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,
Oregon rainI didn't think I was a runner,
but here I am, dodging trees and bees
and strangers commenting on my capris,
my crazy hair bobbing in the air,
unlike everybody else.
I thought there would be pillow castles,
made-up professions and adventures in the dark.
I wanted time to yield to being.
Instead we are measuring hills against ourselves,
searing hands and knees on hot afternoon tarmac,
racing through burning forest paths in the twilight
only to get lost again and again, constantly
patching up our crumbling world,
living on the very tips of our toes
unlike everything expected.
Then I stopped thinking, simply
enjoying my very first Twinkie in the actual, pouring rain.
It tasted exactly as I imagined.
Not almost, but spot on.
Unlike everything else.
Searchedsearched for you in all the hidden places
between webs and grass
in the spaces where light meets dark
and the horizon kisses the setting sun.
searched for you in every language
called out every name I knew you by.
to no avail.
you were waiting
for me to find you
in a place you'd always been--
inside of me.
transition--ingi am -- transition:
lingering here --
feelings i can't seem
let me burn,
light up the midday sky
driving in the middle
of the road
when i'm alone:
i'm told, defined:
getting -- sorted -- out.
i am -- transition:
GlassAt some point,
I stopped making eye contact.
I'm not sure how it happened
or why. I'm not sure if it's
some reflection of my
latent insecurities or
undeserved superiorities or
But I am sure that
I miss the fleeting connection
on trains, buses, and sidewalks.
I miss the shape and color and
glint of golden gleam that used
to strike out across crowds at me.
My mother, my best friend, my lover -
what mysteries do I miss? What
is hidden in their second glances and
I don't know because, at some point,
I stopped making eye contact,
even with the girl in the mirror.
My Husband Tried To Make Love To Memy husband
tried to make love to me
he was topaz, he was
grim, he was the chalk
and smoky fire
of fear and gnawed-at
he was the bright face of fruit.
he was horrible and strange. he stared,
licked and rolled me in his palms
like a cigarette, wordlessly
dragged me from my grassy bed
by the bones in my legs and
pinned me down in that darkly
smiling, jagged place where
he put his hands on me and dragged
the crushed moans from my chest
made me yell
like a dog
and oh how frightened
and in awe i was of his caverns,
his black and rolling eyes
how his pomegranates bled
and trickled, bitter
lessYour phone bills are smaller now,
with no long distance calls to make,
and your car insurance reduced to reflect lower mileage
and all those journeys not made, those roads not taken,
those lanes that you know like the back of your hand -
Left, right, straight ahead, right, right -
are no longer driven. You did not see the bluebells wake
and spring burst forth in the countryside,
did not see the snow on the fields, cold horses in their
quilted coats pawing, nibbling, pawing.
Christmas stamps still tucked in your wallet,
and fountain pens dried up next to watermarked
John Lewis writing paper
with no letters left to write.
Weekends stretch out, lunchbreak is a blank and you have more time
but you have less.
i don't remember how i first came across his writing.thetaoofchaos
today, i would like to share the beautiful experience
of reading some of my favourite poems from his gallery.
he leaves me infinitely in awe and just dumbfounded.
it's a special time to be quiet.
beingof all things
be in wonderment
LateMauling the concrete in that sorrowful Nova
hesitant blue like an old mad eye
shivering in a steel trap.
Gerry Rafferty and the Bee Gees
left toiling in gelatin
on a long drive at night.
Somewhere between Garland and oblivion
we make it home. Mother makes
boiled eggs and butter
just before bed.
PromiseI thought I was a prodigal man.
It doesn't matter.
The sun holds true.
Perhaps, I am a priest of thieves,
redeemed in some cautery.
The air, still bountiful and sweet.
However life inlays my debtors,
and I have laid them, after,
I will leave an opening
I took offMy day off.
I stand in sunlight
I can watch it being day.
The mud is soft and cool at home.
I'd bury well without a casket,
I’ll be a naked pill for earth.
I build a garden box from wood,
smash my thumb.
too late for lettuce.
I had a premonition
I would live like this.
No one will remember me.
I’ll forget by Tuesday.
DivorceBefore that day,
Sunday mornings had never occurred to me.
I must have slept through their every summons:
I never knew the time sensitive ritual of finding matching socks,
forcing “nice” shoes over misshapen toes,
the silent pact we would share with the warm cushions of the divan
waiting for Mother to ready us, memories that settle in the guts
like a madstone, which I could then pull out of my old cadaver
to save myself in the next life.
There were a few moments. Like that time, in the garage,
basking in Father’s sunrise sorcery as he fired his magic timing light
into the fluttering lungs of an engine, or when he let me aim
the water at his bucket, poorly, while he carved something
otherworldly into stubborn dirt.
I held nothing near of Sundays, nothing sacred, nothing dreaded,
save for the occasional shameful confusion
I would coax from my belly with dogged chimes
of christmas bells haranguing the church congregation
with their infernal sequence, hanging like nervou
egothe willow is a gorgeous idiot.
she does not fathom why her feathers
vault to the grass
like gouges in a green fount.
do not praise my derelictions
and unpracticed mourning,
the angle of my slump.
i have given in to gravity
and furious flights
but even so,
my envy has a blossom
and a leaf
and i may seem to wave you in
though, i am barely present,
bitter sap in a blind pillar
and i do not deserve to feel
the distant murmur of your affection.
if i hadn't had the drunk luck to meet youi’d have married every bedside witch from here to east dallas
i’d have glistened like a worm to their mescaline psalms
i’d have mired in sinuous wineskin, repentant spectra
i’d Om along in cooing groups, babble with freethinkers
all my endeavors would be gas station derelicts
all of my wrongs would be quasi-continuous
even the over-sought moon would protest
and i wouldn’t recognize one half of the universe