It hunts me on salty days
and stings the wild flesh of memory,
insisting upon my negligence,
my lack of love for wild coconuts and
sleeping iguanas crept up upon by
the cautious feet of nostalgia.
The days of shell seeking
between rocks are
now by villas and resorts,
creeping down the hillside like love-vine,
choking the ocean of its play.
We went there, you and I,
on sandaled Sundays full of wind,
and discovered South America
on our wavy coast,
the trash of a far away continent
a treasure to sand dusted conquerors.
I should have tried to hold on,
to that feeling of cool, sweet delight
when after sun and s
I saw a man walking down a road
in Winston-Salem, North Carolina with
block-letter packages, an M on one side,
the wind pushing him back and forward as
he struggled up to the Post Office. I held
in my lap my diabetes diet, which my doctor told me
was a good way to lose weight, and
I saw this man walking towards me, dressed in
mismatched scrubs and a walking-jacket, packages
clutched to his chest, mouth open, sixty-eight years
of misery running down his cheeks, howling
back into the uncaring wind, one stumbling foot
in front of the next, wife gone, children far away,
alone, alone, no one to hold him
against the wind, no one to l
in early morning stillness,
a slow tremble
across your bare back
hunched over coffee,
to a penultimate shudder
and then the stretching
of sleep out of arms,
as I throw little arms
around your neck
My feet are carcasses that sweat and swim within
The saccharine stars of my shoes, cloying constellation skin,
Upon the bales, stacked roof-high, of gathered hay
Beside the stinking stalls where horses bray
Whinnying and whining in the air, hot and low
Velvet skin, mindless eyes like oily marbles and pale
Eyelashes caught on their hooded windowsills like snow
The beasts complain at the covey of harps that pluck and flail
Like crystal hearts inside melting lozenges, each note
Is stained-glass-coloured as it begins to float
Reverberating as it matures, upward the songs sheet
Projecting past my perch in the boorish bales, where ecstat
The tip-tap of my soft-soled shoes
seems stentorian to my timid ears
as I skip a step to try to stop a
issued from the sunken staircase.
The rustle of my silk suit
across still tapestries,
sticking out, staining the walls;
sickly timbre of timber sinking into my eyes
as I skip a step smartly,
kicking a stair,
seizing the banister,
staring into the solid dark
to see what startled Stalinist
comes to shatter the silence
with a slap and a
of a slammed door.
The sea boils. It spoils – unusable, shameful – burn, burn
Beneath a red-black sky. The stars are clear-cut and bright
Quite expressionless in that rough rouge night, pale and stern
Suspended on string for they have never learnt true flight
While the sky behind, velvet or rose-petals, so cold,
Spreads its long arms white and wide, wrists, finger-lengths unfold
Like the porcelain limbs of a limp and precious doll
Upon themselves. Reflected in slim strips on sea-brine
Utter roughness, dead-leaf-texture, so unlike that fine,
Soft countenance that stretches overhead. A swan swims
Doggedly across the air above, no ease within
I made myself a soft stream-bank bed
Of cress and chess and bulrushes,
Between an ancient willow-tree
And where the blushing salmon blushes.
Between my knees and under my bones
I put down roots and dreamt and wept;
I spoke in Polish and you spoke in German
And we cried with frustration and curled up and slept.
But all implications I studiously
Forgot and filled up with shyness,
Instead I read and thought like Socrates
And drowned myself in bromus secalinus.
When the sunrise spoke at last,
It spoke in ancient fairy tongue,
And washed me free of vestiges
Of my cerebral iron lung.
I shed tears, awaiting the stream
To rise and wa
come, tell tales of flying shoes
we could paint with our words
about chocolate stained kisses
and we can capture our clumsy thumbs
let's wake up our dreams
build floating crystal castles
out of creamy velvet and snow
we could wage war with butterflies
or we could watch how the dust bunnies dance
come my darling, chase flying dandelions with me again
On Taking My Wife on a Date after a Ten-Month Hiatus
Your hand melts comfortably into mine
And I steal a breath full of your perfumed lotion.
It’s good to get away from the baby,
Only for a little while (of course).
The memories evoked from such a simple act—
Breathing in your essence—
It’s as if your scent takes me back in time.
See the newlyweds? The pretty redhead,
Hair the color of fire, and the skinny guy she’s with.
Years and more, back I drift
Until an innocent question from your present self
Snatches me back from nostalgia’s seductive embrace.
“Did you say something?” you ask me.
OMG OMG OMG. *HYPERVENTILATING*
i am so incredibly wonderfully ecstatically overjoyed! i couldn't believe it at first...
I JUST WON FIRST PRIZE IN THE MOSMAN WRITING COMPETITION!!!!!!
*DANCING IN CIRCLES AROUND MY HEAD*
I RARELY SHOUT MY TRIUMPHS TO THE WORLD. SEEING AS THERE AREN'T THAT MANY OF THEM. BUT THIS IS A PRETTY GOOD OPPORTUNITY, NO?
:heart: :heart: :heart: :heart:
noun 1. crown
ok so there arent that many nouns that rhyme with noun. but crown is pretty good. this poem, although i didn't realise it at the time, is actually the best one i have ever read. i am not exaggerating or lying or being overly praise-ful. (i know that is not a word.)
Leda and the Swan
i didn't have permission from the poet to plug, but too bad. and maybe it isn't much, seeing as i haven't actually read all that much poetry, but whatever.
noun 2. slow-down
yes i know it isn't a noun. i've driven about 5 hours now, yaaaay
noun 3. clown
that's me, when i drive.