She was beautiful.
Golden hair flowing in the breeze,
Full red lips,
long, slender legs.
She wound him around her finger like a ribbon.
Toyed with him.
Always hanging over his head the words
"someday we can be together. But not today".
But beautiful is not a trait that can only be found in one girl.
He found someone else soon enough.
Someone who was willing to confess her love for him
someone with a great, warm smile and
he loves making her laugh.
Just like he loves the little hearts she doodles on
his sketchbook when he gives it to her.
His new girl isn't as beautiful as she was, at least, not in the conventional way.
She doesn't get what he sees in her.
Beautiful toes? Read more »
I wish in another life that I would change
going from this
school girl who does everything right
to someone who is
a risk taker
maybe a slight troublemaker
and see what that life would be like.
To be that girl who got invited to after parties
but would be responsible enough
to never get fully drunk.
To have a boyfriend or girlfriend like everyone my age
and know what its like to be with someone and not trapped in a cage.
To crush on the right people who aren't
deceiving Read more »
His fingers move up and down, shaping me, dancing upon my flesh. I rest where he's propped me up, staring into his dark eyes squinted in concentration. Soon, I will be done. Soon, the deadline will come. Soon, I will be on display, saving his name in the memories of thousands as an artist, a genius- a sculptor.
The tips of his fingers are chalky and dry, covered in the clay used to make me. I suppose I should feel embarassed, if only a little, to watch him create me and ruin himself, but I love it. I love how he'll work through the nights when the deadline closes in, love how he'll work his long thin fingers until the skin is cracked in ways mine cannot, and he moans of old age in the early mornings. To me, it is a show of his love, his dedication, to me and his career. And at the moment, his career is solely me.
He's finished smoothing out my arm, and now he's leaning back to check the position, the size, to wonder how noticeable the imprints of his fingers are. Too much? Or just enough to show the rough texture of skin? After a moment, he nods and sidles up to me, gliding those hands up my shoulders, around my neck, down my back. If I had a heart, it would be beating. Hard and fast. Beating so warm it would burn him just by touching it. I can almost feel this. Almost... But not quite.
My artist mumbles when he's stressed. I don't know if it's practice for bad social skills, or common reassurances, but today I hear something significant. "She's due tomorrow... "
You once told me, "The heart is a dangerous and fickle place,
it's best to keep your guard up for a while, even when falling in love".
But what you never told me is how when I'm falling
over heels and the motion doesn't stop and I
can't find the brakes
and stopping becomes an afterthought when
I'm lost in the momentum.
And I just can't stop and we're
falling into motion and
I can't stop,
I can't stop.
And you told me to stay vigilant but you never
said of what Read more »
You love lies and the sinful promise.
You will crown the night with your betrayal.
So begins a lust for blood and a cry for the evil within.
Dark hands reach for you and pull you into the deadly depths below.
Crumbling to the evil in your heart, and when your wings begin to fail you, you will fall to your death my dark angel.
~Who is your fallen angel?~
It's those little moments,
like forgetting the flowers at the hotel,
or opening that music box that sings so sweetly
It's the weather,
it's too hot,
and your life is muggy enough these
and God could you just give me a break?
You’ve been gluing these little pieces
back together here;
your hands are sticky,
but the pieces don’t stay put long enough
for the glue to dry.
It’s those little things, Read more »
The wrinkles on his face
whispered about the good times,
about his first love and his last,
all the late night calls and dinner dates.
They laughed about the tractor races
that left him in the mud
his calloused hands run slowly along his jaw
as a scar recalled a fight for respect
and how all he gained was a bloody towel.
A lesson on how friends always coincides with foolishness...
but they convinced him he didn't want it any other way.
His fingers danced across the lines in his arms
trying to remember the steps to a salsa
he once wooed the ladies with.
They gossiped with his cheeks about
face slaps and lip stick kisses,
never knowing which would come first
They teased about the arm wrestling match were he lost all of his money
and the high fives he always missed
they shared the story of the first time he shared a cigarette
and the pack he threw away
They spilled about the secrets he kept,
that even though he is laying on starched sheets
it will never take away from
the wrinkles on his face
In an interesting twist
My story has changed
Once upon a time
There was a girl
A lost one
She took up a pencil
Instead of a sword
Because the word is mightier
(That's what they said, anyway)
And until now
That was all she needed
Words and pens and the smell of paper
Were her only companionsRead more »
There’s no room for glass in here –
only the labeled shears to shorten
the ribs, the bellows
for the cavernous lungs, and the towering
dumbbells larger than I that I
to lift sometimes.
No room, not ever,
lest the blood be drawn
out from the woodwork.
I have welded the hinges to the muscle
of the mind— Read more »
It's rainy, that misty sort of haze that never really falls hard but always manages to soak you through anyway. That, combined with the cold of the early November morning is enough to drive most sane souls inside.
But the cat sits stubbornly on the doorstep, scrawny, old and a figure so painfully pitiful to look at that in fact he's become almost invisible. His tattered eyes glower up at the gray sky, and his lopsided fur and whiskers twitch, irritated. The broken down stoop he rests percariously on is mildew covered, and looks as though its about to collapse. It's sort of fitting though, because what rises up beyond it is as old as the cat. Broken windows, with spidery cracks webbing through the grimy glass make a sort of lopsided grin across the front of the shingled house. The grime is so dominant that its hard to tell this old farmhouse was ever called cozy.
The door creaks open with a tired squeak, and out steps an old man with patched up clothes, a flannel cap, and a hand carved cane. He gives the cat a nudge, with his weather beaten boot, and tells it heartlessly to go home. But the cat doesn't move, and so the man mumbles angrily and continues on his way down the steps. He hobbles on down the winding dirt road until he's completely lost from sight. The cat glares. Read more »
*So this poem sort of came out of an important emotional revelation that I had so I felt it deserved an explanation. It sort of starts with a story that I need to tell backwards. At the end of this day I was at a party, and near the end of it the scene had wound down and we were all on a porch trying to convince this girl that she was pretty. However, she wouldn't believe us. She kept regailing us with the tragedies of her life and how she was overweight and so on. It took all of our energy to convince her that that wasn't true and we still failed. This sort of made me feel terrible, because I know way too many people like that. So many people go through their life without anyone reminding them that they are amazing, wonderful and beautiful people. Ironically just before this party I was talking to a friend of mine who was trying to convince me that I was an amazing person. He said, that for every person, there is someone else who thinks they are beautiful. (That's the shortened PG version of what he actually said.) Now, I'm the kind of person who hates looking at somone who is broken up. People don't realize what kind of an impact they have on eachother sometimes. So in short, this little rant of mine is sort of all the things that went into this poem.
When I was young I was naive
I used to believe
That peace could be achieved
By some form of community
Of people who were willing to see
That they had more power than previously conceived
That we could get what we need if we took it Read more »
She's beautiful in her:
doe eyes surprise
perfumes of honey fumes
kiss away mistakes
string of pearls
late night talks
i love you's.
I don’t know what I was expecting to be in that room. I only had a theory because I had no idea what could possibly be so important that it had to be kept a secret from everyone. I expected whatever was in the room to be related to the moon, stars and universe. I only thought that because of the door. Why put a door with the moon and stars outside of something that came from deep within the Earth. Read more »
She carries a black umbrella.
She wanders into every dark alleyway,
falls on every pebble,
steps on every piece of broken glass.
She was born unlucky,
she will always be unlucky.
He always wears a blue shirt and a smile
and she doesn't know how but somehow he makes even the darkest shade of blue look bright.
Like the stars in the sky and
he was born lucky.
He's never felt pain in his life.
He stumbles into every welcoming doorway
and it seems to her that
everyone feels the same way about him.
She wishes that somehow she could meet him and
he would love her and share his
lucky life. Read more »
The heart of a flower, cupped in her palm, so
delicate, so lovely. Pink and red, smeared
Across his arms and blended together.
The sun's tears kissed him softly, as
not to knock away a single petal.
She swept him into her arms, shielding him from
the cold, from the winter snow.
Then spring came, and she opened
her arms. The flower reached up
and tossed his head to the sky.
He drank in the sunlight, the warmth,
and it healed his weary bones.
The wind tickled his face, and he Read more »
your bruises look
like wildflowers to me:
blooming beneath the skin,
painfully alive, but
confined to where they sprouted in.
just like you.
just like quitting a bad habit and
picking up a worse one,
just like falling in love with a girl
and cheating on her with heroin. Read more »
[simon says jump.]
would it surprise you
to know, i
wonder, that when
my mind wanders from Read more »
What if all your life you’ve only ever known one thing? What would happen if you had to leave all that? Would you be happy for a change? Or would you cry your heart out for the familiar sites? Those are the questions that have raced through my mind for the last day. I had never even thought about these things until I made one mistake.
I was curious.
I looked into a room where no one was allowed. Forbidden to even the highest of authorities. No one knew what was behind the oak doors. The doors with beautiful carvings of the moon and stars that made people stop and admire them. The Moon Trance it was called, but no one thought or even cared about what was behind those grand doors. I had always been curious about them though. I would sit for hours and admire the carvings and think about what could possibly be on the other side and why no one was allowed to see it. Read more »
His rough hands slide over smooth cherry wood,
freshly sanded to sooth his sore finger pads.
Callouses on his pumping fingers glide the blade
through the wood grasped firmly in fingers of another hand;
a hand with two band rings stacked
He takes his blade and impales the surface,
digging his trench in red.
His heart stabbed,
arteries severed; Read more »
I've lost this war.
If you only knew the blueprints I have carefully layed out in my mind.
Pure evil some outsiders might say. Looking closely maybe the judges would see a complex victory hidden beneath.
I had this plan laid out from the start, from the day you befriended her.
Never did I think I would have to let this battle begin. Never did I expect you to fall in love with her.
It started when you thought she was pretty. This initiated my thoughts on how to get you to fall away from her, instead towards you.
I should have acted sooner.
Maybe then this war wouldn't have begun.
I can close my eyes and see the white cursive written across the blue grid, describing how to make you fall for me.
Describing how to make you stop talking to her. What I would do to make you love me, if I could. But I don't like to force things.
I am a wallflower usually. Observing snippets of conversations, body language, and everything in between.
I had to force this. I couldn't hurt myself anymore, watching you love her more and more.
When you said you loved her I couldn't help but feel warm tears pour down my rejected cheeks.
I initiated this battle.
Jealousy, stealing, a few lies, a devised plan all to ruin what you had. Shocking that all I said was truth, she held the jealousy, stealing, and lies on her palms. I just had the plans ready to reveal this secret she hid from you. Read more »
She was an outsider.
She wasn't nessicarily hated,
But she wasn't known.
No one knew the sound of her voice
or the sweet melody of her footsteps.
He met her late one night.
Perhaps it was boredom that brought them together,
perhaps it was fate.
She didn't know.
All she knew was that his words sounded like
the song of an angel and his Read more »
Inspired by Shai Wosner's performance of Franz Schubert's Sonata in B-flat Major, D. 960, first movement. Performed at the 2013 Lake Champlain Chamber Music Festival.
I felt the first drop of rain—
it landed, gently, gracefully
on my outstretched hand,
prelude to what I knew would come.
I felt the first roll of thunder
shiver through my bones,
distant as yet.
The leaves tossed slowly around me
as the clouds came,
and I watched the last golden stream
as it glinted off the mountainside.
I heard the hush as the rain began,
a whisper in my ear
like the return of a lover,
before giving way to the inevitable
roar of the deluge.
I can still smell the flowers,
carried on the rain like a gift,
even as I lower my hand
and turn to go.
Inspired by Gilles Vonsattel's performance of Fanz Liszt's "Les Jeux d'Eau à la Villa d'Este", heard at the 2013 Lake Champlain Chamber Music Festival.
in the water
and in the ebony.
Ripples flutter and bend,
curves shorten and lengthen,
and trilling fountains,
ordered yet free,
warm light glancing
off the crystalline
in the water
and the ebony.
I remember every day
She looked out the window
Waiting for you to come home
From your turn at being brave,
And I stood idly by and watched her child's hands
Pressed to the glass,
She waiting for the best and I,
Waiting for the worst.
I remember the way we told the postman,
And the grocer,
And the neighbors
To come knock at the back door when they came.
It's what you told us to do,Read more »
You were a good mama, Sandra, even if you weren't a mama at all.
See, my first memory is of you, cutting off the rotten pieces of potatoes before chopping them up to boil. We had mashed potatoes near every night when I was young. They was cheap to make; only milk, potatoes, and salt. Also, it was just about all you could make worth eating. I think, on Tuesdays you would put a little something special in them, seeing as how it was your payday. We had peas, usually, sometimes carrots, even bacon once. I'll bet looking back on it, you missed out on lunch for a few days for that treat.
I know I was too young to remember our first year alone, but you used to tell me about it all the time. You said that when we were alone, it was the first time we were ever really together. You weren't lonely no more. Read more »
This is probably the most I've ever gone back to a poem, and I think I'm finally happy with it! Third time around revising this, but as always, I'd love to hear what you guys think! Thanks for reading!
Find me a gown topped with the crooked tree’s lullabies
Put me in satin from the most divine dreams of the skies,
Sew on ruby-red roses and dreamy dark nights,
Use the finest green hills and the rolling blue tides,
Bring me the robin-egg ribbon from far-off lands,
And a bouquet of sea stars from the coast’s soft sands.
Measure me in iambic parameters and tempos, rhythms and rhymes,
Use a rhapsody of gold, decorative connotations and styles, Read more »