"sundresses" poems
island summer heat
big backyards
shared by three families
with rambunctious kids
sundresses, sandals, swim trunks
a big mango tree and
a merry-go-round with red chipped paint
geckos and mud baths
"boy's got cooties!"
mid-west plains' dry, summer heat
Mr. Sun is our lamp well past 9:00pm
Dow St., a giant hill covered
in uniform houses, filled with the uniformed sacrificial
spinning wheels, acre-wide hide and seek
nintendo and donkey kong, fireflies in jars
front yard mulberry trees
pippy longstocking "lets' go into this 'cave' of vines"
poison-ivy
southern peninsula, humid, summer heat
above ground pools and trampolines
a red brick house; the first home
the first CD collection, Filipino food
THE PARK,
the sandbox lid drowning in the bayou
sleeping in guest rooms, sleepovers a sign of status
pelicans, ducks, fishing,
sleeping in the boat; camping on the beach
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ginger bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
Waves taller than I was
cool atlantic ocean
grainy sand between my fingers
burying my toes.
Hot sunburns and salty hair
the beach bars where we used to eat off the kids meal
going back to your condo
sitting on your couch.
Thrown over his shoulders
covered in sand, the warm weight used to be fun but now it just scares me
you scare me.
My shoulders were kissed
sunscreen on my back
the lukewarm pools and marco polo races holding my breath until i thought my lungs would explode.
The water would rush back with the pull of the ocean our sundresses damp around our ankles, bruises over our mouths where you held them shut
The porch light was on to the condo my towel draped over your balcony, bathing suit bottoms in your bedroom.
Forgotten toys and to pairs of arm floaties because i was never good at swimming, you left your watch on the shoreline.
Crying because of the pain and the hatred and love
Never knowing if I would be cuddled or touched
but knowing i would be cuddled after being touched
those sunburnt spots caressed by you.
White caps peak as the sun rises, we’re cold with fevers and abuse, shaking as our feet are wet again with salty water and your watch pulled out to the sea, lost forever.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
And I'm hopeless,
Hopeless for the countless stars, in a blueblack sky.
Hopeless for the mist in the forest after the rain.
Hopeless for new places, old places
and the old places that I wont ever see again...
I'm hopeless for your hair in my mouth,
and your pillow arms.
I'm hopeless for thunderstorms and anthills,
puppy kisses and fuzzy sweaters.
I'm hopeless for me and you,
Hopeless in wondering if you and I are hopeless.
And wondering if we were ****** from the start...what a wonderful curse to break.
I'm also a hopeless romantic, poetry, sunsets, drunken statements of love, all that jazz
I had you at a hopeless arms length, but my hopeless heart had a different agenda.
I'm hopeless for delusional fairy tails, but with a twist. I've never made a good damsel in distress. I'll be the dragon, and you can be whatever you want to be. But if you ever become a knight I suggest something besides a dinky sword.
I'm hopeless for the ocean, for the snowflakes, for the wind
for moonlight walks, for autumn leaves
Hopeless for sundresses, sad loves songs.
Pokemon, books, books, books,
Hopeless for beginnings.
Hopeless for memories of you, hopeless for any memories at all.
Hopeless for my alone time, hopeless for my time alone with you
Hopeless for small houses in the woods, hopeless for fire
Hopeless for the scars on your arms and the scars on your heart.
I'm hopeless for my friends, and long nights spent with them.
Hopeless for *** drugs and rock n' roll, sometimes all at the same time.
Hopeless for tears and laughter. Hopeless for rainbows and naps when I'm grumpy.
I'm hopeless for cigaretts and rivers, hot springs
and bats, hopeless for dancing and back rubs.
I'm hopeless because you are the reason that I am going,
and the reason that I am staying.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Party like a rock star
Pretend to be elegant and wear sundresses
Remember to smile and wave at the desperate housewives, I choose to offend
I'm inconsiderate
My charismatic side makes up for everything
So blow me a kiss and flirtatious wink
I will ignore the fact you have a plastic grin
I hate to say it, love you're not my friend
Hey, don't worry I will do this again
Contaminated, I hope to infect the ticky-tack world
Please don't vanquish my plot of sin
Don't forget to bring a bikini (optional) and gallon of whiskey
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
the summer that made the sound of crickets mean more than it did two, three, even ten summers ago.
the summer that gave a warm glow within the halls of that familiar seasonal cottage
the creak from each step on the stairs was each a song to be sung
out the door to find her waiting for me
My heart taking delightful punches with each step closer to me
her sundresses a different shade of yellow just as the sun
It rays peeking through the trees to compliment her lovingly
Everyday was Sunday for us
as they flow with each skip my mind slows her down
watching every detail of her grace
the summer I learned that sunsets were made for girls with brown eyes
the earth revolved only for her so the sun would descend across the sky just so right to only fall into her vision
and to remind me "this is what home feels like"
the summer I found out that the gift life had given me was the gift of her presence for seven weeks.
the beauty in her was too delicate to give away to anyone and she let me
out of all the people on this planet see what god made special about her
the way she blinked three times when perplexed, before asking to know more
listen more
learn more
how she always peeled my tangerines
because she knew i didn't like the peel to get under my nails
when she laughed tears would always stream down her face
no matter a roar or a soft chuckle
and then she would swear the optometrist sprung a leak when she got Lasik
when she was sad that that leak was easy to repair with a Jerry Seinfeld impression
The lone flickering street light on our street did not compare to her illumination at night
a glowing goddess amongst someone so meer
she was the embodiment of the sun
but summer begins to drop into fall.
as the trees started to lose green she packed to leave
and I did too
she was going back home and my home was leaving me
this girl was the ****** of my story and only at the tender age of 22
and I know my tale will never have its perfect resolution without her
that summer I found out she was the definition of my love
but to her I was just another girl in a sundress
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
Harvey sees the sun for the first time
without history--
the worn leather, unshined shoes in closet,
the ex-girls off the telephone--
the beams blow kisses, taunt, and beckon.
Harvey folds a paper with half a sentence
and puts it in his pocket--
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be, a void..."
he knows the end but doesn't write it.
Harvey dreams of calm waters,
salt, sundresses, and eager toenails hammered into sand.
A waitress's reflection in the coffee shop glass shakes Harvey from trance.
"Another cup?" she asks with a crowbar forehead.
Harvey stares at her wrinkles, prying for exposition--
while her voice melts over innocent questions.
Harvey thinks about taking her home.
She'd talk of her ex-husband.
They didn't have kids, but she wanted them.
Harvey couldn't give her kids,
but he could give her him--
a favor.
She wouldn't die alone.
"Did you hear me? Coffee?"
He'd make her feel tall.
She'd find new, fast-talking, book-n-tabloid-munching friends.
Harvey would nod and "oooh" and "ahhh".
Harvey would itch for wrecking ball.
The waitress pours the cup despite his silence.
"If you need anything, let me know."
Harvey nods.
The coffee shop contains the hustle of a mad race track.
Elderlies at the bar, youngsters on the tile floor,
moms and dads hoping to choke with each bite of doughnut.
Harvey doesn't pay much attention to the other patrons.
They are reds, yellows, blues, and noise to him.
He unfolds the piece of a paper and writes,
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be,
a void in search of a void to sink and share
the blackness."
He leaves a tip on the table.
He pays the cashier.
He leaves the colors and the noise.
He crumples the paper, and gives
it to the wind outside.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Alarm ringing
Pitter patter of little feet
Orange juice, aroma of coffee, burnt toast and butter
Pigtails, sundresses, baseball cap and shorts
Children playing, water splashing
Scraped knees and band-aids
Smell of fresh cut grass and lavender
Warm summer breeze
Picnic lunches and napping in hammocks
Mothers calling, children running
Hot dogs and hamburgers
Corn on the cob, watermelon
In and out in a half hour
Tag, kick the can, hide and seek
Fire flies and mason jars
S'mores, camp fires, scary stories
Sunset, red sky at night.
Bubble bath and baby powder
Onesies, quiet time
Bedtime reading and nightly prayers
Warm bed and sweet dreams
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
after years of being told how good my body was
i went through puberty.
after years of being asked how much time i spent at the gym
i grew hips
and disconcerting looks from grown men who thought my fifteen year old thighs were too thick to be sexualized.
after years of wearing sundresses
and being applauded for being the first girl in my grade to grow *****
my metabolism slowed down
and i was made to feel like a cowbell in the least practical sense of the word.
i was thirteen and hunched over a porcelain toilet bowl when i told my friend i had purged and she called me gross as if it wasn't because of feeling "gross" that i was there to begin with.
and i'd grown used to my good-gened friends with their tiny waists and size 32 jeans telling me they wanted to join a gym in hopes i'd run along and lose some weight.
because when i was 13 and weighed little enough to turn heads i felt empty while looking whole.
and when you're fat you can't have an eating disorder, because illness can be seen so how good of a job my ana was doing depended solely on how faint i felt by midday.
in a world where nobody buys magazines it's easy to pretend we don't care for skinny bodies anymore, but when every smartphone is linked to an instagram page and every newsfeed is filled with "slim thick baddies" you can't help but wonder.
if i were to feel physically full why am i so empty?
i cheated myself.
she probably went and cheated on me because my body wasn't slim-thick enough to eat.
and it's easy to say this doesn't apply to me when you see the pictures on the beach but you don't see me scrolling through pinterest at 2 in the morning looking at "How To Lose 10 kgs in 3 Days" posts.
if i were so lucky i'd be a success story and could probably post before and after pictures of my body but you can not hear the ache in my belly screaming at me that it'd rather just be cut off.
when i was fourteen i could no longer wear shorts in public because grown men with wives would turn and watch my thighs clip-clap together as i walked with my dad.
i was asking for it.
i resented summer and the fact that i'd run out of clean pairs of jeans to sweat in.
but if i dare love myself, what then? do i apologise to the girlfriends of the boys who visit me for coffee? do i drink coke light with my whiskey? do i start writing poetry?
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
there is a modest
one-story home
with white stucco walls
and a red tiled roof
waiting for me somewhere
near a floridian beach.
the yard is flat and dry.
some days, i’ll lie there
on top of a patterned quilt
in a two-piece
hand over brow
reading a thick memoir
on loan from the library
that sits on the other side
of the brush, beyond
the wooden fence.
winter will just be a memory.
every week, my toenails
will sink into the sand
wearing a different shade of pink.
i will not fold away
my sundresses and shove them
under the bed.
they will only leave
their wooden hangers
to be worn and washed.
time simply records the falling
and growing and falling of things.
one of these days,
i will be the budding lily
pushing up dirt
to greet the other side with
all of the beauty
i am ready to be.
i have fallen enough.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
Somewhere in the furrows of pink and gray
flesh, nestled between delicate arches of pelvis,
in what was supposed to be bowels and pulsating warmth,
lies the wish for chemotherapy.
Old images of skull-white sundresses
glimmering with the glory of summer days in the world of Perfect Thighs
fester imperceptibly,
buried in some remote corner of the midbrain
that smells like half-digested chicken parmesan;
each memory’s tastefully arranged––
rows of wheat, sharp as disinfectant,
sour with antimetabolites and metastatic guilt.
October levels prospects like a hurricane,
and as your mother balances a salad fork between chalk fingers
the full plate in front of you reminds you of ruptured organs.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
lately i've been having these good days
i don't have sad wet cigarette saxophone nights anymore
i watched the sun wake up six times last week
i found a blue bucket of tulips &
gave them to a bald-headed krishna girl when
she sang to me on the sidewalk
i hired a boy to hide in the foyer
& peel a fiddle if i rouse from sleep during the night
or whistle through a harmonica
if i'm wet-eyed during breakfast
i finally got rid of all the pictures you stuck
to your side of the dusty bathroom mirror
except the blissed-out polaroid of us
perched on an old oak tree limb
like a couple of soft doves versus the turreted sunset
i deleted your number because you don't call me back anyway
i stopped mailing letters to your father's house
i haven't listened to the Plantasia record
you bought me since you left
i never feel the gray heat from your
staticky hand warming my shoulder
i forgave you for the blood in my kidneys
& old smog in my mildewed vinyl lungs
i sleep under the running green vapor light
of the moon & stars instead of the frothiest pillows
rippling on an ocean of sheets & project quilts
i finally scoured the lipstick stain from my collarbone
after what seemed like two years
i forgot how your armpits smelled
i sewed all your sundresses into a shower curtain
& i never see your delicate ribcage
peaking through the streams of hot water
i hardly ever notice the noose
you left hanging in our apartment
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
we tint our lips the bleeding red of broken hearts
rouge our cheeks &
scar ourselves with the burnt-black ashes of animal bones
we paint each-others faces with the war-paint of our generation--
adorn our hair with feathers
our hearts with chain metal
and our girlish dreams and expectations with
armor and the arms of one another
because when we wake
the war drums of this night {and our hearts} will be silenced
like the quiet of a strangers house
when the ashes of brilliant fireworks
have settled on tiled roofs
the moans of our prey will be still--
we will wake and creep from their sides
and find each-other in the sleeping battle field
strewn with our enemies
& walk
hand in hand away from the soulless slumbering masses
your lips drip blood of broken promises from the undeserving, of hearts devoured
and mine are singed and cut from the flames a hundred sips of firewater, heated words shouted and glasses thrown
we will wake and walk away
and be pretty girls in sundresses again
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
Baby blue cushion with the fabric ties, painting rocks with orange and blue on newspaper, got a glob on the wood only rain can wash away. Clean the glass out with q-tips, squeaky clean, tap remains into ceramic bowl made in 3rd grade, medium blizzard with M&Ms; and Reece's peanut butter cups, a burger at that hotdog place featured on Martha Stewart with bacon bits, colored pencils, Barbie coloring books, Jeep keeps stalling in front of my house, don't eat my burger, Ellie and Duncan, full bag of mini peanut butter cups, South Park, Heavy Metal, The King of Limbs - eh, JWoww, Cupcake Wars, the Big Dipper, aqua colored bikini with a magazine full of pictures, videotape my monologues, short hair, sundresses, Nike shorts and tank tops. Mini with a pen in parking lot in Norwalk, feet in the pool water, ants, smelly dog, big house in New Canaan, white Audi A4, drive with the Mosley Tribes from Loehman's for $75 -- a steal, scotch tape on toenails, purple, blue, and green polished stripes, church parking lot on Duck Farm
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
Elegant gowns, sundresses, skirts or lingerie
I look forward to seeing you in and out of all of them!
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 7:30 PM UTC
the sunday crowd wait in line
in their pretty sundresses
in their buttoned up shirts
in their sunday best
unbeknownst to them
god can be found in the filthy gutter
as easily as the chapel halls
where the potlucks draw the crowd
when the sermons run dry
and the coffee gets cold
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
I will never tell you that you look beautiful.
I will never tell you that (you) look lovely.
Because those statements hinge on sundresses
and too much time looking in the mirror.
After all, it is just a piece of glass.
And you (are) too,
because I see right through the beaming
reflections on your skin.
And you are deeper than the ocean,
calmer than it too.
As sweet as dripping honey,
and as (soft) as morning dew.
You’re that feel(i)ng at 2 (am), when the Sun
is asleep and somehow I still don’t feel alone.
And you are every gentle raindrop landing
on (quiet) rooftops in late July.
Your roots sink further than lofty White Oaks,
and your reach extends far beyond their branches.
You keep every beam of sunlight,
your eyes like glowing coals,
and every morning the horizon must borrow
from all the splendor that you hold.
They fill books with all your essence,
and it’s still never enough.
So I will call you what you are.
You are lovely.
You are beautiful.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
sometimes, i look at dainty strong marble effigies
of the ****** mary holding her birth-bloodied son
and wonder if some loves aren't meant for everyone.
chastity-locked inside my heart, there's a woman
who wears long sundresses and lives in the little mac and cheese potluck moments;
she prays her rosary and feels the warm arms
of her traditional husband who loves her as a duty.
as for jesus, well, he's a cheap plastic figurine
she bought from ebay and stuck on the dashboard of her car;
the heat melted his feet in a crucifixion of 2020
but he still stands, wobbly and shaky and commercialised.
when she travels, she prays to him for safety.
(she doesn't travel a lot. she's happy to be stagnant and pray for still waters every morning.)
who cares about my heart, though?
who loves unconditionally and always,
and sees through the rips of cartilage and crushed aorta -
who will look and look and look
and see me? sorry, see me? sorry, see me out.
sometimes, i want to be a child again;
cradled in my mother's arms. sometimes,
i want to no longer put my dreams on hold.
sometimes, i want the world to look at me and say
"hey, pontius pilate, there's another one for martyrdom."
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 7:33 PM UTC
Plan on holding my hand
I’d endure the wrath of raspy snake tongues and burning bites so you
Can be a little happier today,
My darling
I’d take on every wild creature with yellow
Eyes
Poison on medusas finger
Inside of my brain
I’d shake and shake
Shake and shake
The sky a vibrating landscape of your
Emptiness and no phone calls back
I’d shake amongst the choreographed reeds
And die
Die for you
My darling
And if it isn’t enough
I’m sorry I made a bad estimate
Of what was in the jar
If it wasn’t enough
I’d find a way underneath the windowsill glued tight with the obstinate no’s and the moons idle hands moth cadavers and fits of frostbite blues
Inside of your room where no sound bold sunflowers pink sundresses the incessant chitter chatter of chastising chumps ever finds it’s way into your abode of sadness my
Darling
I’d brush the rectangular flesh that sits gracefully, sadly, atop your
Handsome cheek
and
I’d kiss you my darling until
Death discovers my sheets cold and
The devil flushes with purple rage
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
After waiting all week
of the school break
for this afternoon,
when I get back on a plane
to go home to everything I know,
I'm finally packing away my sundresses
and trading them in for cashmere.
Because Florida can be nice
when you're there for a few days,
but I miss my bedroom,
and my school,
and most importantly,
my amazing best friends—
and the unexplainable happiness
that comes with coming back
to the two of you.
So how was the week without me?
Was everything crazy enough
for you both?
Oh, I can't wait to see you again—
I've been waiting all week
just to get back to Monday.
I'll see you third period—
for now I've still got a few more things
to continue packing up.
Love you lots, girls—
I'll call as soon as I can.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
Piercing sunlight shining through a window,
Ephemeral blades stabbing into me,
Pinning me in place.
That’s what she was.
Absolutely radiant, illuminating with her presence alone.
Rising right with the sun, morning coffee as white as her bed sheets.
Gleaming teeth exposed as she laughs, sweet and fleeting as cotton candy.
Floral sundresses and large hats a staple of hers, forever in a perpetual summer.
Mimosas sipped with a beachside breakfast, the only drink she’ll ever imbibe.
Spending her tropical jaunts seaside, buried in her Nicholas Sparks novel.
Pure, gorgeous, vibrant, carefree, glowing, flawless.
She’s daylight.
But I’m moonlight.
Beams twisted and reflected by the water in closed bays on lonely beaches.
In the 24-hour diners with a woman perpetually smoking a cigarette at the register,
a tweaker passed out in a booth, holding his partners hand.
Under the pervasive neon lights of dying bars,
bearing witness to the drunkards mourning love and liquor lost,
Through forlorn streets, under dimly sparkling lights,
bundled in beaten and weathered coats, just barely safe from the chill.
Drinking wine by the bottom shelf bottle to cloud future-bound thoughts,
feelings spilling out in ink or wine, impossible to tell through the stupor.
Maybe it is true that opposites attract,
maybe that’s the reason
I can’t get away from her.
But maybe it’s hopeless,
maybe I’m the moon,
doomed
to forever chasing the sun across the sky.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:47 PM UTC
I miss myself.
Not me now,
but before.
Before I grew older,
and learned awful things.
Before I stopped wearing sundresses,
and pigtails in my hair.
I miss the me that didn't fall apart like glass.
I miss the me that didn't have false hope
that everything would get better.
I miss the me that didn't run from her problems.
I want the me who wanted to stand on the sun,
and reach for the clouds.
I want the me who only cried over a dropped ice cream cone,
or a broken toy.
I want the me who always smiled wide enough,
that you could see her tongue through her gapped teeth.
I want to be what I was.
I want to be happy.
I want to not care what others think.
I want to not be rocks at the bottom of the lake.
I long not to be myself.
I long to be the version that people liked,
and wanted.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 12:14 PM UTC
Quickfeet like fairy flight and butterfly wings,
chipper sounds from hollowed woodwinds,
and notes lifted through particles of pollen.
Hither,thither, away, and below,
the swing on the porch creaks,
with the push of sundresses and bare dirt feet.
Petals dance in whirlwind,
touch delicately in the way of courtship,
under the gaze of the parental sun.
All these are warm as blanket grass tanned over,
left as the picnics finest venue.
All these are lovely like the pipers giggle ,
muffled into a shoulder or tried by a kiss.
There I am wrapped,
in waters twinkle,
earths brass,
fires blaze,
and the winds ultimate silence.
This I felt on the wraparound porch hoisted to spring.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC