Archive | Poems RSS for this section

if…

Dear Gentle Sir,

When I say your name, my heart rumbles
much like a lion roars when it knows it’s right.
If only we could know the future, we might roar more.

xo

if freckles were lovely, and day was night
and measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie
life would be delight
but things couldn’t go right
for in such a sad plight
i wouldn’t be i

if earth was heaven and now was hence
and past was present and false was true
there might be some sense
but I’d be in suspense
for on such a pretense
you wouldn’t be you.

if fear was plucky, and globes were square
and dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
things would seem fair
yet they’d all despair
for if here was there
we wouldn’t be we.

— e.e cummings —

the final frontier…

I drank her silence
like liquor
and it destroyed
me the same,
but I fell for all of her,
hopelessly and endlessly.
My soul will always be liftedthe-final-frontier
when she walks into the room
and my blood will always dance
when her breath
passes through me.

— Christopher Poindexter —

a brave and startling truth…

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
that in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living,
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness,
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
and the proud back is glad to bend.
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction,
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines.

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear.

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it…

   — Maya Angelou —

frida kahlo to marty mcconnell…

leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.

— Marty McConnell —

 

we walk a fine line…

Without meaning to,
he’s disarmed me,
with kisses that soothe
and alarm me.
In arms that terrify
and calm me.

we walk a fine line

— Lang Leav —

SinfulSunday

the best preparation…

You don’t need to be inspired to write a poem.
You need to reach down and touch the thing
that’s boiling inside of you
and make it somehow useful.

— Audre Lorde —

tinderbox…

tinderbox

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sky is full of stars.
Just looking at you ignites me.

 

good bones…

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

— Maggie Smith —

vantage point…

vantage pointSimplify your need:
undress for me
even when I’m not there.
Touch yourself
with the same ardour
and caress that satisfies
itself on my soft roundness.
Pull your hard certainty out
in those moments of echo
that fear you may never
watch me cum again.
Such acts are a most complex
release into the Unknown
of what Completes us.
Like a cloud upstaging the moon,
memory shields us
in order to illuminate the point.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox

Join other followers:

%d bloggers like this: