"storybooks" poems
The yearning gentleman journeyed near and far
Hoping to acquire his long-sought heart's desire
Pictures carefully painted from a copy of a euphoric time
A multitude of young memories drawn from an aging mind
From storybooks he conjured up the delicate princess and the pea
Next came the white-eyed fairy beauty sailing deep lavender seas
Red headed was the other with eyes of fire
Nought satisfied his slowing blood
And hearts desire
Life with a light kiss
Sprinkled upon him a touch of madness and sublime
Flung before him mountains with invisible peaks to climb
Sympathetic were the gods in their mercy
In forever withholding the knowledge
Alas there were no princesses to rescue
And no more fire breathing dragons
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Aug. 8, 2018
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
when he was younger, people called him a fool
and he never made it to high school
his daddy was a hard workin' man
he taught his son how to work the land
from sunrise to sunset
crops rise from blood & sweat
the only thing he could really know
was how to make things grow
until he met a woman that stole his heart
she was the bright light in the dark
she sang pretty songs that he didn't understand
she'd cook and clean while he worked the land
he wanted to learn, she planted the seed
she brought home books, taught him to read
they were happy, but not yet complete
the house was missing the sound of little feet
and storybooks and lullabies
they longed to hear a baby's cries
soon she grew heavy, baby inside
one that would be her father's pride
she grew up in a house full of love
told she could be whatever she dreamed of
we sit here now, graduation day
and i listen to the words she has to say
"my Daddy was a farmer, he loved the way things grew
and he cared for the animals, always knew what to do
he always did everything to make sure his family would survive
my Mama was a dreamer, she kept our hope alive
and gave me wings, taught me to fly
to always give thanks, never question why
and i wouldn't be here right now
if they hadn't always knew somehow
that i was destined to do something more
this is love, it's what family's for"
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
Almost everything in the fairytales turned out to be true:
Horrible witches, nasty curses, dark demons, and guarded fortresses.
But princesses?
I thought they were figments of our imaginations.
And yet little girls read storybooks religiously, dreaming of winning over the Prince Charming.
Well ladies, you can keep your pristine and spotless princes.
I know where love and honour truly lies.
It is in the dragon's keep,
Where she is locked away and hidden.
The walls of her own heart blocking everyone out,
Burning everyone down who dared face her inner dragon.
But there is determination running through his veins,
Bravery in every bead of sweat,
A fighter's honour gleaming in his eyes.
Breaking down the barriers to find a damsel in distress, he did the strongest thing:
Held the wretch in his arms.
A soldier with the ability to find perfection in the weakest of souls.
My knight in ***** turnout gear,
The firefighter who discovered a princess.
My love who proved the reality of fairytales,
And found our happily ever after.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
My mouth is full of moths
My words are not pretty
They do not flutter out with grace and ease
Instead
Twitching as they find their exit from my lips
They are not butterfly
With a name so smooth that it rolls off the tongue
I am not monarch
But
The decaying flesh it preys upon
The contrast between beauty and reality
I do not know why
Why
People like me are attracted to light
I guess it makes since
To swim towards brightness
When you've spent so much of your life in the darkness
Cocooned in between empty spaces
Nesting in silk spun from my own silence
I have spent months inside my shell
Learning how to find my own voice
Learning how to speak my own language
Hearing myself talk for 18 years but for the first time actually listening
Like moth
Touch sends me fleeting
Like moth
Attention back into hiding
I am not conspicous
Nor do I crave to be
Like caterpillar
We
Are all given blind hope
Told that someday
We will be noticed
Visible
Beautiful
But some spend so much time
Preparing for glory
That they forget storybooks lie
That in real life
The very hungry caterpillar
Who was promised butterfly
Becomes moth
Moth
What most see as ugly
And intrusive
Chewing holes in your finest clothing
Making home unwanted places
Moth is undesired
Butterfly is welcomed
Tell me why
One is invited in and the other shut out
Moth is not pretty
Moths lack ofbeauty
Is enough
To disregard it
All at once
Different is enough
To disregard all at once
Do not disregard me
Because I am not ideal
Because i am not fully painted winged beauty
We as a society only stop to see what catches the eye
Unable to notice the intricisies
Of darkness
So look a little closer
Try a little harder
Because if anything is to be known
It is that beauty
Is not
In the obvious.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Aluminum
Have you memorized your storybooks
How does it feel to catch on fire
You go where bugs go in the winter
Surface waves
How does it feel to be momentary
An oven timer
Or a sparkler
Sidewalk
How does it feel to be cracked open
To bleed to death
Blunt force trauma for 200
Rooftop
How's the autumn
The air's quite nice
But the ending is blurry
Oh winter
How does it feel to melt
To simply
Stop existing
Open ocean
How does it feel to drown
I thought there were bandaids
And you never even saw me
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
I think I have Peter Pan syndrome
Because I refuse to grow up
The difference is
I don't have a choice
Because Neverland is a place in storybooks
"The second star to the right and straight on till morning!"
But oh, how badly I still wish
to escape
to
Neverland.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
The little kids we used to be,
still play like the kids we were,
but now it’s graveyards instead of a playground.
Instead of dress-up costumes,
it’s makeup lathered to our faces,
we must be like those perfect pictures in magazines.
We play boyfriends and girlfriends instead of hopscotch,
anorexia instead of basketball.
Instead of storybooks, it’s facebook posts telling us
we don’t deserve to live.
We used to wear those colorful sillybandz,
and trade them with each other,
but now it’s scars from a razor
we wish we could take off.
It was always begging for seconds of ice cream,
but now it’s sneaking away to throw up the
little amount of food they make you eat.
Instead of staring at a summer campfire
waiting to roast marshmallows,
we stare at the fire waiting to burn ourselves.
Instead of angry first graders getting into a fistfight,
the anger now directs the punch to ourselves.
We used to sneak Halloween candy,
trying to stuff ourselves,
but now you sneak pills,
trying to overdose and hoping for death.
We used to play so freely,
we thought it’d always be like that.
But now we run among graveyards,
the bones of the ones we left behind
clutter the passages.
And we’re still children playing games
with the worlds, but the stakes are higher,
we wonder if we’ll make it.
It’s just a roll of the dice on this graveyard
playground.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
I must take note,
of how the people lie,
their dastardly twists and turns,
their shifting and conflicting emotions,
spiraling out of C O N T R O L,
their faces grim, as the enigma is made,
they paradoxed their words and actions, and all I,
and all I am for, it a laughter under my mask.
I must take note,
for if I don't, I won't be able to detect a group's actions,
they could cause the destruction of my dynasty,
I had set up in my mind,
I deliberately made a world of hope for those who need it,
I who is king, I who is God,
I, who is the only citizen,
they must not find out, and corrupt it,
for I will go hysterical.
I must take note,
of the weather,
what makes the spherical mass in space,
and the biodiversity in it continue to go forward,
for the blades of grass that cut me like a knife,
or the indifference of the flowers lovers give to us,
or the emotions, the physical strain,
that is made within the weather,
how my bones ache in the sun,
and how my emotions contrast in the rain.
I must take not,
or I shall parish,
or I shall meet my demise,
whether it be at the hands of the blades of grass,
or the conspiracies made from the liars,
or the people,
for I will meet my expiry,
the storybooks have told me so.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
Colors spin and whirl around
Lines begin to blur
In the distance and
Something pushes
Against me
Pounding incessantly
I’ve had enough and
It won’t stop
Up ahead sadness washes over
And carries away colors
Diminishing
Leaving grey streaks
Bleeding
And blistering
In the evening rain
Darkening the sky
Painting it the color
Of your heart
Remember when
Happiness was reality
Not a memory from storybooks
Deceptively simple
Seemingly easy
Just out of reach
Out of range
Out of sight
Elusive
Intangible
And the harder I grab on
The more I want
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
I want to ride the sky,
make believe
the stars are closing in on me,
and in so doing
become as them.
The glow from me,
a night light to some
off-world pier,
where children read
their storybooks untroubled.
An overhead visitor
to their lovely soul's dying wish,
the centrifugal force
keeping amusement park days
aligned with one another.
A tunnel at the end of the light,
cave of sweet
innocent dreams,
from which streams
of merry laughter emerge.
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 9:12 AM UTC
Our generation has become so use to temporary feelings, things and people
we aren’t surprised when there isn’t a sequel.
But it’s sad really, how accustomed we’ve become,
detachment has become a rule of thumb.
I don’t want temporary feelings, things or people,
I want to be surrounded by loved ones when I’m standing in that cathedral.
I want forever, like in the storybooks
but it doesn’t have to be a fairytale like with Peter Pan and Hook.
I just want something real,
something that in the depths of my soul, I can feel.
Someone through thick and thin,
there for me when I lose, and when I win.
It won’t be perfect, and definitely not easy
but we’ll have each other, that’s the dose of 'cheesy.'
Our generation is use to temporary feelings, things and people
they don’t expect a sequel.
They’ve come to expect everything to end,
the idea of temporary is the new trend.
And it’s really sad to see,
this generation missing out on so much that could be.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
Slowly,
we are all going insane,
slowly, but surely, we are all slipping down the same path,
some pushed to the brink sooner than others,
some farther behind.
We all trudge towards our doom,
funneled and guided to the right area
by the hands of our society.
The end has been predicted many times,
in different ways, by different people:
many a stray asteroid has been foretold,
one that will sink it's rocky teeth into the earth,
and make it explode.
It seems like the end may finally be coming,
people have been pushed so far, that they have cracked.
Their minds have broken,
their thoughts have jumbled,
they don't know who they are.
They are zombies,
literally and figuratively.
Zombies.
The ones who have been consumed by society
and spit back out again,
forced to live in a world that they want no part of,
so they attack,
and,
much like the zombies from storybooks,
they have this strange appetite,
that is full of a thirst for others.
These people care not for the world,
or their own bodies even,
no, they don't care.
They rip themselves apart,
tear into their own flesh,
and escape reality,
finally,
after succumbing to their fate.
The world,
pushed against unseen boundaries,
forced to the brink of insanity,
has finally spilled over,
and now,
we must fight the zombies
inside ourselves.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
The fence posts stand, bleached and brittle,
a tidy graveyard for dreams not their own.
Each board a promise of security,
painted white by hands that never bled,
guarding a silence that screams privilege.
A lawn mowed to uniformity,
as if clipping blades could trim truth.
Beneath, the roots tangle in soil tilled
by those unseen in the storybooks,
their spines curved by centuries of labor
to raise a house that barely held them.
Inside, the air is stale with whispers
of manifest destinies and invisible hands.
Windows frame a world distorted,
a lens of 'normal' that filters out color,
washing the streets in sepia nostalgia.
The picket fence becomes a cage
for those who see the bars.
But who built this town?
Not the architects of ignorance
who claimed the blueprint as birthright.
No, it was those in shadow,
their brilliance stolen to light the chandeliers
of men who never thanked them.
It was the voices erased
to make way for the monotonous hum
of a narrative too pale to reflect reality.
Progress wears brown hands,
scarred from the heat of engines
that drove the country forward.
It sings in languages
that don’t fit neatly into syllabaries,
its rhythm syncopated, refusing the march
of conformity.
Progress carves its name
into the very foundations of a nation
too proud to look down.
And now, the town crumbles,
its picket fences splintered
by the weight of unacknowledged history.
The 'white normality' that painted
its walls in monochrome
is revealed as smoke—
a ghost-town haunted by the very people
who gave it life,
only to be exorcised.
Yet those ghosts do not wail.
They speak, steady and firm,
their presence undeniable.
They are the architects now,
designing futures that will not crumble,
drawing plans that see the beauty
in every hue.
And the white-picket fences
are repurposed for something new,
their shards forged into tools
to till a soil fertile with truth,
where a garden of multitudes can finally bloom.
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 4:57 AM UTC
These storybooks woven with leathery imbrication
Filling my palms with vile indication
Detailing such wickedness and strife
What ethereal threads cling to life?
Such labyrinthine desires scrapping in my mind
My soul from body; that body which isn’t kind
To delve deeper within the wounds that sever
To fellow wolves, demons and toothless beggars
Unholy martyrs preach from a podium underground
Ablaze in hellfire, monsters of the ravenous mound
Black tongues and cheeks full of worms and leeches
Coals flung and burning over deafening speeches
Sumptuous in eloquence, these tossers and man-boys
Evocative displays of violence, hushed by silence and toys
Beseeched, reprimanded in city squares with common folk
Feeding dogs in heat slop with a pail and tote
Children waving hi to people in cages, smiling indifferently
Don’t they know what this is? Yes and no, forever in shame
Don’t they know there be wickedness afoot?
There be shadows of molestation
And whips of industry
Eyes removed and replaced with bar-codes
There be devils amongst the valiant
And dark angels amongst us
The few and proud
Recite aloud:
“Darkness brings uninvited guests
And our bodies are bare
Give us a blessing, a crumb or drop
Of life that we all can share.”
Veins full of rubies and auburn sapphires
Creepers laced in the cowls of cadavers
Red water thicker than mud and spit
The fatherland sicker than a rotten ****
There be dark angels amongst us, telling tales deep-seated
They be grave and weary, their lives left defeated
Now in the wilderness they give slothful lectures
But it’s only fools who listen to these rambling specters
And soon no one listens
Save for the moon that glistens
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
I must take note,
of how the people lie,
their dastardly twists and turns,
their shifting and conflicting emotions,
spiraling out of C O N T R O L,
their faces grim, as the enigma is made,
they paradoxed their words and actions, and all I,
and all I am for, it a laughter under my mask.
I must take note,
for if I don't, I won't be able to detect a group's actions,
they could cause the destruction of my dynasty,
I had set up in my mind,
I deliberately made a world of hope for those who need it,
I who is king, I who is God,
I, who is the only citizen,
they must not find out, and corrupt it,
for I will go hysterical.
I must take note,
of the weather,
what makes the spherical mass in space,
and the biodiversity in it continue to go forward,
for the blades of grass that cut me like a knife,
or the indifference of the flowers lovers give to us,
or the emotions, the physical strain,
that is made within the weather,
how my bones ache in the sun,
and how my emotions contrast in the rain.
I must take note,
or I shall parish,
or I shall meet my demise,
whether it be at the hands of the blades of grass,
or the conspiracies made from the liars,
or the people,
for I will meet my expiry,
the storybooks have told me so.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
Her lips were full; her curves more-so
Her sensitive skin was blushing
This siren's song grew louder but
The world told me "no touching"
Her lips were red but bitten white
Her eyes were still and unblinking
She made the air feel ever hotter
Too hot for rational thinking
Her lips formed words and melodies
As my eyes traced her bone structure
I wanted to kiss her; she wanted it too
But society yelled "don't touch her"
Her lips were beautiful I wanted them so
But she would always be forbidden
An act so sweet and innocent
Is an act never to be forgiven
Her lips grew nearer; mine did too
'Til our mouths were nearly brushing
This siren's song grew louder, still
The world told me "no touching"
Her lips kissed mine so calm and chaste
She saved a damsel in distress
But storybooks don’t tell the tales
Of a girl and her beautiful princess
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
*Piano music on Friday nights
German Chocolate cake for dessert ,
Candle light
Sugary , Plum wine with Cherry -
tobacco in a favorite pipe
Faraway lightning in Alabama skies
Pecan brittle , Storybooks , Fairytales
Gin Rummy , carrying young'uns to bed
The final smoke from the front porch rail -
in the company of a million stars
Trying to work a bit of magic on a red guitar
Time is a rambler indeed , a loner , impatient -
locking eyes with no one
One last song as the wind precedes the storm -
once more
Settle in for another day
A night then a few more years
So forth and so on* .....
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
She calls herself Ethel Du May if you were to ask
But it's not her name, not really,
Even she's not sure what it is anymore
Metal framed glasses with a wonky arm
Skin like crepe paper coated in a layer of polyfilla
With rouge a plenty upon her cheeks, her lips and teeth
Her petite frail frame drowning in gaudy colours and faux fur
Rows upon rows of beads wrapped tightly round her neck
Long pointed red talons, the only decoration upon her delicate fingers
Sitting at the bus stop awaiting the number 21 to town
The time, quarter past nine, she sits and waits
Pressing her menthol cigarette to her lips and tutting looking at her watch
A designer handbag placed upon her lap filled with secrets
Boiled sweets, an address book, anais anais perfume
A hip flask of sherry, metal handcuffs and a spare pair of knickers
She smiles at strangers, at no one, at memories
She's lived a life you only read about in storybooks
And poems
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
There is always a song
that fits—a blanket,
it hands us—
to disappear beneath.
But also, a
a warm breath, rising up
into a cloud—For us.
We make time to stare.
Sometimes melting,
burning, freezing—opening
honeycomb pores until
storybooks fall in and we’re
so full of everything that we stiffen
and burst with it all.
Often though, glassy goosebumps,
they raise—the ridges pull away,
stretching, until we peel and shed
crinkly skins and shells—
More naked than before,
and scared—enticed to
the flowers left by
coal horses.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:47 PM UTC
There is yours
and there is mine
there is no us
like in storybooks
I am young
and you are restless
I am reckless
and you are wise
To the outside
we might be combined
but there is yours
and there is mine
Our stalemate love
is a sour tragedy
bitter on our lips
and tongues
Because there is yours
and there is mine
and what we have
we can't combine
You are the restless soul
that has been aged
and I am the youth
that is your pastime
Stalemate love
for stalemate lives -
How can something so fair
be so -
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
**The water was quiet and unruffled:
Though intemperate winds blew on it
Ne’er once did it ever really stir
And we got so used to its pervasive presence
In line with global trends everywhere
We took notice only when loud waters bubbled
Like wayward children we scoffed
When delectable words of wisdom
Wafted like therapeutic mist out of Wisdom Well
But now that the well is empty and dry
Our deprivation begins in earnest
And soon, very soon, nostalgia will whip us
One and all till we learn the bitter lesson:
That second chances belong to storybooks only;
Now that this veritable repository of true wisdom
Is in other dimensions our dilemma cries out
Who amongst us shall quench our thirst
Now that the water in the well has dried**
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
The amphetamines made me god
A street corner king known across town
I feel blue as the pavement moves beneath my feet
I feel gone as the moon comes on
That flickering flourescent light
Down between the streetlights
The record scratch like a Cadillac
I've mistaken for a Buick
The cigarette flick from his window
Spins through the night like a pinwheel
Exploding sparks on the asphalt
Choked on exhaust
Thoughts of you walk beside me
Etched on my bones is your name
I wouldn't call it living
Just existing
Cars headlights sirens backseats
My head is spinning as he asks for change
"No but here's two cigarettes."
That ought to get him through the night
You got a light
On upstairs?
You got a light?
Someway for me to see when the streetlights stop
The road takes on the country
The dividing lines turn to stones and sticks
The sound of night as cows fall asleep
The fields are full of mushrooms that glow caps in the moonlight
I used to pick them at the edge of the forest
I once was happy with the thought of "maybe" having you
Now I don't do much of anything but **** myself quickly
With no one to stop me
With no light
Somewhere between the star-choked horizon and the sea
You fall asleep with another
Your heart gives a flutter when he says your name
When you kiss his neck
When you fall asleep
Dreaming seamless dreams of children and sunlight
Something in storybooks once known as true love
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
From always have my story books ever spoke,
urging me to live life with one phrase;
Memento Mori, a simple Latin phrase I had known,
from the beginning of my universe that I posses,
to the society I once slept upon, have I ever known,
that the sky is always sapphire,
the grass is always emerald,
and the blood is ONLY but ruby.
Whereas my storybooks told me, Memento Mori,
I will eventually whither away like the plants I was reluctant to plant,
to watch them die away,
so I could grasp it's corpse, and crush it's ashy substance.
I grin at that notion,
the concept of me having power, to crush,
my homicidal grin, illuminating malicious vibes,
only to feel guilty for I am enjoy their pain.
Although my storybooks, had always said Memento Mori,
they were books of a hero to zero, a man of a demon,
they had always spoken to me, their lustful eyes,
entrancing me from an angel's call, and telling me the phrase;
tu fui ego eris
"As you are, I was; as I am, so you shall also be"
They were right, for I had sinned like the killers in my book,
just like them, and they were just like me,
and we both could not avoid death, just as out gravestones had said.
I had refused to accept Memento Mori,
I refused to acknowledge the emerald that I had stood on, what it was I could never,
the sapphire I had not known, in the heavens only my piping plover knew,
and the ruby, has I always felt, warm, as it was around my feet,
only to be purified, and realize no one else was different.
We all murdered our complexities.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
you are my favorite non-fiction
and darling, I've lived fantasies...
I have fictionalized feelings...
but what we shared was unstaged
-unscripted
something found in between the sheets and "I'm sorry's"
we redefined the line
we cut the strings
found ourselves lost amidst the friends and the lovers
like the rough draft of a Hemingway novel.
what we are is made for the storybooks, my sweet.
we witnessed monotony and wrote of miracles
never intoxicated, but always impaired
we could overflow libraries-
flood them with our stories of how the sea swallowed up * all those * l i v e s...
and we had barely missed making history
we begged the other to simply save us...
starving for the intrigue of a good fiction
- dying to live a story worth telling...
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 12:14 AM UTC