"untangling" poems
the smell before it rains and the taste of that first sip of tea in -20 degrees
the slow untangling of your thoughts with every beat of the drum, the way the wind blows right through you just enough to move you forward and never enough to blow you down
the sound of typing fingers when you know you're onto something good, the feeling of your own, and finally not his, skin
the seasons are changing and baby so are you / six senses are helping you develop into someone new
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
I can't remember the last time I touched your face
But I can feel your cheekbones digging into my mind like the feeling of taking a shovel
hollowing out my own grave to lie in
When was the last time I was able to run my fingers through your hair?
Untangling hair is easy, but I haven't yet found anything
to get out the knots in my stomach
If someone asked me what color your eyes were, I couldn't tell them
But I could explain just how it felt when they looked into mine
Like when you look into the sun and are blinded by its immense beauty, so blinded
you can't see the inevitable damage it inflicts upon every pore
Except I haven't yet found anything to protect myself from your stare
What if my skin burns before you can feel it again
And how will you feel if you're too bright that I can't look anymore?
You might begin to miss the fact that nobody can look at you the way I do
before you even realize I can
And I could tell them how you felt when mine looked into yours
despite the fact that you can't
Because you don't know what it's like to feel something other than your own fear
But I'm not afraid of you anymore, I have no fear
I have some hope you can have, it's been growing for quite some time
And I may have some more strength left, although dealing with you feels like
running to a destination that doesn't exist
I'm tired of being selfish and hogging all the feelings
And I think I'll share
with you
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
There´s a man in my life
who with one glance
becomes commander of my will
and master of my thoughts.
My heart yearns his care,
my curves crave his hands.
However an endless void
rips trough my dream:
He doesn’t love me.
I go to him whenever he calls;
no matter the time, even when night falls.
After untangling sheets, we embrace into each other
staring into each other's eyes
until we drift into our own minds.
But he doesn't want me.
We wake up next to each other.
His smile is my warm morning sun
Yet when I manage to break his spell
and make my mind my own again
he can't wait to try to lure me back in.
Yet he says wants to be alone.
He calls and worries,
making sure I'm shielded from harm.
He couldn't stand if fatality struck,
and can't wait for me to be back
in the safety of his blessed arms;
But he wants to not care.
His eyes are yelling with his stare
that his soul is in line with mine,
that his thoughts belong to me.
When he holds me, he doesn’t let go.
With every kiss, we are nowhere and everywhere.
I am his and he is mine.
However, an endless void
rips trough my dream:
He doesn’t know he loves me.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
I want to be there when it's 4 AM
and your chest can no longer withstand the weight
of the demons that no one else can see
and you can no longer push them back
long enough to breathe
and the exhales smell of ***** and misery
when your very own fingernails
betray your palms
with blood that looks like it's not even your own
I will bandage your hands
and hold them gently until the demons leave
and when you are afraid
of your own reflection
I will hide all the mirrors
and sit by your side with the lights off and
run my fingers through your hair
as if untangling your hair
could untangle the knots you have inside
I will wait for you
I will not groan when it's three in the morning
and you stumble out of bed
to go sit under the streetlight in the rain
and I will wait inside
with tea in your favorite mug
when you say you must go alone
when your eyes are vacant;
a winter house
with no footprints in the snow
and newspapers piling up in the driveway
the lights left on to scare away intruders
I will be there when you come back
I just need to know you'll come back
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Pale legs sprawl out;
untangling and stretching,
as I absorb the
Montana air.
Isolated, we sit,
under the big
sky.
Silent.
White clouds float
through a sea of
orange.
The same shade of
orange as those sugary
push-up's my father would
shove down my
throat.
Gas station sweets
to make me
me forgive
him.
I shake the feeling
of comparisons—
they never did me
any good.
Instead, I lie down
and allow you
to touch my
tense body.
Softly, you
reach over, muffling
words of beauty and
astonishment.
I do not flinch.
I flash a smile
and focus on
Montana.
The mountains in
West Virginia
rolled; they flowed,
so graciously
together.
There was never a
road that was not
winding.
I've never
seen a rugged
mountain.
Snow-capped and
radiant.
Not until Montana.
Until this moment,
I, too, have
tried to
flow.
Living the same ways,
in which I experienced,
Mother Nature.
Going through the
motions—
with no purpose.
No passion.
The fear of becoming
an abrasive,
overbearing woman
urged me to
flow.
To slide through
life, barely
noticed.
Never climbing
for more,
to discover the
true beauty in
becoming
a bit
rocky.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
In the wayward’s of a Wiccan
do no harm (those who’ve paid heed)
Ye old religion doth fright some
believing charms hold ***** deeds
Familiar’s rest contently by
Ye pentagram untangling lives
within ye coven “their” demise
will make all “those who’ve paid” view twice
“Peace is free, peace is free
Invoke thee, invoke thee
Evil doers now flee, now flee
far, far away from thee”
Sodium sears without ye knowledge
invade homesteads if you dare
but if evil hath been among you
tis your soul that will be bared”
Ye old religion doth fright some
believing charms hold ***** deeds
In the wayward’s of a Wiccan
do no harm (those who’ve paid heed)
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
There is something so grounding about the rumbling of a train going by,
And then the soothing, settling of the surroundings as it runs off into a whisper, escaping the reaches of your eye.
I sigh.
Another train, in opposite direction sliding by.
I see in it the line drawing my potential demise and simultaneously untangling my turmoil inside.
I am fried.
I am fine.
I am so drawn to these tracks where the machine-cars glide,
A deep-seated need to witness
Their Force, their Direction, to Feel Alive.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
Once I was a sad clown
I smiled sometimes
but you couldn’t see it
behind the painted frown
I could pluck small
colorful *****
from my pocket
and spin them in the air
Blue, red, yellow, green
*Lies
Mistrust
Envy
Deceit*
They would twirl faster
Faster…
until they merged
into an ugly brownish red stain
Then stop!
To fall, into a
puddle at my feet
Another time I was a ballerina
A little girls delight
Another time, a tin soldier
A little boys dream
But I can only be those things
While I sit, with my eyes closed
and my conscious dozes
and I can no longer hear
the screams
When my eyes are open
I am once again
just a Puppet
all arms and legs
and bobbing head
that dip and sway
and dance
to anothers tune
Even that
I could live with
if my demise
had not come so soon
In one moment of lucidity
borne of dreams
I could not escape
I ignored the Puppeteers growl
as I twisted and twirled
with my own moves
but then I slipped
Alas
my fatal mistake
You see,
I was not strong enough
To move my own arms and legs
with my worthless
puppet brain
To even think I could move
without anothers command
should have shown
how much my dreams
had made me
Insane
I tripped up so badly
there was no hope
of untangling
my Puppet strings
I was bound so tight
unable to move
I lamented what
my actions had cost me
and I knew the pain
it would bring
There was no other choice
but to cut me loose
and my master
did not even shed
a single tear
I’m still a puppet
just an unmoving one
sitting in the corner
no longer with strings
And no use to another
Puppeteer
Nov 30, 2010
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
The witching hour
Dripping like silken velvet through
Hushed silence
Broken only by summer winds ......
Inside the recess of my restless mind
Thoughts bubble
Churning gentle ideas
Into frenzied cognition
My demons rising
Feasting on anxiety ......
Behind the lidded curtains of my eyes
I see your face
Soothing the fear
I can feel your hands upon me
Untangling the tension
In your eyes
I see
Love
The blower of dreams
Leaping into the unknown
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
you like it
when daddy
washes your hair
the shampoo
the water
my hands
massaging
your head
i know
you do
you lean
your head
back
pressing
into
my fingers
moaning softly
i kiss
your neck
shoulders
you turn
around
kiss daddy
on the lips
i stand you up
in the tub
rinse you off
wrap you up
in a towel
lift you up
in my arms
put you down
on the bed
comb your hair
gently
untangling
the knots
brushing
straightening
your hair
you are
my angel
but most of all
you’re
daddy’s little girl
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 9:43 PM UTC
I'm just an old rope
slowly untangling with each stressful pull
wanting to be strong as I once was
wanting to be together again
waiting for the moment when I fall apart
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
*T'was a month before Christmas and lights needed hanging.
The tree needed trimming, (my headache was banging).
"The stocking were hung on the chimney with care..."
While electrical chords, were strewn everywhere.
I unloaded boxes of tree decorations
And listened to carols from old AM stations.
"When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter...."
I hurried outside to see what was the matter.
Over-reaching the hedges, the ladder gave way.
And then I saw, in the bushes he lay.
After shocking himself with a faulty light socket,
His tootsie roll'd melted, inside of his pocket.
He stumbled and bumbled, untangling the strands
Replacing the burnouts and cutting his hands.
The ordeal was finished. At last! What a feat!
(Then one strand burned out, as we watched from the street.)*
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
**Baggage within
trappings of illusions,
love packed away
in neat little compartments
gathering cobwebs at
makeshift improvisations,
dusting intermittently
if by chance a light
should shine,
never wholly untangling
the snare
mid a labyrinth of
transparent entrapment,
as violin strings continue
to unlatch the same old key**
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
The shadows dividing yesterdays fell down upon today,
from happiness to sadness, against each they do betray.
Borrowed free will, low on spirit isn’t enough to take me through,
careless past was dancing in freedom if only today was too.
Ever reaching for a childhood I hold on so **** tight
to the hopes that wrapped up those fears and got me through the night.
But there’s nothing left to reach for just a stilted grown up reaction,
where multiple masks hide the facts so I lose myself in that distraction.
Too many rhymes to purge the pain and maybe set disenchantment free,
to arrive today, sight still blurred but not buried by debris.
Remembering simple illusions bonded with post traumatic stress,
provoked contradictory reactions when untangling the mess.
To rewind the clock and polish the dust wont take me to contentment,
just cut me open and deepen the wounds then bring me more resentment!
Decaying memories, twisted by time prey on any random second,
that sometimes even looking back doesn’t need to be beckoned.
Still, I look behind in the hope that I can breathe in just the thought,
at the wreckage of my time so far and all the battles that I fought.
Take some answers from the past and tie them with tomorrow,
to create a new chapter of equilibrium where I never need to borrow.
But I know myself and how I play, I need the black to colour the white,
the sorrow always grounds my smiles and I can revel in the fight.
I write it all regardless of pain or which one is the lethal dose,
timeless in my quest to destiny, I’ll spend it chasing ghosts.
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 9:26 AM UTC
I saw you
As you stared at me
Two deers caught in each other headlights
As brief as a flash, blinked, and you’d miss it
I am only reminded of my heaviness when you are there
Standing – Floating – Watching
As ghostly as any ghost, then
Gone – Vanished – Nothing
I am alone, again, cursed to remain here
I tried to follow in your footsteps
Untangling, unknotting, unravelling
Myself from a generation of debt and duty
These twisted roots of familiar obligations
How did you escape such a similar situation?
I wasn’t born light, like you.
I was born heavy, brother.
I will have to earn my lightness.
Sometimes on rainy days
when the weighty pain becomes unmanageable
I find myself slipping into the tangible delusion
Of ascribing meaning to everything
That maybe you think of me as much as I think of you
That you see my pain and want to help
But it’s just too much for you right now
When you’re ready, you’ll come back to me
You’ll come back.
Sometimes the little lies we tell ourselves
Can be enough to get us through this life
But not tonight.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 8:47 PM UTC
i collect patches of poetry
and pluck them out of day-to-day musings
of a woman born before her time,
as she leisurely runs her hands
across and over too ripe fruits.
i do not complain nor place them
in tattered and worn baskets.
instead, the fruits of this history fall to the ground.
unabashed, they line up with blades of grass.
the wind is strong,
there is a clash.
my words tangle like the branches of unkept bushes
- poetry is enough, i know. i see.
a silhouette of bible verses and revelations coming
from inside me.
reverie and rhythm, festival sighs.
it takes 20 years worth of courage to stay still,
upright.
the berries would taste wonderful, i know.
but the soil is hungrily swallowing my ankles -
serving justice for my leaving,
for my formulating, and then abrupt untangling.
my adoration turning into a mirage of nothing.
the retribution is famished yet true.
and so in my head, it grows, and grows, and grows.
but i can taste the fruits now.
no rhythm, no rhyme,
no muse.
i walk away barefoot, onwards, where i am deserved
where i am worth fighting for,
where i am buried but not so i could die,
but so i could be planted.
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 6:30 AM UTC
when they tell you
"go look for love,"
look for it first
inside you.
it will be
(most certainly)
knocking at the door of your heart.
(your heartbeat.)
let it in.
it will run through every room inside
moving things around
untangling the messes you've made
making room.
it will change you.
you might not recognize yourself.
it will bring light to your eyes,
brighten your smile,
redden your cheeks.
it will teach you to make art.
to sing and write poetry and dabble in painting.
it will teach you to like you,
to love you,
the wonder that you are.
you'll know what love looks like
now that it's inside you.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC
I pull fingers through my beard
untangling the night
while my mind gropes around
for anything sublime
I realise there is nothing deeper
than the love that cradles its child
all the way to dreams
tumbling out an untangled beard.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
Two sides to where I stand
at the edge of a cubic earth
left, ocean and right, dark, furled
nowhere to go but the two worlds
two choices seem too many
to live with what I decide
unless I'm prepared to sleep
I can't discover the taste of cyanide
I refuse to breathe not being enlightened
so I choose the unknown prime
by untangling labyrinth I abide
and to my right, I eventually dive.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
We are so busy untangling wires
For little speakers in our ears
We forget to listen to the beauty of the earth.
We see it but ignore it every day.
So accustom to it's ever changing views.
But Music is every where
From the wind whistling through the trees
To the birds belting their beats.
There's no denying nothing is more beautiful then the sounds of earth.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
To whom do I belong?
To the cold morning
and the unrelenting pound of my feet,
to meet the waistband of my favorite pants.
To whom do I belong?
To the cries of the babe left momentarily alone
while I halt time in the motion of rushing water and clarifying peace
in being simply clean.
To whom do I belong?
To the man who comes home from a career
I gave up to care for others,
To the man who pours into me every need, secret, thought and dream without cease?
While I silently and forever support.
To whom do I belong?
To the child so afraid of the world after years of hurt
Best friend, Gilmore girl, dreamer with an uncertain expiry date.
To whom do I belong?
To the food raised,
The clothes mended,
The laundry flapping in the wind,
The music that surges through my thoughts and never ends
And is reluctantly reminded "later, later, later my friend".
To whom do I belong?
To the old man now dying, tended by many
Yet wanting wanting wanting the role of my beloved or child
While his wife and all push me to take what she has abandoned
To give of me the parts of her she won't share
Untangling from a blackberry bush full of webs.
To whom do I belong?
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC