"squabbling" poems
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
There is incessant noise
in the city—as if the blinding light
blocking out the sky was not enough.
They never spread their wings, but oh,
do they spread far and wide; but their songs
are nothing to shake a tail-feather at.
The squabbling and screeching
of fighting roosters, the mimicry
of baby cockatiels finding their voices,
the chattering of gossiping hens,
hawks that stalk the night
only to swoop in screaming
at the first sparrow to cross their paths,
the mourning doves who wake alone
to cry and moan their songs of melancholy.
They remain awake and call out into the night
longer than the old owl in the park.
The ****** of crows bear witness
to the clamor on this night; looking on—
as the Eyes of God—
in disgust and judgment.
These tall, fleshy creatures see fit
to complain of the calls of pigeons and gulls
when their noise is the farthest-reaching plague
that keep all awake at night.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
Forty days and Forty nights
Kachina dolls danced
pounding deer skin drums
rattling snake gourds
whistling circles of
flustered chicken feathers and totem poles
around the drooping firmament
here and there wisps of
sunken chested, shrunken breasted
castrated clouds dragging their empty
rain barrels could be seen straggling
across heat infested waves
at times I swear I could hear the wind
cussing through dry crackling branches
Pine wearing wide brimmed straw hats
squabbling with over bleached blond Palms
How we languished and thirsted for the
dulcet, pure, pellucid taste of Your crystal kisses
lavender squeaky clean smell of rain-bells
oh! to feel those torrents gushing down our
upturned faces, slicked back hair,
engulfing our flowering *****
drenching us to the bone
then this morning we heard an unfamiliar sound
fairy feet tap-dancing on rooftops
excited I ran outside
crowing the Gayatri mantra
flapping prema pink wings
waddling like a duck in slap happy puddles
Yes, Dear God
a grateful, thankful swan,
gossamer reflection
glistening fervently up at You
from diaphanous depths
inexhaustible wellspring
diamond spa of Your Love
Hari Om
Visit my author's page:
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and my website:
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Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
He was an old cowboy, and he never liked to hear that cowboys were a dying breed. Those were fighting words, indeed, so don't ever tell him that. Yes, a cowboy, through and through, and he hoped he'd die in the open, big sky of Montana, right by his old horse, Dusty. Falling in love with the outdoors, he grew up working on his uncle's ranch and was hooked from the very start. Now Ride 'Em Rick had breathed his last and finally met his Maker. He was ready, for sure, and died with his boots on, just like he hoped would happen. It wasn’t out in the open, but as he was snoozing on his recliner and he never woke up.
When most of his children were arguing about things they shouldn't be, Jet took charge to see to a proper burial. He refused to be among the squabbling siblings.
You never visited him!
Oh, yeah! The only reason you came over was to get more money out of him!
I loved Pop! You never loved the man!
*You're just like him! Pigheaded! Impossible to tell you a ****** thing!*
He's not just your dad, so don't act so high and mighty!
And so how would Pop have wanted to be buried? He was a hard man to know—even after seventy-seven years on this earth. Well, Jet knew his father was a proud man, and a lover of all things cowboy. It would be nothing fancy—he’d be done up in his good flannel shirt and jeans, and of course with his boots on, and his cowboy hat slightly tucked under his cold, hard fingers. A lasso would be a nice touch, and some of the old, cowboy tunes during the service would be perfect. Surely, if Rick was going to die with his boots on, they’d stay with him to the very end. So that was how it all would be.
And so Ride 'Em Rick looked regal in his humble garb. Stony in life, so he was in death. Mostly, the old man kept his distance, and that seemed normal to Jet. But now standing with his two boys, one on each side of him, Jet hoped he would have been a more hands-on father to his sons. With the help of his wife, Carly, he was surely keeping on course. The siblings were still at odds, but there were plenty of tears and hugs going around to keep the peace and to make a good gathering. And so it was a fitting farewell to man who felt most at home on the trails and in the saddle, buried with his boots on.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
Mistakes are like fists full of firewood, waiting to be struck -
We light up like saffron fused matchsticks,
draining with tears the color of grinding lightning.
Every time things get heated, I get lost
in the mist of not knowing enough
Everything we know gets lost in the distance
because the distance casts spells of mist that
Climb up all my windows and screens,
my view becomes pigeonholed bleak.
Your cowry-shell smile is now cast away in waves of doubt
Our mouths are now perpetually filled with
retorts soaked in vinegar, heavy breathing and static squabbling –
this is what it feels like to be the one who loves more from a distance.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
thanksgiving,
yellow lemon squares, turkey,
hustle hustle laughing,
bickering,
small blond children
tall dark haired , mild mannered
gathering courage to ask
asking questions
hike , climb, sprint tag,
food,
eating quickly,
murmurs around potato salad,
leaves,
leaves falling,
mothers calling
building castles in leaves and trees behind things
in the back yard
smiling
finally we are all together.
cancer took her.
crying crying and the rain wont stop beating against this old roof.
close walls sullen faces
mild mannered children working in a quiet desperation
to recreate yellow leaves falling
and lemon squares.
standing close
together,
to close
to close
trying to **** the distance between
us
castles crumble
its not our back yard anymore.
one of our mothers makes pecan squares
we cling to new traditions
because lemons do not taste the same,
disenchantment falls into a desperate
sadness that always fallows
death
and being homesick
for places that no longer exist for us , tomorrow
Indifference took her,
maybe if i had stayed a little longer,
she would be here same as ever,
clever bright witted
the staple holding together family fibers
distance ,
quite
losing site
literally loosing her site and
missing me
missing her
and them and mild mannered children
trying desperately to recreate yellow fallen leaves,
and banter,
to hear grandchildren squabbling
it was me, i left her castles crumbling
she was only missing places she thought no longer existed for her
shes gone now.
my castles crumbling
like the dry fall leaves
and i'm dreading things
and the lack of things like
thanksgiving
and lemon squares.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
If, whenever out, maybe driving about,
On encountering road-rage, never worry,
Claim that you are, Ronnie Pickering,
They should drive off, as if in a hurry.
Although, if they ask, Ronnie Pickering?
Looking bewildered, unsure who you are,
Do a convincing, Pickering impression,
An apoplectic beetroot escaping its jar.
Start ranting and raving, making threats,
No need to reveal, considered, justification,
Rage like a gargantuan, ignorant, imbecile,
Before storming off, in bitter frustration.
Remember, while out, always take care,
If encountering, squabbling or bickering,
If the people resemble blustering bullies,
One, could possibly be, Ronnie Pickering.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
It’s that awkward time between 5 and 6 pm where his eyes are the colour of mocha brown stained novel pages and finger tips callused and crinkled with years of practicing and gripping too tight on a black biro pen.
He turns the corner of the street and we make a narrow escape to the highway where careful mothers have their children strapped to seats wailing with voices so shrill yet so untouched and pure..
And I turn and I look out the window and plaster on a sad look like I’ve been copy pasted out of a sad music video about boys and breakups and lost loves, reminiscent of the paraphernalia of stories and soaps and television shows my mother used to watch.
Slowly I turn and I feel a tap on my shoulder blades and he asks me if I’m ok but secretly I’m wishing and hoping that there’s more to life than this god forsaken city but I still say I’m fine anyway.
"The city looks really nice this time of day" he says and I just don’t see it because everything around me is illuminated in fake fluorescence and wired in with the hands of a man who’s just lost his wife and swears his depression is just a phase.
"Squint and you’ll see it" he insists but I can’t because the world is in monochrome and the concrete of the buildings are the tombstones of chivalry and manners, filled to the brim with office workers hunched over stacks of papers and lists.
He turns left at the third intersection and laughs at a man squabbling drunk cursing the world on the side of the road and I hope he doesn't know that it was what I'd do if he let me grab the bottle of Jack from the trunk.
"Goodnight and godspeed," he laughs and I say **** off" in exchange for a hug and so another day passes in the presence of car windows and rolling cityscapes.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
I don't believe in God
I'm sorry
I'm not actually apologising
for the fact it's just what I've been conditioned
to say by society
Sorry?
Don't get me wrong
I was shackled as a child
to Sunday school after Chuch
and my informative
young woman years were left dead
by Girls Brigade
didn't make me less wild
Mother was Presbyterian
Father was Methodist
(You don't think I was messed up by this?)
Christened as Chuch of England
Raised as a Baptist
I think, all of the above
fall under 'Christianity'
but I'm not sure of this
So many secular emotions
under one umbrella
I'd bet, someone's gonna get wet
Then there is Islam and Hinduism
Sikhism and Judeaism
and spiritual beliefs like
Bhuddism and Druidism
How do all those different Gods compete
for our favour? To get us to lay down
as followers, to be the mat for their precious feet?
It would have to be a pretty mean feat!
I imagine them as Gladiators
fighting for the right for the masses to cheer
Winner takes all but, Losers get the non believers
What do you think the Ancient Gods
think of their petty squabbling?
The Eygyptians, the Greeks?
who simply stated humans
were to worship them religiously
and it was done, because they can
They seemed more fierce to me
sitting on Mt Olympus and coming down
occasionally, at least they had a face
What's been touted today to the human race?
I don't know enough about Religion
to make choice or want to learn
I married a Roman Catholic
that opened a whole new can of worms
An Irish Roman Catholic
Yeah, I see you nodding your heads
Suicidal, I think is the term
So I decided my children would not
be burdened by my religious ineptitude
They can choose their own beliefs
for I surely won't intrude
on their individual right to make
a decision based on their own feelings
I know I'm probably wrong, I just want
them to believe in something
Anything that makes their day better,
that helps them sleep at night
I won't choose their religion for them
I don't think that's right
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
Convoluted thoughts intertwine like cats squabbling in the yard.
My mind is a neighborhood.
Scores of houses and cars, all neatly arranged;
Like packages wrapped under the Christmas tree.
Inside are storms and fires.
Beautiful earthquakes shake them about like a locomotive running laps.
Graffiti on buildings and discarded tires.
A harmonious melody of rain and a whistling teapot.
Bells tolling.
Bikes litter the cul-de-sac.
A basketball rolls into a puddle.
Daisies and peonies sprouting out of little baskets, hanging from kitchen windowsills.
Streetlamps ignite.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
more sunshine,
more smiles,
more laughs,
more happiness,
more kisses,
more cuddling,
more conversations,
more flowers.
less snow,
less squabbling,
less darkness,
less pain,
less sorrow,
less regret,
more love.
more humanity.
~khushi
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 7:21 AM UTC
A spider in it's web,
is a mistress
of a myriad things:
for instance,
a five finger exercise,
or a full bare breast on which,
a hand is tenderly spread.
On canvas space,
spider forms evoke layers of
meanings.Imagine this:
from secret holes of
moonlit camphor trees,
come out love-lorn female spiders
wanderers of dark nooks,
enticing perfect mates.
The deceptive calm
in them is the most
dangerous precept,
if you know the spider
the way you should.
I watch her sitting on the floor
at the far end of
the poorly lit room where
a group is in it's
usual squabbling
she is bored, still aroused
no one else, and she
looks at my lips
The spider web
is a sign language she
communicates:
she playfully points her finger
down between her legs.
Curious, I strain my eyes
in the oily yellow light,
see the phantom of a spider:
dark, sinister with a gleaming eye.
OOO
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 7:54 AM UTC
A pallid page: laid out for guillotines
Of chickenscratch all frantic in a trek
Across that indifferent monstrosity.
The lines ascend, but tend to end a wreck.
This certain fate stalks they who brave the Blank:
To crumple and to crease, to never cease
‘Till but the wiliest, weathered words remain,
Stalwart, scarred; final heralds of the peace.
What end is sought in this warmongering?
That question’s murk curses humanity.
Minds have been known to yield to stronger things…
the dinner bell, perhaps insanity.
Yet brave these squabbling syllables we must
Else face the terror of collecting dust.
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 1:08 AM UTC
In the instant a second presented itself
It dissolved, shrunk to the second...past
Out, gone.....a single thought could not be reinvented
For it was a second too late to squeeze the beginnings
With elementary mood breakers
Could the second have been different, thereby
Creating the onset of a brand new colour pallet
Drifting off, a direction lost to us, unable to pick
Up the tracking device of the rudamtary subliminal
Message, distorted by sleeping particles stored
Latently....dulled to the jazz tones of deaf ears
Identification slaves fired, packed up and rolled out
Partners squabbling, second '2'.... demise
Precious seconds lost, creating 3rd and 4th second
Lapses, prisoners of the past, what was and is no longer
Do we grasp the very second, conscious of the sound of
‘NOW’, cleansing our minds eye, rinsing our field of vision
The seconds may escape, existing in fornever land
Damaged as they trip and stumble in their two legged
Race to the realm of nowhere, continually stepping out of
Time with themselves, soaking up the spoils of
‘None of their business' lifestyles, dallying
In the lanes of borrowed lives, unrecognising
The empty shell of their own............
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
slight motion causes distant fog to swirl
as grey becomes blue
highlighting the green field
in the pre-sunrise morn
watery eyes look across dew covered grass blades
individually
weaving a tapestry of braids
soft chipping symphony
thrushes abound
startled hooves crash through unseen underbrush
and the first light at first blinds
then offers the tree line a perfect outline
refraction action dances through
millions of mirrors glisten
diamond style
and vaporize instantaneously
flameless fire engulfs
my peaceful meadow
claustrophobia grips me
as natures’ noises and notions
envelope me
frantic squabbling of scrub jays
elk whistle too near
branches crash as the wind storm
tears the mountain away
I lay still as a soft white light emerges
a beacon in the sky
signifying reality
home base
something to focus on
as the fog clears and blue replaces insanity
I slowly stumble across the shiny green
filling my hat
with enough fungus
to share with the community
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Fray has been and days have gone away
a youth denied his chance to find the glory of the hours
choked to no breath and succumbing to the evil undress
how wicked they are those who attack the innocent because it makes them feel better about themselves
A day denied as talent is under fire but gone the fry so they invite the dark cloud
a sound is denied and letters are hidden
but all the rays of sunshine can find time in the healing forgiving
So in death the young child is made to feel to free his will so love becomes the only deal
Caught in between the chaos of parents squabbling; it is so sad to be growing old only to be one's young recovery
A futuristic history as much mystery is open for uncovering - such clear discovery
A knit tapestry with divine wit and masterful chivalry
But by and by they try prevent this innocent light of truth and purity from hovering
Visiting the graveyard once more where the corpse still cries where there are places sore from being bitten by the sour jaws of lost hopes and broken doors
Dead at age 6, at 9 losing a wing can an angel fix to solace bring to the fair flings of sages and Elementals sing
King and King, they bout and down each one to the ground he brings
Such a trill thrill when many are killed to subdue evil will
But please live soul to bring home to a family where faith was stolen and mischief chosen where dire indoctrination was woven
Oh child we and I self in him us we weep
part of me slice of a creed, seed of the strong where many were weak and hearts meek
We I in him self of me us must weep
Talent the gift of the few gists or righteous fists that we keep
Please sing on in the clear skies
wail on in the mists
March in the desert sands and swim in the celestial seas
Free yourself of your own now
old soul dead so young
Whipped and crucified, wounded voice so loud
live again and heal in the numb, to rejoice in juices of the revival folk... In planes where time is none but eternity the sum.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
I know that that heavy burden has been clawing inside your heart,
Years has passed,
You never tell,
I never asked.
I've seen your fall from the catastrophe,
And I know your pain in immense.
But what worse it could be,
I am standing helplessly,
Feeling like a *****
But not doing anything.
I wish you'd have allowed me just for once
To enter there
Where you have suppressed your pain so hard.
Just tell me once,
how is it valid
to share the laughter aloud
but when it comes to tears,
(your tears)
You back off.
Just tell me once,
Why is it easy
to talk about all the beauty and the bounty the life has given,
to buttonhole me with all your talks,
Squabbling around the irrelevant sometimes,
But it scares you to talk about the story of your scars.
Just tell me once,
how is it fair
that my pain, my trouble, my problem becomes ours,
and yours is always yours.
Just tell me once,
why you are so hard to explore.
It's been years of our being together,
why you are always this mysterious.
Just tell me once
how is it relevant in our strong bonding of ages.
May be it's too painful to talk about,
May be it's me who isn't worthy enough,
Whatsoever it may be,
but I know you ain't much healed,
And it bothers me.
I can't assure you that unveiling your scars will heal you definitely
But the one thing I am sure of:
It feels good to be listened,
listened in enchantment.
I know it because you do the same to me
And It bolsters my strength.
Honey!
We all have our shadows
Pour it out &
Burn them down.
May be then you'll feel a little lighter.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 5:38 AM UTC
white sand
flecked with
blackend seaweed
occasionally
a smooth tumbled pebble
the smell of salt
and iodine
water, whitecapped
as far as the horizon
and beyond
and heat clear crisp heat
drawing and drying sweat
on bodies bronzing
seagulls squabbling
over chips thrown
to a zephyr breeze
and the sound of sea
making love to sand
sealife, in australia
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 6:10 PM UTC
the hands of the clock are spinning
still
12
with broken bars on the playground
skipping stones
when things started to get a little heavy
we paused our breathing for an aftermath of sorts
but never saw it happen
14
the chiming gets louder
the bad kids come out to play
stringing words through fences
hardly a crooked smile
or stare
we're not going anywhere
16
it's daylight
we snooze our dreams because
they might never take flight
we sit on the bleachers
we live vicariously
we tear jealousy from magazine covers
because that's how we live
we step on broken mirrors but they do not hurt
18
these times in twos we're forced to live
the heavy gets heavier
the heart gets harder to breathe
we begin to look for fingers to grab
fingers of grief
kisses through teeth
we make bad decisions that spin
on some nights we kneel
but Sunday morning is not for another 12 hours
we return to wallow
in a certain hollowness still unfilled
the cycle repeats; we're waiting for night to come
around like a boomerang
were these years formative?
or maybe just an excuse for destruction
regrets fizzle
but never make it pass the sheet of ice
20
and a little wiser
just a little
the handlebars come off
once upon a time this was a vision
and now the hurdles are broken
until new ones come along
once upon a time this was a scream in the night
now there are bells
and lights
and buzzing
the chiming gets louder
the albatross is passed
around like a boomerang
an encumbrance
it berates me
we're looking for reasons to swallow
all this guilt and all their shadow
21
I scramble to my feet
to put this banner together brick
by boring brick
it feels all too valorous
to exclaim that I have broken the wheel
in time to come I shall fall back
into clutches
and fingers and teeth
and bad kissing
a half-open grey goose on the mantelpiece
half-opened desires
and some squabbling in my chest
more chandeliers
and more yet to come
as I fizzle into some chasm unbeknown
surely there is more falling to come
but for now
lucidity
the hands of the clock are
still
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 6:54 AM UTC
The second I spoke
I heard myself through the look in your eyes
When did I become so distant
That I am now the self-centred attraction of your pupil’s reflection
No more do I see the interchanging colours
The door to your soul
Where I am
And you are
And we are
Through
Not so long ago you held me close
A comfort blanket for your woes
Though when did I become so rough
That you choose to wriggle and wrench from out my arms
No more mutual embrace
Body connectives
Now I am
And you are
And we are
Through
Speak to me in silence
When tone of death stare is enough to remind me of the jobs I should have done
When did we become so lazy
That we allowed spoken sentiment to dry up
Replaced by quips and sarcasm
Communicating only
That I am
And you are
And we are
Through
Yes I am through with second guessing emotion
And you are through with needy wanting
We are through with petty squabbling
We are through with dry expression
I am through with you
Just as you are through with me
However we, most importantly
Are finally through with ‘we’
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
I don't know what makes me
Fall in love so easily.
The heart ache is excruciating.
Yet I can't be trained to stop
And think of the consequences.
I don't want it here anymore
To wound me over and over again.
Because it happens with everyone
Almost every soul has a redeeming quality.
It is the quality, not the person
With whom I fall in love.
Every single time, no matter the day
But I don't understand my heart.
I want these people to be boring,
Lame, narcissistic, squabbling pigs.
Yet I know I would find something
To make me fall once again.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 10:43 AM UTC