These are things tossed out of the windows of my mind. Catch them. At worst, I am brilliant at breakfast.
At best ....
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I taste the South when she talks.
Every salutation,
a lick of cigarette smoke,
Every stress,
a throat full of molasses,
Every intonation,
a belly glazed with orange marmalade.
(Because talking to me on Skype sometimes results in spontaneous bouts of poetry. Engage at your own risk.)
I AM A POEM.
I am a poem.
I think in stutters
repeating consonants
and vowel sounds
to match a
pre-ordained rhythm
that might not be
mine.
People (often) speak of
the poet —
but does anyone
ever
speak of me?
I float about your conscience,
I flout your grammar, your
“rules” of convention,
your punctuation, your
so-called train of thought —
but I am here,
and I wonder —
has anyone ever
written a poem
about being a poem?
I wonder what it’s like
to be free like that.
The inquisitive girl and the man in a glass box
The secluded girl of inquisitive mind
Walked the woods while lost in her thoughts
There was a small sound, not easy to find
But melodic, and so she stopped short“I heard you just now,” she spoke to the trees
Turning an ear to hear better
The only reply was wind through the leaves
Blowing a thrice-folded letter“Hello, my girl,” the letter did start
“I am sorry my greeting is formal,
But my world is of glass, fragile in parts,
So few ever see me as normal.”Her inquisitive eyes looked down at the words
And looked up to study the shade
“Why will you not talk when I already heard,
the beautiful music you made?”Starting out muffled and growing in force
A reply rose from a near hollow
“I am shy, my girl, and the sound was of course,
to entice you so that you might follow.”“Your music was sweet, but why do you hide,
when I know you can see all I am?”
“I am careful, my girl, and though I have tried,
there are few who would call me a friend.”“May I come nearer?” she said with a step
“I will retreat the moment you ask it.”
Silence replied, but she heard a “yes”
And moved toward his glass casket“This is different for me,” came the voice from the box
“I have grown so used to glass walls.”
“You need not come out, I will speak through the locks
but I feel I must know you some more.”She sat down by the glass and they started to speak
Of the things in and out of his prison
He sang of his sorrow of how he did peak
At her vision, his spirit had risenThe secluded girl of inquisitive mind
And the man in a box made of glass
Reached through the doorway, and hands they did find
To comfort as time slowly passed
4J
Anna wrote this for me, because she’s wonderful.
These are things
that Jen does and we all love
tossed out of the windows
of her own heart and soul
for us to reach.
If only she knew how much
of my mind
she takes and how much I care
Catch them.
-she says
and we all gather up
to oblige because we know
it’s the silver lining we’re protecting
At worst, I am brilliant at breakfast.
No hon, you are always our star
At best…..
you’re our soulmate.
Tags | jayarrarr | to | with | love | cuz she deserves it | poem | spilled ink | middleofthenightdaydreams | for me |
still the same song
i want to love you like
i love a song
instant butterflies
burdening a repeated refrain
bouncing like once and over
burning like laughter
speaks to souls
who don’t need words
to sing.
i want to play you
on constant repeat
over&over&over&over
until you become
i become
you become
i become
us become(s)
we.
i want to know you
your every note
your every line
i want to know you
till you’re boring
and played out.
i want to love you
till i can’t stand you
anymore. so you’ll come
back, years later
and i can rediscover you
again
for the first time.
90 notes |
Tags | poetry | spilled ink | poem | writing | creative writing | still not feelin' the caps | maybe it's a new phase | just go with it | i like this one | it's true | love | free verse | JRRM |
free bird
i.
my uncle explained meaning,
story, inspiration
behind words i memorized,
poorly harmonized
with him. he played.
ii.
i went to “the black school”
in elementary years, and
my best friend told me
only rednecks listen to skynyrd
i punched her, ‘cause she’d called
my uncle a redneck.
and that was an insult.
i got detention.
iii.
at high school prom, i promised
my friend i’d dance
the next slow song with him.
when the tempo changed
he didn’t know what to do.
we laughed and went back
to slow-dancing
as if nothing had changed.
iv.
i was escaping alabama
to carolina, to home
windows down radio static
until loud and clear
i’m as free as a bird now
i sang out to the stars
who never tried to change me,
anyway.
v.
i made a playlist, burned it to cd
for a tailgate party
30 seconds in people started bitching
i hit fast-forward.
vi.
song came on random
as i was driving to work
day after i heard my uncle died.
i had to pull over for sobbing
got in trouble for being late to work.
vii.
doing preliminary research
for freelance work, song came
on random.
stopped and wrote this poem.
Day I Decided
As the person who was the inspiration behind this poem has discovered that he was the inspiration behind this poem, a subtle alteration of tags became necessary. The inspiration came when I was reading through his blog yesterday. I’d say I read the whole thing, but the truth is, I didn’t. I had to stop. Because several pages in I thought “Damn … he’s a better writer than I am. And he’s only 20.” And then I stopped reading and wrote this. And if you’re not following him, I might start questioning just how much you love me.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I drank 4 cups of coffee before noon
(french roast sweetened by silence).
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I put on a red dress
And watched three Hitchcock movies back-to-back.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I learned how to play Me and Bobby McGee on guitar
While sipping whisky straight from the bottle.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I danced barefoot in the kitchen
And pretended I was a gypsy princess.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I wrote and mailed three letters to strangers
Whose names & addresses I found in the phone book.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I texted you 7 times telling you so
(each one cancelled rather than sent).
Some things are better left unsaid.
You (youare)
You
(youare)
The half-dreamt broken line
I repeat&repeat&repeat
Bent over flow of faucet
In hope to keep you with me
At least until my hands are dry.
You
(youare)
The last meatball unconsumed
On my plateful of spaghetti-and-meatballs
I delay gratification and carefully eat around,
Because without you, it’s just spaghetti.
You
(youare)
The space that wraps and winds
Around and betwixt my words, like arms&legs
Without which they (read: I) would not exist.
I only wish you knew.
54 notes |
Day I Decided
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I drank 4 cups of coffee before noon
(french roast sweetened by silence).
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I put on a red dress
And watched three Hitchcock movies back-to-back.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I learned how to play Me and Bobby McGee on guitar
While sipping whisky straight from the bottle.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I danced barefoot in the kitchen
And pretended I was a gypsy princess.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I wrote and mailed three letters to strangers
Whose names & addresses I found in the phone book.
The day I decided you were a better writer than I,
I texted you 7 times telling you so
(each one cancelled rather than sent).
Some things are better left unsaid.
93 notes |
Tags | poem | poetry | spilled ink | writing | creative writing | semi-fictitious poem is quietly about someone in particular | JRRM |
