(no subject)
I feel guilty spamming my other flist with too many poems at once.
To look out the window one autumn morning
Red loves blue.
It's no surprise:
she knows they look good together
And red - well, she is vain.
Blue longs to dress in the sky:
to borrow the colours from the clouds
because the way they drift carelessly looks warm,
while longing looks lonesomely at the wind
jealous of the places it visits.
Jealousy nearly burns the toast as she makes breakfast
because she forgot about the stove
when she wondered if orange tasted better than green,
even as orange waited anxiously at her doorstep,
scuffing his sneakers against the frame,
afraid that his hair was out of place,
and this was what red saw,
when she looked out her window on an autumn morning
and wondered if she loved orange
after all.
Standing in the snow one december day
I tasted truth today.
I didn't expect it, to be honest.
I thought it might be bitter,
or maybe even a little sweet.
Someone said once that truth was salty
but I think they were talking about tears.
No, I tasted truth today
and maybe, it was just a little sour.
Entrance exams
The doors were large
as she stood in front of them
winter wind digging deep below her scarf
attacking her unshielded fingers
that she had forgotten to hide
because the doors were large.
Maybe she was scared,
or nervous,
or afraid.
That she didn't know enough
that she wasn't good enough
that she couldn't do enough.
The doors were large
and closed.
While voices murmured around her
like the yaps of small dogs
or maybe sparrows.
The doors were large
and slowly
they were opened.
Imminence
There is a tightness in my stomach
No, not my stomach - but in the nameless place
that rests between my stomach
and the small of my back
somewhere below my sternum
and the end of my ribs.
Yes, there is a tightness there
as I turn my steps resolutely onward
although I suppose that behind me
there is a tightness in his stomach
as he asks me for spare change.
Sunset, December 9th, 5:20 PM
Somewhere above the horizon
the brown houses and the white roofs
is a streak of pale orange
peach
and dried blood.
The streetlamps match the orange
flourscent
neon
but almost nearly the same -
Except for the third one from the left
which blinks a baleful green.
Until the taller twin on the glass clock
inches past the V
and the lonely colour flickers to the same peachy orange.
But already,
the clouds have darkened
and the blood has leached away
leaving behind
nothing.
Long Distance
"Will you be able to sleep tonight?"
you ask me over the phone.
Sure, I laugh as I tell you
It's not like I'm scared of the dark.
"I know you're not,"
you tell me,
and I can hear the exasperation in your voice
I assure you that I'll be fine
Although, you're right -
because I'm not scared of the dark
but I'm still scared of being alone.
Entreaties of a physics student
Christmas cards are littered across the table
the sparkles from the polar bears
brush off on sheaves of neat lined papers
covered in some laborious scrawl
of numbers
and letters
and the truths of the world.
(There is much to do,
you told me once
as you set down graphite on blank lines.
You said that there is too much to do
and that there is never enough.)
The light that blankets you;
One of those new fangled bulbs,
all twisted in a spiral
that never seems to end.
While the pen seems to have fallen out of your hands
drawing its own
Terminating spiral.
Maybe I am old
and find that there is always too much
Time
and never enough to do
but instead with your childhood blanket
I replace this hackneyed light.
(and in the morning you will scold me
and ask me why I did not wake you
and I will smile and ask you
if you would not like to come with me to Forever)
To look out the window one autumn morning
Red loves blue.
It's no surprise:
she knows they look good together
And red - well, she is vain.
Blue longs to dress in the sky:
to borrow the colours from the clouds
because the way they drift carelessly looks warm,
while longing looks lonesomely at the wind
jealous of the places it visits.
Jealousy nearly burns the toast as she makes breakfast
because she forgot about the stove
when she wondered if orange tasted better than green,
even as orange waited anxiously at her doorstep,
scuffing his sneakers against the frame,
afraid that his hair was out of place,
and this was what red saw,
when she looked out her window on an autumn morning
and wondered if she loved orange
after all.
Standing in the snow one december day
I tasted truth today.
I didn't expect it, to be honest.
I thought it might be bitter,
or maybe even a little sweet.
Someone said once that truth was salty
but I think they were talking about tears.
No, I tasted truth today
and maybe, it was just a little sour.
Entrance exams
The doors were large
as she stood in front of them
winter wind digging deep below her scarf
attacking her unshielded fingers
that she had forgotten to hide
because the doors were large.
Maybe she was scared,
or nervous,
or afraid.
That she didn't know enough
that she wasn't good enough
that she couldn't do enough.
The doors were large
and closed.
While voices murmured around her
like the yaps of small dogs
or maybe sparrows.
The doors were large
and slowly
they were opened.
Imminence
There is a tightness in my stomach
No, not my stomach - but in the nameless place
that rests between my stomach
and the small of my back
somewhere below my sternum
and the end of my ribs.
Yes, there is a tightness there
as I turn my steps resolutely onward
although I suppose that behind me
there is a tightness in his stomach
as he asks me for spare change.
Sunset, December 9th, 5:20 PM
Somewhere above the horizon
the brown houses and the white roofs
is a streak of pale orange
peach
and dried blood.
The streetlamps match the orange
flourscent
neon
but almost nearly the same -
Except for the third one from the left
which blinks a baleful green.
Until the taller twin on the glass clock
inches past the V
and the lonely colour flickers to the same peachy orange.
But already,
the clouds have darkened
and the blood has leached away
leaving behind
nothing.
Long Distance
"Will you be able to sleep tonight?"
you ask me over the phone.
Sure, I laugh as I tell you
It's not like I'm scared of the dark.
"I know you're not,"
you tell me,
and I can hear the exasperation in your voice
I assure you that I'll be fine
Although, you're right -
because I'm not scared of the dark
but I'm still scared of being alone.
Entreaties of a physics student
Christmas cards are littered across the table
the sparkles from the polar bears
brush off on sheaves of neat lined papers
covered in some laborious scrawl
of numbers
and letters
and the truths of the world.
(There is much to do,
you told me once
as you set down graphite on blank lines.
You said that there is too much to do
and that there is never enough.)
The light that blankets you;
One of those new fangled bulbs,
all twisted in a spiral
that never seems to end.
While the pen seems to have fallen out of your hands
drawing its own
Terminating spiral.
Maybe I am old
and find that there is always too much
Time
and never enough to do
but instead with your childhood blanket
I replace this hackneyed light.
(and in the morning you will scold me
and ask me why I did not wake you
and I will smile and ask you
if you would not like to come with me to Forever)