"startlingly" poems
It was Saturday mornings like this;
or don't you remember?
Five-year-old me riding shotgun,
watching your cigarette embers
blow hastily out the window,
listening to the engine hum.
The Beatles would play on the radio,
you'd sing along,
and try to teach me, too.
*“Close your eyes, and I’ll kiss you,
tomorrow I’ll miss you,
remember I’ll always be true…”*
I’d watch your fingers drum rhythmically
on the steering wheel -
something I’d thought only daddies could do.
You may not have realized it,
but at a young age you taught me
how to love life, and embrace it completely.
With loving words, and a strong heart,
you told me I could be
anything I wanted to be.
I remember being young:
you, a drummer, on the road.
I’d wake up, startlingly,
every single time you came home.
You’d leave us each with
a kiss on the forehead,
promising, always, to come home.
*“Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you,
tomorrow I’ll miss you…”*
Singing us Beatles’ lullabies
with promises to never leave us alone.
Some nights I’d wake up
in the middle of the night.
In a panic, I’d run out to the living room
just to see the glow of the TV light.
“Daddy?,” I’d say, in a tiny voice
that only little girls laced with fatigue
can have.
Waking you up out of a dead sleep,
I thought, maybe, you’d be mad.
But you’d just look up,
and look over
to where I was standing,
And say,
“Baby, come lay with me.”
In your arms I found safety,
and the first protection I’d ever known.
You, daddy, are the one that I’ll come to
if ever I want to come home.
The TV lights glow soft now,
and that little girl is little, no more.
But don’t you ever think I’ll forget,
your voice when you’d close the door:
*“Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you,
tomorrow I’ll miss you,
remember I’ll always be true.
And then while I’m away,
I’ll write home every day.
And I’ll send all my loving to you.
All my lovin’, I will send to you.
All my lovin, darlin’, I’ll be true.
All my lovin’, all my lovin’..”*
Happy Birthday, daddy.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
I always loved your hands.
Not in any kind of lustful way, just the look of them.
I still love your hands, henna-ed and smooth
And so soft- startlingly soft-
If my fingers accidentally brush yours.
I used to marvel when you'd lace your fingers through mine-so casual- as we walked,
At how they felt like moonlight looked.
I love to watch you work, the careful way you do everything
Like it's all art, like it's all important.
Hell, you make a sandwich like you're carving a sculpture
And I find myself watching you, fascinated like always,
And I want to laugh, and I want to tell you you're beautiful.
And my smile turns wry
And I say nothing
Because who thinks of things like that?
I have a favorite photograph from long ago
Of your hands as you were drawing.
They've not changed.
That's why I always ask "Is that ring new?"
Because I catch myself noticing them
The way you might catch yourself absently holding a smooth stone you left in your pocket and forgot was there.
I used to secretly wish that someday you'd draw on me in henna
And I'd have the daring to ask you
To leave a handprint on my shoulder
Like a promise.
I've told you you look like a sculpture, too perfect not to be planned
And
I remember long hours in the museums as a child
Walking through a maze of white porcelain and marble women
Wondering how rock could look softer than my own skin.
I wanted to reach out and touch
See if they would be cold and hard like they should be
Or warm and velvety.
And their hands... So graceful and light-
The sculptors of old strove for perfection
Believing that they had not found it in humanity
Always imagining something smoother, something lovelier, something more delicate and more exquisite.
(You weren't around yet.)
Your hands always reminded me of something from that soaring hall
With all its silky looking statues and its ceiling of cross-paned windows.
So when I sit here, watching Art
Make ham sandwiches
It feels so incongruous.
Something here just doesn't belong.
And I can't tell if it is me or you
But honestly
How many people can say
They have watched Artemis sit down at the counter beside them
As if she has no idea she's divine?
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Wake up, stare out your jagged window at the yellow-green, creeping mist that pours through the suburbs. Taste darkness inside a spit shined, stream lined dank tank that your roommates call home. Shower and be appalled at just how unshapely you have gotten, your body a testament to your diet of Wendy’s and alcohol. Go to your dream crush, thankless job and stand at attention as the human flesh wave moves blankly through aisles and registers, even as they pretend that they are not the target market. Watch as they consume ferociously violent DVDs and smart devices at discount prices. Stand startlingly still and pray to God that they are like Tyrannosaurus and can’t see movement. Realize you are a ******* idiot because you get your facts from movies. Feel fear and dread make a shrapnel nest in your stomach when you understand that this might be the best that you can do. Frame count with fellow claustrophobic agoraphobics and call that pointless perfection pursuit escape. Desperately have twisted, quasi-acrobatic *** with every woman that is willing, but not so secretly wish they were that somewhat mousy, yet charming, grad student who makes your coffee every morning. Try to shrink into her pocket, invisible, only an absent touch away. Hope that someday you can intervene in her life positively so she notices you there. Go to sleep and breathe in that yellow-green vapor that reacts with your cells and becomes a clean cancer. Rinse, repeat and pray for that big break.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
After all was said and done
He wrapped himself around me
In a tightly formed question mark
The answer to which I yet do not know
I spent the night tossing in confusion
His midnight kisses further puzzling my thoughts
A random hookup wasn't this to be?
No feelings
No attachments
No anything
Wasn't that the unsaid plan?
Then why did I feel this growing fondness
For a boy I barely knew
Whose one and only connection to me
Were the stupid investments our fathers had made
Why did I want to hold him back?
Kiss his cheeks with the same gentleness he showed me
When the plan was always a physical one?
This monthly ritual of his I succumbed to
My mind overthrown by multiple questions
While my body gave to him every part of me I could
Until on a lonely Friday my eyes opened
The metaphors I had discovered
Now lay dead around me
The reality lying startlingly naked ahead of me
It was not care that brought him close
It was not any symbol of love he saw
A woman's body is all he acknowledged
My soul never receiving the gratification it dreamed for
There were no metaphors to this story
No hidden secrets waiting to be discovered
Just a girl who hoped for more
Settling for a boy couldn't ever see more
Than her naked waist
The tickle of moving hair
The flutter of her lips in ecstasy
The sigh in her heart as he moved away
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 10:42 AM UTC
I've often dreamed
Of how you taste
If you kiss sweetly
Or hungrily
Maybe both but
Either way it's perfect
Like the taste of peppermint and oranges
I try to remember
Your embrace
Is it still protective?
Holding onto me like a lifeline
Because I was all that mattered
Will I still feel safe?
Of course I will
You promised
The way he talks
Still makes me bow my head
And bite my lip
Because I know he's got me
He's got me bad
With promises of completion
He's keeping me up all night
Thinking about that word
Very
His eyes are like sapphires
Hit by the sun they shine
The only color in my world
Of black and white
Emotional
Surprising
Startlingly beautiful
And absolutely right
I hope he still loves
The way he used to
Risky
But comforting
Keeping me sane
Always and forever
The way it should be
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
Green to the eye
begets the visage: life-
Startlingly simple,
a color tells it all.
So ‘tis with the note
and the morning earth is smelly-
I ask,
by what happy accident
is everything made plain?
Like a dog bearing its belly
or a moth sleeping in daylight-
the unapparent thing of life
these words just cannot say.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
I walk along edge here
and meld her electricity
with sunset overhead
then sing those songs
I write fore bed again
when she feels overhead
where such a plan ready
shines inside my mirth
those attitudes my own insight
when she's startlingly cute
faint in her cry
it dances throughout another night
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
Past meadows of dewy green
Far above the tree line
On mountains peaked
With snow
A marmot comes out
To drink from
Rivulets of a melted
Glacier.
Walkers trek
Up the Alpine
Trails, past the
Lodges.
They passed a country
That belongs to another
World, another century,
Where fairytales were born, to get there.
But the marmot neither knows,
Or cares, as he drinks, drenched
In a dazzling light, Reflected
Off ****** snow.
I saw him as he stood
On a rock, surveying the
Humans nearby,
Striding upwards.
He turned his head
And met my eyes.
Just another human.
He turned away and left.
I stripped off my boots and dipped my feet
In the chilly stream,
Breathed in the startlingly clear air
And waited for him to reappear.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
She was the centre of my universe,
and I, the eye of her storm,
the soft centre, cushioning,
calming...
I wore her hurricanes like wings,
her fires like a second skin,
and all of it was beautiful.
Terrifyingly, startlingly, strangely
beautiful.
To feel her heartbeat next to mine,
in perfect sync, the rhythm of the
skies and heavens. The meeting
of two souls, tainted separately
yet, together, fierce
and free
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
One
Pretty and kind
Startlingly considerate
But
He is afraid
Two
Athletic and funny
Strikingly aware
But
He is beloved
Three
Purposeful and hardworking
Peculiarly tolerating
But
He is away
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
She always sang smoothly,
startlingly scrupulously,
after studying the stanzas for mere seconds.
Anglerfish Annie I called her.
A voice as pure as heaven lit her lure,
the one-way ticket that swallowed those kids
into an inescapable abyss.
I watched as those thirsty jaws grew dull,
and that mesmerizing light died out.
Hanging over the windowsill, atop that disturbed building,
her hauntingly beautiful voice showered down once more,
reverberating through my bones as it always had.
As the last note hurried to accompany its creator to the ground,
It was shrouded by the yells and sirens booming from the Institution.
I saw all the lost souls pouring out of her mouth,
And thought of how they knew Annie more than I did.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
We're weathering this unbecoming world of words. In the womby vortex of disgusting speech. We're not the movement in which your mouth commoves in disgusting misuse and hellacious abuse. Shame on you! We're already sickened by your pageantry and similar symbolism, simile, and pedantic matters of the hand. Someone should have stopped you. Your shoes don't fit and are rather unflattering. We're well rested Reader's of the greater digest and your context is unsuitably off. We've noted this recipe of disasterous dactyls and abhorrent lines that masquerade limerick like a proverb when it ought not be an idiom. We're weary to walk in your idiot-dom, your startlingly stark choice of anti-matter, and material of unsettling misuse so indigestibally obtuse. She says you've manufactured passages with verbose tapestries of word laxatives. We're unimpressed by how many fuxks you've given. Lessons like these are earned not given, not learned but lived. We're not meant to cure your ails, only forward your adjectives, and collect your mail.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
Portrayed in an artiface
Of long and grey rhymes
Replayed in a video
Of really bad lines
Lost in a tangency
Of bitumen and brick
Tangled in quagmire
Of cigarettes and sick.
Lurching through life
In yesterdays clothes,
Acting the part
That nobody knows,
Chic desperation
Apparent to all
With the certainty
She’s for a terrible fall.
Miasma of moods
Through a ***** blue haze,
Insulting a friend
In an instant of craze,
Sprawled on the street
In a leopard skin skirt,
Makeup awry
Broken nails in the dirt.
Screaming abuse
To the well meaning hand,
Lost, alone
In a drug ridden land,
Fearful of shadows
And clinging to those
Who lustfully use
To so casually dispose.
Blond hair falling
Down over her face
Mascara running
In smears of disgrace,
It’s dangerous to stagger
Through traffic in rain
With lost high heel,
Tear streaked in pain.
Vagrants for company
Hunched in a cell,
Shivering cold
And ****** to hell
In a moment of clarity
And startlingly clear,
A small shimmering hope
Lies so distantly near.
Marshalg
@theCoalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
8th May 2010
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
On a Saturday morning, one unnaturally warm for the usually brisk Pacific Northwest region, a girl woke up early.
Her first thought was not of the time, 6 am. She had woken up at this hour many times before, every Saturday in fact. Nor was her first thought about the unnatural warmth of the air seeping through her window. Her first thoughts were not of her legs tangled in her blankets, of the large breakfast she wouldn't eat, or of the last remnants of her dreams.
Her first thoughts were of a boy.
As were her second.
Her third. Her fourth.
Her fifth however, was that she should probably get ready to leave.
That summer, the girl had spent every Saturday morning 3 miles up the road at a small farm owned by a family from her church. Her father, the pastor with a history of dairy farming, had encouraged church goers to head up to the farm to help pick the bushels of fruits and vegetables being grown for his churches personal food bank. The girl simply assisted him.
The boy was on her mind every other minute, as she dressed, washed, loaded her allergy medication into a bag and trekked out the door into the misty morning heat. All through the drive she was silent, wondering if he every thought about her. Her father was all but indifferent, speaking of little but weather patterns and permaculture.
The farm was large yet quaint, owned by a woman who evidently had an unfulfilled dream to become a Barbie doll. Farm animals were littered unnecessarily around the property, serving little purpose but to appear cute. The girl supposed they succeeded.
45 minutes of plucking kale leaves offered little satisfaction to the girl, her fingers shaking and ***** aching for contact with the boy who she admitted to herself had probably never given her a second thought. However, this thought was in fact her 67th consecutive such one about the boy. She was unaware of how her 79th thought about him would happen to coincide with the gentle vibration in her pocket. A small blue box with an early morning greeting would appear on her cell phone screen, making her dirt covered hands oddly still.
She was unaware that the boy was motivated to send this particular message by his 104th consecutive thought about her that morning. She was unaware that, much like her, he had thought of little else over the previous month. She was unaware that hours of conversation would lead to revelations of startlingly similar music preferences, opinions and thoughts.
She was unaware how deeply he felt for her. Yet she was all but unaware of how deeply she felt for him. She was unaware that two years from this warm Saturday morning she would be laying in bed at 1 am, rediscovering her writing talent while recounting the beginnings of a love story. Her own.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
This is the last time our two lips shall touch
The last time we share our essences, passing one to the other in gentle exhales
This is the last early morning I wake up to you
Our last cup of coffee
I will stall this last conversation:
drawl and pause and share deep sighs
as we lean over the balcony staring at the snow falling on the mountain
It seems relevant that it is sunny as we share these final words
We've come full circle - our beginning so startlingly similar to this quiet, hopeful end.
I could say all the words of love/hate but
shouldn't dare
don't dare for all the things you've done for me
All I will say is
Adieu to you, my dear
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
I'm 'sophisticatedly' sticking a pen
in my mouth, pretending
to smoke a cigarette.
I don't have the courage to hurt
myself, but
I do.
In 'subtle and implied' ways, he
says.
I make watery coffee and convince
myself, my happiness
lies in there,
floating. And I pretend
I'm in a Parisian cafe.
But these are pipe-dream dregs,
nothing else.
I guess they can't substitute the
vividness of being,
living.
Of sharp technicolour experience that can be
smelt.
Dregs, indeed.
Today, I borrowed Birthday Letters by
Ted Hughes from the library.
I'm wondering if
salvias were his favourite
flower.
His favourite.
I can't figure it out.
For his words are only stricken,
messy with the rawness of
too-technicolour experience.
Beautiful.
But sharp
enough to pierce and
poison,
like Paris.
My Paris, your Paris,
our little Paris.
So startlingly, breathlessly
red.
I suddenly know why I have written this.
The colour of salvias,
of Paris,
of me and you,
is my soul's favourite.
His favourite.
And salvias, their fragrance, it
douses the fire that's threatening to
suffocate, swallow my
life whole,
incomplete.
Red is my favourite colour.
And it's yours.
But I really don't think I want it to be.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Transformative is the only way to describe your effect on me,
The way a storm transforms the seasons
Your voice is the rumble of thunder through my body,
Our attraction, the sudden white bolts of light.
Lips curled in that familiar taunting smile
Mocking, yet captivating.
Your eyes languidly roam my body
Glinting with infinite promises
Stripping me to the very essence
My own eyes ravage you,
Taking in your hauntingly masculine beauty,
Tracing the startlingly perfect planes of your face.
And your hands,
Oh the glory of them!
How every caress is burned into my memory
How every stroke brings you deeper;
Not only into my body, but into my blackened heart.
The moment you release me,
You become engraved to it.
And in the same instant, questions consume me
For I cannot distinguish between my love or lust for you
I cannot even distinguish between art and love itself.
So I Lie nestled in the shelter of your body
Wondering (but only for the fleeting moment that you are my muse)
For soon I will find new inspiration.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
yes, this city
is awe-inspiring.
graceful.
the sheer height
of kroger's hq,
the intrinsic intimacy
of the 5/3 dome, yes
grace
is the only word.
when the sun is setting,
i mean.
when the light
shines on the columns of windows, the buildings
slide startlingly out of focus to become something almost real,
something almost untainted by glass, uh--
a sunset.
a river.
the buildings wiped almost
out of existence
by
that river. a river
that gushes, changing with every second yet
remaining. constantly
in its pose of watermotion and water-
grace.
but then the sun fades away
and the neonlights come on,
and the moon
is far too faint and the buildings
cast shadows that are far too wide
and reality is submerged and we
are submerged.
we need another glint.
another light.
we need to turn the stillness
of this night
into a movement,
and yes,
we need to be prepared,
just in case--
we have to fight.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******** clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.
Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----
Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.
Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.
I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
Sadism joined with narcissim
psychopathy and Machiavellianism.
This is the makeup of the TROLL.
They are not just a nuisance. They
can latch onto innocents and try to
corrupt them in startlingly inhumane ways.
Look up the personality profile of
the internet troll. THEY ARE HORRIBLE PEOPLE.
If you encounter one my advice to you is to ignore and block it. Be vigilant as it may start a new account and try still further harassment.
Be aware of key words, phrases and ideas your troll has played with before. He/she/it will ALWAYS want to let you know somehow that it is BACK. Look up the traits of a troll. If you see an individual taunting others for no reason it may be a troll. Most of all TRUST YOUR SPIRITUAL EYES.
Your gut. If you even have a suspicion don't engage.
EVEN IF IT POSTS A WRITE ABOUT YOU, DON'T READ IT. DON'T READ OR COMMENT IT'S WRITES ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE. If it doesn't get narcissistic "sample" it will move on.
Trolls like to "play dumb". Come off as mentally challenged or very young people. Or as the very devil HIMSELF. They have delusional ideas of grandeur so will often use Lucifer or God in their poet names.
This has been my experience anyway.
I am being stalked by one currently.
This is a message to him/her/it:
I AM IGNORING AND BLOCKING YOU. I KNOW YOUR TRICKS AND YOU CAN'T FOOL ME. GOODBYE.
PLEASE BE AWARE AND VIGILANT POETFRIENDS. GOD BLESS YOU!
♡ Catherine
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
It's the middle of the afternoon
and the street heaves
beneath the weight of
so much ordinary existence.
The leaves fall steadily,
matching their pace to
the unceasing rain and
painting striking contrasts
of crimson and umbre
against the grey sky.
The woman next door
is screaming
and the grief and terror
that catches at her throat
is palpable amidst this
ordinary scene.
Solid things suddenly seem surreal
when they are choked in sorrow,
and I feel like a statue
dialing 911 with marble fingers
as she runs from demons
that will plague her forever.
The dispatcher gives directions,
and step by step,
I try to recreate feelings
like compassion and empathy,
as if that could be enough
in this startlingly raw moment
to calm someone who is
coming apart at the seams.
She won't look at me,
she is not here.
I can feel the grief
in her voice like porcelain,
and I can taste it-
like ice chips.
But I'm not here either,
I'm just holding this emotion
in my hands, numb.
The ambulances come
and take her lover away
beneath a white sheet
and I can hear the police radios
shrieking suicide
as everyone stands
on the sidewalk,
enjoying the show.
And I retreat into
my quiet home,
still holding this
porcelain grief
like a talisman.
I sit down
at the kitchen table
and turn it round and round,
trying to understand
where it fits
in this ordinary
Wednesday afternoon.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small he has to ***** them on—
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.
In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.
Galway Kinnell, “After Making Love We Hear Footsteps” from Three Books. Copyright © 2002 by Galway Kinnell.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
This sudden spring
Arriving before the gardeners
Have prepared the beds
A profusion of growth
Invading the gardens
With startlingly vivid colours
Before their season
The trees have budded
As if an invisible hand
Has tilted the earth
Just a fraction faster
Than normal
There are no complaints
Of this early spring
The gardens can be raked later...
This sudden emergence
Of what matters most
Love and all it awakens
Feelings forgotten and now relived
Dreams and hopes reborn
It's as if our hearts have now learned
How to love deeper
And with more understanding
And compassion
The other "things"
Will just have to catch up
Things that can be bought or replaced
For that which is irreplaceable
Has made its appearance
And has transformed our world
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 5:51 PM UTC