Silencio"¡Pero no dije nada!"Silencio3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
TeeterWhen I wake,Teeter2 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
among the stars,
on the brink
between dreams and reality.
It’s so easy
to see through the
between waking life...
and the power of Imagination,
that same other world
in a sea of dreams.
It's The Distance, I Think.It was sitting on our kitchen counter-It's The Distance, I Think.4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Brown glazed and curved, like her-
Perched next to the microwave.
I thought it would best hold
Her spatula and my two bamboo spoons.
She filled it with yellow tulips and
Pink carnations and hydrangea blossoms and
Told me to "Get your own spoon vase"
With bells in her voice and
Her cheeks dimpled and her eyes crinkled,
And I wrapped my arms around her waist and
Punished her back-sass by tickling her ribs until
We were a jumbled mess, strewn
Across the tile floor- with flushed cheeks and
Not a worry in the world.
These days, the curved brown jar
Sits next to my stove top and
Holds my two bamboo spoons,
Three of my own spatulas and a metal whisk.
The tiles have been replaced with hardwood
And my eyes never crinkle
And I can't remember the way hydrangeas smell.
MomentsRemember that time we sat on the bench together, waiting for the bus? You were quiet, like you always were, and I thought nothing of it. But then you turned to me, an unreadable look in your eyes, and you asked me what I liked most about life. I just stared at you, unsure how to answer. You seemed to take my silence as something bad.Moments1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
“Never mind,” You mumbled. “It was a stupid question.”
“No, no.” I hurried to assure you. “I was just thinking. What I like best about life would probably be all the little moments that happen that end up meaning so much and all the people you meet along the way.” I shrugged and you hummed, turning back to face forward.
You didn’t come to the bus stop the next day.
Remember that hot summer day, the one when it was too hot to even think? I was complaining about how much I was sweating, and you were, as usual, responding with noncommittal noises. The bus was running late that day, and I was cursing every
it's no longer worth a thousand wordsi took down the pictures; every lastit's no longer worth a thousand words7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
they reminded me too much of the
shapes of my eyes three years
ago, and the way your shoulders
slumped in defeat when you realized the flash was on,
they reminded me of the books
stacked in towers around our heads, tilting
softly in summer sunlight
drifting through hazy shades of dust, left to pile into
mountains by morning from curious
fingers and a night owl's
they reminded me of yesterday
and ten yesterdays ago and how
they would never happen again. how even though
we smiled freeze-frame, it never lasted.
everyone wants to think they will
keep themselves forever, and seeing perfect pictures of pretty lives
lost years ago
made me realize: nothing is.
that was the hardest part.
so i took down the pictures, every last
and sent them
down to ashes in a
shoebox that didn't burn as
easily as i'd thought it would.
i would love to say i'm sorry, but -
VI I. Today I am Vanilla teaVI1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
on balmy days when the air is still
fresh with the scent of cicadas
and mown grass baked in the sun
clippings stuck to your feet as you
the difference between poets and practical mena practical manthe difference between poets and practical men1 year ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
feels rain and hurries indoors.
a poet gives pause
to see waves surging throughout
oceans in every raindrop.
macrocosmici.macrocosmic9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
i have a theory
that the size
of the universe
is measured in
so small that it
became big again
thus we are all
and each other
and our expanses
when we touch
and the universe
every nebula or
a star was re-
that wasn't nothing
or a nothing
lately the hole
in my chest
so i will observe
and wait for
a bleak space imploding
stark ribs contracting
is this a refraction
of some light unsourced
or bouts of redacting
doubts interacting with stellar patterns
unquell our orbital shackling. we're asking
seas to stay churning while ashes keep spurning
our totems over
in certain collapse
i'm a supernova
letters on leaving.i wrote my first suicide letter in 10th grade.letters on leaving.10 months ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
they told me it didn't count if you felt like dying
unless you had it down on paper
like a vetoed birth certificate.
i've rewritten it enough times since
to realize i could never leave with a proper goodbye.
goodbye is too heavy a word for paper to hold
and i was never brave enough for the kind of courage it takes to tell them
why they weren't enough to keep me here.
but i'm finally learning a different kind of bravery-
the kind it takes to
i learned to wear death
like rope burn my junior year
my senior year we became friends
but i finally stopped cutting the insides of wrists
when i finally realized death never arrives on time,
i started smoking when i turned 18
to speed his arrival
because somedays, 15 less earth rotations around the sun sounds like a blessing.
2 years later I'm still learning to let the self destructive habits go
I stopped smoking again
threw the knife away and closed the toilet lid.
Sans regrets: Part II"I miss you."Sans regrets: Part II3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Message not sent.
CurtainThe rich old man was going to die. Somehow, he knew. It was as if the silk curtains floating in from the summer breeze had whispered this secret into his ear, a billowing angel. Sunlight streamed into the room, lighting the dusty interior with golden rays, but the old man's vision was failing, and he could only see the blurriest of shapes.Curtain2 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
“Please,...” he whispered. “Please, someone...”
A figure slipped into the room.
“Oh, good. Good. Please, come sit with me.”
The figure came and sat, guiding a chair to the bedside with precise movements.
“Listen to me, please. I think I'm going to die very soon. I just wanted someone to talk to. I haven't had anyone to talk to for months.” The old man tried to gesture with a sallow, bony arm. “When you're as old as I am, you'll want someone to talk to, too. I've had my to tell for years, but no-one to talk to.”
The figure gazed down at the old man with cold eyes.
“I remember when I was
Sans regrets"I love you."Sans regrets3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Message not received
look at the mirror and fall in love at first sightgive yourself a flowerlook at the mirror and fall in love at first sight6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and wear your favorite
sit in a nice, quiet
little coffee shop
and meet yourself
with that first sip
and a smile.
in the afternoon,
walk to the nearest park
and hold your hands
as if in a prayer
like a lover's dream,
be sweet to yourself
let the kid with the waffle cone
and his mother
stare at you for 45 seconds
while you feed the birds
hang those insecurities
by the door
or tuck them away
in your cabinets
just take them off
pick a hot red dress
and buy yourself
a drink for two
mirror at one end
of the table
and your love
at the other.
Monsanto CafeHe looked up from his chemistry notes to see her staring at him intently from across the table. She sat with her hands clasped around a cup of dandelion tea, eyebrows furrowed and lips frowning bright red over the white china rim.Monsanto Cafe1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
“Do you ever stop and think,” she said, slowly and purposefully, “that you could have been a binder?”
He looked down at the binder in his hands. She’d been staring at his notes, not at him. “Sorry, what?” he said, slightly annoyed.
“Just think. Your body is made of billions of atoms. What was the probability those exact atoms would come together to make you?”
“Your point being?”
She sipped pensively at her tea. “Well, what if something had happened? The chances those atoms would get like this –” she jabbed a finger at him “– right here, right now, were amazingly small. One mishap and they could have become anything else. You could have been a dog, an asteroi
Before GretelI'm alone and hungry.Before Gretel3 months ago in Fantasy More Like This
The ground is coated in dead leaves, sodden from last night's rainfall and cutting at my bare heels as I stumble on. All I can think of is food. Hot cocoa and warm pies, roast duck-
A mirage appears. It must be a mirage and not a house made of food. The walls are gingerbread, the window frames are laced with icing sugar and the path beneath my feet is made of sugar cane.
In a daze I break off a piece of the door. It opens.
“Come inside dearie, I’ve been meaning to make dinner.”
No Definition NeededI read a book that reminded me of you,No Definition Needed5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
of all the complicated words you used to use,
how definitions fled your mind but synonyms were so profuse.
I read a thesaurus and every word was you.
The Old God, Savitrॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं ।The Old God, Savitr4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि, धीयो यो न: प्रचोदयात् ।।
The wind blew sand into your nonchalant soul,
and your heart coughed. I entered the circle
at night, and I was consumed by fire. I did not
know of you then. I have fractured myself into
a thousand souls: but they are all whole, for I did
see you in my absence. Yet you? - you
were sailing, and your head was
full of water light.
I was significant when your mother poured out water
in a copper pot from a balcony; water, which
caught and held the moon, and then spilled over
with a quiet radiance. You wondered whether
the moon l
on begging to be yourselfI don't want to die. I've never wanted to die, not even when I curled into an apostrophe and muttered the half-wish to the walls of my flesh.on begging to be yourself9 months ago in Emotional More Like This
All I've ever wanted is a word. I want a word for the ache between my xylophone ribs that doesn't make my loved ones shudder with misinterpretation and distrust of my volatile heart; I want a word to encompass the missing parts that I cannot remember the names of; I want a word that will explain to people that it's okay that I'm not whole, because not-whole doesn't always equate to being broken.
I can tell you that my heart aches the way a blade of grass bends in a summer storm, my skin feels like drying watercolours on pavement and I can feel the highway of my veins inside my flesh, but I can't tell you that I have the word I need. I don't have it, but my knees are puckered from prayer that someone out there does and that one day they'll press poetry into my ears and share it with me like a secret.
I don't want to die. All I want is to be allowe
Discourse with the DevilI offered Satan a piggy-back ride today. So up he hopped, and away we went for a walk, and I asked him all the questions I could think of. For how cruel is it to burden the Heavens with all my queries? There must be someone else to talk to.Discourse with the Devil1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I speak with the Devil. He's bound to have some interesting stories.
I ask, “What is love?”
And he says “The blood of roses and thorns.”
I ask, “Why is the sky blue?”
And he says “Because its sadness is infinite.”
I ask “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
And he says “The crosswalk was painted only in its mind.”
I continue to walk. He continues to cling.
For his unbearable heat and flame, I find him an easy package to sport. And the weight isn't noticed under the cool of the trees.
“Why are the shadows cast from the sunlight?”
“Because the darkness needs a place to play.”
“Is there a plan for me?”
“What does your calender say?
Brushing Up Against HistoryNovember 1963Brushing Up Against History4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I'm eight years old and sitting in class (I strangely recall that my seat was in the middle of second row, on the side away from the window), when the principal comes in to tell us that the president has been shot.
I do not know
what it means, but I know
that it scares me.
My mother meets Senator Robert F. Kennedy while he is campaigning in San Francisco and gets his autograph. I live with my father in a small town in Michigan, where every year leading up to Memorial Day, I sell paper poppies for the VFW.
blood of soldiers on the field
war has come home
I watch the news and see the body count, arranged like a scorecard. The numbers say we are winning, but one of those numbers is from our town, the only casualty that week. I don't know him, but I see his picture on the cover of Life Magazine.
I turn 17 the next month
and try to join the Marine Corp
my father will not sign
As a small-town b
A ClicheI wish I could sing you a love songA Cliche3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
about roses and stars and the rain
but I couldn't sing like the blackbird in spring
so I think I will simply refrain.
I wish I could tell you a story
about beauty and trust and my heart
but all I could say's what they say every day
So I don't even know where to start.
I wish I could write you a poem
'bout the birds and the bees and my bed
but all I would write's being said every night
So I wrote you a cliche instead.
Am I Wrong?Am I Wrong?Am I Wrong?2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I’m always wrong
In everything I do
I am wrong
Every little action
Each though I make
All my words spoken
Why do I feel like this
I can’t know why
Some deep meaning
I will never know
But I’m always wrong
For things I never have done
To people I never knew
In place I will never go
People try to save me
But my soul has fractured
Into millions of tiny pieces
And I can’t be rebuilt
I need to free myself
Break the cycle
I hate this pain and longing
Is it possible?
Is it possible,
That I am wrong,
About being wrong?