"sprinklers" poems
Seriously?!
I'm a ****
Wait. No you're not. Hold on.
I can't find...
I can't find my ******* Help me look.
blankets flung.
nothing.
You're...
you're laughing right now?
How could you not?
Can you see that
we're standing in a
giant pond of
ridiculosity.
a glasses lense
popped out.
hair a nest
of invisible
rodents.
his belt
all askew worried
face pursed
lips.
shirt tails- a crumpled
facade of the pressed
summer evening shadows
outlined behind
the lawn sprinklers from
the night before.
and in the cab
to work
phone almost
dies. 37 degree damp
heat pressing
against the car
like a monroe-type
kitten from the
50s.
the morning world
bustling awake
the driver asks
'you work this
afternoon?'
shake my head 'no'
slowly working the
knots out of my
hair
brace for the last
day.
And I'm
still missing
my underwear.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
#*Here comes the day
With coloured hands and faces
To the music we sway
Touch not with intentions perverse
Its Holy
The festival of colours
Children
Gear up with your water guns and sprinklers
Filled with organic colours
No chemicals please
Look for revellers dressed in all white
Drench them all in the hues of the rainbow bright
Munch on the Gujia, a sweet treat
Time for a rain dance to the desi beats
It's time to cheer
Spring is right here
Happy Holi*#
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
I don't want smart.
I want spontaneous.
I don't want roses and a candle-lit dinner.
I want drunken nights by the campfire.
I don't want a boy that says 'I love you'
Because I don't believe in love
And, even if I did,
I'm not emotionally capable of feeling it.
I want a boy that's okay with that.
I don't want a boy that showers me with compliments
or a knight in shining armor.
I don't want mushy love letters or romantic get aways.
I don't want a boy who's looking for a wife
because I don't believe in marriage.
And I don't want a lover.
I want a partner in crime.
I want a boy with chaos flickering in his eyes.
I want a boy who smiles a lot.
I want contagious laughter.
I want loud.
I want steamy kisses where he presses my body into his and my skin tingles.
I don't want late night phone calls or 'Good morning' texts.
I want a boy that calls me out on my ********
I want a boy that pushes my buttons.
I want a challenge.
I don't want a boy that makes me feel pretty.
I want a boy that makes me feel alive.
I want a boy that taps on my window in the middle of the night
And brings me on a starlit adventure.
I don't want a boy that makes love.
I want a boy that will **** me raw.
And I want a boy that will let me pass out on him afterwards.
And I want a boy that won't get offended if I move away in the middle of the night
Because cuddling hurts my neck and his heartbeat is keeping me awake.
I don't want a boy that holds hands.
I want a boy that drives too fast.
I don't want a boy that babies me.
And I don't want a shoulder to cry on
Because I'm not fragile
And I can take care of myself.
I want a boy that pushes me into oncoming sprinklers
And doesn't hold anything back.
I don't want a boy that's looking for forever
because forever seems like a really long time.
I want a boy that goes day by day.
I don't want safe.
I want to go fast.
I want to live on the edge.
I want exhilaration.
I don't want to be wanted.
I want to want.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
If time is a convincing illusion, then as I am writing this,
you are reading it; you are remembering me years after
we have spoken last, and I am noticing you for the first time.
I'm a young woman waking up in an apartment in Albany,
New York, realizing that I am finally broken enough to fix,
and an East Boston moppet in ***** pink overalls, riding
Big Wheels through the sprinklers with a boy named John Henry.
You're delivering newspapers on a cold New Hampshire morning.
I am falling asleep wondering if you could possibly love me.
You are saying that you do. You are stardust, and I am long gone.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
birches and tastsy jerky wood. resin in the immediate shubbary.... and dust and cobwwebs growing adjacent to the jerky wood. Myraid of birds, ranging from small birch-types to crows. A lingering dominant hawk. A giant possum crossing between borders carrying unborn infants. Dusty walls with abandonded spiderwebs- insect carcassases dangling, still. Pool motors revving in every direction lets of a subtle hum that compliments the planes descending and ascending oer-head
the water is grainy yet cool and healing. the sprinklers function at midnight and sometimes on the weekend. Maintinance trucks, expensive commuter vehicals, modest vehicls, unmanned vehicles, arrowhead trucks, macdonalds trucks, safeway trucks....
the earth is still wheaty and chalky adjacent the jerky trees, the jerky trees have little hairs and appetizing off red color, the bark saddles off with grace and with a satisfying tare.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
I paused the movie to hear the couple fighting outside.
She said "You haven't talked to me at all tonight!"
and he said "What?"
But I know what they really meant to say was "I get stupid when I see you and I don't know what to do about it."
Then she slapped him and ran back inside crying.
It was an awkward moment for me in someone else's life.
It made me think about the video on how penguins mate forever.
And about how we're not penguins and how monogamy makes promises like traps
And how the only thing we have in common with penguins
is that we give each other rocks
and that means I love you until the sun explodes.
And how?
How come penguins can get it more right than us?
They can't even fly.
And when I watched this kid clutch his face as he wondered what he did wrong,
I can't help but ******* hate
all the happy penguins for him.
You stupid penguins,
you all look like you're going to a fancy party all the time
you stupid penguins
you run like your pants are down
you stupid penguins
you're gonna have someone to sit on the couch with forever
and you can't even fly!
What happens when you realize your penguin lover is immature
and he overeats the fish
and he's always late to things?
What happens when you realize your she-penguin has really bad penguin depression and you don't know how to deal with it?
What happens when you realize you both met too early and now you're different penguins?
I'll tell you what happens.
They stay together.
You know why?
Because he gave her a ROCK.
That's why.
Because, to penguins
rocks mean more than mortgages
and wanting to go to Hawaii
and step children
and sprinklers
and school districts.
They can keep a marriage alive with some instincts
and a ******* egg to sit on.
PENGUINS
Stay together longer than 50% of any couple you've ever met
And they can't even fly!
But maybe a bird
that knows how to fall in love better than us
doesn't need to know how to do that.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
A little girl named Mary
Just wanted to play
But her mom locked her up
In a room everyday
She cried she starved
She wished she were outside
With all the other kids
She just wanted to run and hide
When her mom died so did she
She was left there to decay
While the little kids out side
Ran threw sprinklers and played
Mary came back to haunt the town
The little kids wouldnt dare make one little breath
For at night she would **** them
She would have revenge for her death
The little kids would tell stories
They called her scary mary
They made a song about her
They called it death fairy
"She's here its her
Scary mary is in town
Don't open your eyes in the dark
Or dare to look around
She'll ****** you and claw
And take you away without a sound
She'll burn you and stab you
When no ones around
Scary mary is comin'
So whatcha gonna do
She'll eat you and **** you
You'd better run too
For she's the death fairy
She's scary mary"
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
The girl in the black
bathing suit swims
through my dreams;
her orange eyes warn
me that summer
is coming.
An inescapable
swelter of air
threads itself
through the slats
of picket fences,
crisping insects
and terrifying
an army of black birds
bivouacked in the trees.
I hear the soft explosion
of hibiscus, red petals as
bright as belly wounds,
and the heartbeat
of the dog panting,
stupefied by the heat
of a relentless star.
Up and down the street,
abandoned children call
out from the bottom of
empty swimming pools.
I slouch in an aluminum chair,
trying to get black-out drunk
on warm gin and tonics.
The tidy rectangle
of grass around me
ignites in a legion
of slender flames.
I remember the dark room
and my father’s deathbed,
his whispered, final words:
dying is thirsty work.
I strip to my underwear
and fantasize about ice.
I pray for the neighborhood
sprinklers to spring to life.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
Love isn’t a feeling
Love isn’t an action
Love isn’t a person
Love is a place.
It’s the cave of wonders
It’s a hospital room filled with new life, balloons, and flowers
It’s an altar in a church in the countryside of a town unknown
while a man pleads for the soul you’re not ready to give.
It’s a tent pitched next to the lake while fish cook over a crackling fire
It’s a home with a swing-set in the backyard with a dog tied to a banana tree, while naked children dance through sprinklers.
It’s the treehouse in the neighbor's backyard
It’s a living room where friends sit and play Nintendo 64
It’s a bathtub with bubbles and a book and a beverage
Love isn’t butterflies in your stomach
It’s a butterfly garden at the city zoo on a hot Saturday morning
with butterflies flittering and fluttering and flattering around.
Love isn’t jumping in front of a train for someone
It’s the parking lot of a hospital you run through to stand by a death bed, reading from a Bible you haven’t opened in twenty years.
Love isn’t your parents or brothers or sisters or cousins or friends
It’s the patio screened in, with the rain tap dancing on its roof,
while a father of three snores peacefully in a rocking chair.
Love is Calvary’s hill
It’s a trustworthy bank
It’s a dog kennel jam-packed with the loyal, the faithful, the brave, and the true
Love is an underground railroad connecting those who belong together.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
We had dreams
about the crystal sun
the juniper wind, apple
blossoms and glowing evenings
comfort and quietude
We had dreams
lollipops and no one crying
no pain-and love if not
everlasting
solid and smiling every day
We had dreams
about great ships sailing
wind filling all speed ahead
never becalmed, no one dead,
no rotting bodies on the deck
no witness to inexplicable agony
We had dreams
garlands from gardens
nobody had to tend
ice cream cones piling
sidewalks high
shade for the asking
from every uncomfortable
ray of sun
water enough for everything
lawns and trees
flowers and livestock
children running in sprinklers
water for the taking
every day
We had dreams
soft conversations in
the lamplight, hands to hold
slim and strong whenever
we needed, voices filled
with understanding and strength
for every fear
and every tear dried
by gentle caring touch
We had dreams
that did not include random bullets
sudden death and no clouds
exploding to rain death
on helpless heads
We dreamed we would never be helpless
we had dreams
we bought on time
amortization forever
and no one would ever
have to pay the bills
We had dreams
someone would always save us
mother always did
even when she didn’t want to
even when we made her mad
even when we broke her china
and her heart
We had dreams
laughing and crying
talking into loud speakers
shouting our claims
and never thought how
to make them come true
We had dreams
of glory and taking
down every flag from every
highest hill
and no one would ever be found
face down in two inches of water
drowned on ***** and disaster
We had dreams
that did not include spit
on the sidewalk, in the gutters,
but only clean skies
and apple pie, organically sweet
every day
and endlessly billowing
wheat, and sailing ships
and all the pure water
we could drink for free
and play in
We had dreams
that we could demand pain away consequences
and guilt and the necessary play
of our dreams that mothers would
if we dreamed hard enough
and played hard enough
and the nasty old piper
never called for his fee
We had dreams
and when they didn’t come true
we had curses
We cursed the lollipops
we cursed the ice cream
we cursed the wheat
the cornucopia
the great sailing ships
and the sea
the mother
the sidewalks
the highest hills
and the trickling ditch
we cursed the livestock
and the stereos
the loudspeakers and the glory
and we cursed crying and apple pie
we cursed suffering and anguish
the pipers who demanded to be paid
the ones who paid and complained
about the mess we made
we cursed fine china plates
filled with hard-earned harvests
we cursed love and freedom
we cursed crystal sun
and shade.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Who needs terrorists?
They are redundant
When over 60 poor people
Can perish
In a raging inferno
Caused by their own council.
For years the resident action group
Were poo pooed by the authorities
With, “Don’t worry your pretty heads!”
When they warned about fire safety regulations
Being ignored
Just like them.
No sprinklers and only one fire escape
In a twenty four storey building.
Only last year the tower was refurbished
With cheap plastic cladding that’s
Banned in the USA.
Our prime minister has been accused
Of failing to show humanity
By only visiting the Emergency Services
To avoid the angry public.
All this has happened
Not in some God forsaken third world country
But in the fifth or sixth richest economy
In the world.
For sure, that all engulfing tower-fire
Has made the blood of the people
Boil.
Let’s hope this volcano does not erupt
Like the one that caused
The London Riots of 2011.
Let’s hope our administration
At all its levels
Learns something from this:
To Care for its People.
Paul Butters
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
One year ago exactly, I awoke to the miserable news that my dear friend, Morgan Helman, was dead. I called her voicemail and wept my goodbyes. I punched the wall and screamed until I thought my lungs would crack. I wrote a poem to express the ravaging anguish I was experiencing, and to try and honor her life. I read it as a eulogy at her funeral. In it, I mentioned a time when she had asked me to write a happy poem. Everything I had ever written was a result of sadness or some other tortured emotion. I apologized that what I wrote for her was far from happy. I told her someday I would a write a happy poem, though I doubted my own words. One year later, I have walked away from the depressed mental state I used to call home. On the anniversary of her passing, I completed this "happy" poem. It's different than what I'm used to creating. It might not be as artistic as some of my other poetry. But it is a vivid expression of the first step in a new direction. This poem is dedicated to Morgan Helman and the legacy of love she left in her wake.
You Are
Resonating laughter
as the child plays,
hallway smiles
on bad days.
Disney movies
when I'm sick,
lightsaber battles
as a kid.
Rope swings
for make believe Peter-Panning,
backyard sprinklers
spraying the trampoline.
Hot soup
after it snows,
Refreshing popsicles
when the sun glows.
Warm cookies
melting in my mouth,
playing cards
at Grandma's house.
Blazing campfires
engulfed in inspiration,
jam sessions
with passionate musicians.
Barefoot freedom
in the grass and on the beach,
Sandy paradise
sinking beneath my feet.
Captivating books
as it gently rains,
favorite songs
when I'm disarrayed.
Intimate poetry
as my soul sings,
genuine happiness
spilling out of me.
Caring parents
whose admiration lasts,
trustworthy friends
who remove my masks.
Comforting arms
when my friend dies,
calloused hands
pulling tears from drowning eyes.
Raw love
strung on splintered wood,
My God
you are everything good.
~ m.w. ~
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
We were so high the night we decided to not give one flying **** because in all honestly how does a **** fly?
It was magical the way were so carefree & wild that night... because there shouldn't be a care if you're free and wild!
We held hands and ran through the sprinklers soaking wet and freezing.... we didn't stop laughing though we just danced in the water.
I remember the way you looked when you looked up at the moon.. it was so innocent.. and I loved you so much more than I ever had... but I couldn't tell you.
I didn't want to tell you not in that moment... not then.
You said "Lets be Wild Flowers"
I said "Is that our new band name?"
You laughed and kissed me... and I couldn't breathe... you had never kissed me.
You said "Lets fall madly in love..."
I said "I already have..."
& we kissed again and danced under the moonlight as if we were wild flowers swaying in the night.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
If I were a painter
You would ask me to paint you a story
Telling the world of how incandescent life can be
Using that time we ran through the sprinklers at a park
Glistening in the moonlight at one in the morning
As inspiration
If I were a musician
I would compose a new song
To act as the soundtrack
To the time we sat at the top of the hill
Saying our goodbyes
With only our foreheads pressed together
Like praying hands
If I were an architect
I would build a space for us
So that you could always come back
To something that reminds you of me.
You could keep your knick knacks here
To help fill the house of your smell
For me to visit while you're away.
If I were an astronomer
I would make you a constellation
To help you find your bearings
Whenever you feel out of place.
If I were anything else
Anything with more talent
Would I still mean such little to you?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
XC is running through the sprinklers with your crazy goofy team
Rolling your ankles running hills
Cross country means so much to me it’s true
Running is all we do
School day seems shorter
Practice seems longer
The sun is shining
It’s warmer then it’s colder
XC every single moment is worth its weight in gold
XC it’s high school’s best story
And it’s waiting to be told
It’s bleacher 5K’s, well earned PRs
And your sport’s punishment
Cross country man where do I begin
XC we’re rained on during practice and we run with soaking feet
XC we get lost on distance runs and say we went out to eat
It’s also
Basma’s smart wisecracks, also Mariam’s sass
And calling Amy the wrong name
Courtney going ham, my freshmen children
And ab workouts causing us pain
Mehak!
Oh wait. Maybe I’m going too fast.
XC it’s weight room and it’s hard work ‘cause you do it for the *****
XC it’s crying at the banquet
Cuz your team is just one happy family
And I don’t wanna leave
First year was longer
Last year was shorter
I’m gonna miss y’all
My eyes are getting warmer
XC every single moment was worth its weight in gold
XC it was my favorite story thanks to you guys it was told
A running high and my team cheering
And then that final sprint
Cross country man where do I begin
(XC)
Where do I begin
(XC)
I promise I’ll visit
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
In my heart there is a garden
The garden I took so much care of
I dreamed of having simple, beautiful roses
Lovely orchids and colorful tulips
As I grew older my dreams started to change
The garden desired material things
It wanted a lovely fountain in the middle
Sprinklers and cute little gnomes on the side
But as people started visiting my garden
It started to wither as they came and went
I was so busy entertaining others
My garden started to suffer in the process
But once you stepped into my garden it came to life
You repaired every little flaw
You showed me beautiful flowers
But then you left my garden for another...
I'm trying my best to show you I'm happy how things are
But no matter how many flowers I plant
Or fountains I place inside
The only thing I long for is you inside it..
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
summer afternoons
where the cicada screams were a deafening silence
heat and humidity, offset by shade and sprinklers
long days, warm nights
star gazing, cloud watching, day dreaming
nostalgia and retrospective bring me a peace and serenity
I once again long for
simplicity and carefree
summer afternoons
thunder rattles the walls as rain tap dances across the windows
puddles for splashing
nestled up reading, mornings come too soon
no worries with nigh limitless freedom
forts to build and pranks to play
laying on the porch swing listening to music
tide coming in tide going out
brackish water on the breeze
fiddler ***** scurry
lazy rabbits and cheerful birds
wonderful and longed for
endless
eternal
summer afternoons
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 9:36 PM UTC
At the stroke of five o’ clock
The crew begins to trickle in the door for
Josie’s Slumber Party.
Hand cut finger sandwiches adorn
The chestnut coffee table already brimming
With nail polishes and eyeshadows
In hues of peacock blue and bubblegum pink
And temptress scarlet red. The girls
Romp around the room like ballerinas
Dressed in everything from soccer shorts to
Mama’s high heels. Two sizes too big.
Practically ladies as they gloss their lips but
Girlish giggles and squeals reveal their
Youth: Age ten; age eleven; age twelve.
And in the middle of this fine affair
Polished nails are used to pick at teeth;
Makeup adheres to bangs, braids and ponytails.
Bare hands brush through the knotted hair of
Any and All. Beauty – of course – is collective, yet
Dignified.
As if to call the girls over, lure them in so painfully slow,
The sprinklers awaken on the front lawn and spill forth
Waterfalls of childhood memories. Running barefoot
during the searing summer dusk. The girls are under
The Spell. Feather boa and lipstick at hand, they make
A mad dash for the lawn. The squeals are louder, more
Vibrant than before. With grass stains on their gowns
and water re-tangling their freshly styled hair, these
Ladies could not be any more proper.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC
reminds me of my grandpa
I never decided if it was bitter or sweet but all the same
I sneak sips from the bottle in the fridge
his house in the mountains
his long driveway and boulders to climb on
every day an adventure
when you're 7
chasing deer and running in sprinklers
pistachio shells under the couches
a grand piano
still life fruit paintings
so simple, the world then.
I watched him die
of cancer
when I was old enough to understand
that that was only
his body.
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 11:03 PM UTC
A little girl named Mary
Just wanted to play
But her mom locked her up
In a room everyday
She cried she starved
She wished she were outside
With all the other kids
She just wanted to run and hide
When her mom died so did she
She was left there to decay
While the little kids out side
Ran threw sprinklers and played
Mary came back to haunt the town
The little kids wouldnt dare make one little breath
For at night she would **** them
She would have revenge for her death
The little kids would tell stories
They called her scary mary
They made a song about her
They called it death fairy
"Shes here its her
Scary mary is in town
Dont open your eyes in the dark
Or dare to look around
Shell ****** you and claw
And take you away without a sound
Shell burn you and stab you
When no ones around
Scary mary is comin
So whatcha gonna do
Shell eat you and **** you
You better run too
For shes the death fairy
Shes scary mary"
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
Why do we have to grow up?
Why can’t we be like Peter Pan?
Grown ups lack creativity and imagination
They see blankets and pillows
While kids see forts, fights, and fun
They don’t understand
The joy of running through the sprinklers
Or why **** noises are so hilarious
They stress over everything
And are unable to be carefree
So why grow up?
I really don’t want to
And see no reason to
Unfortunately as I age it gets harder and harder
As I’m given more responsibilities
I have less time for blanket forts and sprinklers
But I’ll never grow up
Never
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 5:23 PM UTC
Running running running running
Bury him in the dirt
Bury him in the flesh
Skateboard wheels run along the ground
Shhh shhh shhh
A digger splits the pavement
Water spills into a dead bird's beak
Ten pressed to the power line
A chaotic mesh wings snarled in the air
For a second an eye emerges
But reality shifts
A man fails committing suicide
They remove the tie from his throat and blood cells rush through his flesh
But his starved brain remains dead
And his daughter can't stand his stupid bloated face
Red leaves the color of blood
A dog breaks its leg crossing the road
Gutters overflow with spit
And fish swim until their ribs shrink
There's a heart in the centre of the earth
Oil spills into the gulf
Fire seals the exits
And twenty families drown
Sprinklers carry their bodies to the heavens
A newspaper kid sees them on his morning run and bikes around
Reality shifts
I'm caught in the whirl of my motions
Tumbling forward unable to grasp my presence
Reality shifts reality shifts reality shifts
But I'm not ready to shift with it
There's a dead bird in my pocket
I cross a road but the road is endless
I feel sick
Head on my knees
Awake in my bedroom
Construction workers lift the tarmac and reseal it
The old pieces pile where no one sees them
Decay codified in construction
Jesus, what am I saying?
Is any of this even real?
I've been gone a long time
Hands stuffed in pockets
Eyes set on dead grass, raindrops and McDonald's wrappers
People gather and break like tides
But I'm never one of them
I thought the mouth was for flesh
But it's for rot
It all makes sense now
Why Sunday mornings taste like glass
Because I can't stand myself
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
*Hear the sound of
the sprinklers throwing
water on the fresh green grass.
Hear the sound of the birds
chirping in the trees,
praising the Sun
and it's bright shine.
Hear the sound of my
voice and listen, closely,
feeling my words
almost as vividly as
your own heartbeat.
Take it in, consume it carefully.
Let go of your mind and
experience this, fully.
Allow me to paint
these pictures in your mind,
and frame them with
your memory.
Allow me to see into your soul
and conquer you
until you lose yourself in me.
Give me intimacy.
Drop down your evening
gown and show me what
lies beneath;
your naked soul
has no control.
I'll be the catalyst
to curing your grief.*
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
It is a quarter past June, and
already it seems like a record setting summer.
Sprinklers and the scent of chlorine filled pools,
as I walk in my street-worn shoes to my sanctuary.
The lifeless blacktop park where
my will and the heat-embracing pavement meet.
A well-manicured backyard tree hangs its verdant leaves
just over its owner’s fence.
Like a lifeline for life reaching out to me.
I stick and I move,
as the sweat cleans the dirt and despair from my face.
Like a sunshine superman, I drink UV rays into my bones.
Alone I feel whole.
The disinfecting flames of summer
have begun to melt the cold rot encasing my soul.
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 7:02 PM UTC
Rainbow danced across my face
as water nestled into my skin.
I wasn't the only screechingly happy child
that day.
It was a festival celebrating art.
But that's not why people came.
Cheap liquor
and a small band singing the blues,
that's what really drew the people in.
But I was young.
And I was drunk on rainbows and sprinklers;
far too juvenile to see the sadness.
People stumbled around me
it was early.
No one saw the art.
No one saw the beauty but the little children
playing in the sprinklers.
Too drunk on rainbows to know the difference.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC