"unseasonably" poems
I know that I will never marry Jimmy Fallon or Donald Glover or Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
I know that despite the myths, Brussels sprouts taste awesome.
I know that one too many tequila shots will automatically turn you into a philosopher.
I know that the sun sets in the East and rises in the West (or is it the other way around?)
I know that I am most happiest when I'm surrounded by amazing friends in the unseasonably warm March sun and a banjo is playing.
I know that a smile straightens everything out.
I know that although you can't forget the past, you can't let it dictate your future.
I know that having *** for the first time is weird, and so is ****
I know that my hair is golden, my eyes are blue and I will never be stick-thin as hard as I try.
I know that there are 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and 12 months in a year. But it never seems to be enough time to figure out who you are.
I know that people come and go but those that love and care for you will stay glued next to you no matter what.
I know that as much as it hurts, you will get over love.
I know that I will never have the courage to rap publicly.
I know that Kim Kardashian's *** is most likely not real.
I know that travel truly broadens the mind.
I know that I'm insecure and over analytical and anxious and easily frustrated.
But I know that I'm also passionate and determined and a hopeless romantic and a picky eater and a restless sleeper.
And above all:
I know that when I look at you I see past your eyes.
I know that when you're around I smile wider and laugh louder and flip my hair more often.
I know I dress nicer to remind you how beautiful you think I am.
I know that I forget to inhale and that the butterfly on my shoulder has to fly up to my ear and remind me to breathe.
I know that I care about you more than anyone.
I know that I let you into every pore of my body, every opening: my heart, my head, my...
I know that I am willing to jump in with my whole body and risk being drenched in water for you.
I know that I can make you as happy as you make me
But I know that you're scared and vulnerable and hurt
But if I'm sure of anything (and mind you, I'm not sure of much)
I know that I will hurt and be afraid and breathe with you to make you love me.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 2:53 AM UTC
I don't want to go a
gentle journey,
from convoluted to
convalescence.
I quit drinking again;
found love in
the psych ward.
She's my broken-winged
angel.
So much pain behind that
sweet smile.
She's drinking again,
and I can't fix her.
It hurts, like an arrow
through the stomach.
I have a rabbit that comes
to my yard.
She lies in the same
spot every day.
So much so, that
she has worn down a
place for herself--the surrounding
grass grows around her.
She feels safe.
I feed her spinach, and my
brother sings her
show tunes.
That's what we get
for having a drama
teacher for a father.
Thanks, Dad.
It's been an unseasonably
cold April.
I feel sorry for Harvey;
That's her name, thanks
again Dad.
I talk to her softly.
"Hi, baby--what are you doing?
Do you want to come in?"
She doesn't answer. I'm sober.
I want to take care of her...
Both of them...
My two little bunnies.
It's cold, and the wind is
blowing hard,
beneath a mean grey sky.
May 1, 2022
May 1, 2022 at 6:11 PM UTC
sky like combed smoke
unseasonably warm for mid November
carrying my coat
i wonder if winter depression
can be missed this year
Nov 11, 2022
Nov 11, 2022 at 9:44 AM UTC
I.
leather skin
tattoos from youth that are laughable
as messy as a room gets every month
succumbing and cleaning up a mid-life crisis
a broken wind-up soldier
folsom prison's bar ‘s open every time the sheets get too cold
two year expiration date
grease
red wine at a dive bar
II.
never completely remember anything except touch
whiskey clouded brains and side-ways smiles
tongue-slinger
serpent waiting to strike
retracting and falling backwards far
slithering in during the AM
charming underneath the stairs
monotony
unwanted terms of endearment
the tea kettle will always whistle when the water gets too hot
III.
spells and red lights flicker at late hours on unseasonably warm nights
sweat and dragons both thrive from heat
smoke, from mouths and cigarettes
shakespearean scenes that melt to fingers grazing lips so effortlessly
this was all coming in due time after too many moments
spent on washing machines in an ancient haunt
falling into fictional identities when we come together
doe eyes
tears fell from poetic words spit so harshly on delicate air
a temporary home and an eternal momentary escape
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
It's unseasonably warm
for a January morning.
I was dreaming of a girl
and blue western skies
...a faded bedsheet
sideways in the breeze
on an old clothes line.
I was dreaming
she was mine.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
it was the last day of winter
unseasonably warm
I was standing behind an Imam
his arms were raised
hurling prayers for peace
into the face of intransigence
black dressed armored
SWAT teams amassed
swinging readied M16s
vigilantly guarding walls
constricting penned citizens
waiting to place an
American flag
draped coffin
onto the growing pile
of other coffins
covered in the
multicolored flags of
Iraq War belligerents
swelling at the base
of the wrought iron fence
surrounding the White House
I saw a curtain in the
White House part
the window filled
with two tiny faces
I imagined it to be
Sasha and Bo
taking a break from
rambunctious play
to peer out on
a grim assembly
wondering
in confusion
whats going on?
why are these people
placing coffins
in front of our house?
Sasha and Bo
ran upstairs
to the
Oval Office
she burst through
the door
“Daddy people are
piling coffins
in front of our house
Why?”
The President
hugged his daughter
and answered…
“we’re at war
Sasha...
“the Evil Doers
hate us for
who we are...
“they want to
hurt us...
“we must ****
them…
Sasha asked…
“one sign says
our bombs
**** children…
is that true
Daddy?”
Thats a lie
right Daddy?
If you knew
children like
me were being
killed you wouldn't
let that continue…
would you Daddy?”
John Kerry
popped his head
into the office….
“Sasha,
your Daddy
would never
**** children
in service to a lie”
Sasha’s head tilted…
The President flashed a smile…
John Kerry walked away whistling…
giving no notice to the photo of the
Vietnam War Memorial
as he passed
Music Selection:
The Shirelles
Soldier Boy
Oakland
6/11/14
jbm
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and lang'rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise—
Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday—or holinight
Of fragrant-curtained love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through today,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
1.8k
suffice it to say
I feel unseasonably
confined
tomorrow the sun
will rise
& the ships will
dance on the
ever-shifting horizon
but I will not see them
you will wake in
your world
& not have a single thought
of me
I am too far from the sea
& I wonder if it
bothers him
too
that I might one day
set sail on the wheels of
my '97 Ford Taurus
& never return
anchored upon land
is what I am
but the horizon
draws near
as you sleep in your world
& wake in my harbor
won't you please
think of me?
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it
without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?
never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted
this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking
the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard
because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,
the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
it is unseasonably warm
from across the neighborhood
******* ******
the rumbling masculine undertones
of his voice compress my heart
i crawl into my stomach
seeking shelter from a nonthreat
"liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar"
he spits
and i cringe
his anger pulses
every anger
that has ever been shoved in my face
whispered in dark rooms
the anger i have witnessed
pierce the skin of women i do not know
the rejected wounds i have absorbed
all wrenched from their hiding places
pulled in pulpy fistfuls
from the crevices of my body
he shocks my system
of sympathetic nerves
like lightning
my palms sweat
i close the window
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
I don't want to go a
gentle journey,
from convoluted to
convalescence.
I quit drinking again;
found love in
the psych ward.
She's my broken-winged
angel.
So much pain behind that
sweet smile.
She's drinking again,
and I can't fix her.
It hurts, like an arrow
through the stomach.
I have a rabbit that comes
to my yard.
She lies in the same
spot every day.
So much so, that
she has worn down a
place for herself--the surrounding
grass grows around her.
She feels safe.
I feed her spinach, and my
brother sings her
show tunes.
That's what we get
for having a drama
teacher for a father.
Thanks, Dad.
It's been an unseasonably
cold April.
I feel sorry for Harvey;
That's her name, thanks
again Dad.
I talk to her softly.
"Hi, baby--what are you doing?
Do you want to come in?"
She doesn't answer. I'm sober.
I want to take care of her...
Both of them...
My two little bunnies.
It's cold, and the wind is
blowing hard,
beneath a mean grey sky.
Aug 25, 2024
Aug 25, 2024 at 3:34 PM UTC
Skies like sheets of shale
floated above our pretty heads,
shedding fat drops of rain
upon an unseasonably warm
December day in Michigan.
I broke free from your grip
beneath our shared plastic umbrella,
ran into the yard
and spun around six times,
arms outstretched like an albatross,
face upturned to the miles and miles
of unbroken grey clouds.
I stopped and called to you,
fly with me.
as my palms turned up
and reached for you, involuntarily.
You laughed, staccato,
and your ambiguous smile
was nothing more than
an ugly daguerreotype
set before a landscape
of compassionate trees.
I'd rather not get wet,
you said
and I think
I've always resented you
for that.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
distracted yet again by
the fullest of moons
on an unexceptional night
blown out of proportion
by undue reverence
and misplaced relevance
looming larger than it seems
nature should allow
a false sense of light
marred by hues
of orange and red
forced upon it by
this unseasonably late
summer's twilight
there are those who
will assign meaning to
this sight and to any
signs thus associated
guided by the symbolic
grounded in the scientific
somehow the truest
of explanations are overlooked
the simple will always
inexplicably
be far less appealing
than the convoluted
Oct 7, 2023
Oct 7, 2023 at 7:34 AM UTC
i close my eyes
as the song comes on
the one about the boy
trying to skip rocks
on the ocean
and i can see myself
years from now
taking a little hand
warmly in mine
and leading them down
that old, worn out dock
to our old spot
between 10th
and the shore.
i'd show those little eyes
the very spot
i fell in love with
you
that unseasonably warm
November day.
i'll show them
the date carved
in stone.
our proof for the ages
that no matter
what happened to us
we really did
happen.
i'll tell those little ears
about the magical
once in a lifetime
sunset
that took my breath away
and took us to a
whole other world
a whole lot better than
this one.
i'll tell them
our story.
the long complicated tale
about best friends,
a lovely blonde haired
blue-eyed boy,
and my insignificant self.
i'll mention how
we saved one another
from ourselves
and how we fell
in love
during late night talks
but never admitted it.
i'll tell them the story
of us.
i just really hope
i get to give a
happy
ending.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
a gray morning in November
unseasonably warm
once again it is the crows domain
they speak to one another, you know
the wind carries anticipation
the ground seems ready willing and able
to accept the coming snow
yesterday was a rare day
I did not drive my automobile
good news traveled my way
one dry leaf falls
floats on the breeze
****** it before it touches
the earth interrupting
determinism
anxiety stifles happiness
a goal that is realized
in stops and starts
a million jabillion thoughts
each and every day
yet we see ourselves as making rational choices
information overload
any idea what the mistake ratio might be ?
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
The cold bites bitterly at my face
Figures, the night I decide to go for a walk
This unseasonably warm winter turns to mace
Liquor warms but ultimately steals
The breath turns to ice on my face
The ice has a way of boiling my emotions
Bringing them to the surface
Until they're all out of space
The liquor causes flushing
Not only in the cheeks
But in the skin and in the the weeks
My skin tells more than I ever could
Time tries but can't tell all
Just like my cheeks the story comes from nothing
But it blossoms nicely
Into a beautiful rendition of the emotions within
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 4:29 AM UTC
You are like a rain,
Sometimes pleasant, gentle soft.
Sometimes unseasonably heavy.
You are like a night,
Sometimes moonlit, misty.
Sometimes extremely dark and cold.
You are like dream,
Sometimes blissful and romantic.
Sometimes bizarre, incomprehensible.
You are like a talk,
Sometimes heart-to-heart.
Sometimes ribald, scurrilous.
You are like a wind,
Sometimes gentle.
Sometimes strong gusty.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
It’s that time of year
when the air is unseasonably warm,
summer’s last push,
last bounce
on the trampoline,
before the street lights
come on
and her mother
tells her it’s time
to come inside.
I tilt my head
and lean it back,
closing my eyes,
allowing the mixed smell
of tide water
and seat leather
to drive me elsewhere,
back to the river streets
and cobblestone houses
of South Georgia
where my journey began.
The warm night air
fills my lungs
with longing
and nostalgia
more than smoke,
and for a split second,
I’m there:
With the crickets singing,
and the salty spray of the ocean
from the thunderbolt islands
filling my empty places,
in ways
that no other person
ever could.
And I don’t feel
brave
or powerful,
or even beautiful,
I just feel
in control,
and that’s
enough for
me.
There is no wishing,
no hoping,
no dreaming
for a better tomorrow.
Just the contentment
of not knowing
which direction I face,
but the
understanding
that I am going
somewhere.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
Empty branches, nakedness stark,
Against an undescribable grey dark,
Sky,
Evergreens mockery, of winter's brown,
Mist so heavy the tall grass will surely drown,
Fog
Mixed with rain to the air a heaviness brings,
Here's the deal, there surely will be, Spring!
Bring on the poetry,
Hands not frozen
To an aging keyboard
Unseasonably warm
So why am I so cold?
This too is a season,
Or a trial of reason
It ....appears.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
My head hurts, and
It's unseasonably warm.
I read that a concussion
Can cause mild depression.
But what if I was mildly depressed to begin with?
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
while luxuriating in the boughs aching
to imbibe solar raiment golden this summer like
february twenty first two thousand and eighteen
when old man took a mandatory brake
from mister sun spilling forth
unseasonably balmy temperatures
equated from this human drake
swallowed hard taking
respite delighting, holistically
lolling (nar gagging) obliviously par
taking paradise magical optical pulsations,
a desperate need to succor dehydration
that found me relinquishing
a coveted reading nook and cranny,
this explanation not "FAKE"
excuse withholding appeasing,
an unrelenting paroxysm
watering parched palette
**** ceded to abend
imagination immersion
linkedin radiant nirvana basking (like a robin)
while feeling spell bound by this warm weather
unseasonably tropic teaser came to an end
drew the analogy how indomitable
joie de vivre kneading love intend
ding, sans partaking draught found wealth
between bounded pages doth mend
moe so than any medication
(akin to placing a wager sparring rivals)
desire for on par,
when body needs replenishment of fluids
thus...deferring self
for healthy pleasant liquid to slake
in an effort to curtail parched mouth
felt as if being scraped
by a lab bot tummy sized rake
thence entire corporeal being
didst shimmy and shake
analogous within mine
so many dozen square feet parameters
thee earth didst quake.
thence upon gulping sweet pineapple juice
(to evade dole drums)
a poem yours truly decided to make.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
Waking up feels strange,
like you’re coming to in an asteroid belt
or an avalanche. You pour fog
into your morning cereal and every clink of the spoon
against your teeth
seems to have something to say -
a letter, a number, an apology,
something unintelligible.
The bathroom tile on your bare feet is unseasonably cold,
and looking at yourself in the mirror
is like reading Tolstoy in Russian
for the first time. She’s left your drawers
and counters bare.
You hadn’t noticed how colorful her things were
until they weren’t there. She’s taken
her bottles of lotion, the pastel ones and the neon ones
and the one with green and white stripes,
and now everything in the room is white.
The pills go down like pebbles.
The light outside seems either brighter or dimmer
than it should be; you can’t tell which.
Your eyes have been trained to focus on her,
every little curve of her lips and wrinkle in her clothes,
every twitch of her finger as she stirs her coffee,
and now that she’s not there there’s nothing to focus on.
There’s a draft now. You’ve never felt it before.
It’s amazing, how many things
she hasn’t touched. She hasn’t touched
the books on the third shelf,
or the stuffed duck you keep in your bedside cabinet,
or the bottle of nighttime pain relievers you forgot you had
near the fridge.
But looking at those hurts worse
than looking at the things she forgot,
because they’re things that she could have touched,
could be touching right now.
But she isn’t.
You don’t know where she is.
You touch everything for her,
with your left hand,
the hand she squeezed before she got out of the car
and you drove away before you could look back.
You bite off all the nails you’ve been trying to grow out.
You chew at them while you wait
for the shower to warm,
and they’re gone by the time you’re ready to shampoo.
When you step out, you’re bitten by everything
that isn’t there anymore. You wonder
how long you can be occupied by these novelties,
how long you can be intrigued by them
before they start becoming too much.
You think about moving out,
taking only the things you were both indifferent towards,
finding a smaller house
further away from everything.
You think about doing what she did -
packing up all your things into a bag
and getting on the first plane you can,
but something ties you to where you are.
So you stay.
You pull away from everything
and pretend she has left you with nothing.
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 3:00 AM UTC
With regard to this grieving process…
how is this supposed work…?
is it okay to be sad for me…
but happy for her…
cuz Cancer
(with a capital “C”
outta respect)
is a low-down cruel *****
But she gave that low-down cruel *****
A run for her money…
A hellava fight…
And now her race is run…
And it’s a win/win …
Or maybe it’s a no brainer…
And I’m sure that there is at least one more cliché that I can use here
But **** it…
It’ll hafta come to me later…
Cuz my skin itches…
and I keep looking over my shoulder…
feeling as if someone is there…
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 4:36 AM UTC
She picks it up and cradles it;
Not a second thought.
The perfect harmony of the feeling of nothing
Tightly embraces her.
Makes her feel at peace.
She enjoys the simplicity of the unseasonably warm winter breeze.
It whispers:
"I can; I am; I will."
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC