"waterford" poems
In the corner next to the underpaid electricity
where no one wants to sit and reheat leftovers
admitting each bite taste better than the original,
hardly ready to walk down an isle of silver ware
but if I were I 'd pick the Waterford to match
during the reception I'll wear my glass as glasses
the shallow smiles will ask my dress to snake
as I crave the framed grace, the crisscrossed
napkins and two bites of the others peanut butter
truffle cheesecake, I'll hardly have to worry about
a thing, easy on the musty air my lungs won't
stop flexing this microphone everyone saw got
unplugged an hour ago and as the last couple
to enter will be the first to leave I'll eat a strawberry
to taste the sweetness of the moment
later I'll put my guard down long enough to side slip a
glance to the guest who walked around laces flapping,
shoulder tapping, fingers mapping with eyes stating
the impossibility of believing any of it
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
The light from the end of eternity
Comes in through the window glass
Sits on the sill with the red Anthurium
In the stenciled orange Waterford vase
Centuries.down.and.Decades.done.
From the grassy light of the Lyceum.
If the sun were to choose where to die,
It would falter over Pompeii,
And lie like a broken godhead
Or lava poured into the pottery cups of
The open-skied houses.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
Here in waterford shall i linger.
Swaggering, touching the ancient walls with my fingers.
Listening to the sound of the marching folks.
Daydreaming as they walk.
These walls are old as time.
Aging and forgotten to the churches' bells that chime.
Passages i walk through, among the lines of years.
While my burdens i bear.
Waterford, your trees have so much to tell.
They stare at me where they dwell.
Your river flows ancient stories that evaporate through time.
Soothing me everytime.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 2:38 AM UTC
Blended and aged to perfection
semi sweet or dry to taste
you pair well with any meal
We toast with you
and celebrate special occasions
when you get all bubbly
Rosé
Blush
Blanco
Burgundy
Chianti
Moscato
Reisling
Pinot Noir
Malbec
... just to new a few
My carafe breathes
with FERMENTED GRAPES
fill my Waterford crystal glass
Poured to perfection
I drink you in
you complete my day.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
You and me, and Molly Malone
In Dublin city, so far from home
Looking over the Liffey
That's when it hit me
My love for you, had only grown
In Galway Bay, we couldn't stay
The loyalty, love, and friendship day
Rainbows at the Cliffs of Moher
The Blarney Stone we can't ignore
Waterford Crystal and...Cabernet
You and me, and Molly Malone
Is the memory, that I've carved in stone
Dancing in Dublin
You've got my heart bublin'
My love for you, had only grown
Guinness, whiskey, cider
I got sick on chowder
Hanging out with Wilde
Don't forget that child
Ten thousand years and...no they're not
You and me, and Molly Malone
Here comes the time, for us to go home
Even though we're leavin'
We will leave here knowin'
My love for you, had only grown
(My love for you, had only grown)
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
"you just dont get it do you.
cutting is not a way of getting you to look at the pretty picture we made in school. its not for you. and if you think it is then you need to turn around look in the mirror and bite your tongue so hard you bleed.
self mutilation is not a hobby we do on sunday's with our old war buddies. we dont put on our 10 year old jeans and favorite t shirt and have at it with our bodies. no.
its an addiction. some people are addicted to the things that make them horrible. smokers like the feel
of the polluted air filling their lungs. maybe it gives them a break from the chemical that usually inflates them. you.
or maybe like how alcoholics like the way the whiskey makes them feel warm. maybe it's because you have a way of making them feel so cold and lonely that a waterford glass of their best friend is all they have at night while you sit at home reading, unaware to their suffering.
or maybe like how druggies like the way the chemical compounds feel in their hearts and legs and spines. maybe the "substance of the courageous" acts as a temporary cocktail in their blood that makes their bones feel less heavy and unbearable. like maybe they could withstand the worlds pressures for just one more day.
or maybe like how gamblers like the risk. they like the adrenaline of new cards beneath their greedy little fingers. they like being sweaty and on edge. maybe the thrill of a black queen is all the excitement they have ever felt in 6 and a half years. i wonder why, maybe because you **** the rush out of life.
go get them some flowers or maybe a new pair of socks. be spontaneous.
but us, we're addicted to something that makes us feel okay enough to go out into the world and talk. exchange words with you. it makes us feel like the constant buzz of rage or pain or anxiety or self loathe or abuse that constantly runs through our veins freeze. for just a little while. cutting is a release of chemicals in our brains that give us a way to stop the earth from revolving for only a small amount of bargained time. and those seconds that we grant ourselves are all we need get through our desolate days filled with dismal ******** that make us hurt so deeply we don't know any other way to cope. cutting is our escape much like the escape you manage. maybe a morning drink or those two minutes you spend alone outside.
if you take away our escape, we'll be trapped. and when we're trapped we'll panic and look for a new more severe way to cope.
and you wouldn't want that now would you."
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC