"thumbtacks" poems
Another silent mid-Fall afternoon
Icy raindrops slash into my neck
The forecast calls for falling thumbtacks soon
One thin umbrella folding
Just 18 feet to the front step
With champagne acquainted
But forgot how to sip it
I slurp it down, eager,
'til I sit soaked and dripping
In time, fevered minds
will lower ears made for hearing
under waves of migraines
as mighty storm fronts are nearing
So I close down the bars and stumble home under awnings
Just to search for your name among newspaper cuttings
I've read the whole issue
and I've frowned over headlines
put it down
Now, soaked or dry, I've got only time
I've wasted so much of it losing my mind
I'm blind in the rain that now sticks in my hide
and they were right--
The forecast called for this squall to last all night
Another lonely mid-Fall morning walk
I follow gangs of specters in their steps
And, in the crunching gravel, ghosts will talk
November winds come howling
The second I leave my front step
The flavor's familiar
It comes back every morning,
when sunlight and sparrows
ignore tornado warnings
So the gales pick up strength
and a small bird's bones are hollow
The clouds lay oceans down
setting many sips to swallow
"So goodnight." I depart, but circle back in my wanderings
I'll always wind up here--shaky, ash-faced and yawning
I've read this before
it's printed on poor paper
in red ink
I can't say why I'm still walking by
Those other front doorsteps that I never try
The thick thumbtack rain stopped but I can't stay dry
the ghosts were right--
But if I find your name I might stop by.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
clear thumbtacks hold the
few blades of grass
collected from the meadows
of the Magnificent Days.
no baby blanket can wrap up
these times;
no perfume from the 80's
mask such greatness.
driving home at 8:56
in february feels like four-thirteen a.m.
while it's raining
(how strange)
we don't feel like talking,
we don't feel like junk food
but scratchy blankets to tuck
in the snow-less mountains
this time of year.
something has to cover them,
because our society doesn't approve
of ******
or happiness, really
for our smoke detectors
are dead and the mirrors are stained
the rugs are frayed
and our poetry *****
our candles smell like grandmothers
but that future for us isn't so
far away.
we focus on the water that will burst
past the controlled walls
in a few months;
that's so close (too close) to tell
because we are told
we won't end up being what we thought
we'd wanted at sixteen.
our christmas lights are getting dull
and we don't strive to make people jealous
anymore.
we just sulk on the loss
of the Magnificent Days,
bright and kind.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...
...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...
...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...
...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...
...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
**** you cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
Dear Human (at first I wrote narrow minded *******
This is not a hate poem, although it started out as one
it's something finished before my time
a game already won
My tendons would love to stretch 15 minutes before beginning the race but I wake up every morning to a piercing toast, a celebratory guffaw
of an after party having been exploited and raw
there is no point for me to stretch
metaphorically that is
for if i don't stretch before I start my day
I tweak like a bike in need of WD40
I can't speak because everything I saw deserves an explanation
scratch that
I can't speak because I'm afraid of judgement like
heavy wet cement, I'll drown in my unspoken words though
so I write these down
back to the point
Irritable Bowel Syndrome is a *****
if I don't stretch my aching quaking body can't **** right
and if I can't **** right
every other stressor strangles my already mangled mind and body
Depression is wet cement dripping from my air vent
molding my notches and bolts stone solid
yet, I have to get up and stretch to walk amid, among, noodles
Falling asleep is difficult because I want to get the night over with
and Waking up is difficult because I want to get the day over with
Not a study session waiting for snacks more
my socks are stuffed with thumbtacks
and I forgot everyone finished their after party
so I'm pounding my feet sprinting
for a finish line
I'll never cross
Like when I woke up in the hospital,
banging my head against the wall believing I could smash my way outside on this day, three years ago
My mania surged lightning bolt electric jolt a thousand watt volt
I would never be released until normalcy increased
so I spent every waking moment stretching
desperately trying to release the
desperate stress molded
in my body
Depression is wet cement, I have learned to slip through it's cracks
by releasing the firey strength
I hold inside my bones
I hold inside my soul
Oh human, please hear me with your open ears
yet if you can't, I have no fear
your judgement cannot touch me
I am on fire, all victims of depression
you, we, are not weak
merely misunderstood by false desire
we are misunderstood
Blazing wet cement on fire
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
short-handed love letters
written in the daydreams of a deliberate narcoleptic.
i send you the paper plane promises of summer
(sealed tightly in sweaty palmed envelopes)
you're not one to read poetry
yet i always manage to find feather light stanzas draped across your shoulders
held down by nothing more
than freckled thumbtacks
years fall away
like too heavy eyelashes onto cheeks
waiting to be brushed away
by the callused fingers of patient lovers
our slow and natural tendencies
our lips mimic the rate of gravity
you use a box cutter to lengthen the creases in my palm
but borrowed time
and fickle fate
will never heal heartbreak
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 4:00 AM UTC
this one is for the girl,
the one whose presence in my life,
rings like the screams of thumbtacks in my shoes,
whose words bite at my ankle,
the crab that cannot find another place to pinch,
and you know,
the moment,
when she walks away,
her *** brings my eyes to her,
quicker than a magnet attracts a compass,
because, we know, that no matter how the trees fall,
and the ice freezes the locks on our doors,
we'll always have a home to share in each other,
yeah, I can't walk a straight line,
without worrying about the pebbles in my socks,
but I know, the moment I get home,
you'll be there to rub my feet,
and I've learned, that when I see her body,
shakin' in the way that she sways it,
the heat between us is something of a fusion reaction,
two different elements, coming into one,
creating waves of thermal radiance,
oh, but the way her tongue lashes me,
the master, whipping her slave into working shape,
my body quivers and collapses,
and at her feet I'll lay,
a broken heap,
and somehow, when I look into her eyes,
the way they stare into my soul...
nothing ever happened,
and my body has climbed the ladder of evolution,
there I stand in herculean brilliance,
she'll waltz over to me,
swaying those..
****** hips,
and I'll wrap one arm around that flawless waist,
and we're one,
and the world is nothing.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
Cinderella’s mop,
A fish on ice.
A picture of a
Spinning top,
A neighbour’s lights.
A framed page,
A line of ancient words.
Somerset at five am,
A line of birds.
Foreheads locked
At midnight,
Spent and heavy.
All the lives that
Have been lived
Already.
Bones of sailors
Sleeping through
The ocean.
Thumbtacks sorting out
A month’s commotion.
The moon’s ghostly
Pockmarked
Other half –
Still, moving,
A rebellious photograph.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
i am a Spidey red Pontiac
the ceiling is falling in and the doors are broken
(that you pry open anyway
but only because i want you to)
you ask me with your eyelashes
why i don't put thumbtacks into the parts of me that droop and sag along the interior
and the heater whines softly,
smoke spilling in from a mangled motor
because i ask myself the same question
we are cramped, you and i
the stuffing seeping out of the back seat,
the mangled box spring hearts dangling from our chests like metal slinkies that can't find the floor
because we've swallowed one too many books
and seen each other barefoot once too few
but we are happy, you and i
we find amusement in red sweaters and pull Pokemon from Abe's old hat
i wouldn't pass the safety inspection for your soul
(but you drive me anyway)
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
I am enamored
With the idea
Of being in love
Not the kind of love
Where I say
I love you
And let you meet my family
Or maybe exactly that kind of love
A love like raindrops?
That, as fast as I run away from it
I cannot escape it
I want never ending night skies
But I’m obsessed with sunshine
Especially when it’s raining
Am I my own paradox of eternal delights?
If I am, I think I’m doing a good job of
Whatever this is, for once
I really really like holding on to the past
At this point, my wall is choking
On movie tickets and pictures
But I keep thumbtacks
By my bed anyway
Just in case I need to remember something new
That I didn’t forget in the short walk
From desk to window
It’s not being sentimental, I think
It’s being “sometimes I forget who I am so how do I know I won’t forget how happy feels or how my best friends laugh like sunshine?”
But let’s call it sentimental because
I have a real love-hate relationship with labels
I am the least organized person I know
But I’m constantly labeling people
It’s touch and go, this metaphorical game of tag
Friend, lover, enemy, acquaintance
These labels aren’t permanent
The fingerprints on my skin wash off like chalk in a rainstorm
And let me tell you
I am enamoured with rainstorms
Because when I don’t have an umbrella
They seem to feel a hell of a lot like love
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 1:12 PM UTC
*She thought she was broken
So she began to search
She looked through lonely drawers for thumbtacks
Through soft cardboard boxes
For superglue
On worn wooden desks
For staplers and tape
She looked for
Fastening devices
Fixing tools
To piece herself together
She felt her heart was fraying
And that her buttons were pulling at their thread
She wanted to fasten
One sleepless night
To a restful one
One bad dream
To a good one
One rush of tears
To clear eyes
One cluster of confusing thoughts
To a simple idea
But fastening is for dolls
Dolls need fixing, adjusting
People
Don't
We come undone
Only to find ourselves
More strongly
Stitched back together*
~JLH
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
My door frame is easy to break
it bends in half,
if you blow on it
and there’s left over gum
in the cracks
from all of the ***** mouths
of people who tried
to blow my house in
(it’s probably because so many have gone
that allows for so many to come)
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
When you get inside you’ll see the floor
covered in thumbtacks
that have fallen
from the memories that were once pinned
to my walls
but have since blown away
by the same breaths that had blown in my door
(I wish I had the heart
to pin them
back up)
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
If you manage your way into my kitchen
you’ll find
tea bags
and charred kettles
that I used to burn my words
when my mouth got too hot
(I always mess things up when I speak)
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
Please excuse the honey
smeared to my furniture
it was used to make guests stick
who were anxious to leave
from the moment they arrived
(I think the scent of insecurity
wrapped in lavender oil
sickened them)
When fuming,
after the guests turn away
I gag myself
into my pink toilet bowel
to allow the memories,
that have rotted in my gut,
to roll out on to
my
tea stained tongue
So please use the bathroom upstairs
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
I do not live there anymore
I had to run away again,
to get away from these rooms
that once cradled my innocence
(the frame has grown weak from carrying such burdens)
If the walls have any color,
please let me know
you’ll find me underneath the floor boards
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
lots of bits and pieces here, bits of strings, pieces of cloth, laundry pegs, handles to god knows what, scattered coins from scattered lands, paperclips, brokendreams, rubberbands, scraps of life
on paper doodled, rolls of film, batteries alive and dead, scary thoughts from one's head, lego blocks, bits of wood, seashells from the seashore, keys from a life before, unknown things, important somehow, jigsaw pieces of a china dove, thumbtacks, nuts, screws and bolts, lists to do, that just did not, lids from old jamjars, spent pepperpots, bright neon plastic straws, words left unsaid, that may have started wars, little stone pebbles collected,
because, packets of seeds, vegatable and flower, the combo to the lock, of all the lost hours, bits of the times, i often regret, pieces of my heart, awaiting repair.....
but amongst all this
stuff i cannot find,
any leftover, clarity of mind.
rooting around in the junk drawer of life, always an adventure, not always kind.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
anxious is the body
the body is tonguin'
life is bold, bargained, and sold
and I'm only a youngin'
the future is good
at being bad
unsure of what I should
but I see it's trap
I want to live forever
but only never-ever
the land of no measure
land of mysterious endeavor
a life of leisure lacks slacks
I like wrinkles in my shirt
pancakes in stacks
no cork boards or thumbtacks
a life of leisure lacks life
and leaves you a sinner
it's an early snack
and ruins dinner
my premature advice;
it's worth what you make it
break the rules and master your mistakes
life isn't here forever so take it
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
when it's a pin *****
on my soft skin a zit pops
i play my mind trick
and i stop
to think of the pain i choose
how i want to bruise
and bedazzle my back
in thumbtacks
running razor blades
making crimson masks
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC
I remember the sweat
Clinging to your war-torn back
Like rain,
A succulent, torrential downpour
Of fury and lust.
And in that moment
I knew myself to be much more
Than I had ever at any variable point
Thought before.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
I pushed aside a plastic box
of plastic-backed thumbtacks,
a half-roll of Scotch tape,
and a paperclipped stack
of edited verse to write
a letter to you.
It went something like this:
Dear Audrey,
No, that's too informal.
Just her first name would imply
our friendship didn't mean anything.
What about
Dear Mrs. Barber?
Way too formal. Like, am I going
to follow it with "can Billy come out
to play," or "I'm sorry I threw snowballs
at the side of your house," or "I apologize
for skipping your class to pop Tums
in the nurse's office."
Maybe
Dear Audrey Barber.
Something about the sounds
doesn't feel right. The Ds and Bs
hit the eardrum weird, like marsh-
mallows or caramel toffee.
They're just too thick.
Dear Audrey Sofield Barber,
There we go.
It's been a pleasure knowing you this past year
or so. In a way, I regret being there for the box-
moving and the computer troubleshooting,
but not for the sidewalk shoveling or book editing.
Or driving you to Elmira Corning Airport to pick
up your daughter. I'm an English writing tutor here—.
Never mind. How's your book doing? I'm sure it's a hit.
Enjoy Hawaii.
Sincerely,
C. S. Cizek (Christopher)
P. S. I plan to purchase "Wellsboro Roots" over the summer
and relive our conversations in Wellsboro over coffee
and cheap sugar.
Thank you for the honor.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
Yellow plums with sweet
flesh and sour skin
bleed down chins and smell
of summer swims and sneezes.
Once upon a time, a girl.
The grass seed and tree pollen
and dust and pet dander
and prickly pinecones and banjo strings
and the transition between analog and synthetic,
between automatic and didactic.
Ears perk like dogs at impossible pitches
upon a hidden harmony, missed melodic movement
she stops mid-sentence to hear, listen not hear, listen
for the sounds buried under sounds
and other sounds
and tape distortion
and old speakers
and ambient noise
and the head voices
and the wind in the leaves.
Candle flames hiss on extinguishing breaths
sighing promises for future dividends
dancing in circles on hardwood floors
skirt breezes
hip shakes until it's too much
floor shakes until it's all fallen
borrowing thumbtacks and bringing it all
bringing it all down.
Far in the distance I can hear the bells tolling, ringing not tolling, ringing
in time with the sunrise blinking, winking
sharing a knowing promise for a better day tomorrow,
today not tomorrow, today.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
The fridge droned between the sound
of her impaired footsteps across
the 600 grit linoleum floor. She ran
my palms against the cave-like walls.
Eroded paint bubbling like balloons
before bursting, flattening beneath
her touch. She felt the key rack
with more keys than a piano store,
cork board with porcupine thumbtacks,
and the thin edge of the Disney calendar
beside the light switch. Patting the blood
off on her pant leg, she flipped the switch.
With her sleeve, she brushed crushed Oreos
from the table and sat. Scatted about
the stained mahogany was a few National
ENQUIRER subscription cards, used napkins,
and an overdue bank notice. Sliding the chair
back, she sulked to the switch and flipped it
back.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Today, i found myself outside of the
Drugstore.
Even the name has a dark connotation,
Like most things,
If you really think about it.
A store for drugs.
Now yet another thing that is made
For serious purposes
Is romanticized
By todays society.
I wasnt there to buy
Candy
Or makeup
Or toiletries
Like i probably shouldve been.
I was there for one thing,
And one thing only.
I headed into the stationary and
Household tools section,
Hoping to find the tiny bit of relief
Hanging off a shelf,
With my name carved into
The glinting metal,
Not unlike what i would be using it for.
But instead,
All i found were
Paperclips
And thumbtacks
And safety pins.
But i had hoped to escalade from that,
These innocent desk drawer tools.
I didnt pick them up.
Did i want to?
Yes.
Do i have to?
Im not sure.
But i didnt.
And thats good enough for me.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
I was half-awake when last we spoke,
My veins pumping thumbtacks and smoke,
Twelve hours west, a world apart,
A battleship with broken heart,
You were unbound, an empty page,
The spotlight that burned down the stage,
The calm beneath the raging sea,
Your bottled words now floating free,
But the tide brought with it fear and doubt,
Still I waded in to wait it out,
And watched as you went drifting by,
The last star in my fractured sky,
I said “Do your best to picture me,
Before I was who I claimed to be,”
You told not to dwell on old regrets,
Life marches on, the moon forgets,
And so it did, and so we went,
Losing track of all we meant,
To do or fight or be or say,
Before the weight of time got in our way,
Now your sun sets as my day begins,
But don’t tell me how tomorrow ends,
Just leave me with my windshield glare,
And the last lingering taste of moonlit air,
Still searching for some peace of mind,
In the future that you left behind.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
I’d like to be young Ewan MacGreg
or an NYC ***** circa 1977, spitting
over balcony railings and pushing
thumbtacks into white-washed
walls. All I’ve got for my
Ocean Voyage is a bed - and
so it becomes a boat and
the sheets are washed every day. And
from these clean travels I promise
I’ll mail you words on a regular basis
as long as you
promise to be waiting on the other
end, ready to pick up the envelope that
the greasy green teenager dropped you.
Ready to dig with bathrobe and trowel and
write me back about what you found
buried in the ink! As long as you
don’t disturb the soil. And remember, all
this excess comes from me, the
kid with the killer grin.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
And when he leaves just like the rest of them,
Do not let your tongue turn to thumbtacks
Stop trying to pierce the walls with your words
While you shuffle around the coatrack
When he moves thousands of miles away,
Cease to check in on him
Burn his t-shirt you took from his unmade bed
Watch your phone cascade into the depths
Do not wander his old town at night
Looking for the back of his head
Don't you dare knock on his previous roommate's door
Thinking he'll still be there
When he leaves on his "adventure"
Let the planes watch themselves
Let the clouds envelop the cool steel
Stop wondering if he's thousands of feet above
Do not pick up his cologne in the department store
His scent is no longer something you can crave
Do not search for air thick with his vapor
Leave behind his nicotine haze
Wake yourself from dreaming of his hands
Do not imagine his selfish desires
Erase intimate memories in his bed
Because his touch only caused fires
When he decides to leave you behind,
Let him
Then mend your wounds.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
*Lost in the aftermath of heartache.
Changes I did not ask for or want.
You are just a part of the change now.
I still had pictures of us on the walls.
Held in with colored thumbtacks.
We were drinking flutes of champagne.
At a café by the Seine in Paris.
They are all pictures taken with Kodak film
from a lost long ago time.
But I kept them.
Even after you left me,
I still kept them.
Sometimes,
I pull out an old Vinyl album
Sinatra sings our song,
“The summer wind.”
I dance as though
you are close in my arms.
Yes I am drinking again
why the hell not.
One morning I was lay
at the bottom of the stairs.
A bottle of whisky
spilled all around me.
Our friends found me
They tore down
all my old pictures of us,
and ripped them into pieces.
I had been told you were remarried
to someone other than me.
I threw the torn pictures
into my fireplace.
And lit them using my whisky
as an accelerant.
It should have taught me a life lesson.
That holding onto the past is unhealthy.
But instead I burnt my hands
putting the fire out.
I was not ready
to let them burn to ashes.
Not quite now.
Not just yet.*
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
There have been hearts of mine that have cracked under the weight of easy love.
They hold a melody that I have hummed over and over.
Sometimes it begins slow, like waves crashing on an empty shore.
Sometimes they haunt like a ship with a sail set fire.
I wonder where I will find the next incarnation because I am starting to tire.
The faint ring of intoxication has all but left my soul dy.
I hold a heart who screams in anguish at herself and every lover.
I home a soul too big for this body,
And she craves a song to live by.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC