,
the sadness, the torment which she fought now to remember
as it drifted below, creating new shadows about her feet
but distant, never forgotten, she couldn’t, it was promised…
Once more the satin ribbons were pulled gently, guided
as if a feather laced kite on a silver string embracing blue skies,
dancing about in the slow rhythm, spun in clouded dreams,
breathless she soars higher, it seems towards the sun
or perhaps a light of a different source, it felt soft, cool
beckoning her and she yearned for it…
for some reason it felt right
Stars swept past her in wiry glistening designs
like a sparkler at a summer cookout waved through the air
in abstract lemonade glowings and apple pie tickles
and she smiled, for the first time in a long time as the
moon disappeared on the horizon, embracing this experience
She continued allowing the tender tugs on her ribbons to
move her freely, when she felt something, it was a hand on
hers, helping her hold the ribbons, it felt familiar,
safe, comforting
When she saw his eyes, as clear as she had ever seen anything,
deep and friendly, soothing
just as she had remembered…remembered?
He took her by the hands and he came even more into focus
“Hi there, I have missed you,” he sighed and she knew it was him
He was here, wherever here was, holding her now as he said,
“I promised I would love you eternally, I couldn't have you then,
so I have waited for you"
She cried , happy tears as she whispered. “You did, you did, is this…”
“Shhh,” he placed a caring finger to her lips…
”This is our eternity my love”
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC