"wadded" poems
I’ve finally stopped
writing
unrequited letters;
there were too many
wasted breaths
left unsent
Lapsing intentions
befallen on timeworn
tawny crumpled pages;
aging like spent flowers
in fading earth tones
and rumpled paper regrets
Multi-hued words uttered—
mummers of voiceless exhalations
spoken without a sound;
indelible spilled ink
left behind,
lays fallow for so long
A love once new, and
a growing silent ache—
a hungry heart
left for dead—Déjà vu
We leave a lot behind,
fallen leaves in unspoken ink
a restless soul laid bare
by a passing moment's
random gust;
atrophied
like unwritten poetry
stifled stillborn
in a wadded up paper lament
jesse stillwater ... July 2018
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Angel Hair Pasta
****** Oil encased
Oregano, Basil & Thyme
Fragrance ascend
Blonde strands flyway
Garlic Shards dancing
Swim in the wind
Pulsing Beef Stake
Red River Flowing
Seeds flooding
Tightly-wadded
Expertly wound
Atop her head
Wasp-hive
Angel Hair pasta
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
I never understood “made in God’s image” until I saw her.
Anyone who’s seen her has higher expectations for what heaven looks like.
We’re both sensitive enough to know what love feels like,
and reasonable enough to know that it can be broken.
The first time you use a new toothbrush is nothing like the first time you kiss a girl,
But I still love them both.
Her laugh is a paradox; an outsider would think she either just said the cleverest thing ever or she wishes she could retract it faster than it was said.
Only I know it’s simply because it’s beautiful. It’s easily my favorite language.
I have considered wearing a wiretap so I could go back and listen to all of our conversations again. And I hope that it picked up her heartbeat. She told me, it’s beating exactly like life should sound like.
She offers to iron any wrinkled clothes. I don’t have any. But I have a wrinkled heart.
I thought it was made into origami but it’s just a wadded ball that missed the wastebasket.
The way she dances to hip-hop shows her versatility,
yet you can tell she doesn’t do this every day; but she still dances.
I’m almost too nervous to hug her - knowing it will have to end.
Whenever I let go, I feel like I made a mistake.
Her voice trails off into silence,
like an hourglass that’s trying to hold itself together.
I like that “click-clack” of her boots.
It lets me know I’m next to someone really going places.
She goes to the mini mart with me even when she doesn't want to get anything,
besides more time together.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown
An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in,
where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball;
never an unspoken thrown paper stone, a befallen regret was all.
Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant
behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door
A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted,
an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still;
an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard
where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in.
Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings
returned to the unread sender … postage due, south a heaven sent ―
A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed,
for a nest of new beginnings ―
just read: Lydia ... ♡
... followed by a scribbled empty heart
The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind
stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages
of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin
The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes,
hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament;
scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out,
from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and
a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress,
aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied
in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor
a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web
An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor
A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in
The final unread words silently said:
*"We lost our way,
it all went wrong,
it all turned bad"
..."This is the outcome when someone you love
up and throws you away"
...“I’ll reach out from the inside
I’ll rise up again and do without”
..."You went out into the world
with an untamed hankerin’ ―
like a carefree restless gypsy breeze
and come back worlds apart"*
The Unsent Letter,
just whispered words to the dust in the wind
in quivering ink:
...*"how can I ever unremember you...?
a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock...,
an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart,
fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"*
just signed: ... ❤ August
January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind ♡
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
No men.
But when the
conversation starts, they dominate.
Worm their way into every sentence, every silence.
Every caught breath, exhaled pause.
Names, nice-to-meet-yous, passed round with sandwiches and tea.
Hole-riddled autobiographies, wadded out with circumstance and need.
Explaining themselves, defending their actions. In turn. And I?
Have never felt so young.
To my left, and working clockwise: Affair-with-the-boss, Heart-condition, High-risk-of-genetic-defects,
In-the-middle-of-a-divorce-not-sure-why-she-slept-with-him, Grown-up-children-can’t-bear-to-go-through-that-again,
and back to me. (Boyfriend-has-two-kids-wants-no-more)
He noticed that I’m pregnant.
Was pregnant.
Was.
We chew our way through sandwiches. Different coloured fillings, no flavour- choked down with lukewarm tea.
We know it’s a test.
We have to talk, smile, eat, drink, laugh (not manically)
if we're to go home.
I can’t do it.
I want to cry. But I’ve been told off for that already (curled up on a trolley, examining bloodied fingers)
I drift, I think.
Jump out of my skin when she speaks to me.
"You must eat" she says.
"You must eat."
I search for myself in their eyes,
re-make myself from fragments and reflections I find there (Four parts child, one part b-tch)
"It’s OK" I tell her, "It’s OK.
On my way home I’ll get a Happy Meal.
I’m collecting the toys."
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Let's go grab the money
Hidden in the Christmas Tree
Shoppe mason jar with the
Frosted stencil designs,
Ornate and resembling flora.
Let's take that money,
The three separate wadded
***** of once crisp
Green pieces of paper
That somehow reach the
Arbitrary total of one
Thousand, three hundred and
Twenty dollars and
Fifty lonely cents.
Let's take that 1,320.50
And go see the desolate
Stretch of sprawling
Humanity deferred between
These hiked peaks and the
Dangerous mountains
Separating the west
From the rest.
Let's go there!
Let's go there!
We'll make it across,
Be sure of that,
Be sure of nothing
But that!
Let's use the remaining
Seven fifty
To buy some
Seven Eleven sustenance
To have while
We walk backwards
Down backroads edged
With the encroachment
Of the wild back into
Negative space some
Long-ago engineer
Carved and paved.
Let's tell the driver of
This beat-up
Time-worn down
Overcast grey
Buick LeSabre
That we can pay her
Ten dollars to replace
The juice necessary to get
Us back to our sick aunt's
House in Poughkeepsie.
At the gas station
We'll tell her to stop
Real quick
And hope she leaves the
Auto to go
Pay the schlup at
The teller's booth
And jack the beater
And hope we won't
Have to bolt
Again if she doesn't.
Let's call my cousin
And find out who will give
Us four hundred dollars for
The stolen used parts store
And take that four hundred
And buy:
Two (2) greyhound tickets to get us
Back to our ****** apartment
In Stamford: 64.50 American
Three (3) damp-bunned flimsy
Beef patties glued between
Pieces of government-issue
Yellow American cheese
With all the fixins we please: 3.24 American
One (1) zip of dried out
Seeded and stemmed breaks
From the boredom of
Our own conscious
Processes: 120 American if lucky
At least eight (8) servings
Of amphetamine based
Pressed little buttons
Of confused energy: 200 American
One (1) bouquet of
Red yellow and oranges
Mixed on the petals of
Your mother's favorite
Species: whatever's left American.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
~
remnants of
afore night’s grieving
before her on the table lie,
echoes of her sobbing
tears from last night's cry;
boxes of his cards,
handwritten letters,
a schoolboy’s pictures,
the wadded tissues
lie in random crumples,
for his silent laughter,
his fading whispers;
the one remaining lock
of hair she used to rumple;
the invisibly present
drying tearful brine
to table salt reduced;
the how remembered,
the when recalled,
the why that's yet
to be deduced.
each a remnant of
her softened weeping,
each a minder of
a mother of a sorrow,
a son-of-a-gun,
don’t-know-if
i’ll-make-it-to tomorrow,
reminders of
a yesternight’s cry;
the remnants of
afore night’s grieving
that on her table lie;
the six-years-ago,
still-can’t-believe-it,
never-ending-long...
goodbye.
~
post script.
*"her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal her bleeding heart..."
like the spiraling whirlpool
like leaves bowing to winter
it's palpable, predictable,
a seasonal forecast...
guess it's just
that time of year.*
***for Becky,
for Tonya,
for Andrea,
for all
grieving mothers
everywhere***
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
Yin, my queen, was undiscovered.
Instead of royalty, a mother.
Lately she begins to smother.
Enticing me to yet another.
Yang, my king, he has no face.
But fullness in disfigured grace.
Charred instead by lapping waves.
Ideas wadded, thrown to graves.
Terrorist, chauvinist, make a list, burn it.
Hear a plea, guarantee, feel so free, turn it.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:15 PM UTC
Third day of this trek descending
rapidly from cloud forest into high jungle habitat,
alive with hummingbirds and orchids,
her Q'ero porters guide the tour group
to Intipunko, "Gate of the Sun".
At 4:30 AM and 10,000 feet altitude
biting cold cracks stone, eats exposed flesh,
stealing breath as she gulps pale sunlight.
Coca leaves wadded in her cheek
forge mind against the acts of atmosphere.
A lifelong pilgrimage to this purpose,
observation of the sunrise over Machu Picchu.
The Q'ero pass around a sack of pemmican.
What meat it is, she doesn't ask.
It smells of canvas, but tastes of apricot.
Her fate entrusted to these guides,
she eats what they offer.
This Inca Trail is marked with their scent;
they follow signposts painted on thin air,
read morning mists like road maps.
They have brought her to this citadel,
Lost City of Peace and Power.
Her life for now at equinox,
shaman-guides have opened her vision
to the hitching post of the sun.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
The pale lips are smashed together in a fake smile, the teeth not wanting to show in the little pod of the mouth, hiding like scared peas. It’s frightening.
The eyes crinkled just right so that it looks so plastered on that you can tell it is fake, the folds overlapping again and again in an unnatural way. I blink.
The cheeks covered in makeup, splashed on in spots, smoothed over in others, splatter painted to look realistic. It doesn't work.
The fingers resting oh so stiff on the stomach raised a bit so that they are hovering above the skin, like he doesn't want to touch the dead fabric. I wouldn't.
The suit, so neatly pressed that not a wrinkle shows, except for on the collar where nobody notices. But I do.
The silk lining of the box he is resting in is shiny and overly polished, like a cherry wood dining room table with an overload of Pledge. It hurts my eyes.
The bouquet of flowers is a bundle of Death’s heavy perfume disguised as a bunch of roses and daisies. The smell is disgusting.
The picture frames surrounding the box are shined like pairs of leather shoes, embedded with gems and memories that are long past. It makes me sad.
The stuffed animals in the corner gaze deadly at the group, mold and dust sapping the life out of their beady eyes. They make me shiver.
The chair I sit on is hard and stiff, the cushion starched to the breaking point, the crackly material hardly comfortable. I squirm.
The vent above me blows a gale of cold air and underlying currents, which whips up my hair in a flurry of brown. I pat my head.
The people around me clutch tissues in bony hands, the wadded up paper soaked through with tears and makeup. It looks gross.
So as I observe every detail of this morbid place, I close my eyes and breath deep. Mistake. The air is ripe with anger and sadness, misery and frustration. Musky lady perfume, sharp man perfume. My hands clench, unclench, furl, unfurl. My throat closes up then swallows that lump of matter lodged in my my esophagus. What is death? What is Heaven? What is God and Jesus and church? What is all of that if it ends up like this? Like a cancerous tumor, like a lump of mutated cells, like a painful death? It is forgiveness and freedom and newness.
With that I open my eyes again and cry.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
I used to carry two buckets
It was easy, each swing weightless
I filled them with thoughts of the day and put them on the shelf at night
People began to fill them with their favorite things
At first I liked the kick knacks
Bibles, shards of scrapping paper, handicap stickers, elephants and stars, kids menus, empty party bottles, movie reels and a wadded up half finished confession on the back of a napkin.
The weight began to grow
I enjoyed it, the build of muscle, the struggle of hard work. I could feel the sweat on the sides of my forehead and I was proud. These buckets were a sign of success
they were my trophies
and I polished them every night
the sweat began to pour
into my buckets
I hated the sloppy stains left behind, legs bored with the gain
no longer willing to put in the time
my buckets. my little spits of treasure
I wanted to tip them over the bridge like a butcher chucks his slimed waste into the dump
I let things go
Into the river. let the buckets settle into the slush at the bottom of a cool drink.
If I want to hold something, I'll use my hands
and if over my palm all things drop- I'll know I'm only human
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
There is a cold wind
blowing outside,
into the graying,
an apocalyptic sky
The lamps are lit
The night descends
it comes as it always does
My table is cluttered
with wadded paper
scribblings saying nothing
The hanging question you asked
remains
"What is your heart's desire?"
The light it flickers
Throwing shadows on the wall
So eerie at first,
So familiar after all
Fantasies
Phantasims
Hypnogogic imagery
A trance like state of mind
Many lifetimes pass
None of them mine
What is your heart's desire
It strangles the mind with possibilities
Waiting for the tell,
the tell that might never come.
You asked me
as we left the foggy meadow
"You who speak so highly of the little synchronicites,
But what is your heart's desire? "
I rise with the sun each day
My path laid out before me
I do this and that in order
Each night as the dark descends
The day's vivid light has vanished
I stare into this lamp light
and wonder
what is my heart's desire.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
The only reason why anyone EVER believed that Pine-Sol smells like lemons
Is because a large woman screamed at them from the television saying so.
What it ACTUALLY smells like is a combination of chemicals,
Ya know, like that doctor office smell?
That isn't so much a smell as it is a burning sensation in your nasal cavity?
AND fermented menstrual blood...
Or, Fermenstruation.
Is this what we call cleaning nowadays?
I'd rather my drain be clogged with mildew and ****** hair.
Thanks for the loss of appetite.
And, the horrible vision of my mother on her hands and knees
Scrubbing the floor with a wadded up blood-stained rag.
Good Day.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
My jeans between the sheets
Feel like strangers on my legs.
All six of my dollars,
Wadded and shoved in the front pockets,
Smell like last night's soiree.
I get up,
It's 2 pm,
And glare at my half-naked body
In the blurry mirror.
I like myself when I don't eat,
But I swallow a handful of cereal from their kitchen
For Mom.
I can still taste the cigs that he hates,
And old beer is sticky between my fingers.
I can't remember getting this bruise
Or this one. Or this one.
I bruise like a peach.
I do remember sloppy kisses
With my roommate,
How her lips were softer than mine
And I remember feeling full
Of love and of *****
I am happy.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
They talk about the
garbage like it
was treasure.
Man made
garbage.
Made in order
to keep the
creative side
from
creating.
Its all made
to uninspire
the otherwise
always
inspired ones.
They worry
themselves over
Trash.
Mass produced,
soulless,man made,
ball chasing,
over paid
Trash Heroes.
They're not my
Heroes.
My Heroes
didn't have time
to chase *****
and call it an
accomplishment.
These goals they
strive for all of
which were
created out
of nothing
for nothing at
all but to
numb the mind.
Trash.
They worry about
having more
while I secretly
worry about having
nothing more to say.
Conversations going
on all around me,
its torture.
I hear their
words and
can't help
but wonder if
they are hearing
what I'm hearing.
There's a vision
that stays with me.
A circle of
beautiful people
in stain free
clothes.
The kind of people
who throw
their heads back
before they laugh.
They're standing
around a street
person who wears
wadded up
news paper
inside his coat for
warmth.
They're tossing lit
matches at him as
he lays and sleeps
the sleep of the
invisible people.
For the longest
I dreaded the vision,
their cruelty is
unlike my own.
Theirs is inhumane
but legal and in most
cases it provides their
Godless insides
reason enough
to smile.
Mine is soul scaring,
memory aching,
and really only
me wanting to survive.
It leaves behind
deep embedded
stains in everything
that is you.
Now I find myself
no longer
fighting it off.
I need the
images the vision
provides me.
I welcome the
echo of their hollow
selfish laughter.
I take in the
whiteness of
their grinning
stain free teeth.
I need it all
in order to
try and
understand
their sickness.
As I continue
to survive
amongst my
own
lonely madness.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
You took a piece of me
Wasted my time
I was like paper
You wadded me up
And threw me out of line
For some time,
I thought this is why I've been waiting for so long
To figure out
I was completely wrong
I didn't have any hints
Or any "No this isn't right"
Only the look on his face
Proved it was love at first sight
We talked for a short while
Went to church in style
I went to your games to show support
As well as watching my favorite sport
We hung out almost every weekend
Movies, and music, and a little bit of kissing
We went to prom
And danced til dawn
You asked me during a slow dance
If I would be your girlfriend
I said yes
You were so sweet
You took me home and swept me off my feet
(Literally)
I met your mom
Spent the night with you and the dogs
Woke up in a flash
Took me home in a dash
And that was it
You left me without a word
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
how can i still love someone
who treated me like chewing
gum- wadded me up in his
mouth and blew the world's
biggest bubble, sent himself
up into space with my offset
reciprocation, soared past
the stars he was so obsessed
with, used saturn's rings to
burst all that i was. and when
he fell back into earth's orbit
he was safe, but i was scattered
somewhere around neptune.
i cannot find my way back.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
when you go through something trying all the good guys and do-gooders flock to you. they wring metaphorical hands and ask if there's anything they can do, like some baked ziti or wadded handkerchief will caulk your cracks.
then an acceptable timetable for healing goes by and they lay pity eyes on you give you that how're you doing honey smile, but their baked ziti didn't serve as the salve they'd hoped and you're crumbling fast and maybe that pity smile is your solution so you tell them.
you tell them how many times you count the cracks in your ceiling before falling asleep (27) you tell them how many glasses of wine it takes to feel decent again (at least 4) you tell them how many hours it's been since you last ate (56)
and they wish you ate the ******* ziti and blew your nose in damp handkerchiefs because an acceptable amount of time has passed and you should be healed by now, but what they don't know is your timetable is inverted and you work in wrong-way highways. they don't know that time is scar tissue much more delicate than the lock-box you've put him and all the things he did in, and each second chips away at that box and the essence of him is seeping out like acid that melts through all your barriers.
the good guys and do-gooders don't want to open your broken-heart bank and let all the bees out. they want you to eat the ziti and say thank you like it actually fixed something.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC
Hello hello hello
I am a formerly deleted duplicated poem
my master had it in mind
into the trash twas, goin
he wadded me up
and tossed me out of sight
my brother was a duplicate
one that he got, just right
so here I am, and here I'll stay
brought back from the dead
cuz there ain't no how, and ain't no way
still bouncing round, his head
so he edited me, in an attempt to dismiss
and changed up all the words
turning me, into this
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
I left my darkness wadded up in the corner,
but it didn't forget about me.
For a time I believed I was rid of it,
but just leaving it doesn't destroy it.
My darkness waited until the lighthouse grew dim
before making a timely assault against my heart.
If only I had left the lights on my vulnerability
would be nonexistent.
I once saw the world
through a ruby lens;
Remember my
Darkness.
Remember me
before I changed.
Remember...
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC
shadows and silhouettes
dancing on the ceiling.
blinding blue lights
circle the bathroom mirrors
stained with purple lipstick.
silent vibrations from your phone
blocked by the shower’s storm
and overflowing sink water.
spilled lotion bottles
and untouched lemon wicks.
wadded tissues
colored in colorless tears
drowning in puddles
of the bathroom tiles.
girls’ giggles in the room next,
moaning through the right wall,
and sad chocolate eyes
abandoned behind the shower curtains.
wet hair, wet mascara, wet sobs;
your sad chocolate eyes
trapped in a nightmare.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
Andreya,
will you marry me?
Will you let me make
nests of sticks
and bubblegum
wadded together by spit
in your arms?
Please say yes,
I have drifted
into *******
of your voice,
and spurn the day,
when I cannot hear your voice
that rips my heart
to
peices.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC
Startled me, it did
With darting speed, a small arachnid
That leapt, then rested upon doorframe
Fascinated me all the same
I’d seen these as quite loathsome creatures
This one epitomizing their standard features:
Clinging and spindly, longly legged
Many eyes – quick death, they begged
So grabbing a tissue, I prepared for gore
Having slain these things many times before
I wadded the weapon tight in my grasp
When the spider did speak – and I did gasp
“You are, sir, a gentleman, I do so guess
And I will so die at your behest
But perhaps from me something you could learn
And my purpose t’would be duly earn’d.”
“Go on,” said I. “Say what you will.”
Disgusted by the thing I’d planned to ****
“My life is short,” the bug went on
“Spare me and I’ll still soon be gone.”
“That’s no reason to your company savor
Sounds like I’d be doing you a favor!”
But it stretched and displayed during my hesitation
All the merits of its creation
I watched with skeptical cocked eyebrow
The spider approach and grinning now
“You’ve already spent more with me this spell
Than any other bugs could have lived to tell.”
“All I wanted in this spider’s life
Is not strength, nor size, a man nor wife
But just to hear I’m thought of separately
From other spiders you’ve killed lately.”
“So, with our promise and the final ****
Bugs appearing, no longer will
And all creatures, then, that you will meet
You’ll happily choose to love and greet.”
The spider and I consummated this pact
And suffice to say, I committed the act –
Crushed the thing to death betwixt
Fore finger and thumb, with tissue affix’d
Since that spider, the abhorrent gnat
On the door frame never a spider sat
But since the spider’s vague prediction
I have new troubles, this strange affliction:
A hatred I had felt so sure
Simply isn’t any more
And I must tell everyone I see
Just how the spider baffles me
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:39 PM UTC
Charlie crumpled up the script
that his mother left him as a note on the banister;
an ode to matronly passive-aggression
scrawled in haphazard cursive
on the back of a Meijer receipt when she was drunk.
While conducting a routine bedroom sweep
for any arbitrary evidence
to convict her son, yet again,
as the eternal family scapegoat,
Marilyn was far from pleased
to find his final disregard
of her bankrupt maternal instinct
clouded by inherited alcoholism
wadded up in his wastebasket.
Jaded by plot conventions, dodging foreshadow,
we scrapped our narratives and hopped in his car.
Untethered by destination, we drove through the rain
in the last hours to waste of a Sunday night.
Stopped at an intersection in an unfamiliar town,
he turned to me with an expectant smile:
“Where to now?”
With no surrounding traffic to rush our decision,
I glanced in both directions.
“Let’s turn left.”
“Where’s that lead?”
I squinted in the dark.
“Wherever the hell we’re going.”
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC