Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.
for your arm wrapped around
my clavicle. I thought
I would loose my breath.
for the cusp of our hip bones
struggling to pull the drunken color
from our orange cheeks.
and our sweat, our sweat, our sweat
in the drenched summer air.
Our pants futile afterthoughts
Left crumpled on the floor
It is here I asked for your respect
And you filled me with it.
for the musk smell of our blanket den. I would watch the way dawn light
speckled your shoulders, pale, white-blue
I would trace the ink
of your skin, fingertip hovering a half inch
from your bone.
for how my name would hesitate
on your breath in brief puffs
like dandelion seeds blown from
My wistful lips when I was
waiting for them to bring back my wish.
for my sleeveless dress, as we strolled from
your father’s funeral.
It was the only time I watched you cry.
There were little holes in the cement sidewalk.
They filled with rain, oil
And your tears.
I watched your face change through
their watery colored reflections.
for the way your skin repels from my
Touch, quivers as though my finger-
print were a red hot poker.
You haven’t allowed me to touch you
In a year.
for the color of her font, as she responds to you. It is an eager
Color. She responds with all the passion of an Eskimo kiss.
You left her waitng..always.
I have been special to you,
she replies to your
like a maid
Who’s felt the hot moist
whisper of something naughty
tickle against her ear lobe.
for the way your eyes punch accusations
sharper then your razor tongue.
blue crackled lightening,
like an angry alley cat.
My words cannot reach you here.
You will leave.
We will divide our booty
Words that once held my name like a piece
Of carefully folded origami
now hiss cold
devoid like the plaster of our empty room.
for the morning
now knocking on my window.
I am livid in my withdrawal, tossing and turning
I can find no comfort
the tangle of these vacant sheets.
* Written for my daughter, who really does have a precious pair of Little Yellow Socks.
Little Yellow Socks
by Amy Swanson 12/5/2008
Little yellow socks
running down the hall
"Slow down with those socks on,"
I'd yell... too late, the fall!
Little yellow socks
padding softly late at night
climbing up into my lap
one more hug, out goes the light.
Little yellow socks
follow me with squeals of laughter;
Oh how she loves to run in them,
Begging me to come chase after!
Little yellow socks...
now not being worn a lot.
My little girl is growing up,
No longer just a tot.
Little yellow socks
will be cast aside someday
I must guard these precious moments;
in my heart, they'll safely stay.
I do not know?
What if age was determined
By the amount of life experiences you had
Would you be an old timer, seasoned
Or a young naïve lad?
Would you change the way you lived
Or would you be satisfied?
Would changes to your life be massive,
Or would you seek a priest to confide?
I wonder why we don't live more
Not knowing when the curtain falls
Instead we tread on egg-shell floors
As if we plan when the bell tolls..
I do not know?
There you go again doing things that you are not suppose to be in and then you look at
me like oh i'm so sweet if you only knew I can be a freak without showing it. Here they
go listening to the rumors but i'm your friend so in the end I know that they are true.
How could you do that with him and her and they were on the ground you were pretending to
pick up gum? You need to be safe, making out with strangers girl I aint no saint but god
what are you doing? I don't want to see you years from now telling me you got aids, I
worry about you and I feel like your special so I even wrote about you come on look how
much you mean to me. You like him I get it but how many other guys have you liked in the
past. He's your only, he's a phony make sure he's not just in it for the prize because
girl you never know some guys are. It's the truth and you need to listen, I don't mean to
sound bossy but soon enough your name is going to be posted on all the bathrooms walls.
Telling things that you haven't even done yet. But you will front about it, Lie again.
Telling everyone it's happened how do we know what's real or fake. I love your
personality I wish I could steal it, Your loud, and flirty, daring and smart girl you got
too much heart to be showing it to everyone who wants a sip. this is for all the nasty
girls out there who think I don't know what i'm saying just ask anyone of them who are
dead now or are on the streets prostitiuting. Don't be afraid to be a freak it's healthy
but sometimes it's better when it's secret closet freaks have more fun.
I do not know?
Like fossils deeply implanted
Molded forever in time
Seared with years of living
Piercing creeping thoughts
Tripping over feelings
No perfect gait outlined
Like silhouette on the mind.
Orphaned footsteps round the old place.
Pitch black soil, packed deep with bartered
coin and Indian heads – wood and otherwise,
coat her worn leather shoes, Hutterite chic.
The long land screams within its own silence.
Prairie sage burns somewhere, a ghostly smudge
for the undulating grass and, those it serves.
Its alive scent makes the dead turn towards
its head - and the barely living turn to listen.
The impossibly endless horizon holds its bright
blue at bay, begging acknowledgement for
its self-professed being and looming enormity.
She looks at the broken window glass and
through the tattered, delicate gray lace. “Those
were hers.” She whispers to the one who listens.
This great-great-granddaughter sees the curtains
as they once were – wistful in the hot Manitoba
wind; fresh and lowing with the honest elemental
scent of aspens, hope and bare-knuckle wash boards;
always fresh; shifting in the cry for solace in summer
shadows – never as still as this moments endlessness.
Blowing through the deep brown of splintered pine
front doors; cracking the announcement of cast iron,
rot and burnt wood comes the simple statement of –
I lived. This mother of five young does not cry,
just yearns to walk in the old ones footsteps;
to know them loved; hear the birdsong through
unbroken bedroom windows for a 5am waking;
feel the resistance of dough on fingers that beg
to be broken, and kiss the twisting undead, living.
The burning of the noonday sun taps her whole,
marking; branding her pale Swedish skin its own.
The red sting of burnt breaks her inward silence,
welcoming her familiar face home.
© Kristin Reynolds 3 29 2009
*Reposted for John's Summer Celebration Contest. This is a personal celebration;
celebrating and honoring my great grandparents who settled in Manitoba after leaving
Sweden and Denmark. This celebrates the summer of family, at least for me. We went there
every summer until it was gone...
Do you ever think of me,
though much time has passed and
we have not talked, we have not met?
Do you ever wonder how I am,
what I've done, where I've been?
Do you ever picture in your mind
how the years have changed my face,
lined my brow, slowed my pace?
I often think of you, as you were,
when I'm blue...how we two
would talk the night away then
greet the day with smiles and laughter --
ready to face the roads ahead,
the crooked miles we'd walk alone --
but, after, waiting to relax again,
to smile once more, trusting that
we'd meet some time and talk till day,
with nothing changed that counts at all...
still all smiles, all hugs, all laughter.
there was a moment
I felt our hearts brush,
there was within time
a thought, mine you would crush
those inhumane moments
within the walls of your world,
stripped me of feeling
and all my emotions unfurled
threads of memory
drift through my mind,
I pick up the ends
to try to make them align
I have flashes of joy
that pinpricked our life,
but the strongest in visions
are the ones staged of strife
I remember all the love
you stripped from my soul,
I remember all the nights
wishing I was once again whole
these agonies I’ve bled
on my wedding dress,
I’ve erased, the seeing
of you ripping my flesh
so these words aren’t wrought
within the pain of despair,
for I choose to remember
the very best we shared there
let the Road to Perdition
that I traveled with you,
carry the heartache and pain
so we can say this adieu
the thought I now cradle
to the end of my lines,
is of laughing and smiling
in the heart of springtime
your power has fallen
and can’t hurt me again
as I sit here, wonder,
was the beginning worth the end
This's the world of dreams and
Where I think ev'ry that reels,
After a thousands times,
would as same beliefs things
Is it a mere dream?