would you dare spill who you honestly are to a person you just met online?
a woman tries online love-hunting without deceptive tactics.
quiet time today which doesn't come often,
if love were food, what would it be for you?
you can tell that i like incorporating food in my poems. i might as well make a collection of food poems.
you can never really care for someone else if you cannot even begin to care for yourself.
i guess i'm way past chocolate-boy, not that i'm underestimating teen love. given my age, i'm more impressed to men who can whip up a dinner.
am not a sweet tooth.
i hope august will love me,
which of your old dreams have come true? which ones haven't?
surely, we have a bunch of dreams but how to get there is a blur for most of us.
i hope in the end, life turns out to be a sweet surprise!
here's a toast to all of us dreamers,
apathy, would you say it is a widespread human condition?
(a description is half as hard to do as writing poems.)
here it goes: when a person is ill, say he's been coughing, he goes to a doctor for medical attention. but what if he has heart problems, the kind that science cannot fix, where does he go? i imagine this strange (heart) doctor talking to someone who has lost the capacity to love or appreciate anything or anyone. i imagine this doctor literally seeing cuts and bruises on a heart that's been lied to, left disappointed, taken for granted too many times.
| how do you deal with loss? do you sometimes feel that when you're blue, nature's lonely too?|
this poem is about a fourth grade student's concept of death: that death means a person (or a pet) is never coming back.
bright clouds ahead,
do you worry that no one else appreciates your art? or that it might never mean anything to anyone else because it's poorly done?
criticisms and certain structures could discourage anyone to write. pebbles are everywhere and so are poems. however, a writer goes on writing even when she's not sure why or for whom she's writing. it's bittersweet because she still expects some acknowledgement, a bit of recognition or a sign.
the insecurities of being a writer...
so, let's keep writing and dreaming, ok?
can you imagine yourself not being able to have some quiet time? generally speaking, writers i think need alone time.
she loves washday... it's her saturday ritual.
i haven't posted anything new for april and may.
here's my first offering in two months,
| i hope she likes it. this is my second poem for her which has taken a long time to materialize. |
have you written a poem for your best friend? share me a link, okay?
koko acts on impulse
koko has a muffin heart
koko dreams a lot
koko loves , yakiniku & katy perry
|the old dreams is a self-published book. i am not confident that these 30 poems are well-written but they are nonetheless special to me because they are the only things left from the diaries i burned years ago. they are mementos from my younger days. thank you for dropping by, for reading and for leaving comments. |
if i had to pick three personal favorites, i'd choose:
still,"i want grandchildren."still, by ~startledintoreality
that car ride ruined some things
threw a wine bottle at the wall
15 years sitting
it was good enough or
it wasn't good enough
all the silence forced
my pride to jump out the window
if any rested in her
she showed it off like a speech bubble
tied it to her teeth
slammed it in the door
had it under her pillow for months
and years and years and years
there was no statement
there was no outstretched hand
just steering wheel clenching
knuckles white and jaw taut
(all because who i bed was not her mindful of
i still think i'm a tumor
she shows it off like a speeding ticket
Lucidityi.Lucidity by *archelyxs
I am a natural lucid dreamer. When I was sick,
I dreamed away whole strings of days that burst
with causal power, as if the sun, shining past
my silted eyelids, had spilled a home behind them.
You watched how well I played that girl:
high heels, sparkle eyes,
sitting on his work desk with my lips curled,
legs crossed, booze at needle length
beneath my skin expelling floral tones,
I pretended to fall asleep on top of his blankets
so I had access to my concave nest,
a place without his hands on my stomach, no,
and without his mouth on my shoulder.
Now I am not even here
and he doesn't know, not at all.
Pillow MemoriesPillow Memories by ~Sandstar12
May 9th 2006
People always told me death was a numbing experience, that I wouldn’t feel the pain for quite some time. It has already been three weeks, four days, and twenty-one hours, and they were wrong. I felt the loss of you that very second in the dreary hospital room. You were barely conscious, but Robert and I talked your way into a private room. Small, and unnaturally white, but I know you preferred the privacy over the bustle of the wards – cheery blue-gowned nurses, and the sickly aroma of flowers hurriedly purchased from the hospital shop by hoards of reluctant relatives.
thanks for the inspiration! i couldn't get enough of all your talents. wish i were half as good. i am new here, am still finding my way around, am in the process of figuring out what to do... but let me start by admiring your pieces of art!
here's to waking up happy,
contracted forms...................................contracted forms by ~cristinewakesuphappy
funny, you missed the apostrophe.
© september 13, 2012 :house:
crumblingbreakfast time, crumbling startscrumbling by ~cristinewakesuphappy
and whilst having dinner, it falls apart.
some time between french toast and steak,
some time between latte and wine.
she stays in bed, he takes the couch.
when was it they last made love?
must be moons ago...
© september 12, 2012 :house:
stage threebrush off the accident.stage three by ~cristinewakesuphappy
saw her teeth
what could it
in your left breast.
cancer doesn't run
in the family,
and god won't let it.
eat, sleep, get up,
delay the checkup:
(the lump is a morsel,
six months later
grew the size
of a golf ball
and turns out
(not the benign cyst
you have hoped
you are in a trance.
she ages every momentwhereshe ages every moment by ~cristinewakesuphappy
the laugh lines
the hand mirror
warts spawning warts
around the eyes.
bar next street
via blinking lights
behind the curtains
it is tea night
she quits dating.
she quits dancing.
she quits investing.
she quits chasing.
she is knitting,
that may never...
add the years
before her menopause,
the folds in her tummy,
premature arthritis attacks
and memory gaps.
sleep takes over
and she could use some;
she reaches out
for stuffed bears
and rides those pony dreams.
"The old dreams were good dreams; they didn't work out but I'm glad I had them."
- Robert James Waller, The Bridges of Madison County
Hugging PillowsPillow-hugging is not just pillow-hugging if you're dreaming about someone you care about the most -
when the arms are finally warm for once and fit so perfectly around you.
Dark, flowing hair tickles your collarbone and feels like water against your cheeks.
The quiet words spoken are breath-taking and beautiful.
Before red lips comfortingly kiss your forehead,
you wake and realize that a pillow is truly only just a pillow - a lacking pillow -
and the words never exchanged were merely the sound of birds, of leaves, of the unforgiving wind
hollowing out - carving - in your body an empty hole the size of your heart.
Twisted LogicI think about a girl - any girl.
She would be pretty because she was with you.
Don't you realize that if you were with someone wonderful,
she would be what you thought was pretty?
Or if she was shameful, any shameful girl would be pretty?
As long as she was with you, she would be beautiful
and if you loved her, she would be perfect.
You didn't choose me, o kind sir, because I'm not very pretty.
The DarkI don't think I could let you go even if the world depended on it.
I was living this reality as if I've been asleep for a decade.
How much longer must I have slept before I met Prince Charming?
Because I cannot sleep while he's searching for me.
I drown in dreams and only remember
waking up with your name scattered throughout my room.
Where do you go to at night when you can't sleep?
I wonder this as I confide to the moon.
Sitting on the roof, I match the stars.
They have lovers, too, should they not?
My shadow agrees, stretched out against tiles.
Other times my shadow isn't there,
replaced by look-likes reassuring me of the oppos
MoviesWhen people think of the movies,
they recall buying tickets,
waiting in line for popcorn,
slipping into the theaters
during the movie starts,
two seats center row,
the low vibration of noise.
Now it is unfinished popcorn,
one straw to share between the soda,
an empty box of candy,
clenching and unclenching hands,
a tissue for a sniffle,
his laughter like sparkles,
a quick run to the bathroom,
his charming, sleeping face,
sometimes yelling during the credits,
even more credits,
after the credits .
I can only remember how
76. Summer HazeI made our dream castle out of sand as we shared cream soda from the same can.
It was more than the carbonate that made butterflies in my stomach.
And when you led me to the shore, the waves greeted us halfway,
painting our toes like buckets of spilled paint.
Your grinned and said sand dollars were the currency of merpeople.
That's when you turned to me and ask what I'd buy with merpeople money.
My cheeks flushed the color of red coral.
What was I supposed to say?
You laughed at my answer for I couldn't buy you in the sea,
but you knew what I meant.
Your fingers, like seaweed that clung to my legs, tangled in my hair.
If you are a
It wasn't the same as throwing away an old couch.
We didn't peek around the curtains every hour,
half expecting to see someone lifting it into their
truck bed secretly hoping it was still on the curb
Stillness was in the air because the house knew
something was missing. Something is always going
to be missing. We can manage buy more things. I know
we are lonely consumers. The more the merrier.
Make the walls happy. Spring for the surround sound.
Maybe I won't hear your permanent laughter
resonate from the kitchen. Haunting.
I want to know what the spider was thinking
as it crawled across my IPod.
LosingThe thing is, I lose everything.
I've misplaced all the
things I own at least twice.
No thing is safe
it all slips between the threads
rough stitched fabric
of my universe.
A few weeks ago,
a pair of rose colored
They must have scampered away
from my bedside table
as I slept.
and yesterday too my class ring,
with dragon insignia
carved into its metal side,
lost so many times
I've just stopped looking.
It always turns up again
like a hungry cat.
Long ago I bid farewell
to a book of poetry
by Billy Collins,
each page dressed
in a suit of marginalia
To shoreI think back to pulling your hair
from your face,
sticky strands in nut brown,
your lips like the frothy head
in a pint glass,
You cried in bed, neck twisted
like a giraffe looking
for the opposite side of a baobab tree,
and I told you that you were beautiful
even though no one
thought so, anymore.
It didn't matter then whether
I was holding your
greasy heart in my hands,
or my own,
they were the same fragments,
wracked with guilt and
weak sutures in their stems.
We lay in your bed for five minutes
before you choked
on your own salt water seasoning,
blew your nose into the whi
Static Smudges and Smears
The newspaper is illegible:
Crop circle smudges from heaven,
Or maybe sieved through the soul's portcullises
Forever closed off to the dangers of the world;
So, instead, I trace the fault lines in
Broken mirrors plagued with fingerprints,
A desperate attempt to read and
Ascertain the present and
But cannot s
SleepPerhaps it's the pressing consciousness
that across the world
people are at work and school
and walking sad with worry
Did people sleep
before they had to think of that?
Or perhaps it's the dreams
the ones you hate or hate to wake from
that don't offer their portents
as long as you are staring at the screen
or the printed page
or the windshield.
Or maybe there's a part that thinks
if you can just push the night clock round
Dare yourself not to close your eyes
like the everyday sun-wakers
To walk yourself through morning and beyond
the world will have to change somehow.
And the next time you give in
you will wake to someth
sorryundead undone unloved,
all of these words hold
little value to me
fifteen months and little to show for it
i am just as fierce as ever and you are
just as passionless. i used to love you
for your passion and now that it is gone,
i love a shell
if you have ever loved a shell,
you will understand that every
thing you put in it dies.
stefanshe stood on your dock
in black pearls,
and nothing more -
and the asian dream.
you loved her
when the snow fell
on the dock,
the following winter
Ingenueshe lives off petrichor.
sometimes she'll spend her lonesome days watching the soft spell of rain
reach the depths of cyclic whispers and paradoxical breaths, lost behind her sleepless eyes.
she laughs at gravity.
sometimes she'll notice how the broken inertia of her body is nothing but a reflection of
the chemistry given between her grief and the afterglow of beautified language.
sometimes she'll break the bullets caught in her teeth and mould the tired fragments into something worth loving.
Harvest MoonYou remind me of the harvest moon
tugging the shore from beneath my feet, of
rowing out to sea in winter with empty nets
till spring, of catching every breath
in crystals on the same forgotten docks,
Where gravity knots my tendons into rope,
my teeth into chalk and ash, and my eyes
into searchlights scanning the horizon
for the first ship that leads to you.
The KingOn the way home, you're shaking next to me.
You're crying, and you're scared.
On the way home, you're pushing up against me.
You're sniffling, and you can't stop.
On the way home, you won't look out the window.
You're hiding your face in my back, and you're shutting it out.
On the way home, you eventually fall asleep.
You're snoring, and your soft breaths are soothing.
I'm glad you've found some peace.
When we get home, you're sort of confused.
You're scared, but you're happier.
You like everyone so much.
After we've been home for a while, you're content.
But you're still so small.
You're so c
ChairFor years you praised my good posture;
my comfortable soul, my simple elegance.
You needed me when she was born,
to hold your heart so you could relax
if only for a moment.
I watched her grow; fit snugly in your arm
as you within mine.
I was a jungle gym, in constant need
of professional upholstering
which I never received; yet I didn't complain.
My limbs wore slowly, until eventual break;
but I was ever-present. I could not budge
until I was beyond repair.
I was but a chair.
the living is easya tin man, white sheep rolled in dust
wears a grin, swisher sweets clinging
to his lip. he swirls seagrams 7 in a cracked
lowball, painting the side of my grandmother's
house with one eye closed & the other
laughing. he cannot speak the language
so i stare at him instead, his penny
loafers, his peeling skin, his snowy hair.
so i stare at his photograph on
the fireplace, wondering how anyone
who loved my great grandmother so well
could have died before i was born.
The DollA doll sat in a corner of a young girl's room. She reflected upon how she had come to this point in time.
Born in a factory with countless other twins. Sent off to a shop, waiting to be sold. Yanked off the shelf the next day by a child with sticky-candy-fingers. Bitten by the household's pets, food spilled on her. Forgotten in a closet. Sold in a garage sale. Losing fingers, toes, her left eye, her mouth glued shut and pried open, the loss of her entire left leg. Somehow finding new owners every few years. Hair melted, curled, straightened, pulled off, replaced in gaudy colours. Countless new faces given and taken away according to the whim
Girl Disappearing Funny thing is, maybe I'm as bad as her when it comes to just knowing things, sometimes. At least, knowing how she operates. Shauna Mull and I hadn't been face-to-face in over two years, and I still knew exactly how to break into her apartment.
Chicago was moving behind me as I clambered up the stairs, half-stumbling a bit from the exhaustion of it all. Travel-sick and sleep-deprived. Maybe heartsore. The dark wood of the steps was slightly damp and smelled of mildew, and the dull thumping of my boots as I climbed was too loud in the weird and half-suspended dawn before rush hour. There was the soft sound of traffic, down below, and papers
Testament of a BlossomThe phrase had made her hate flowers.
Her grandmother, after two glasses of liquid courage, had "the talk" with her when she was eleven, but only because her mother too wrapped up in the suffocating neediness or dominance of the next, potential, step-father-to-be to do it herself.
"You're blossoming into a young woman now, Sophie." That's how her grandmother had started that eye-rolling, stomach-dropping monologue. Sophie felt trapped by age, trapped in this life by her mother, and trapped by her grandmother's orientation into her impending adulthood. The thought of a flower blossoming in the sun made her fume.
She had been Daddy's little girl, but Daddy had gone and she wasn't little anymore. But, she was short and stocky like Daddy. Though she had no fat or paunch, the changes wrought upon her by her "blooming" had left her feeling rounder and wider. Tyler Messner had called her an "Roly-Poly Oompah-Loompah" one day in eighth grade when she
Twenty Minutes to LiveThere was so little time left.
Penny knew that there was almost no time left, and that was the beauty of it. She could hear the people outside; the panicking, screaming people. Shattering glass and gunshots rang out every so often, often accompanied by a chorus of audible pain or rage. The news was still broadcasting on most of the radios, she knew, although it was mostly just re-run stories at this point. Even a news reporter wouldn't stay at work when there was so little time left. The news wasn't on here though, and Penny felt at ease with that. She had heard the reports, the rumors, the street preachers and the governmental confirmations
Loving an old oak treeShe twirled about the meadow, wearing a blue dress to match the sky. Running with her, was a boy in new suede shoes, who laughed as he tried to catch her.
"Come on! Wait up," Cole shouted, running through the crowds of daisies and to a huge oak tree.
"I told ya! I'm faster than any of you boys!" Claire laughed, as she was sitting at the base of the tree, with a few flowers in her pudgy hands.
"Yeah, yeah. I let you win." Cole said coolly, rubbing his neck, "You just remember that."
Claire giggled, "Sure. Here, sit next to me." She said, in a chirpy tone, patting the ground beside her.
Cole glanced at her ocean eyes, maple lips, her terra
The Old ManThe old man's wife passed away a few days ago.
He wouldn't like me writing it that waya fan of George Carlin, the thought of 'soft words' tended to make him cringe; he would have preferred 'died' or 'shuffled off her mortal coil.' He said that second one plenty. Every few years now one of his friends shuffles off their mortal coil, and he always says it that way when he finds their name in the obituary. 'I guess Mavis shuffled off her mortal coil. A shame. She had the most wonderful rack as a young woman. Would've married her if I hadn't met Julia.'
The old man wasn't exactly politically correct. Come to think of it, he was a bit of
Grandma Rose's Story: OneOral Tradition
She told this story one day while she did beadwork and a few of her grandchildren played nearby. She remembered her own grandmother, the one who raised her as a little girl. She talked about a time many years ago, the last time she saw her grandmother.
"My grandmother lived on a place where she had a barn and grain holders and chickens and horses. She used to let me help her take care of the chickens. The horses roamed out to pasture, coming in sometimes for hay she always had ready for them. She and I lived there together. My older cousin, a young man then, stayed w
If Doves Could WhisperThe dove stared at the man with her sorrowful, curious eyes. She watched as he walked each day from the bedroom to the kitchen. He would put the kettle on to boil and set a teabag in the small cup, now browned with ghosts of tea long past. His journey would take him to the bathroom, where he would prepare for the morning and then back to the tiny kitchen, always just as the tinny whistle was reaching an adolescent whine. Once he had poured his tea, he would carry the cup with him to the table and sit down. The teacup was always set into the same place, marked by a tea-stained circle and the beginnings of a worn groove. He would read the newsp
Tale 2: Worlds in the AtticHe was very old by now. His long, white hair, uncut for fifteen years, was loosely spread all over the back of his coat. His shoulders were brought forward by age, his fingers weren't as deft as they had been. If there was one thing he was very happy for, it was that when he had started, he had used the higher shelves first. It meant he didn't have to climb steep, uncertain ladders all the time now.
There were hundreds, thousands of jars and bottles and little tin boxes neatly stacked on the shelves, hung from the ceiling by thin chains or ropes, some small and precious glass containers brought together by ropes hanging from the ceiling like
the little things in life.i.
the cemetery architects had never planned to place a bench within the premises. they surmised that those who came to visit would not wish to dwell long in the company of ashes. however, the builders consented to procure one to appease the masses, assuming its only use would be a remedy to tired feet. after the stone slab was put in place in the uppermost corner of the grounds, it never crossed their minds again.
he came alone, wearing his usual plaid coat and bowler. tipping his hat to his brow, he greeted passersby with a crinkle of his left eye. (most ignored him as they made their way to their next destination.) in fact, few noti