"swatch" poems
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
His money isn't free.
On the first date,
He picked you up in a Phantom
which haunted your inner gold-digger
Digging to harvest stardom, but
His money isn't free.
He's wearing a Rolex
You're wearing a Swatch wrist
Hoping to switch wrists.
It's much too sad that
His money isn't free.
He's harvested his cotton
And you're ready to rob him
But his ex keeps calling
Little Miss Lee Kaching!
She can sense your scheming;
she screams through the speakerphone,
"His money isn't free!"
Now he's seen
your blades, your spades, your grenades
hidden in the dark of your shade.
He's grabbing those keys
Leaving his seat saying,
"My money isn't free!"
Now you're left alone
With your flip phone,
Not even an iPhone.
And the waiter comes by,
Drops the bill and says,
"This meal isn't free."
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
My eyes fly
to the swatch of sack-cloth
abandoned in a corner of the floor,
no doubt considered
for use in a patchwork at some point.
I wonder if it mourns
its shortcomings.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
I remember when I walked the Earth
in the days before I died.
When ***** chancellor ****** rose,
after the Reichstag fire.
I remember a November night
with a million shards of glass.
I never felt more all alone,
that night my lover passed.
After that, I had no rights,
I was forced to bear this sign:
A pink Triangle swatch of cloth,
by this I was defined.
I remember some with David's star
would look down their nose at me.
We were under the same sentence-
had not our deaths all been decreed?
I remember when I walked the Earth
in the days before I died.
Before mein Fuhrer dug for me
my grave up in the sky.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 6:15 AM UTC
• Old dresser drawers reopened
• silly, simple T-shirts back in style
• confusion of how the last 5 years of fashion
• abandoned honesty and compassion, straightforward presentation
• he swims into the swatch
• it fits perfectly, but what to wear with it?
• total mystery; his sleek, **** jeans?
• his soft, comfortable shorts?
• maybe this would be easier if
• he owned less costumes
• silently noting that nudists
• likely feel quite comfortable in T-shirts
• shuddering @ the thought of such vulnerability
• he sorts through another stack
• faded reds dredging long drowned days
• eyes closed, sun bleeding crimson, thoughts lofty
• wondering what the sneakers he used to wear
• really said
• long sigh, less than hopeful
• but these things are cyclical, you know
• what goes, eventually comes
• old pictures always met with "what was I thinking"
• with fashion, you never can be sure, not even later
• besides, one day you'll just wear a suit, so be simple now
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
She sat on her bed
looking out the window.
Hannah looked at
the fulling rain.
Her mother passed by
the bedroom door
and looked in.
Whit ur ye daein'?
Her mother said.
Looking at the rain,
Hannah replied.
Ye can help me
wi' the washin',
her mother said.
Do I have to help
with the washing?
Her mother stared
at her
Whit ur ye
waitin' fur?
I'm waiting
for Benedict,
Hannah said,
gazing at her
mother's stern gaze.
O heem th'
sassenach loon,
her mother said
and walked off
down the passage.
Hannah waited.
She'd was pushing
her manners close
to the limits.
Once upon a time
her mother would
have slapped her
behind for talking so,
but now at 12 years
old her mother dithered
and set her tongue
to work instead.
She eyed the rain
running down the glass.
She could hear
her mother in the kitchen
banging pots and pans.
Then a knock at the door.
Benedict no doubt.
Gie th' duir, Hannah,
her mother bellowed.
Hannah went to the door
and let Benedict in.
He was wet, his hair
clung to his head
and his clothes were damp.
Got caught
in the downpour,
he said,
shaking his head.
Hannah smiled.
I'll get you a towel
to dry your hair,
she said.
She got him a towel
from the cupboard
and he began
to rub his hair.
We can't go out in this,
Hannah said,
have to stay here
and we can play games.
He rubbed his hair dry,
took off his wet coat
and stood by her bed.
What games?
he said.
Ludo? Chess?
Draughts? She suggested.
Her mother came back
to the door of the bedroom.
Ye swatch dreich,
the mother said,
eyeing Benedict.
He looked at Mrs Scot
and then at Hannah.
Mum said you look drenched,
Hannah said.
O right, yes, I am,
he replied and smiled.
Mrs Scot didn't
smile back.
Dornt sit oan
th' scratcher,
Mrs Scot said icily.
Mum said don't sit
on the bed,
Hannah said.
Mrs Scot went
off muttering.
Where shall I sit?
He asked.
We'll sit on the floor,
Hannah said,
and play chess.
He nodded his head,
his quiff of hair
in a damp mess.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
difficult is sleeping with you
effortless is making love
shy is the moment after realizing I’m being too quiet in clarity
for you to feel comfortable
clarity is when I tell you the late evening sun lowers its golden tint
on everything and makes the leaves look vibrant green
and if it were to be one of those funny named colours in a paint swatch, it’d be
"I’m Alive! Green"
frustrated is when I see two pillowcases of identical fabric,
one more faded than the other,
and fail to explain why I’m not sure if the metaphor is sad or not
intricate is the way my mind is built
fragile is the way my heart is
heavy is when I talk about how rarely I cry
phoney is when I laugh about crying at a season finale to cover it up
beautiful is what you remind me I am
insecure is when I talk too much
comfort is eating lots of food
comfort is not eating food
disappointment is when I change my mind about your company
horror is asking you to leave
anxious is the way I feel when you are asleep beside me
frivolous is the pillow talk
juvenile is my babbling
fast is my heartbeat
enigma is what you keep calling me
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
I am a wooden floor
An ant under the table
Black speck
I am a second choice
Place holder
A paint swatch match
Just a little too blue.
I have become a tiger
Fierce teeth bared
Stripes up and down
And I love you
Even as you tell me
I am a wooden floor.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
I still can't go there.
To that little swatch of grass
bathed in sunlight
without even a dappling of shade
It seems like a green field of memories
with almost no one left to remember
Even the words subscribed on the tiny brass plaques
seem somehow belittling
With them set into the ground
for the convenience of mowers
to pass over
It makes her seem
so inconsequential
that she shouldn't trouble the groundskeeper
with her monument
It makes me think of the mundane consequences of death
that overshadow the greatness of life
Like the simple economics
of maintenance
I can't look at the life of such a beautiful women
summed up in such a small way
it seems so common
so trite
I know that she would have told you
that she was common
but she wasn't
She had a greatness in her soul and being
that transcended the normal
that transcends death
I am overwhelmed by that little plaque
and it's insignificance
Enough to paralyze me from going there
I know that if I see it it will push
the other memories from my mind
and supplant her
She will become a place in a cemetery
with a little map on the grounds keeping shed
gridded and numbered
number 6 in row B
a little part of the order in a small field
and I can't have that
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Your steel chair is a wheelbarrow
now.
Left out in the yard; lonely like a spotlight.
Winter for hours like water.
Frozen water.
Pipes that burst.
Breath hangs, in front of the face; making steam of a paint swatch.
***** grey/loose white/loose light: carpet samples,
you write your name on the floor.
Feel my whiteness; tremors that shook
soil from roots
and steps from staircases.
Your steel chair is a wheelbarrow,
now you wonder if you can still sit,
wonder what it means to sit;
to let gravity in.
Winter is hours. So many hours
spent ducking in from room
to room. And so many more waiting
for the next room.
Your wheelbarrow is a wagon,
if you want it.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 1:53 PM UTC
There is a ring
a stained circle
of mahogany
where her mug sat
for too long
while mindless images
flashed across the room.
There is a swatch of carpet
two shades darker than the rest
where we ignored
the spilled coffee
making itself famous to the fibers
There are half-remembered echoes
and reverberations
of voices raised in anger
over a topic long forgotten
though
the walls remember.
There is a faint,
almost nothing,
trace of her perfume
on the blanket she cried into
and threw at me
as a parting blow.
Now there are only the mindless images,
remembered reverberations,
and a ring marring the table.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
Somebody said
if you count to ten
in your head
while holding your breath,
as if breath is an object
with a shape and a texture,
by the end you'll have
forgotten how to breathe.
One.
Two.
And sometimes
you need to pause,
to let every black swatch
of worry evaporate
like crooked puddles.
Three.
Four.
And you feel a trickle
of something under your skin -
perhaps a calmness,
a word not yet invented.
Five.
Six.
In your mind, a clock face,
hands that aren't hands,
numbers.
Seven.
Eight.
Voices wrestle.
Your voice, your voice again.
Nine.
Ten.
Over.
Now, remind yourself
to exhale, see how the scene
becomes clean,
how it felt to hold in
such a temporary thing.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:30 PM UTC
"gravity has taken better men than me
just keep me where the light is"...John Clayton Mayer
where the light is...
this lyric gets carried from midnight to midnight next,
from troubled sleep to the bus stop, to and from work,
onto, back to, the homebound bus stop once again,
from solitary man to father to grandfather and cycles back
to once again a troubled sleeper poem writer,
who just wants to know, John,
when I find it, will, does the light fill, complete and heal the cracks...when I find that light...
in the city, starlight been banished by street lamps pointed downward, far too often it is believable that the whole world has been wrapped in white crinkled, filmy, wax paper, then,
how will the light know where it is needed most,
how will it find the empty chest cavity that writes these lines
there is real and artificial they say, nature vs. man made,
sun upon the face that heals for but an eight minute
bandaid summer ferry crossing, the fluorescent that says here, here is the bus stop, tarry, sit and rest, while you wait for
answer unscheduled, on a bench beneath to the street light
that illuminates a small swatch of street
between the dark spots on the x-ray of
this patient patient's soul awaiting,
are either of those
the light I need John?
no worries man, I'm just teasing, well knowing, neither of us,
tables turned, know where the light is, up high, down low,
if it is yellow or gold, if light is real or imagined,
only the sensation of the curettage needed to be healed when the
chest drained and the light supplants the drained fluids,
when it interferes, interpolates, how it found me or I it,
how I recognized it, how it reignited the home fire, and
I'll drop you line how light, lightly to find or be heavy found,
how light supersedes, defeats, the gravity of daily tugging,
and how what happens afterwards is golightly
up to us
2:10am **** it
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
Hollywood, oh Hollywood.
Oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood.
It's the end of the roadwork.
Your timepiece has come,
And it's a swatch.
Notch one more crotch on your bedposter -
That glossy, ten five twenty-two eight
That I have to pass every day on my work to drive.
Five days an hour, eight weeks a day
Hollywood, you make it so!
You make so,
And you make it so easy.
But no more.
I'll not have it.
I'll not have your scientists of magic.
I'll not have your tragic matches
Acting as hatched from practiced scratch,
Far detached from my actual batch.
I'll not latch.
Holly, I enjoy woodburning,
And I'll be ****** if I let you talk me into
Buying wood in sizes I don't need.
"It's bigger and looks better, and it can be yours!"
Well, so can the forest, Holly.
So can the sticks and bits and wild peach pits.
All for free, all for me,
All without fashion, death, or ****
(Unless I choose to use them).
Hollywood, you are my tenth grade English teacher.
You should be teaching math,
But you been subjected to so much juvenile crap
That you sell your contributions
As though they were miracle cures for a dying language.
BUT.
You're in a rut.
You don't know it
(Most 70-year-old virgins don't),
But you are.
Go on, get ******
You believe in formulas.
Hollywood, this movie
(Yes, the one I'm typing and you're reading),
This movie would never make it in your classroom.
It has no meter,
Just a hint of rhyme,
And very few explosions sixty minutes in.
If I can't mumble it to a children's tune,
I get neither "A" nor award.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
as the lid is slowly pulled off the jar,
murmurs became deafening; near and far.
some claims it to be salt, but i barely believed,
for what i got was sugar; white and sweet.
with its superfine bits brushing through my fingers,
even the slightest swatch, for years it lingered.
no doubt, it was sugar indeed.
so delicate, everyone wanted a grip.
and perhaps, if salt was somehow lost and trapped,
in the wary gentle touches of white,
it neither overcomes nor overwraps,
the very sweetness that reigned all this while.
in this series of vulnerable thoughts,
brought about by the emotions made felt,
it was realized that the ones cautious of salt,
just denied seeing the sugar for themselves.
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 5:32 PM UTC
Window after window
People live
Like animals in a zoo
Each one in their own personal space
In disregard of all the others
Canned conversations
I look in each window
Trying to gather something I can use
A swatch of color
A gesture
A mannerism
A point of conversation
Constantly gathering data
Discarding ideas
Filing what is clever
Building an amalgam
The fluttering eyelashes
Soft, husky voice
Tall, straight posture
Graceful movement
All learned
Bought
Blended
I have built myself
From used parts
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
She sits on a wooden porch
in a chair that learned its comfortable shape
over decades of fireside conversation.
Her hair, still dark,
dark with a swatch of silvery gray
that drapes across the top of her head—
an honorary sash, life-bestowed.
Her cheeks, still round.
Her eyes, still green and wondering.
Her fingers, still short as they
light a long wooden pipe.
With a flick and a hiss, she *****
sweet tobacco smoke
and breathes out secrets
in languages spoken only by
those who understand the trees.
She sips bitter tea from a clay cup
and names each of the birds
that fly into her view.
She grows berries just for them
on vines that twist about
unsuspecting beams and rails.
A metaphor, she suspects.
She hums familiar melodies to herself
and cracks a wrinkled smile.
The world, as she knows it,
is only ever waiting to be enjoyed.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
Glowing Forever
As simple as bringing a flame to a candle
I hold the match ever tight in my hand
Striking the swatch in an emery fashion
Watching the flame as it takes its command
Flickering fond as the room was once darkened
Sending a glow to the ceiling so white
Cautions now bear of the heat it is yielding
You are the candle that lights up my life
Fill me with warmth that your flame it is bringing
Illumine my ways as I feel the embrace
Blow me a kiss in a different direction
Sweetly now place your touch wet on my face
Softly my breeze finds your flame ever moving
Captured the visions as now it does dance
Residue forms at the base of affection
You are the light of this perfect romance
Burn evermore as my heart beat is singing
Take of this wick every need and desire
See as my shadow moves closer to hold you
Together we find the most passionate fire
Light of my dreams oh I so long to feel you
Tapering slightly in spite of the spark
Melting eternal of love's light a' flicker
Glowing forever inside of my heart
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
and i simply cannot help myself
because i've never loved anything
as much as i love you
i want my name to be the only one
that passes through your lips
i want to be the last hand
you ever hold
the final heart
you claim to grasp
you wanted to be my first
(i want to be your last)
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
A swatch of sky
literally blue
a patch of green
light to dark
swirls and flourishes
impressions of flowers
red brick
and the color of stone
eyes ears hands feet
and a nose
is it deep
it is not
and it isn't really that
complicated
it just takes time
and patience
whit howland © 2021
Feb 11, 2021
Feb 11, 2021 at 3:05 PM UTC
She exits the door with apprehension
The push of their sorrows, their fears... their lonely hearts
Have become all but unbearable
She can't take the train these days without having a panic attack
Vague reflections dance across the window panes
The light rail careens down the tracks and into the mountainside
While she nervously chews at a hang nail
The precession of half remembered dreams begins
Flashes of color and scent and sound
Her first day of preschool
The Easter basket her mother crushed in a drunken rage
The bruise she was told to lie about
The feel of the cool sand on her feet as she sat by the river
Smiling eyes and lying hands,
Betraying her innocence
Countless nights rendered indecipherable by gin
Calloused thumbs and empty lighters and blackened pipes
Sorrows, rejection, rage, fear... emptiness
The smell of his milk stained onesie, his blanket, his photographs
The tiny, perfectly trimmed nails of his plaster of paris hand
That she keeps in a heart shaped box,
Along with a swatch of hair
The anger in her ex husbands eyes
The loveless torment of her mother's unending hate
Her father's misplaced indifference
The heat of her own silent tears
Become nothing more than the scars and stripes on her back
And the constellations of stars, seemingly etched in her eyes
Yet still,
She Endures.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
Thirty years ago
somewhere
in New Mexico.
It’s wintertime.
The phone booth glass
is cool and wet against
my forehead,
hand to breast
********* the scented
swatch you gave me,
lace fringed lavender,
sublime.
Like all that is
perfect in the world,
every inhalation
a burst of euphoria
played out across
the inside of my eyelids,
drifting,
I see the sun in
your hair through
half closed drapes,
skin as soft as your breath,
ecstasy in your eyes,
the fragileness of your being
pale and pink,
ruffled frills in shafts of
broken light
Hello?
Don’t hang up, please..
I’m begging you
A car honks, the wind blows.
I wipe a sniffle away with
your scent,
now every breath
I take is you.
Are you there?
I can hear you breathing..
silence
I draw a heart on the glass
and then self-consciously
wipe it away
silence
a sigh
and you speak
You hurt me
I know, I’m sorry
I didn’t want it
to turn out that way
I was afraid
and now I can’t stop thinking about you.
Fringe of lace
against my nose
eyes closed
Don’t call here anymore
Don’t ever call here anymore
silence
minutes
A voice on the line says
Sir your party has hung up..
..Sir?
I know…. I know…
I hang up the phone
I pull my collar up
around my ears
and step into the night
A little piece of you goes
with me in my pocket
I wonder will
the scent last forever.
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC
I took my love to Talby Faire
And there, the world seemed right
To cut the chill that knit the air
She clothed herself in white
Her gown, appearing linen
A silken symphony to touch
Although the night was bleeding out
In us there was no rush
My jacket was a tattered swatch
Some dead man's wife's donation
Acquired many years ago
When I was not so cold and thin
Her perfume made a different muse
At the neck and at the wrist-
I'm sorry but I'd rather there be rope
On both, with scent betwixt
And as the night, that pale blue mage
Worked magic over Talby Strait
I wandered toward the bannered stage
The bone white moon had made
And on the wood, three skeletons
All gentlemen, prepared,
Took to the task of violins
And music made they there
And in that din I lost her-
She's a stranger now to me
I'm left to bow my violin
And wail to Talby's eaves
I took my love to Talby Faire
We hardly knew each other then-
Strange music that the moon allowed
Has made us strangers once again
- Brian Bigley
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
Kendra posted a
faded picture of
you with the blurred
swatch of evergreen
at your shoulders,
I'm a universe and
a half, more pigmented
than I could ever be
at your side, at that
window, would we
have lasted? It's not
for me to tell.
Happy Birthday, Chris.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
i feel like i'm dreaming
all the time
like somebody took it upon themselves to throw words at a wall
and turned what stuck into doo-wop scatting nonsense
which was then assembled gracelessly into a scathing neologism
something that scrambles into some semblance of an inner monologue and circles my tongue like treacle or a lab rat's ****
and if this is the scattered fantasy that my brain cells have scraped together from that primordial soup
then i don't think i want to wake up and see the aftermath of what feels like an eternal loop
but it's so scary to live life like a browning dulux colour swatch
businessperson's rolex watch
vignettes of vague consciousness vitally percieved through a time machine of moments and a swelling kind of grief grieved
for the moments inbetween that are lost and i'm pristine in an ocean of dark marine wondering where in my head my emotions and i have been
i can't ******* remember what i had for breakfast but i can recall that i feel like i've come last
in some kind of riddle where the clues are in a language i don't speak but could read with practice and anguish and the rhyming becoming more linear and fluent but i wish i could tell you what i said's congruent
to this fairytale drowsing that makes me feel alone and i think therefore i'm in a state to atone
i can't wake up
i'm going to throw up
similarly i think that i don't want to show up
tomorrow
i'll see you when i'm better or better yet never but it won't last forever
right?
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 5:23 PM UTC