"wishbones" poems
I never dreamed of meeting someone like you.
You found me in the cold and gave me a home,
and now I
can't imagine my life without you.
You showed me the parts of the world
that no one has ever seen.
You helped me find the light
and now I
can survive these dark days because of you.
We danced with the stars
and lived off wishbones.
Swallowing stardust
and creating galaxies with our imagination.
Your love made my head spin faster than the planets.
Sweetheart, you have done so much
and now I
feel like one of the lucky ones.
Let us go fishing for stars
Let us swim with the cosmos
Lets everything
You drew an atlas on my hand
and connected the dots to the places where we plan to meet.
I love the shape of your lips
and how I can trace them so easily with mine
and now I
can finally feel comfortable when I say I love you
and mean it because I will love you until there is no till.
Until all the stars burst apart in front of us.
Until the universe stops spinning
Until the end.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
1.He’d say anything to get me out of my shell.
2. His pupils are hard, black marbles and I want to flick him off of me.
3. He is always shuffling through women like they are a deck of cards.
4. It’s just how the dice rolls.
5. I was afraid of falling, of my arms snapping like wishbones.
6. He waits until I’m swaying like a door hinge.
7. My eyes are wide like 8 ***** and he hits me with that same click, roll, thunk of a pool ball table.
8. You are cursing me. When you yell, you are cursing me.
9. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
10. I hope the bruises on your legs turn into birds. I hope you get out of here.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC
.
***Ancient games
tell tales of dust. ||| A story drawn
from the lips of two poets.***
~~~~~
It's the wits that **** not Queens of ivory or ***ink. ***
Charged with coal strokes, scraping up the lies.
Pawns & Knights slip between the grasp of the sun, leaking into* lion jaws of Leo.
Shifting these granite plates, ignoring the Rooks common price of aslant.
Here we have slain kin, crescent traitors that backstab the night and battlefield.
Closed doors and trap floors, trade me a tie, swindling your tactic ruts.
Reality never got the noose around our necks, check turned into manslaughter, and kingdoms ripped asunder by the roar of Jupiter
Get up, get up, get away from these liars, they can't have your rank or your fire.
Peak a notion, this match is spared by a luft.
Toss away the pride buried 'neath your dusty skin, it don't matter no more if death has you by the lips.
Silence is a language too in our eyes of earth.
Take my hand, knott your soul into this downfall, and brace yourself for the wreckage in our bones.
The Sword of Sorrows will fall 'pon your shoulders, not to slay thee, but to dub thee a new day.
The drums of war will knit the lyrics in the sky,
singing:
"The mighty sharpen their fangs, the weak sharpen their wisdom"
~~~~~
I'm tired of your wishbones, and golden scales, give me the hard-earned truth.
Hot coals of honesty may you tread upon, shadow-bitten remorseful may you be, don't stray off the course of Ursa major.
The North star isn't the one I follow
It's the moon with all of it's phases,
Eclipsing and crescent, tipping the sky with it's beauty.
Now let this sink further than any soul has ever sunk,
no man could ever
*rule the moon.
~~~~~~
***Shoot on command,
C
h
e
c
k
m
a
t
e***
~~~~
You could drag me to hell and back and those words wouldn't mean anything.
Let this downfall become a downfell,
Because last I checked
"Wolves worship the moon"
and I have broke it's reflection in the water
*Just
by
throwing
s
t
o
n
e
s
.*
.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
i dream of silk and black lipstick, leather and ice-burn
i fashion thoughts into clouds of smoke i ghost out of my mouth
into necklaces i will only ever give to you; you
are burnt russet bitten lip bleached bone coalesced into
constellation; you burn brighter
than any constellation i have ever breathed
i dream of your hipbones; stretch marks flicking over them
like lightning glimpsed between fingers; like wishbones silently pulled apart
in promise; you are wishbone you are gold plate you are sunshine
through a stained-glass window; my heart is glass
a cemetery to your footprints a cathedral to your broken
dreams; i can taste the honey in your scattered thoughts
like a prayer on my tongue
i dream of deep purple and yellow and green and
black and fading bruise and blood
at the corner of your lip; i can taste iron in your breath
rotting in my dreams slow-burning ice in my veins; vengeance
is a dish best served cold i know
that if i unfurl my skeleton and tuck you into the spaces between my
ribcage and my lungs you will taste just as sweet
i dream of ruby emerald sapphire in brooches pinned onto black i
think of the bruise-giver of the blood-spiller of cracks in my
ribcage of wishbones of constellations of iron-taste of ice-burn of you of you of you
and i let you in
and i am cathedral i am cemetery i am bonfire i am in l o v e
with constellation
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
I had horrible dreams of her last night
of a Mother red haired with soft hands and fine skin that demand
her two boys' respect or the cunning not to be caught in contempt
of her as she doesn't mind burying her head in the sand
if they kiss her before she slips under her dune comforter and sleeps
for a selfish safe-keeping with a smile but is the kind of lady
who pins her lip corners on her cork board cheeks daily like a cast list
while she cooks turkey for all cleaning the wishbones before her plate
to use as window-sill ornaments until her kids come home so they might fly
or at least not to waste the magic on herself but they hide blocks away
in the parking lot shadow of the auto-repair shop's spinning sign
from the Sun and sky
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
Don't have a wishbone
Where your backbone ought to be,
They told me, so often.
See, wishbones are meant
For Thanksgiving dinners where
Two children break it
In half to see who
Gets the first turkey leg,
or something like that.
See, wishbones aren't strong.
They aren't reliable, strong
Enough to support you
When what you ought to
Do doesn't comply with what you
So dearly wish for.
If you lack backbones,
And have a wishbone for a
Spine instead, you should
Get to breaking that
wishbone right out of your mind
And body because
At the end of the day,
A backbone is all you have
When wishes aren't your
Reality. No,
A backbone will keep you up
Whereas a wishbone
Will break easily,
As easily as your heart
Will when your wishes
Do not come true. A
Backbone is something you ought
To have instead dear.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
[On my birthday]
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
2.8k
You talk about eggshells
I hear the crunch as I get closer to you
Thought it was glass breaking but it was too soft beneath my shoe
I can't stay out of your perimeter forever
When the diameter grows bigger and bigger
Pushing me farther away
I can still see soft silhouette
Your skin is so frail
Pale white made of the eggshells at your feet
You reach down time and again
When you're pierced by words
Cutting off oxygen
Penetrated by the carbon dioxide truth
You're not young anymore
Age is ageless numerals
You're not old
How many birds flew away from this pile of youth?
Each one once packaged like a gift
Leaving behind stacks of birth to sift through
You gathered them
Scattered them evenly around you
Put your appearance and self worth into them and
Waited for the crushing blow
Marching toward you from all sides
Your insecurities will swallow you and
The stomping will leave you angry and hollow
We are all hippy chickens
Making wishbones out of peace signs
Hoping for unity
Not realizing it's meant to be broken
A lopsided libra unbalanced
The powers that be
Expect you to follow obediently
Stand in line
You can't take just give
'Short people ain't got no reason to live'
Newman must have know
How difficult it is to create new men
One by one we attempt
To tip the scale in our favor
But the bigger Man
Can push it down with a finger
Like a toppling Pisa tower
A slow motion fall to the ground
A single direction agenda
The momentum gained
With each inch leaning
So stop clowning around
Sweep up your eggshells and
Go buy a dozen more grade A's and
Break them all at once
We don't have much time
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Deep within
A genie bottle you and I
Are forever snapping
At wishbones, but neither one
Of us gets the middle wish.
Sent into a plume of empty smoke
That leaves us spent and separated.
I wonder how many dandelions
You dedicate to me.
Dust falls upon our cut pinkys
We lay wasted and dry of all
Childhood promise games,
There's nothing left but to
Pluck out each individual eyelash.,
Our lungs forcing one towards
Another hopeless, begging wish.
We deserve no more pain.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
Darling, I'm afraid I've broken the coffee maker again.
Darling, I'm afraid that all the orange bottles are empty again.
Darling, I'm afraid that sometimes walls remind me
of either the ones you threw me against or the ones I put up around my heart
so that no one can love me ever again.
Darling, I'm afraid that I don't see stars in the sky anymore,
just a lot of eyes staring down at me,
scrutinizing me like interstellar councilmen,
knowing about every disgusting thing that I have done
when I thought it was just me and you and the peeling wallpaper.
Darling, I'm afraid that I am woven around your ribcage
like the beads of a rosary
are wrapped around the fingers of a sinner who has sold their soul
to the devil for forgiveness from God
one too many times.
Darling, I'm afraid I have to pause to talk about your fingers.
I am not wrapped around just one, but all of them.
I was hoping to bind you like a book so I could read you a little better,
but I'm afraid I've just entangled myself in a giant mess
and I'm afraid that you're a little too amused by my demise.
Darling, I'm afraid that guns shoot and so do stars,
I'm afraid that wishbones break and so do bones,
and I'm afraid that feathers float and so do bodies.
Darling, I'm afraid that I'm sorry that I cannot fix you,
because I don't think I can even fix myself.
Darling, I'm afraid I'm just
afraid.
- b.b.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
I could tell that you had smoked a cigarette
yesterday before I saw you because
your shirt smelled like smoke and
your lips tasted like
lung cancer. (I like to to pretend
that it doesn’t really bother me that
this is not the only connection
you have with my father.)
My parents, my sister, and you, my darling, all
have green eyes. Green like miniature
earths turning in space, like Lake Michigan capsizing,
like the summer leaves in the woods behind my house.
Sometimes I think that I’m more closely related to
my grandparents because when I
turned down the emeralds, I was given
sapphires to use as kaleidoscopes instead.
And, you know, my father called me a month ago and
wished me luck “in the big city” and I still
do not know if that means he knows
where I am or not; I have
not heard from my mother in over five years.
(I like to pretend that your relationship
with your parents is much easier than mine.)
Do you remember that time when you told me that
“everyone sins?”
I do not think that you took into account
the amount of which we all sin. (All sinners are equal,
but some are more equal than others.) Sometimes
I think that the Viking blood inside of me
makes sure that I identify with
the villains more than the heroes.
Sometimes I think that
you are the hero.
But, darling, there so many things I
tip toe around when it comes to you, and
I am not sure why—religion, politics; the
Chernobyl boy, the inked boy, my father, my mother; the
moths that live inside my gut, the layer of dust over my limbic system.
I wish that I had the words to say that I can never
be what you want, what my
family wants, what anyone wants.
I wish that I could tell you how I
think I am drowning in the in the gene pool,
how I am convinced that I’ve broken three bones
without actually breaking them, how I lay awake
at night, scared to death that my
dreamcatcher will stop working and that the
nightmares will finally catch up with me.
There are broken wishbones in my bed that
I keep as trophies of losing to luck and
blood stains on my clothes from all
the lambs that I’ve been forced to slaughter.
All I want to do is tell you why I prefer
cigar smoke to cigarette smoke
and how I would rather have you
quit all together than live another day knowing that
you’re dying faster than me.
But darling, I watched the world spin last night
when I opened my eyes and looked at you
looking at me, and for now, it’ll do. You
can be the nightlight in the corner of my room.
Wait for me in my chrysalis. Listen to my wings flutter.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Buddha belly, rabbit’s foot,
how much luck can you get
from touching the dead?
(Maybe that’s the reason behind Jeffrey Dahmer’s slaughtering of
seventeen men;
maybe that’s the reason why we break wishbones—
to remind ourselves that this bone is dead
these hands are alive
do something with them.)
In some cultures, it is socially acceptable to
eat your child’s placenta—
there is good fortune in it, power in it.
(I wonder if this is the reason why cannibals eat their victims.)
Number seven. Cross on the wall.
I wish you good luck.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
I whisper to the dark,
Because it's the shelter I need.
I stare at the sky,
Because it's the freedom I crave.
I close my eyes to the ocean,
Because it's the inconsistency I hate.
I glare at the shadows,
Because they're the emptiness I bear.
I cry to the dandelions,
Because they're the youth that I've lost.
I shout at the clouds,
Because they're the oppression I fear.
I laugh to the stars,
Because they're the mysteries unsolved.
I curse at wishbones,
Because they're the lies I recall.
I bargain to numbers,
Because they're the inevitable I resist.
I flinch at street corners,
Because they're the openness I lack.
I'm surrounded by thoughts,
And I wish I could see the world
With eyes untainted by life.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
1
I remember her body against me
She tells me she doesn't want to get hurt
That I will break her heart
You can break me like a wishbone
and keep the better half
Sharpen it like a prison shiv
and stab me with it if I do
2
She is the snow
I am a stove in a single room cabin
I have been cutting off parts of this home
and feeding them into my belly
There is sawdust
on the floor of my love
3
Most of this house is gone now
I am still a stove
she is still snow
We both think
this heat is a good idea
I keep burning
Call her iglu
Call her daring
Call me almost homeless
4
I have left the stove
I am a candle now
Slow burning
Call me always hot still
Call her always melting
The floor is always wet
5
I tried to trap the ocean
in a dresser drawer
But we were flooded roofless
I learned to hold my breath
She learned that warmth doesn't really change anything
There was the sun
and it heated her body
I bathed in the ocean
she made
a thin
near burnt candle
I sank down
Her heart was made of winning halves of wishbones
Sharpened like shivs
I did not go near them
I am not afraid of getting hurt
But I have always been taught
to respect the sea
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
I've spilled your name
and my feelings
on fallen lashes
and wishbones.
I've read 1950s
love letters and wondered
if we would've had
exchanged some
had we lived that time.
I've stayed up late
in air-conditioned rooms;
a ****** for midnight voice
between your broken smiles.
But boy, this isn't
a confession of how
enchanted I am of you.
This is just me realizing that
somehow,
you can make a dismal world
look a little less messed up;
god, you're beautiful for it.
This is just me realizing that
I can stay with you
for all the reasons
they left you for.
This is just me realizing that
I can fall for you,
so, so deep,
if allow myself.
and feel like I was falling to the clouds.
Boy, this isn't love,
but somehow, it's so much more.
This is a saving grace
wrapped in chipped nails
and stories that make you feel
more human.
This is a silver lining.
This is chance.
This is light,
This is hope
for damaged people
like us.
This is us —
surviving.
This is us —
living.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
Everyone wishes on stars,
but how would you feel if someone saw you falling
and made a wish.
using someones misfortune for a useless wish
because
lets face it
wishes don't come true.
you can wish on as many stars
11:11's
coins
eyelashes
dandelions
and wishbones
as you want
but those are just objects.
in the end
only you can do things for yourself
only you can grant your own wishes.
you cant rely on object to do it for you.
So go wish on your shooting star
see how far it gets you
pray for a bright future
off something that has no future
and has lost its light.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
I want to
Break off both pieces
Of that wishbone.
And yet,
I want to keep them
In place together,
Still holding them;
Shaking along with you.
My wish
Has already been
Granted anyway;
I’m just greedy.
Enough to see
Where this surreal night
Takes us as we sway,
Lest we be killed
By the trembling masses
That crushes all our moments.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 10:25 AM UTC
i've seen the wings of coughing angels,
bent, snapped off between fingers,
like wishbones.
i've blanketed them with burlap rags
of red and blue, so neatly stitched,
only to discover they were
bewitched
by men on ships.
and with death on his lips,
he laughed
at their ****** backs and spotted foreheads.
and he never bothered
to cover his tracks,
when sneaking into their beds.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
i have already
blown out the
birthday candles,
closed my eyes on
11:11
and whispered upon
shooting stars.
the dandelions
in my garden
are now gone
and for some
strange reason,
so are all the
four-leaf clovers.
and in the fountain,
you will find
all my change.
and i am
extremely confused
to why we
haven't both
fallen in love.
now not only are the
wishbones
broken,
but so
am
i.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
shooting stars
wishbones
dandelions
coin tosses
and birthday candles
I wish for you
friendship
love
happiness
kisses
forever & always
I wish you could see
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 3:27 PM UTC
i am a wishful thinker
i make wishes on bones
that are not necessarily wishbones
break me in two
and place a bet
on my better half
i'd try & come true
if you wanted
yeah, i can be selfless like that
but in my head,
i am so selfish
selfish enough to wanna share my bed
with you
you,
with the bright spark eyes
and the catherine wheel heart
i wanna make you dizzy
i'm not a firework
but give me a chance to explode
i'll show you all the colours under my skin
swim through my blue veins
and turn them white
with your library smile
climb to my highest tower
and breathe in my clouds
that doesn't make sense
i often don't make sense
i wanna make sense
out of every corner of your body
i want to wear your frame
like a tailored suit
'cause around you
my sunday best is wearing nothing at all
but your lips & my sheets
i often sing songs for you
into my pillowcase
in the middle of the night
this bed is the arena
of me & you
i'm often echoing in an empty room
but once in a while
i hear you knocking
on the door
i always
let
you
in.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
Never treat hearts like wishbones,
When it breaks,
Someone loses.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
sternum (n.)
a bone extending along the middle line of the ventral portion of the body consisting of a flat, narrow bone connected with the clavicles and the true ribs.
I remember taking an anatomy class in high school, we had to memorize the bones of the body - the skeletal system. Scapula, humerus, mandible all favorable to the tongue, but I never liked the word sternum, it sounds far too angry, nothing like the supple it actually is. Years later I would still find myself walking to work and naming them off. Bones on my mind. Tibia, ulna, femur, breastbone.
Breastbone rolls around my mouth, lulls my anxiety towards its twin like a boat in calm waters. I think of your breastbone as a platform to profess my fascination. I am surprisingly amazed every time I count the steady rhythm of your heart, it's sound conducted as though your breastbone is a soundboard. I feel the slight ridges of your ribs when my head lays in the valley of your chest. There's not a day that I wouldn't love to get lost in the formations of your bones, each crevice a new place to hide - lounging in the curve of your collar bone, plucking the muscles of your fingers like guitar strings, getting lost to the soft scent of skin, and memorizing the plush roundness of your ******* each sensation leaves me with a new obsession. I look for replicas in everyday life, the hunt almost as intoxicating as smoke from campfires, or plucking wishbones from hens.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
I will search for you in my little toy boxes
filled with old ancestors and sayings slipped from tongues, revealing stories of my birthmarks
I will search for you in the light
I will search for you in the dark
I will gentley remove my skin
in my mind you are so royal
so monarch
I will drink my water
all alone
I will light my candles
in the late night and imagine what would be the smell of your cologne
I will stare into the world at night until Im
****** and moonstoned
I will linger wax inbetween thigh bones
flirt tales with wishbones
until all the stars beg me to stop
uttering moans
I am beseeched in interlocking strangle
of submission to my loneliness
and waiting with a white transparent dress
on the bridge of london
hoping to see the dark eyes
that put light in the souls of the peasent in my
disabled heart, mused in desguise
should I sit here and speak the anecdotes
and the lies
of the littler girl inside of me
who everytime thinks of your dies
slower and slower
each time
the goodbyes
and the standbys
I reply
I have ran out of supplies
to fix my sunrise
and now I sit here in the absence of bright skies
life I see takes hold of the wise
but you see my lover
for you I shall be patient
I shall be humble
and I shall be kind.
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 10:40 PM UTC
So many opportunities for wishes,
11:11
shooting stars
birthday candles,
but here I sit
with you miles away,
so many wasted wishes,
throwing coins into fountains
breaking wishbones,
blowing dandelion seeds.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC