Best Gry Poems

1.
they say everything here is
somewhere in the middle of the road
where names get bleached and keys forget about their doors
and there is something we should dig our coated nails into; 
the layers of regret and anger
that our mothers tell us to peel off 

2.
but the...

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Sometimes
I forget his name
there are cavities 
in love too

dark gaps 
in the cracking heart
where aching
doubt and memories 
pulsate.


© Gry W Christensen...

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I brew sunsets in teapots
I drink the dawn from a mug
and in my bicycle basket I have seduction in a jug
so now and then I take someone clean shaven home to my obliging bed
when I guess I should sit quietly pristine, 
with my legs crossed...

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because so it is,
he says

ashtray's empty
and
Dolly Parton
cries
for
Jolene
spinning dizzy
in the
corner
 
in my mind
all words
leave the
paper
 
love laid to rest,
I can
recognize
the 
smell.


© Gry W Christensen


(My take on "Relationships". My entry in the "Relationships" contest, ending Aug.  25. )...

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In this hour 
they called it the French lace minutes 
the sound of autumn leaves falling 
unbearable to the ear 
I slip out in the 
echoing space 
between now 
and then 
it's an insect like feeling 
that buzzes around 
too fast 
to be recognized 

then...

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P S IT’S POETRY WRITE ON WRITE ON CONGRATS TO MY FELLOW POETRY SOUPERS PART 9


Many thanks to you selected poets; Of sharing your whispers from God, tho you didn’t know it; Each letters and each word; Reads so very dear and well; Joys of...

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When In Paris
I think I see
you
lost under
some umbrella
and in my imagination

I am so lonely here
I stop on sidewalks
and let my keys
slip to the ground
with my address engraved

I walk to the old and settled in the parks
I pretend you are one of them
with hands that smell...

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I once loved
an anchor
one of those
that sails
on skin
one of those
that has 
a rowing heart
and pelting blood
within


One of those
who blows
mussel covered
kisses
one of those
that tells
mermaids salty lies
one of those
who'll
go down with
rum and shackles
the day he finally
dies.


© Gry W Christensen...

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for all that I am
is in this mirror
shifty shades
and 
shadows
fogs of breath 
on the glossy surface
and my eyes; 
tired of seeing
the traces of me 
outside the frame.


© Gry W Christensen...

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The last
taste of summer
was
tucked
in
my pockets

empty
mason jars
with
the
scent
of butterflies

had
lids
with
lingering
raspberry

labels
spelling
will-not-go-down-sun

ran
with
sandals
and
band-aids
to
the
end
of
a childhood.


© Gry W Christensen...

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some things
are too obvious
for
a
mirror
to bother with

eyelash
sliding
down my cheek
dusting
yesterday
on
withering
regret
stained
lips

here
at the
end
of
a dirt road
where
no
bell
will
chime
to
your exit.


© Gry W Christensen...

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My heart 
is my alphabet,
beating the letters out
through the pores of my skin.

I gather them
in my hands.

I mold the words.

And they pour down on the sheets,
like eager autumn rain.



© Gry W Christensen...

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There are words that avoid the paper,
That hides from the pen,
That detest the ink,
That cannot be typed down,
That I cannot grasp

That is my heart,
That speaks without letters,
That still comes to life,
That articulates when let so,
With the language it invented,
With a vocabulary that is pumped through...

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So hard
to 
hold love
now
in the moment
between
a caress
and 
a look
too strong
too hesitant
too weak
too steady

To watch
it
glide down
and
away 
from my body,
it's sighs
gone quiet

To know it
didn't find
peace
with me.


© Gry W Christensen...

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Dear Mr. Ink

Why don't you move
in with me?
And show me the new
words I yet have to
see?

Let's uncover the
deep hidden meanings
together
and roll around on
the sheets of my
imagination's gloomy
weather.

I can't promise you
faithfulness,
but neither can you.

But if all the
rumours I've heard
are true,
that an artist
should be
melancholic and
blue,
and quite depressed
and...

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