disenchantmentyou kissed medisenchantment by cristinewakesuphappy
and i floated for days.
tiny wings were
ripping my spine open,
longing for flight.
the lip-lock was like
pressing your mouth
against the rim of a coffee cup:
you didn't think more of it.
in a year, i tongued a guy
not of your stature.
not my taste.
my wings pulled back,
© June 14, 2015
meme: alternate selfies:iconcuteappleplz::iconbaconplz:meme: alternate selfies by cristinewakesuphappy
well, i am someone who takes photos of the food i cook before i eat them. typically, i also photograph things and moments that cheer me up and i have gigabytes of proof accumulating in my hard drive. so when i saw this meme, i said this is perfect! i just needed to put some details together and gather the courage to post them. the rest is fun and easy.
what's the story behind it?
"You can tell a lot about a person by what they write, but there are lots of other ways to get an idea of who they are. What they wear; what they read; what their room looks like; what posters they hang on their walls; what they keep in their bedside drawer. If you're like me, bored with answering the same questions, then feel free to jump in and show your watchers who you are in a different way. "
- words from SilverInkblot, the meme's creator
:iconconfusedplz: now, what do we do?
grandmothershe died in 1990,grandmother by cristinewakesuphappy
a stern lady
who had worn her hair in a bun.
she was from old farm days,
when one didn't care for caprice,
and didn't object routine.
as if to ward off danger,
she'd spray vinegar
on frightful stormy nights.1
people came to her because she knew
what those wax formations on water meant:
what caused recurring fever, which prayer could work.2
a town cook, 3
Ina4 could whip up a feast
and make me forget my name.
she was lady-steel until the morning when
her firstborn didn't rise from sleep 5
and so she refused to be and no longer laughed.
and with all her wisdom, i felt
she had no words for sorrow.
© May 29, 2015
for sending this to me. it's pretty and i will frame it.
i don't know how else to express my gratitude.
just grateful for the thoughtfulness and generosity.
keepsakes i cherish:
the old dreams, 1992-2010, poems and short stories
# babystars, 2011-2015, poems
08.29.13: gyrate for them, greta
04.27.14: handmade love
11.17.13: canapés (link)
02.10.14: i missed the train. (link)
05.11.15: are you prayerful? (link)
i do allow myself
the luxury of dreaming
life will be more than just getting by;
my art could take me somewhere nice;
i'll tend my own garden or farm
and live in my own house baking and decorating
and enjoying the quiet.
and i will wake up happy (with you).
God bless us all always,
The WandererI walk upon the dead of night
I sink between the dew-rid leaves
I lay amongst the thistled grove
And sleep beneath the twinkling eaves
I drink the dripping warmth of life
I eat the cold, abandoned sea
I live in love of caring friends
I die amongst repulsive thieves
I have much nothing all at once
I am rich beyond my muttled dreams
I want who cannot be possessed
My desire starved become too lean
I am what is and cannot be
A failed success of reaching near
I find I cannot grasp what's mine
Cradled and coated by fickle fear
So I walk the road without an end
On rubble-strewn lives and broken souls
Trying to find the one like I
Who lives the journey of wand'ring alone.
No Oaks StandOld brick-and-iron brewery, borders invaded
by brushes of fennel, by wildgrass
home to shipping containers,
to refrigerated units, fans spinning
only when the southerlies blow
the wildgrass doesn't mind
my father worked here
my father died here
and the grasses grow on, grow tall
as the brewery sinks, and the wind whistles
I pray for strong roots and liquid head,
I pray to become the grass
A Forest at MorningI dreamed of trees. Bright boughs and blooms
Through gloom and morning spilled
While I brushed back their silver leaves
That sunlit skies had filled
With gilded wash--the vermeil sight
Above the dusky bark
Seemed starry trains above the moon
And night's enclosing dark
And I stepped under such a sky:
New-formed, bejeweled, and bright
And wished I could forever dwell
Within its dim half-light.
There nothing stirred; no beast or bird
Dwelt in the forest there
Though I heard silent rivers trill
Still wand'ring swift and fair
Through banks embraced by cattail roots;
Through drooping willow leaves
That rustled in the water's rush
Bereft of any breeze.
Oh, I stepped under such a sky
Composed of darkling boughs
Flushed with the swell of morning leaves
All silver-gold endowed
'Till awe forestalled my reaching foot
And stilled the step, half-made--
And oh! to breathe seemed mortal sin
As if each sound betrayed
Whatever heaven I had found.
But when I breathed at last
And put my foot upon the grou
talking to myselfhow many
times have i lost my way
trying to remember?
i seem to be
dancing on eggshells
in summer heat
and i keep forgetting
to go home at night
to build new worlds
in my dreams.
i'm galaxies away
i want to be
and i just keep
talking to myself
talking to myself
Another Poem on InsecurityMy knobbly, milky knees hide
from an adolescent summer sun.
I wish I were a naiad,
brown, crawling from the surf.
If I can just bask myself golden brown
to perfection, perhaps my delicate pink
will shrivel up and die.
The sun where it touches my legs smells
of baking grass, makes my hairs
stand electrically on end.
The sunshine will lift up all my dead cells,
my hangnails and split ends,
and by the sunkissed-brown
that I will not obtain
from a bottled elixir
snatched from store shelves -
by it I will be purified
The SuitcaseThe sunlight turned the chapel windows white.
The cemetery was rankly overgrown,
Thick vines had covered nearly every stone;
Dense leaves of ivy shimmered in the light.
Thin cracks of age were trying to rewrite
Each epitaph. The honey-sounding drone
Of engorged flies had soon become the lone
Sound in the afternoon. Then I caught sight
Behind a tombstone of a stained suitcase;
It leaned against the grave, quite unforgiving.
Red canvas, ordinary enough. No trace
Of rubbish near it, just a small misgiving
At how I am so ready to embrace
That such a place is home to someone living.
distortionsthe night I met you was the night of emergence
and when I awoke at dawn you were beside me trembling,
trembling at the tired spectacular:
the blessed universal
trembling at the blithe parodic
of our sacred accidental
trembling at the sole lachrymose word,
the gentle aubade of this beautiful cycle,
trembling with the earth, your own green firmament,
consciousness an angelic hypnosis: what a show
in springtime and in fear of death
you were beside me trembling at being essential
and I could barely contain my laughter
TideShe stands on the seabed
eyes dancing the waterline.
She sings in bubbles and waves
but I only hear the shore.
I dig my heels so deep in the sand.
Tried to swim, but I breathe only air.
This is where I was meant to stand,
and wait for the pull of the Moon.
Carrion Tallow I
I pluck feathers from a felled sky,
tie them to the ends of my hair
to remind myself of all the innocent days
that lie suspended in cardboard boxes
because mothers can't bear to throw them away.
I pluck feathers from a felled sky,
deftly thread the wings of an angel fallen
to tie my awareness to a bird -
recalling 'bunny ear'd loops
held by my father's impossibly large hands
for his son to watch and learn -
pulled through the eye of golden hair laces.
I will not repeat myself, no.
We are above such litany:
the 'you's and the 'I's straining
to comprehend muttered refraining;
the 'we's are we, the you and the me,
but, you see, we follow a higher power -
towering over religious babel -
while they swallow patriarchal liturgy,
rabble bigotry promoting
we drink droughts differently,
sip the blood of grapes civilly.
Yes, we are above such litany,
no, I will not repeat myself.
So let us flee; trust in tomorrow to be,
leave today for the banks to seize
with Greek bonds, face saving,
and arms waving "No guns!" -
But what does Greece truly know
about Democracy? - slave morality
sees streets paved by daughters
The sound of my breathing,
a heaving of waves against a desolate rock,
punctuates the morning light -
an island entire of itself -
churning proud stone into an ocean of sand.
She peers tentatively through
jagged crag shades half-lidded with
broken eyelash window panes
collecting house fly delusions
as they tap against a glass illusion of freedom
(window? or ceiling?)
A rhythmic tap-tap-taping
that only a mother can love
enough to smother.
I had placed those shades to keep
Penumbra A halo of cast light
praying for form
to grace its embrace,
I, an hourglass mind
waiting for time
to pass me by and by.
I, mourner of perished days,
I live in silence - I live in bliss
- to be in this world, but not of it.
L'exil et le Royaume: Les MuetsThere is a fire in your eye and a light in your heart,
And the whole world is an infinitely vast ocean
Fluctuating and beating to the pulls of the sky;
The whole world is an ocean of speckled epitaphs
and this, my friend, is ours.
Atlas may stay the sky, but we have always carried its tears.
We stand on the crest of this world balanced by silver thread,
Our hands laden with breaking reflections and queer visages,
Our wells and canals overflowing, lapping at our heels as strays.
We kneel as cripples and consume ourselves to become an idea,
An idea before a temple so precious, we turned our backs on love;
The topless spires like the fingers of some tame yet carnal monster
Clutching as if to cling to the surface tension of rising inundation.
We were created to paradigm,
I was never a writer. I: Halfsleeper
I fell in love, once.
A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract:
diluted coffee. A dark room filled with language
so beautiful, I almost understood what was said.
Children are getting younger, and this land has no end,
where do you rest your head?
All things are in a constant state of vibration,
a harmony in the space between
our fingers. our hands.
I’ve only ever stopped to listen
Alive Like Dirt-
Winter vanished, a dream
Minutes after having woken;
The imprint and the lines
Still crisscrossing the edges
Of thought, retreating at my
Touch. It was important.
Though, I've lost it now.
Am reeling now.
I reached out, five distinct
Points forming a living symbol.
Catching the last flakes of snow
Between my forefinger
Like an angel thread seed.
I looked at my hands once,
At the neolithic lay lines
Carved in the clay
Static Smudges and Smears
The newspaper is illegible:
serif crop circle smudges from heaven;
A reassurance hangover sprawled at every threshold,
- from stoop to stoop to stoop -
loosely clutching an ink well
addiction leaking out the brown sleeve
that guards the contents like a whistle-blower
from the eyes of the guilty,
and of the innocent.
Nothing Has Changed'
I trace my days away,
fault lines in broken mirrors
and fingerprint moths,
a desperate attempt to discover
...or maybe the present.
Carmalain7 is one of the deviants (i look up to) whom i included in
(30) handpicked: i support #ProjectPortfolio.
i found his poem Static and knew by instinct, it's a gorgeous read.
though i won't claim to understand his philosophical musings,
his writings will provoke my thoughts and keep those who read them captivated.