"springy" poems
Just because the color of my skin
I somehow never fit in
With all of those girls
The ones with the pale skin and springy curls
Whose eyes are brilliant shades of the rainbow
Unlike my natural hair
Eyes dark brown, and skin unfair
I can sit in the mirror and stare
Wondering why people like me aren't on the magazines
That I read
Or on the commercials I see on T.V.
Thinking some days that I'm not pretty
Because I'm not like them
Those girls who I see everyday
Who will never know the way it feels
To be a black girl
Have people say
You're pretty for a dark girl
Like my skin tone affects my beauty
How I am suppose to look
I'd date you if you weren't black
So when did being attractive become a matter of race?
When did I not become enough
All due to the color of my face?
But they don't understand
The one that hurts the most
Worse of all
Worse of all
Is
YOU DON'T ACT LIKE A BLACK GIRL
Oh
Excuse me for having class
Not shaking my ***
Having decorum
And speaking my mind; politely
My mother raised me right
To act right
Showing me that life would
be tough for girls like me
Girls who didn't fit into the stereotypes of our race
Girls who dressed modestly
Talked properly
Girls who didn't fight
Girls who acted white
But I always thought I was just acting right
But no one ever saw
That I was just being me
Because you see
I may be a black girl
But a black girl isn't all I'll ever be
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
“…the grandfather’s camera with the last pictures of the youngest Colorado theatre shooting victim was stolen and the family’s sorrow has compounded…”
Veronica, why did you love Anne Hathaway
And why did you not go refill the popcorn,
Veronica? You ate it all during the previews
Though I warned your stomach would hurt.
Sweet Veronica, how did you know to hate Bane
And why did you not go to the bathroom,
My dear. The hand-dryer’s scream is loud
But it dries, unlike your wetting, red screech.
Veronica, why did you insist that you were old enough
For this fate? And how could I have agreed,
Cold Veronica. Pigtails were meant to be springy,
Not limp with blood, Pepsi, and regret.
The Bullets.
The Cape.
The damning shot
Would have slapped
Even Batman
Dead.
Young Veronica, why is the memory of you
And your innocent flesh fading fast,
To red Veronica? Wet too young and too alive
For the four-foot long coffin we buried.
Yesterday.
Cop lights.
My camera with
The last shots of you
“Stolen, sir.”
Wail, Veronica from the camera screen
In the hands of this thief, oh, convince him,
Stab, Veronica, with your pixilated smile
Until the guilt brings your smile home, to my eyes.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
My hair stood on end
And I strongly felt my pride bend
I was afraid you could hear
As my poor heart beat frantically with fear
That I would not please you
That you would overlook me
On that first day I saw you.
Walking in springy steps like a fairy
And wearing a smile that melt my heart
Met in a handshake,
Felt the tender touch
I still couldn’t out make;
“Aren’t you hugging me?” Ouch!
On that first day I saw you.
Hoped that the handshake
Will go above the elbow
Felt my mansion of desires going loose
My submarine of hopes going afloat
My dove of love on the shove
On that first day I saw you my love.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:31 AM UTC
7:05, it's late September
and mid-continent can't decide
on a season
if it's Summer, Winter
or some patchwork in between
but I've
Decided
Falling on confusion's
not the same as hitting Springy grass
because I've seen
How hard December
clamps its jaws
on those Midwest city streets
--With famished eyes
and with breath howling
tries to find ways into me
So, clothed in shivers, one might stumble
Between bars, snowflakes, and friends
And cloudy skies and clouded glasses
tell you, "you'll never be young again!"
11:30, Minneapolis--
you're sure your ride is late.
Trudge through snow, and mud and asphalt
while skies thicken purple-grey.
And things are much the same in Bismarck
And much the
same in Winnipeg.
Thrusting frigid hands in pockets
restore some blood to aching legs.
"And it's another Midwest winter."
What more is there to say?
Respond to yourself and keep walking
Still miles away from home
Still a decade until morning
Another New Year's spent alone
--and growing old--
Now you remember last September--
It was still 80 degrees!
Now you're caught in Midwest winters--
Release a breath and watch thoughts freeze.
So just wait until next Summer
Your floor heater warms your toes
And it's wait until the next drink
to thraw your throat out: so it goes.
So it goes...
And goes and goes.
But you'll never be young again.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:07 PM UTC
We line up in two parallel columns, me at the front of the first column and you beside me on the other.
You flash me a challenging grin. I smile back, accepting your offer.
The coach blows the whistle and we start to sprint across the hall towards the line of hurdles.
We match each other's pace, leaping across the hurdles of increasing height in perfect synchronization.
We reach the final and tallest hurdle.
You briefly turn your head towards me and mouth something.
I can't hear what you're saying - you're too soft. Or maybe my heart is too loud.
I shift my focus back to the last hurdle and heave my springy legs up, confident I can at least break even in this match.
But even before my right ankle was on the same level as the hurdle, my line of sight plunges, and I crash head-on into the embarrassing mess of defeat.
I tilt my head up in time to catch you flawlessly hop across what's become of my failure, your posture lacking any hint of looking back at me.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*Till now, you haven't looked back.
And I still can't get over that last hurdle,
the same way I haven't gotten over you.*
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
One of these days I will endulge in the delight
that only the sweetest dare to sample.
The soft texture of the sponge,
springy to the touch, layer upon layer.
The sweet smell of the strawberry filling the nostrels,
warming the tastebuds to the point of explosion.
The creamy filling lingers in the middle,
complimenting each beautifully, a delight to eat.
But yet I will never indulge in that special delicasy,
as my lips never open to the word 'cake'
Dec 11, 2009
Dec 11, 2009 at 4:44 AM UTC
I step towards the pool.
You look at me like each step is the end of my life.
I swing my leg on the side.
You flinch.
I laugh at your expression.
You didn't find it quite so funny.
I guess it's really not that funny to you,
how your mouth puckers into a straight line when you hear me laugh,
like the picket fence outside the house you were born in,
only the stark white boards of that fence don't curve downwards at the ends.
There's a fine line of difference between us,
the difference being "don't", "won't", "can't"
and other four letter words, such as "fear", "play", and "lame".
I stifle my laughter and try again to coax you to the edge, the edge of the earth.
You frown, and back away, mumbling like that one Muppet.
Beaker, right?
"Come down!" Beaker cries. "You're being crazy!"
Meepmeep.
The thought of this causes me to laugh again.
You. A Muppet.
You would die if you knew.
I take another step, another, another, further away from you,
up the metal rungs to the top of the world.
The ground slaps beneath me, resilient and springy like summer grass.
I remember your face, panicked, frantic.
I dove.
You claimed you couldn't.
From the bottom of the pool, the world is crisp and clear,
like a vat of liquid nitrogen biting at my skin.
When I resurface it becomes blatantly evident.
I dry off and walk away through the counter.
Don't try to follow me.
I tried.
You didn't.
Maybe I AM crazy.
The bottom line is
even though I'm afraid of heights,
I still climbed that ladder.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:10 PM UTC
I am Lisa
Youth is a good thing I guess,
unless --
It becomes the lens
through which you are seen.
Then --
Your ambitious ideas are
youthful, not wise
Your wittiness is
immaturity, not humor
Your springy-step is
young bones, not joy in living.
Youth is a good thing I guess,
but better, authenticity.
I am who I am, 20 or 60.
My age affects me,
but my age isn't me.
I am who I am.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
Brown oak leaves underfoot, last year's sodden
reminders that newness always ends. But
not today
while the creek, silent in summer, chortles
about last night's rain, full of spring vigor
far below
the limestone bluff edge where
I stand, chert nodules and fractals
peeking through
springy new undergrowth, broke down
limbs, leaf litter and dark soil. I came
for morels
but it's too early, too chill yet. Tomorrow's
predicted sun may bring them out. Early
mayapple
sprouts fool me, draw me to admire other
understory plants: trillium, maidenhair fern,
spring beauty,
johnny jump-up and more whose names
I knew once but forgot. I came alone and
I don't need
names. Names mean nothing without
voices and other ears. I love the silence
I bring here.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.
Cruel nature
plays the harshest games,
the fire-on-the-Cuyahoga,
shit-splatter brain busters.
The city is cooled by her
harsh and horrifyingly
Maternal touch.
Snow falls attractively
on the dying city below,
picaresque and perfect
in this last-winter scene.
The two sky scrapers
pierce through winter's
frozen cocoon,
though envelop will be the
less threshed land.
Slums are ravished in snow,
spoiled by the cold
cold cold crying
of a maiden not warm.
I am buried beneath
layers of snow,
reddened when paled,
angered by my cooling.
Numbing comes with this
frenzied freeze,
like the kids down the street
who grow out their beards
even though they can't
grow their *****
I am numbed
despite the fact that
Feeling is fruitful;
cruel nature does not wish
for such connections
to fall upon me.
Perhaps it is love,
and I would love to believe so,
that causes her to covet-
no, hoard me so.
Perhaps it is love,
and it so clearly is ringing in this numb numb numbness,
that causes her to bury me
in mountains of snow.
I am counting down the time
til my melt down,
as spring is not so long away.
Perhaps it is love,
and the rising flowers whisper it like jealous children oft do,
that she has always been
so deathly afraid of.
This is the spring of our love,
But we are not as springy as we should be.
Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC
Hopscotch,
Joyful, Springy,
Hopping, Skipping, Jumping,
Avoiding drawn lines on concrete,
Concrete
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Acting is carried away and the dazed, wise boy is alone smoking viceroys. Without a word or a day to change the things that should be running down the shower drain. Wipe the sweat off his face and he could shave to the grain to make himself okay. Putting his act in place, but his special place is forevermore changing.
Sweet tastes of likely lead to an addiction for a boy who always runs blindly, but when the ground gets icy, the boy will break through ever so lightly and even after hopping the fence, love and lovely still has a big difference. So, the boy will keep on filling his bed, forgetting the age of his existence.
Maybe he is just homeless, scouting out a place to live. Jumping couches with people he loves and people he knows love him. Hardwood floors and springy couches aren't enough to break his back, but when the time comes he'll have to choose and face the facts. Business and opportunities can still make you homeless and the fact there's no love makes you almost boneless. This boy is bright and clever and will be able to rise up whenever, but without cutting off the extra cartilage, he may never find a home because home is where the heart is.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
stars are dying, not becoming supernovas, or hurricane eyes, just collapsing to sleep, shh, tiny bodies flickering over the outstretched palms of children with wide eyes and feet that won't stop moving, even when holding hands as nets to catch the quiet light of sprinkles, little cake sprinkles that fall from the sky.
the flowers are bending their heads to the ground, trying to hear the singing of the fauns as they dance around pre-formed groves in the forest to your left, the vibrations are travelling and amplified, if you listen carefully, so carefully, a wondering song of delight without words could reach you, stand so very still.
the rain-drops are soft, caressing the ground hesitantly, asking its permission to tread on the springy moss and look for bubbles to choreograph marches for, complete with full brass band, and pixies combing hairs into a fountain of wheat coloured spoken word.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 11:38 AM UTC
We began with doubts in the dark night-
Everything that came under the sky of night-
The noiseless stars -that were just flickers
In the crisp air of a deep night and crickets
That creaked from dark and thorny bushes.
We thought of sultry bears that came down
From the hills for ripe sugarcane in fields
On windy nights when we were sleeping
On the river bank, with a long stick safely
Sleeping beside us on a springy string cot.
The dogs sculpted their own long protests
At the howling wind and bush rat’s scrawl .
There in the sketchy bushes of darkness
The lizards slept fitfully wary of night snakes.
Outside, the fireflies tantalized the country.
Our doubts persisted through the night ,
Going on unabated in sleep and dreams.
At the cock's crow they dissolved in sleep.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
They smile, and they attend social functions and are in pages of
a city's social diary, a mockery of a democracy
the Hearsts and the Bloombergs and the others rolling in it
so their aging women can have too much plastic surgery
because time happens to the elites, too, and cancer and unhappiness
and the smiles hide the discontent and the slow death
and they are afraid of us, can't bear to be with us, this other species we are
and once, with my now X, at a fundraiser for his elite boarding high school
I listened to a pretentious speech that was so intolerable
underneath the canopy of a white tent in the middle of a gigantic field
with every grass blade evenly spaced and the same height, and the soil
filled with nitrite.
And the speech ended and the applause served as cover, like brush and I ran
out into the open air and flattened the springy grass
and I walked away because I could take no more
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
A thousand gods
under the cricket moons
couldn't even save one little bit...
(salvation is the enemy of
a violet world)
the same ******* gods
that made us educated
and civilized.
Why not a cosmic birdbath
or eternal blissful garden
that happy children frolic
in amongst springy damp
Bermuda grass and Birch
trees that shine like a
trillion flawless diamonds,
almost as beautiful, at dawn
when lightly frosted?
Regardless,
days like these i wake up
full of vigor, dreamy-eyed,
complacent, full of longing,
but still glad our gods
are dead.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
It is dark,
And I feel your heat beside me vanish
But a second later soft hands pull the covers across my back
Tuck them in above my shoulders.
I drift
Feeling you there with none of my senses but all of them at once
Or perhaps that beyond sort of sense
The one that really matters
The one that tells us
Where we belong.
The shower murmurs from the other room
And I let the warmth of sleep take over again
And then all of a sudden there's your feet padding along the carpet.
I smile but don't open my eyes.
I listen
Instead
To you starting your day.
Your towel hits the floor softly
And I hear the rustle-whisper of clothes on skin,
The little thuds and crinkles as you move about the room,
The cascade of clinking as you rummage through your bag to find makeup,
The little tune you hum for a moment but don't realize.
I am greedy for the sound of you,
And I listen hard.
I hear you pause and look at me,
Decide I'm still asleep and turn on the light in the hallway with a click
Leaving the one nearest to me off.
I hear you sit down before the mirror cross legged
Like you do every day
And begin the rituals of preparing to meet the world.
I picture you
Don't let myself look yet
There in your leggings and t shirt
Your long hair falling wet and heavy over your shoulders
And little springy curls of it into your eyes
Your clear green eyes
The purposeful way you line them with black
Like the artist you say you aren't.
I picture the glow of the lamp kissing your face
And releasing the soft radiance your skin always seems to hold like a secret.
I long to open my eyes and gaze at you,
But not yet.
I turn, tangled in blankets,
Blindly shifting towards the sound of you.
The song you make by being.
The melody of your existence.
And when I lose the battle with myself and look up at you
You meet my eyes in the mirror and give me that small fond smile
The one that fills me up with light
And I feel the answering grin spread across my face like the sun breaking through clouds.
Good morning, love,
You sound like home.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
Searching for a treasure
.... since the childhood to youthful
Now in the stage to depart..... !
*****
Searching .....
in the wooded forest......
..... yellow paddy field.......
..........crystal water of river......
........rugged terrain of mountain.......
...........Springy coast ...........................
......... in the head, heart and hand of man and women ....
...... in the street .... in the houses.....
....... in the houses of decision makers .....
.... in the policy paper.......
..... in the papers of plan and model....
....... in the balance sheet .........
.... for a fixed as well as liquid asset... !
****
Searching for the
Treasure ........
Full with kindness ...........
..... broad brotherhood ......
...... nuptial of peace and humanity...
....... Sparkling smile........ !
****
But, in this quest....
before now worn-out year after year.......
Only smog, dust, distrust..........
Spread over......
Snuffle of ocean spill over .......;
Albeit..........
Searching for
Our cache of happiness...
to make this world..........
Pulsate with smiles!!
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
her dress is made of molten ore
silk against her springy skin
her eyes are pressured pebbles of summer core
nine hundred lives from wearing thin
the scarf she wound around her hips
softer than a lamb
the teeth behind upturned boat lips
smile graceful and pre-planned
she extends her long, slender wrist
coaxes us all into one mineral
a tender jewel, a pretty twist
worn until her funeral
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
We all want to fit people into boxes -
big boxes, small boxes, green boxes,
sometimes wooden boxes
or even cake boxes.
And then quickly scribble short
mental descriptions on the memo pad of the brain
to save 3 months of getting to know them.
So when I saw her, sleepy lost eyes,
the escorts to a head of black hair,
contrasting with light brown skin,
it stirred primal curiosity.
She spilled over when I put her in a plastic box.
Then she was too springy to fit in the Pringles can.
So I tried to fit her in a wooden box,
one with wrought iron hinges.
But she came out of the bottom.
I have since come to accept
that she doesn't fit in any box
or receptacle for that matter.
That is what tempts you to take a little peek,
to look into the depths of her composition:
smell her fear, taste her happiness,
rub your hands through her shyness
to see how they make her eyes look down.
All I know is, when she spends hours
talking to you,
and brings you thoughtful gifts
that create restore points of happiness
somewhere in your brain,
that is her saying "I like you".
I might never discover the taste of her lips,
nor the warmth of her athletic body.
But whenever she smiles, pure and innocent,
I think of a box, wrapped with shiny blue paper,
whose contents are unknown
waiting to be opened.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
*how a glutton hearty turns a hermit lean
a bully back thumping to a sage hand folded
unresting motor mouth to an understanding silent
busy brain frenzied to a deep contemplation calm
mentality moronic sick to a pool placid of balm
springy intent violent to a relaxed peace uncoiled
hates grey many undefined to one love united
mind monkeys warring to peaceful doves flying
a black heart fissured now encompassing all open
O divinity fill me till I'm nothing of here anymore!*
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
The grass was overgrown,
And stubbornly fought
Against the clean sheet we layed
On it.
I made you paint,
And the floating haze in the air
Stung my eyes.
I knew something was wrong,
We all did.
We saw your emotions
Doing backflips
And pirouettes.
We saw your sleep
Running away from you,
We saw the music clouding up
Your thoughts
So they couldn't hurt you.
But none of us knew
How wrong it was.
I took two terra-cotta
Flower pots
In hand,
And declared it a lovely day.
You deemed it dismal.
I waltzed into the yard,
With bottles of bright paint,
And soft brushes.
I made you sit
In the oppressive sunshine,
With insects
Whizzing around our ears
To paint flower pots.
On a long dog walk at midnight,
You finally told me half of the truth.
That you were having problems.
The grass was still lively
And springy,
It was after the drought.
You dribbled paint
In pretty patterns,
And I tried to convince myself
This was good for you.
It was the small early hours
Of the morning,
Lit with fairy lights,
And your humidifier
Puffing in the corner,
That you told me the whole truth.
You had given yourself until September.
Printed an expiration date
On your forehead.
And I wish I could say
In that moment I knew what to do.
It's been a while now,
I'd like to think
I don't have to worry anymore,
But I do.
So in case I should,
I love you.
I love you,
And I promise to never make you
Sit in the sun
And paint again.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
Bed is the target
Not my bed
That's on the floor
And its a bit mishapen
Its covered in fur
And its got hidden biscuits
And a bone I put there
But can't get out now
No, my bed isn't the target
Its YOUR bed that's the target
The one with the douvet, the pillows
and fluffy, fluffy sheets
Its got a big springy mattress
And it looks nice sometimes
When its all covered in
MY paw marks
But it doesn't smell nice, though
Its smells of flowers
I would like it better
If it smelled of fox poo
But after I roll in the fox poo
You never let me on the bed
So how am I going to get it
to smell nicer
That's what I think about
When we're out on a walk
And you throw the ball
And I ignore it, and go for a roll
I roll in squirrel poo
Not as nice fox poo
But I make it nicer
by jumping in the river
You think a quick shower
with the garden hose
Will dissipate all these lovely smells
But you forget the shampoo...and I WIN
I get in the house
Dry myself on YOUR dressing gown
But still I smell
absolutely lovely
Like lamp posts, and drains
And bins
And that really nice smell
When I've been running in the wind
And no one's locked the bedroom door
So I run and I jump
And I roll and I roll
On YOUR bed
For five whole minutes
Then I hear you coming
Slowly stepping up the stairs
So I jump off your bed
Then jump into mine
Then wait and wait and wait
Then suddenly you jump up
And leave
I've no idea where you go all day
No idea, at all
But you've got a sneaky idea
Where I am
You know I'm on your bed
You know I'm making it smell lovely
Just for you when you come home
Hope you appreciate it.
Lots of Love From Your Dog
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
Grumpy, middle-aged woman at work,
I wonder if you see me staring in your direction.
I, once again, notice your big hair,
tousled and littered with springy grays.
I, once again, notice your blouse,
dribbled with escapees of your breakfast and lunch.
You’re tapping your foot
to an eighties ballad on the radio—
the same one that we hear twelve times a day,
and each time, I grit my teeth and
begrudgingly swallow the godfather of all expletives.
But you? You love it, don’t you?
No qualms with the world
as you grip that vending machine Klondike Bar
like it’s your only saving grace.
I can’t even manage to blink
as I watch you peel back its thin layer of foil,
exposing the poor chocolate shell
that will soon fall victim to such a savage mouth.
I shudder at the thought of what you would do
for a Klondike Bar.
Your eyes are wide, black, and merciless
as you crunch into that innocent little square.
Flecks of dark brown fly in every direction,
as you writhe in some sort of hokey ecstasy
straight out of a grocery store mom-erotica.
I can just hear you grunt, “Waste not, want not!”
as you individually finger up
each tiny piece off your keyboard.
I hear your lips smack with every satisfying victory—
and I cringe.
I want to tell you your ice cream is melting,
but I’m too busy watching it drip
down the sides of your hand.
In no time, this Klondike Bar
becomes your own personal rescue mission.
You must desperately save each and every sticky streak
with your unforgiving tongue.
Now and then you’ll slip in a satiated moan
and I can’t help but feel bad for your imprisoned dessert.
Unfortunately, this vicious cycle continues with each bite,
until you become the resident hot mess of Cubicleville,
smeared with melted chocolate and covered in a sugary sheen.
Despite the spectacle, it’s nice to see you happy for once.
It ends when you finally notice my gawk.
That quickly, you’re grumpy again
and demand to know what I’m staring at.
“Nothing,” I reply,
but not without a smile so coy
it gives me away.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC