"sticks" poems
There are roots that
delve deep in our bones,
wrapping us like our skin.
They define who we are.
But,
who am I?
I am learned, sophisticated,
well versed in history and language.
My companions are numbers, papers, pens, and letters.
I drive a fine silk suit: shiny, clean, fragrant...
Though
am I, really?
Or am I
one who acts the opposite?
One who is
surrounded by those who have numbers, papers, pens, and letters as companions
whilst I am with pebbles, leaves, sticks;
driving a worn out hide made from a dying pig.
Or maybe,
I am both...
No.
I am not common folk who act out the Streets
on a home lined with shiny rocks,
smooth paper on a lap,
twinkling fireflies hanging from the roof
whilst displaying what I've learned from being raised around uniforms and books.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
Gliding deftly along the city street
rolling quick and constantly
onward to some unknown scene,
some backward park in the nighttime
smoke curling from these
parted lips, moist and inviting
calling me somewhere I've never seen.
New day, new night
new feelings, rage in delight
fill me with your hilarious entropy,
knock my quarks into the next century,
will you please?
Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free
between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks
like glue,
wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec
telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected
and rendered obsolete
Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme
Amaterasu,
and Imma tell you
these ladies in the picnic table
buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch
Jesus ******* Christ
and a indelible roster of good guys,
to which we all must strive to live and die
behind,
never moving forward
chasing our tails like a sick dog
under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark
imported from overseas
dead trees
dead canine
and oh isn't it just divine?
You see it, pretty lady.
I can see it hiding behind your eyes
the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid
if they found out,
you'd be crucified.
Well honey I hate to inform,
With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs
aint Methuselah,
they'll be dead!
long before your flood of tears tears me from the land
ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat
of the eastern seaboard,
or maybe wash me deep along the 80
into the desert sands and tiles
on a leaky cell phone screen
desperately trying to dial home on low battery,
realizing all this was one big deferred dream,
baking in the sun and shriveling
oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose,
gotta cut it back to size,
'else your soul it'll outgrow
Don't worry honey bee
It hasn't happened to me,
and We know with calcuable mathematical truth
that it'll never happen to you.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster." The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 9:57 PM UTC
Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
Hey let's play a game!
Post a video on the internet of it just for the fame!
Or maybe, let's play for fun.
And in the end we'll see who has won.
How about some Black Ops, maybe Resident Evil?
Or how about some Conker's Bad Fur Day multiplayer? Cause we can both be robber weasels.
I really like pokemon, also it's all about that Mario.
The greatest character in Mariokart is always going to be Wario!
I'd love to fight you on some Tekkon 6
But maybe I'll let you pick the game, or we could just draw sticks.
So here I made a little cup filled names of different games.
Just draw one Popsicle stick, and see which one of the names is on it.
That way we make this quick and easy
And can get back to our videogames!
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again
Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.
Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens
so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.
Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
first, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.
Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out
someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.
You are not leaving.
Even as the light fades quickly now,
you are arriving.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.
Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
Stricken with noise, confused with light.
If I could hear the green piles groaning
Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs,
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,
Feel once again the shanty straining
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,—
I should be happy,—that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again!
I should be happy, that am happy
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
I have a need of water near.
31.5k
My fiance is not only my fiance hes my best friend my world my everything he's been there for me through the good and the bad days but no matter what he still sticks by my side no matter what. My fiance is the most amazing most thoughtful caring man you will ever meet he's such a great guy to not only me but also to his amazing adorable nephews. My fiance will always be my number one.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
They look out from the terrace.
At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.
BANG!
An artificial cloud.
“Mira,” she points, “Venga!”
They fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.
Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.
"¡Ya vienen!"
Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.
Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.
Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and closer, louder, gallops sound.
Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;
indoors,
apart,
he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner
with long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
it
crashes
in.
She turns and the fear is paralysing.
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
He hurdles the stairs
and explodes
but it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.
He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering
paves
it
peters
off
down
the
street.
"¿Que ha pasado?
¿Quien ha sido?
¡El Balbotin
y la Chicha!
¡Que una vaca
les ha pillado!"
"¿Estas bien?"
Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.
"Podria haber sido peor"
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
Moments
Like ordering two mochas
Just to watch you make them
Forgetting your name five times
Before getting your phone number
Wiping chocolate off your shirt
Trying unsuccessfully to flirt my way
Out of spilling on you
Little moments
Like finally having the guts to ask you out
Running to the coffee shop full speed
Just to find out it was your day off
Sulking my way through my third cup of tea
Cursing the fates for their insolence
Right until you walked in to cover someone else's shift
And running out too scared again
Little moments like those
Remind me why I fight through
Big times like these
Little moments
Like driving over the mountains
To get to the first big storm
Just to be the first ones to kiss in the rain
After the summer sun chapped our lips so long
We forgot the taste of our kiss
Little moments
Like the first time I took you out in heels
And you spent the whole night
Whispering to yourself about not falling
Right up until I fell twice
Down a flight of stairs
And for you
Little moments
Like you running over to pick my head up
Off the concrete
Staring at me with this look
That made me want to ask you if you were okay
Little moments
Like that remind me
That the big times like these
Are worth fighting for
That the big fights like these
Are worth ending
If only for the shot to have one more
Little moment
Like
A movie perfect scene in the snow
With snow ball fights, snow angels
And a snow man with coal for buttons
Eyes, mouth, sticks for arms and a scarf
But we didn't have a carrot
So you ran upstairs, broke off one of your heels
And called him Stalleto-face for a week
Little moments
Like
Burning three attempts at chicken cord en bleu
And begging the old woman on the phone
To put in one more order before they closed
And tipping $100 just to have the chance
To eat midnight fried rice on the living room floor
Because the table was full of
Foiled attempts at cooking
Little moments
Like those
So dear to me
Remind me there is no fight too big
To give up little moments with you
Nov 18, 2009
Nov 18, 2009 at 4:58 PM UTC
Words are harmless, so they say,
That's where the problem starts;
Sticks and stones
May break our bones
But words will break our hearts.
Words are harmless, so they say,
And point you to their charts;
It's harmless fun,
No damage done.
But... Who will mend our hearts?
The x-rays show no damage
Where words have scathed across,
But it still feels hard to manage,
And leaves you at a loss.
Words are harmless, don't complain,
That's where the problem starts.
It's quite absurd-
A single word-
Enough to break our hearts!
But words are harmless, they maintain;
The subject of their parts,
No less or more,
So let them pour
From all our broken hearts
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb
Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,
The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,
Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles
These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,
Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,
Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,
Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting
Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.
O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,
The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks
Glittering
Glittering and digesting
Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.
28 January 1963
20.6k
I don't care if you
Throw sticks
Or stones
Or grenades.
You won't hurt me,
I'll pick myself up.
I don't care if you
Call me stupid
Or ugly
Or a failure, a disappointment.
You won't hurt me,
I'll shut it all out.
I don't care if you
**** a frog
Or rob the bank
Or starve for days.
I won't bat an eyelid,
That's what others' did to me.
I have been made
Cruel and heartless
By this warped, greedy world.
If it won't affect me,
I won't care.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,
Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.
In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and *******
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta
Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,
Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,
Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!
There is nothing between us.
19.4k
Shriveled & shrunken.
Intoxicated & drunken.
Hung over & agitated.
Mild to moderate brain activity.
Common sense & basic reason lacks mental ability.
Bad with money & squanders financial stability.
Passing a psychological mental health evaluation not quite.
Kept in a straight jacket & sedated in isolation they do spit & bite.
They go through everyone's trash day & night.
They panhandle at the street lights.
They have tempers & pick fights.
Nothing they do is legal or right.
Slobs with no jobs.
They lack work ethics.
The sight & stench of them is sick.
They're sad story is lies & tricks.
Not a truth that sticks.
They cuss & their pocked face oozes ****
Their frontal lobe is filled with dust.
About telling your teacher the truth they get homicidal & make a fuss.
They drive a piece of **** car consisting of smog & rust.
Getting arrested for 365 × 3 + 2 counts of child **** is never a bust.
Keep your children away from drunks.
Some drunks get violent, beat you & lock you on a trunk.
Most pedofiles & rapists are drinkers.
Not religious or moral thinkers.
With shingles, hpv virus, ****** & boyles.
Zero morals as hideous as an ugly *** gargoyle.
Enjoy arguing, screams & shouts.
Daily drunk driving & behind the wheel blackouts.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Blameless as daylight I stood looking
At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,
Tails streaming against the green
Backdrop of sycamores. Sun was striking
White chapel pinnacles over the roofs,
Holding the horses, the clouds, the leaves
Steadily rooted though they were all flowing
Away to the left like reeds in a sea
When the splinter flew in and stuck my eye,
Needling it dark. Then I was seeing
A melding of shapes in a hot rain:
Horses warped on the altering green,
Outlandish as double-humped camels or unicorns,
Grazing at the margins of a bad monochrome,
Beasts of oasis, a better time.
Abrading my lid, the small grain burns:
Red cinder around which I myself,
Horses, planets and spires revolve.
Neither tears nor the easing flush
Of eyebaths can unseat the speck:
It sticks, and it has stuck a week.
I wear the present itch for flesh,
Blind to what will be and what was.
I dream that I am Oedipus.
What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.
16.9k
My eyes see nothing but crosshairs
My right hand does nothing but clicks
In this cyberspace with no cares
Finally, happiness sticks
My ears hear nothing but bullets
My left hand does nothing but W,A,S,D
An experience that's as good as it gets
For at least a few hours, I'm free
My feelings are nothing but joy
My thoughts are nothing but video games
A place I can dominate a boy
Without having to say any names
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
In India pongal is the best festival
It is not a mere ritual
We celebrate it in January
It is very very customary
It lasts for three days
Bhogi,sankranti and kanuma are the days.
On the first day we have a holy bath
Thinking that it sets us on the right path
Early in the morning we sit around the bhogi fire
Thinking it is the demon Ravana’s pyre
We put on a new and attractive attire
Dreaming life is a joyful boat shire
Children make wreaths of cowdung
Throw them into the fire like a gold ring
The villages are full of colourful bullocks
We sing folk songs taking neem sticks
The bride groom leaves for the mother-in-law’s house
The bride waits for him wearing a new saree and a blouse
Father-in-law gives the groom a costly gift
Mother-in-law makes a sumptuous feast
Younger sister-in-law teases the groom
The bride and the groom confine to the room
Mother prepares delicious dishes and pickles
Father goes to the farm worshipping the sickles
On the last day we go to the temple fair
I hope I made the happy pongal very clear
Yours sincerely,
JVL NARASIMHA RAO
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
Misery sticks
to your skin
like the solitary smell
of your family home.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
Lollipops to cigarettes
Cooties turned to pregnancy
The cute little girls and boys we once knew at recess are no more, some are drop outs, some are on the news for ****** and others have seemed to disappear from existence
How did this happen?
How did the life we knew so well as children, filled with jump rope and four square, turn into the monstrosity of modern society
The drama now is about boys, drugs, and flunking school, the only so called 'drama' back then was when someone else had the blue crayon you needed to finish your color by number
Computers, televisions, and phones take over the lives of children nowadays, the big pass times when we were kids was to go back in the woods behind our houses and catch salamander, play hide and seek and cops and robbers when it started to get dark
Now?
It's lying to your parents to go out and get drunk, skipping class to go smoke **** and and turning the lollipop in your mouth into a cigarette
Did you ever consider that the lollipop tastes better? That maybe this sticky strawberry mess gives you a better outlook on life?
When you're a kid and you're happy with your crayons and hopscotch you don't care what problems you're faced with: if someones lost; find them, if someone's feelings are hurt; say sorry, if you wanna lose weight; lose it
This lollipop of yours has turned an upside-down world right-side-up again creating brighter perspectives and healthier pass times
So instead of curling our fingers around disgusting cancer sticks and pregnancy tests, maybe we should grab hold of that lollipops taste and lever let go...so the only downfall to life, is cavities.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;
One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little soldier boys traveling in Devon;
One said he’d stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks;
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.
Six little soldier boys playing with a hive;
A bumble bee stung one and then there were five.
Five little soldier boys going in for law;
One got in chancery and then there were four.
Four little soldier boys going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little soldier boys walking in the zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun;
One got frizzled up and then there was one.
One little soldier boy left all alone;
He went and hanged himself and then there was none.
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
Let me taste those golds
because Babe, we’re not here to be told.
Bury a kiss on my neck before the truth unfolds.
It’d be your vow to the angel you’d sold.
Take off your watch.
Take off your crown.
In just one touch,
Make me believe I'm the only one.
Golden sticks, holy air.
Drop the lies and just skin me alive.
Don’t ask for a name.
Surrender to a bite instead.
Throw your clothes on the floor.
Leave your name behind the door.
You won't need those until four.
Don't bite too hard 'cause I might ask for more.
She's pretty wise to be fooled by his nicotine tongue.
But his smile bites.
Oh god, It does.
But Babe, you're in the wrong place if you're looking for love.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 3:11 AM UTC
We all are unique magicians
From a painter to a nurse
To a poet that writes a verse
We create it in our own way
To brighten up somebody's day
We may all not have mind blowing tricks
Though our goodness still sticks
Our efforts never go unnoticed
And we don't make use of hypnosis
We all are created for a specific use
Each with our own personal muse
We all are unique magicians
And we will fulfill our missions
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 1:52 PM UTC
I don't think about it any more
I take out the trash
noting
Sticks caught in the crotch of a tree
The wind does what the wind does
breaks weaker branches down
does not care where
it leaves
them
on its invisible way
Days do what the days do
they don't count themselves
worthy as they go
to release
the afternoon
to evening—
an artless
emptying
to a low spot
where tears tend to pool
if I'd let them down
“You know,
in that low spot
out there...?”
Where it's hard to see
Where its hard to care?
They take heart
out
divide it by energy
for sadness—
I haven't got
Watched the clock go round
wipe out my little plans
with relentless hands
...and I never got dressed today
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC