FractureKnowing nothing of this other land,Fracture by TheGlassIris
yet told to embrace it and call it mother,
We grew up with this phantom at our bedside,
hearing its oceans, its lost words, and its many
falling leaves. I thought that
I knew where my home was, here,
on the other side.
Yet I have known my whole life
the little ways it has denied me: Not always
skin, not just a facet
of color. But a face,
a book of names and dates,
a little house full of gods and saints.
So many words and among them
a few or five I recognize, most of them
expletives, a greeting for lunch, a cult-
ural equivalent to a high-five. Longing
for words of my own, I turned
to you and you
to soothe anger, poem
to ease pain and smooth cracks.
Let the poem know your fractures,
let it run fingers across hills and chasms.
Let all selves combine, intertwine
to one: let all the leaves fly upward,
crossing the bridge of air, back
into the world they fell from.
Only, there is no other
at the end of the path. The branch
is hollow, the roots
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,He doesn't write poetry anymore. by SilverInkblot
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
cigaretteI think a cigarette would best help
to describe how i feel,
I'd sit on my patio with my legs drawn
up under me, I'd lean against something
in the grey damp of november
and I'd smoke and let tears fall
as i watch the air
for invisible particles.
paricles of smoke, city grime and of me.
watch the sky for a bomb
draw and let the tears itch and dry
on my cheeks
that would be the end of detached me,
and I'd burn it and inhale,
and the taste would stay with me,
my hands my hair, acrid.
Flights of Fancy Nature is best seen through a window. Cars are nice, but televisions give a better view. The important thing is to keep a window, any window, between you and wilderness. This is my strictest maxim, a rule of comfort I put aside only once, years ago. I spend most of my life expressing shock when friends say they're going on a hike or planning to camp out.
It took two hours for Leon to convince me to accompany him on a short ride to the hills. I thought it would be safe. Leon was a good friend. Though he knew that particular day was my day to hit the mall and hang out with the girls, in the end, I still went with him. He said we'd have plenty of time and I could do both. Hah! I was ignorance personified.
Leon worked for a group of nuts who said they save peregrine falcons. He said they protect wild falcons from other nuts who shoot the birds and that his group "manipulates" falcon nests at the
saudadeLast week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.
Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.
There was something forced in our actions, as if we were going through the motions of something we had practiced a hundred times before. Your lips were all orchestrated movements against mine and the arch of your back and shudder of your breath felt rehearsed, so that when you lay tangled and spent in my bedsheets I let my mouth wander the terrain of your sh
Letter to a loved one, on losing a loved one.I want to tell you
that this grief is temporary,
that even if you feel lost,
you are not a ship adrift
without a crew.
But darling, grief still
sits heavy on my tongue and
I will not lie to you.
[Grief gathers at the back
of my mouth and renders me useless
on days that feel like the day
she died, my limbs heavy,
my heart sore.]
Instead I am going to tell you
that grief is not the last thing
you will ever feel;
there will still be
rumpled sheets and lazy smiles,
your fingers will still find
my naked waist beneath the blankets
and mine will still fit neatly between
the knobs of your spine.
We will still drink too much coffee,
smoke too many cigarettes, and love with
urgency but not with haste.
I will sit with your grief,
as you have sat with mine and
we will be okay.
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravity
in my tired expanse. you are
(my once splendid mountain)
my love is the ocean
that has worn you down.
with my monstrous tongue,
i pulled you in.
as you fall,
sweeping peacefully into the depths
and filling each crevice,
i am learning to inhale shores.
some would say i'm suffocating
and bring me buckets of air (only to have it
escape my slippery grip).
no, the tides need something heavy
to make of her
I do not like you poetsI do not like you poets
breathing into my sorry head
like the air hasn't been wasted a half-a-million times
folding up my lungs
to place them neatly into a wastebasket
how can you make me stop hurting
& then just leave me
a limp lettuce leaf
on the backside of some dirty napkin verse
I am not the jealous type
but I'm going to call up Melpomene & ask her where she's been
send her drunk texts
because I'm too tired of filling up my skull
with cicada skins instead of led
while you make it all too easy
to sleep through a heartattack or two
my pygmalion, my god, my thing of legends
when you were being taught the siren's song
was I writing myself a migraine?
a lie that tells the truthplease don’t write me as a ghost girl,
all blurry lines and faded features
that caricature themselves into the minds
of those that think they see me--
i am not a canvas.
my life is not a blank sheet for you
to paint your vision across,
and i have no wires in my bones--
you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light
like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks
and tragic backstories;
i am written in the words i discard
when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,
you can find me echoed back to you
in my all time top five favorite movies.
i am the way my hands hurt
when i get nervous;
i am the urge to speak italian,
even though after a year of classes, i can barely
i am the calmness that hits
when i smell cigarettes, even though
i’ve never smoked,
and i am the grudges that have lingered
because i forget to let things go,
and i am the passive-aggressive comments
that i should be sorry for, but
never really am.
if you want, you can trace your pen along
Dear Daddy, I hate you.Dad,
There's something I want you to know,
Because, hey dad..
I'm not stupid.
I know you're not going to be here
Something I wanted to say..
I hate you.
I hate how you've been there for me.
I hate how you made me who I am today.
I hate how you've always inspired me,
And I hate how you've been the best father anyone could ask for.
I hate how I know you enough to know exactly what you're going to say.
I hate how you know me the same way.
I hate how you love your family more than anything.
I hate how you've been strong just so we don't feel weak,
And I hate how you never gave up on us.
On your family.
On your daughters.
I hate knowing that it's going to be
I'm going to miss you, Dad.
... Daddy, I'm going to miss you.
And I hate you for that.
why didn't you say goodbye?Love wasnt in the air the night you unbuttoned my shirt and kissed my skin. No, love definitely wasnt in the air the night we spent in heat of moments, sweating and tumbling and fumbling on your fathers bed.
It was anywhere but there. Does love go on vacation? I ponder and make fleshy butterflies from my outstretched fingers. Probably.
I cant remember much but I can remember the beginning. The burn of acid bleeding and gushing past my tongue and down my throat. The noises and then your silence. The clumsiness and then the awkward kisses.
You had a garden of dark hair growing from your scalp and dirt eyes. You had a protruding belly button and clown feet. You smelt like my grandfather in his coffin.
You didnt ask me if you could take my virginity. You just assumed I wouldnt mind giving it to you. I always wonder where you put it, if you take good care of it and how it is doing. I imagine you put it in a shiny jar with a sticky label reading Lore