December 2010
54 posts
“I like all the wrong things … Y’know, Gossip Girl, Davina, Dick Van...”
– Karen (Skins)
Virgin Snow
A virgin snow falls
Outside, far far away
From my bedroom
Where we lie
Warmer than anything.
“And all the stars were crashing ‘round
As I laid eyes on what I’d...”
– The Decemberists
Hand-Me-Down Creche
A small coalition of rotting wood
Collapses on the estatic step father
The eerily painted shepherd and his flock
The serene lovely mother all covered in blue
And a little child.
And atoms of hastily glued straw and false snow
Float from the debris
As Gloria finishes her song.
Snow
Fat, watery flakes
Fall outside
Lackadaisical.
A more steady solid snow
Falls inside
While he screams.
“But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your...”
– William Butler Yeats
“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the...”
– Roald Dahl
A wee
tumblog remodel here. A result from a nice lil all-nighter.
Seashells
Like an ugly little rock
In the sand
I have found you
You sit on my windowsill now
A darling disgrace
To my seashell collection
I Cannot Stress This Enough
With words like a multitude of sheep
Winding around me
I am no more than a dog
Nudging them into a half right order
3 tags
Perfect
Pefect is a mixture
of cold chinese food
and you
Creepy
Is it the teeth
White and straight and…
perhaps pointed
beneath a smile that opens too wide?
Or the eyes, glassy and pale
Looking past me
Into the pillow beneath my head?
anhelos asked: i really, really like your poetry. i'm glad i've found your tumblog. you use words so slightly, and it's all beautiful. :)
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your...”
– Hamlet
Wintry Night
The wind pops against my window
Like bullets
Tom Sawyer
The ketchup and grease stains
Amongst the pages of Tom Sawyer
Sing of my love affair
With french fries
And a summer bursting to the seams
With not enough time.
Book Circle
The book melds my hands together
Binding me together in one circle of self
All flesh and paper and blood and ink
I rudely awake to the outside world
Where reality is less real
Wonderland
it’s draining
this wonderland
my bones ache
with gaudy perfection
and it hurts to be
i scream but there is only music
only ever music
my legs are weak
i cannot run, yet i panic
i need the ugly and the crude
but it’s only ever music
“Logic will get you from A-Z, imagination will get you everywhere.”
– Albert Einstein
Gypsy Wagon
Let me live in a gypsy wagon
With a cat and a little wooden goddess
Let me adorn myself in necklaces
Too impractical for life
And cast a net wide over the world
Meh.
I almost wrote you a scathing letter;
Detailing your numerous stupidities
And the counts on which you fustrated me.
I then scrapped it
Knowing you would only use it for fuel in your path for complete and total
self-pity.
And so composed a ranting mess to my good friend;
Asleep, ever so far away.
Again, enumerating my fustrations and the things about you that made me panic and fret in...
The Writer as a Lepidopterist
I realize I have pinned
A flitting papillion-moment
To my poetic cork board
And immensely proud of myself
I let it go again
A little brighter then it was.
Snack
Blackberries, generously smattered with honey
And sprinkled with walnuts, chased with a cup of milk
All black and gold and brown and white
Much like the colors of heaven, I think.
More on Madonnas and Why I Like Them
The majority of Madonna and Child portraits and idols/icons were made in a time where emotion and family life in art and literature was mostly non-existent. But the popularity of these kinds of paintings gave a caveat for expression and maternal and family love to be portrayed in a guise of a more acceptable religious topic of art. Even in Byzantinian mosaics, the majority of which are stiff and...
“My candle burns at both ends. It will not last the night, but ah my foes and oh...”
– Roald Dahl
Curious
It is a rather curious situation
As a child I delighted in watching the moon follow me home
And now it is I who follows her.
She sheds her clothes
Like a cumbersome second skin
Reveling in her freshness
10 tags
Locusts
My aunty calls us her own personal plague, penitence for the “days of her youth”. We never did get to know what that entailed. We devour her food and money away, she says, as well as her mind and soul. Like my dear Moses’ very own Locusts! She’s fond of exclaiming. She likes to refer to biblical figures as if they were relations. “My darling Mary.” “That...
Losing My Mind
It’s easy
to comfortably
lose one’s mind.
As comfortable as
a fat chair with a fire
and an ugly cat.
“A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose...”
– Roald Dahl
Fighter Girl
Listen to her warrior cries
The little fighter girl with tears in her eyes
Look at the hands balled into fists
No one’s at home to make her feel missed
Scrapes her knees as she falls in the mud
Innocent face, crusted in blood
Never again, she screams and cries
As the last brother-warrior dies
Something really, really old for you.
To Cassidy or My, haven't we changed?
The days were blurry-happy
Skin as mosquito feasts
Singed in the summer sun.
Backyard discoveries
The stuff of epic legends
In little minds.
Clumsy fence-hopping
Ghost-watching
Cat-hunting.
Concoctions congealing in the fridge
Stolen cold cuts absconded with.
In a tiny fish bowl
That resembled the world.
With semi-secret pockets of green
heaven.
Of Swimming Pools and Summer
The run from the pool
Across burning white hot black asphault
On a sweaty August day
Amid giggles and yelps
Burned our feet.
Rushing into the freezing
Central Air
Of Grandmother’s house
Our watery bodies dripping pools
Over hardwood floors.
Wet-sticky bathing suit skins shed
In cramped half-baths.
Embracing the warm hug of real clothes
And the cool...
Ode to A Modern Day Hestia
The ancient fire has been extinguished
But your lullaby
Is in the clanking of the pipes
Your priestesses that tended your fire
Now men
Are gas meter readers
Rather than maidens
Your love
Seeps from radiators
And heats glossy hotel rooms
Your name
Is heard in the clicking of a stove
And the fires that remain
Dance and leap
Singing your memory
A Fall Day
The country singer
Warbles on the radio
And the trees blush from my attentions
Wrinkling like the rain
Or so many unwanted first drafts
The wind runs through the gaps
In the screen window
To greet me.