"swingset" poems
kissing you was like swerving into oncoming traffic
i can never tell if i am more haunted by empty picture frames or the ashes of their contents
you taught me that the saying "pick your battles" meant not answering when love was at the door
sometimes when i drink whiskey i swear i can hear your voice in the creases of my bedsheets & i sleep on the floor
i still catch myself running my hands over things you touched the most, looking for the echoes of your fingertips
i practice things i'll never say to you
i remember the day you told me you didn't like poetry, how "everything's already been said" & how "nothing meaningful can be captured without being cliche" you know, i don't miss you like the sun and moon, i do not miss you like tide bent waves crashing on the shoreline, i miss you like a chernobyl swingset misses children
rumor has it that drowning is a lot like coming home, that drinking bleach can **** the butterflies in your stomach
for your love of cigarettes, i would have been an ashtray
this halloween i want to dress up as the you when you loved yourself and show up on your doorstep
i never understood what you meant when you said i was an instrument, back when you would cup your hands around my chest and breathe through the holes in my heart, i still wonder if the sounds i made remind you of wind chimes
i never paid much attention to abandoned buildings until i became one
in my dreams all the flowers smell like your perfume
i am the only person who has ever wished for the same snowflake to fall twice
if i could go back, and rewrite the definition of audacity, it would be how when we lost the bet of love, you said "we never shook on it"
i love you, if the feeling is not mutual, please pretend this was a poem
the only apology i want from you, is to have you repeat the names of children we will never have in your parents living room until they *****
we are the same person if you find yourself up at 4am dry heaving promises, or if you are kept awake by the laughter of those who've abandoned you
nobody ever told you that goodbyes taste like the back of stamps
sometimes i'm convinced that the only reason we hug, is so you can check my back for exit wounds
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
You're a flower-child,
spread on the bed with
flowers stuck to your little
head,
with Ginsberg & Whitman on
the shelf & feminine mystique
dripping from the
ceiling.
Moon-lady,
Venus,
tides rising & crushing
the shore,
while I snuggle
my flannel for warmth,
trying
not to be a bore.
Framed pictures as you
reminisce on when we
were younger &
untamed.
"We can still be untamed,
we've been framed
for uninsanity!"
But you call me a fool
& put your
porcelain head in my neck
& I feel foolish.
In the damp light of a cloudy day,
muscles aching, waves
crashing,
uncontrollable urges.
Stranded in the pregnant
belly of a ***** secret city
drawing
the red rose of secret union
& we are sheltered
in the ****** warmth of the
blankets,
cocooned like little monsters.
The calming ocean
& the calming whispers
& the tiny kisses
surround me, blot out my thoughts.
You sing me to
sleep & run little
fingers
through my knotted hair.
Your tiny dollar store
Buddhas belch incense
over
the backdrop of your perfume.
The wind chimes
twinkle & whimper on the
porch where the swingset
rocks in the rain.
"I wish you weren't
engaged but I don't mind
breaking a few taboos."
You laugh like a soft mad fairy
& look down
at your phone & I turn over
on my naked side.
You laugh a funeral
giggle & I know I should have
worshipped you sooner
at the pillow-altar.
Show me Heaven without
death &
the Garden of Earthly Delights
devoid of sin,
show me your sharpened fox
grin &
the way sunset ripples
at your breath,
I will show you sacrifice
& the hidden light
of our lives
in the damp of the night.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
It was the time of summer where every kid had silently realized that it was ending,
No longer halfway through, no longer half full
Leaking and spilling out,
like the gas in my twenty two year old car
We couldn’t stop it,
And the moments of high school summertime
The moments that supposedly turn into stories we tell forever
Hadn’t seemed to have happened.
Both of us on the swing lazily swung
Dizzily from side to side.
Climbing forward, falling in reverse
Our combined bodyweight shifting back and forth
Tanned legs kicking up in an attempt at unison on every backwards glide.
Gravity hung us there,
Pulling the swing toward the ground no matter the rotation.
I sat on top.
I wore bleached shorts and bleached hair.
I worried that gravity or more so my value to it
would crush him.
At the same time, I felt unbelievably small.
The air pressed in on me from all angles,
it touched my bare legs
it easily waffled my shirt.
“Mel, if you were squishing me, I would let you know”,
he assured with a cocky tone of his very own that somehow made me feel special.
I couldn’t help but think he was only trying to be tough
Attempting to let sheer willpower overweigh my well earned quads,
My six foot frame.
The awkward body I never quite grew into
Never knew how to masterfully control
Never knew how to fill.
Though I secretly (wanted to) truly believe him
On this humid night I felt like the ball was in my court,
Like I could do anything and everything.
That nothing could go wrong
That the boy that I was sitting on was genuine
And that I could simply drive off to wherever.
(I had a full tank of gas and enough money to get me to Alabama).
I felt small in this,
in this infinity of possibility all around me.
Like a weight was pushing into me
Putting on pressure that couldn’t be ignored
That shrunk me just enough.
I felt powerless to fate
Powerless to this planet
To this grand, glorified hunk of earth which was so much greater than me
(and surely my insignificant weight anxieties).
I felt like the gas was leaking out faster than I could use it.
I felt like my infinity was disappearing as I swung within it.
Just like that, I let the ball drop and the gas leak out.
We just kept swinging.
Laughing,
Wasting,
Talking,
Dying.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
bluebells
.
bluebells tower
over
the ants
.
drip tiny
drops
drop
s
of water
.
the swingset creaks
the bluebells sway
sky so cloudy
perfect day
.
my face
smacks the dirt
.
my knees start to bleed
.
the bluebells sway
and
observe
.
my tears
.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
On a swing sat a girl.
She sat, and she sang.
Cars drove about,
A telephone rang.
The usual noises
Went through the town
As the girl kept swinging
Upwards and down.
Then the swingset was empty
And nothing was heard
But the creak of the swing
And the caw of a bird.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
Once when I was young, I was told you could swing so high you'd be able to just fly away.
I learned early on
That not everything we're told is true
The fantastical can sometimes amount to a pile of plastic bags scattered in the wind
The end isn't always happy and there's not always closure
Punctuations are more often question marks than definitive periods
And looking for a definite explanation took prevalence over allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks.
Play time was replaced with study time,
And before we knew it, it was time for work
We strayed from the playgrounds of our youth,
Never returning to the top of the slide, we'd hit the ground a bit too hard to keep the enchantment of seemingly endless possibilities going
Carriages became pumpkins long before midnight,
And the school bell rang before we could finish our fun
But to tell the truth, sometimes,
When everyone else has gone inside, back to the real world, full of logic and banalities,
I sit on the old swingset kicking my feet
Hoping it will let me soar
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
you are the first person I've ever wanted to share sunsets with
my loneliness stings like a salt bath after a night of wine and fresh Elvis wounds,
you are anything but desolate
the summer of two thousand nine I opened my veins to try and see God
the doctor who stitched me up asked what a 13 year old would know about faith
and all I said was that God takes his turn on the swingset by pushing other children out of the way,
but you are an angel
and even still I'd boil your halo and inject it in my veins
I want to be close to your holiness
like warmth, like winter; we go together like relief
with you, i'm never even here but I never want to leave
because I need you like my childhood that haunts the walls,
like sunday morning acoustics and coffee that's too sweet,
but not sweet enough for you to say anything
say nothing,
I miss you because you're not here and I'm not there
and still we are anything but lonely
the day I met you, I started missing you.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
As I listened to the
WORDS
spewing from your ugly
drama filled tongue(you're addicted to saying the word **** and attaching people to it)
I tried to stay happy
for as long as possible
I knew that **** would sink in
and take away my
contentment. (i was just sitting there, eating my cold lasagna
when i heard you begin
your disgusting rant)
Your words
would make statements,
make music full of hate.
not music at all, really.
more like sounds. noisy WORD
sounds
angrily
the way a crow sounds
the way a baby cries
the sound of that pathetic boy
getting picked on
near the swingset
by two older kids because of his snowflake winter boots
but
YOU don’t feel
bad for him
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
I imagine if I were a little boy, I'd get a little boy hard on by watching teenage girls buy underwear.
And if I were a little boy, I'd punch my brother so hard he'd start to cry
And I'd die laughing at him,
take back my nerf gun, just for fun in the sun
and I don't get burned
because I haven't had a girlfriend yet.
I think little boys ********** the wrong way for a while
but still smile
because they're ************
Still keeping it secret from mom,
nothing's really wrong, it's the bomb,
but turn up this song
It'd be weird if mom heard all the pokemon names I keep saying to stay hard.
If I were a little boy, I'd be mean to the little girls I like.
Push them off their bikes and get into fist fights
with other boys over toys that aren't even mine.
And I'd keep all my promises by the pinky,
and if we got married under the oak tree
in my backyard, I'd keep you forever
and we could watch goosebumps every night together.
The little boy version of me doesn't get heartbroken
and isn't smokin' anything.
He doesn't get wasted and tasteless,
grab ***** and faces,
screaming about cheating and beating up some guy just to prove he's alive.
His shoes light up
not the headlights of the car that peels out of the bar
angry
not thinking straight, into the house, irate,
to deliver hate, and take out any sons ready to stand up to him.
He doesn't sell drugs,
he gives hugs at thanksgiving
and isn't too strung out to watch an entire disney movie
and would never be caught dead on the streets
shakin' a can for money because his habit's are debilitating and killing him.
He sleeps with one girl, her name is Daisy.
She's a lazy cocker spaniel
and loves him more than you ever will.
He likes cartoons and afternoons playing tag in all front yards
throwing snowballs at cars, going to mars on a swingset
because he's not grown up yet,
and the world hasn't told him what it really thinks about him.
I don't buy underwear in front of little boys.
And it's nothing against them or their little boy friends,
I just don't want me to be another key in the inevitable end
when they try to get into girls *******
instead of heads.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 3:09 PM UTC
Park bench and swingset.
Picnic table; trees beside;
birds are flying by.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 5:12 PM UTC
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn
across the forest's floor?
After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.
Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.
And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?
Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside
the skiff.
Cross here with two pennies.
Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used condom's mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air
Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
does this not look familiar?
Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.
First we were here
Then we were not.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
I'm lifted.
Floating to the place where I'm just high enough off of the ground to feel the boundless freedom
and just low enough that coming down won't hurt me a bit.
I'm seven again.
On the playground where me and my schoolyard buddies used to play tag.
I would have never imagined in my youth that two of those kids would be gone
by my senior year of high school.
None of that matters now.
Randy is seven too, and he doesn't even know what alcohol is yet.
Sarah is six again, and has yet to know that your heart can be broken.
Dan is "it", and all the girls are running from him.
but this was a time before the needle and before the germ.
Back than they ran from him because he was "it",
now they run from him because they don't wanna catch "it".
No one would have guessed it,
That this was our fate.
That we would ever grow older.
That we would ever grow up.
That five students of our graduating class would be mothers.
That two of my best friends would be dead.
None of that matters now,
I'm seven again.
We're playing tag.
The swingset is a safe zone.
No one can touch me here.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
A swingset sits in the yard, starkly vacant, silent.
A chair is stationed only feet away—the watchpost of an anxious pepere.
Only days ago I sat there, watching the child of my old age
Swinging, hanging upside down, proving to me and herself that nothing could scare her.
“Watch me,” she commands, daring the gods to do their worst.
All she needs from me is the occasional tribute to her skill.
All I need from her is to bless me with her being.
She is gone now, and there is no help for it.
An empty swing, a useless chair, and the ache of loss.
The swing haunts me with her voice and I listen to it in my mind.
Dante got it wrong.
It isn’t the dead who abandon hope—
Hell is for the living.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
I look out my bedroom window
and I see the church
that has lost its steeple
in a bad storm.
This is my home.
I look out my bedroom window
and I see the basketball hoop
where countless people
have attempted its rim.
This is my home.
I look out my bedroom window
and I see the soccer goal
where many hours of games have taken place
and I see the dented garage behind it from our many failed shots.
This is my home.
I look out my bedroom window
and I see the stump
from the tree that stood outside our house
for many years.
This is my home.
I look out my bedroom window
and see the tiny little sandbox
where we would play for hours
while Mom would sit in her chair and read.
This is my home.
I look out my bedroom window
and see the holes in the ground
where our swingset used to be and where
hours were spent pretending the ground was lava.
This is my home.
I look out my bedroom window
and I see the tiny slide
that we would slide down into the mini pool
as we were having the time of our lives.
This is my home.
I look out my bedroom window
and I see the burn pile
where we always said we’d have bonfires
but we hardly ever did.
This is my home.
Thinking back on all of this,
so much nostalgia rushes to me
and so many memories
come flooding back.
In reality, this isn’t my home
and this isn’t my bedroom window.
All of these views
are now being enjoyed
by another little girl,
just as I once was.
No matter where I go in life
I will never forget
the special memories
from my childhood home.
I’m thankful for my childhood
and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I’m thankful for the people
and I’m thankful for the places I got to go.
No matter what’s in store for me
and where life takes me,
Michigan will always be my home.
Feb 25, 2022
Feb 25, 2022 at 3:43 PM UTC
I close my eyes and remember the haze
Of long hot summers; man those were the days.
Not a care in the world, searching for purpose.
The depths of my being, just touching the surface.
I remember the beauty of innocence and joy.
Oh I remember when I was a little boy.
But now I am grown, responsibility abound.
Every now and then I remember that playground.
King of the swingset, without a crown
Climb up to the top, slide all the way down.
In the blink of an eye it's time for dinner
When I think of these days I feel so much better.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
i miss you
like a Chernobyl swingset misses children.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Maybe I just want a good nights sleep I don't need you to touch my face With your astronaut gloves covered in moondust I want to just take the night off and fall asleep in your bed Maybe I just want these bite marks healed My bones licked clean
Outside I hear you howl on the haunted moon Beneath the window someone sweeps with a straw broom The streets are full of walking skeletons Who smile at the streetlamps
Who is that outside Playing on my swingset Eating a candy apple Grass stains on the knees Soft hair and a cool breeze
Who was that boy? They found floating in the swimming hole Sometimes I dream it was me who died Or fell asleep on your garden swing As I waited for you Out buying groceries
I always wake up In this same bed With red rings around my eyes And an ache in my bones With new cuts on my hands A bitemark on my shoulder Is turning purple Every morning I wake up with new pain And although I can't remember what I did last night I think I deserve this
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 4:35 AM UTC
A swingset out in the backyard reminds me
Of years from long ago
It's been over a decade since I've walked those paths
Today I decided to go back on the paths
And I sat in the overgrowth
And allowed myself some tears
I want to go back to the days from long ago
Full of braids and tooth gaps
Free of cares and stress
Back to when my parents were together
Back to when the scariest thing
Was tripping on the sidewalk
Or maybe the clowns
I miss holding hands with both my parents
I miss dancing about freely
Where did the days
Of hope and make believe disappear to
Where is my tooth gap
Where are my braids
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
I was sitting on our swings.
Rocking.
Waiting.
Listening.
Hoping.
That you were lying.
-trj
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
I was danglin' my feet off the edge of that pretty throne
called Childhood..
swinging up and down and all aroun'
twistin, sometimes just dangling my feet, twin tin'...
and all the while, My pappies were standing by the picnic table,
talking about how sad it was
that they ******* a man.. ruined his life in fact..
and well, after all , thats just how it's gotta Be
it was accident and all... sort of
and I heard 'em telling a lie in fact!! a Whole Lie about this guy!!
an wasn't even nothin' that took place.. Nothin!!
and not one of 'um.. with enough integrity to say anything
so I sat there swinging.. thinking 'bout it all...
then,
I heard a man come up and say "problem solved ...he done killed himself..."
and it was then, that I saw the LIFE leave their bodies
everyone of them..
except ONE.....
lifted up like smoke
just left em...
knowing what they'd done
lied, hated.. ruined a person, took away his Name...his hope..
left 'em, with all the children unfinished..
not one son grown up yet
So I asked that One... what are gonna do?
and I Saw him Look... and SEE
the legacy of his Life
standing out like a Vision of the Grand Canyon
Pristine like....
and then suddenly, there was rivers inky Blackness flown' like crazy...
running thru the hollows
running,
like a River of unstoppable Magnitude
cutting through Rock like it was Nothin'
creating a whole new World of UNDERSTANDING.....
and he turned to me and said...
I'm gonna make it Right
For your Pappy...
and He did.
He saved my Life.
He fixed my breathing...
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC
someone find a ruler and rap this silly fool on the knuckles
she ran through the playground, ran too fast
too quick and too hopeful
there was already someone on the swingset
she thought it was empty (she'd been led to believe so)
now all there is left to do is to sit and watch
up, down, soaring to the sky
no flying for her, someone else got there first.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
Leave me out in the dark
I'm not your playground of destruction
that you run to during your recess.
chiseling the grass,
sharp as sickles.
thrashing your leather whip
on the dusty ground
with an unerasable frown.
Strangling it around
the rusty bridles
of my broken swingset,
ripping it out from root down
at the twitch of your wrist.
Straddling my worn out see-saw
imbalanced by the wreckage of time
prance around until it
shatters into a million steel slivers,
While your hair brushes the clouds
while you have the first taste of rain
and feel the chill of snowflakes against your skin.
But this playground,
this zealous monument,
was built for
a higher purpose.
It's a place where
streams overflow,
wildflowers grow,
solace to the fireflies afterglow
& poetry readings during
seasons of snow.
If it does not stand for it's purpose,
my trembling hands will flick
a matchstick on the the wick of the trial
to arsonate it's submissiveness
and eat it's dispossessed soul.
It's flames will touch the
cradle of the crescent moon.
And from the ashes
I will rise,
***the Undying Light,
the Untouchable Night.***
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
Drove past a mansion the other day,
high on a hill,
grand and stately,
with manicured lawns,
and wrought iron fences,
adorned with Morning Glories.
Then I drove on,
to a cozy little house,
swingset in the yard
and a trike in the driveway.
It may not be much,
but it's mine.
Walked past a gym the other day,
sculpted forms of the human physique,
active and graceful,
growing strong and healthy,
fashionably decorated
with the latest workout attire.
Then I walked on
to a medical center,
examined and tested
a barely passing grade.
This body may not be much,
but it's mine.
I went to the park the other day,
a cheerful young woman,
pushing a giggling child in a swing,
while another built castles in the sand.
I may not be much,
but I'm theirs.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 11:07 PM UTC
I told you to run while you could,
get out before it's too late.
because I was the friendliest to strangers
and the strangest to friends.
My heart had never been open to dividends.
But your strangeness was similar to my strangeness: pushing out of fear - or had I made you that way?
You despised Mr. Hyde more than I did, but you loved Dr. Jekyl fervently with more compassion than I could ever give him...
I told you how it sometimes felt like I was living another's life... and looking at it now it's like I was sitting on a perpetual swing: x distance forward and x distance back.
We lucked out for so long because I would pull when you would push, and when I pushed you would pull me back. And for a while we both pulled. And then forever onward we pushed. Or forever wayward. Sometimes pulling in doesn't keep people from going away. And when you push someone, you can't expect them to pull you back. Because not everyone is sitting on the same swingset.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
No matter where I go,
or who I am
I'll still be sitting here
on a swing set watching the stars
kicking my legs higher and higher,
trying to make it around the world with you.
Its unfair, it really is.
So terribly unfair that I got all the way here
to another year without you.
I feel like I should be whole at this point,
I've been rebuilding for nine years
but, I'm still broken from the day you shattered.
I'm no longer human without you,
I c an't bear the idea of losing someone
as important as you were.
How can I be whole,
if most of me is with you,
my final piece.
If people made up the stars,
and part of me is still convinced they do
Then yours would have fallen by now,
and I've been desperately
trying to follow along
please, slow down and let me burn with you.
Why does it still have to hurt?
Its over with, done with
but even now I don't want to believe its true
I've needed you so much.
But what am I supposed to do
when you're just, gone?
I can forgive but I can't forget
because every time I look around
I see you and its not fair
everything around me is different
Its all changed, except for me.
I'm still the little girl you've left behind.
No one stays young forever
I'm not seven anymore, and
you're not the wonder woman I hoped you'd be
and I guess thats okay now.
But its over with, done with
I'll let you sink back into remission.
No matter where I go,
or who I am
I'll still be sitting here
on a swing set watching the stars
kicking my legs higher and higher,
trying to make it around the world with you.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC