The hallway to enter a leftover room.
Loud and soft spoken at the same rate.
Echoes.
Eyeballs.
Fidgeting so much that a nail popped off.
Clink.
This meeting is a place for loud pitter patter.
We tear out the old wiring, gruffly.
Plug into the system as if we are alive with twisted cords.
Chapped lips.
This meeting is grungy, complicated, teeth chattering.
It’s cold as a diver submerged in the ocean.
Took my scarf off in a daze.
They took attendance as silently as stale water.
I stand here disconnected
from my stressful life,
listening in silence
to chapped leaves whistling.
Reflecting on this
solitary moment,
a time when my soul needs
to recharge.
Before raindrops
distract my thoughts,
and i compose myself once more.
Watching God answer your needs
as i too have felt his presence.
I know you’ve shown me resistance,
But who knows? Maybe I’ll reveal my elegance…
You give me such a dismal distance
But who knows? Baby, I can go the distance…
I know you’re amazing just the way you are,
But I have been bitten by this feeling from afar…
It’s a lingering feeling like a burning scar…
I’m like a shooting star…and I will be with you so far
My eyes glow and you blow my mind
You’re so kind to be my kind,
But I’m left behind…a trace of a grace,
Then it disappears like your temporary embrace…
Deserted and alone again
Wishing I was a ten and zen
Then again, maybe not
I sought my soul, so rot
Astonishment made me feel once more
Resentment made me deal with grief to the core
Fragmented in my mind and mumbling with my chapped lips
Relapsed…collapsed…give me distance…trying not to cry over life’s hardships’ whips
To frolic amongst the daisies and posies is to relish
in the sweet drink of victory over a despicable,
old, and much-sought-after foe.
It is a feeling akin to splashing cold basin water
upon the face after hard work—lips chapped
by sun, sweat, and the long, tired day crowded
amongst them.
Reclaim possession; bring it home.
Long has this expected arrival been awaited;
arrangements have been in accordance with plans
premade for preparations upon this date.
Man dares not tickle the fickle temper of these
sisters of fate. Complaints remain an undertone, and
resentment answers not to “Pardon” on and on again.
In their ever-glow elegance, brilliant
refractions sway off their decadent dress.
Jellyfish patience is slow, a romantic cadence.
Contracting movements make the sway
feel like a swarm in the warmth of the elicit impress.
Poly wogs in creek
sounds of coyotes howling
in summer breeze
things were peaceful
hair tied in pony knot
sunburnt face and chapped lips
light scratches on legs
from running through
tall blades of grass
yes this is summer
A sorrowful smile, a betraying teardrop from my eyes
I write this poem for the testament of time
Cries turning into hollow smiles
Unconsciously sinking to the wells of crime
My past gazing at me warily
Bloodred lips now chapped and dead
Dragging me to that same court of dread
Pouring out another poisonous wine
Draining out the fragile life of mine
I pay the price for it every day and night
Devoured quietly in silent fright
Faux lashes, little arrows to the heart.
Cradling her sternum, bleeding so kindly.
Love knows where to aim.
I'd tell you I'd run marathons, only for my breathing to become an enclosure.
I'd tell you of the wild things in my head and you'd laugh and say "my home is not a quiet place for rampage."
I'd respond, only with frowning eyes, ears perked for an apology from the mouth that hurts.
While you'd stay empty hearted, pouring it down the drain.
I apply lipstick to chapped lips, rubbing blush into the cheekbones of the girl of the year.
You can spot her eyes in the many who gaze.
They still taste of her, reek of her perfumed haze.
And yet as girl of the year, no man could love a woman so ablaze.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The windmill groaned before the dawn,
her hands already chapped with dawn-tasks,
his fingers practicing Braille lessons on the kitchen table~
both stiff-backed and deliberate,
both heavy with the weight of wheat and words.
Fifteen names,
each one dug into the earth like fence posts:
Clarabell, Dulce, John, Stanley,
each syllable hauled up from the well
with aching shoulders.
The schoolhouse smelt of ink and sweat,
of small hands learning Braille and
the shape of silence,
while their own children ran wild
between rows of corn,
half-feral, half-holy.
Drought years gnawed at the ledger,
but the well never ran dry~
only deeper,
only darker.
At dusk, they counted heads by lamplight,
his thumb brushing her cracked knuckles,
her voice a rasp of hymns and harvest.
They buried two.
Thirteen grew tall as sunflowers.
The Kansas prairie took what it was owed~
calluses, sweat, sleep~
but left them standing,
left them leaning into each other
like split-rail fences
in a wind that never stills.
Frostbitten winds cut my cheek, the same place pecked
Gently by your chapped lips.
Paradise is lost in ideas of youthful naivety – hopes, miracles
All simply dreamt before time’s continuity.
Acceptance of a possible worse truth told –
I can’t hold hope in promise, not any longer. . .
Humming softly in broken shards of rueful, indelible pasts,
I welcome the unending abyss – engulfed.
Yet alive.
That complete lack of moisturizer
as the wind blew out of control.
Pummeled down to the ground,
chapped chaos kissed my lips.
Supple skin dried out
with one swift gust.
Left starving
to get
soft.
Hello friends, makeup is a skillful art, Do you agree or not, it is real, You know born babies need no cosmetics, He or she is naturally beauty, Teenage girls attract towards the makeup, They spend more time before the wall mirror, lady of forties sits before a mirror more, for doing fine makeup their wrinkled faces, They use their skill to create their skin bright, The rose powder diminishes their wrinkles, Their eyes shown luminous by eyeliner, Lipstick changes their chapped lips certainly, By makeup fading rose like ladies faces, have become an enchanting rose lovely.
Hail needles the skin.
Wind cracks the spine.
The mountain holds,
breath seizes on the tongue.
Snow knives the summits.
Cracked hands fumble dry stone,
paper-thin air slices,
bald eagles tilt in the blast.
Alpine skiers parched,
no more Earth Day banners.
Cherry Creek scrapes its bed.
Feces in the bedpan,
chapped gloss smeared,
cocoa hair salted and smoked.
The Zephyr rattles east,
carrying the mountains backward—
Grand Central dissolves
Hail nails the skin.
Wind stabs the spine,
the mountain stretches,
breath freezes the tongue,
Snow visible on the summits
High-altitude crumbling
cracked hands claw at dry stone,
Paper thin air
sharp, jagged edges.
Bald Eagles circle overhead
Alpine sky, dry and broken—
no more Earth Day vegetation
Cherry Creek scrapes the sand
She lifts the bedpan
Chapped gloss superstar lips
Cocoa fur, stained by cigarette smoke
and the wind carries all,
The Zephyr rolls in
Grand Central Station
Peaks in background
You can tell it's finally winter,
the glaze of icy glitter
Darker mornings, sun late dawning
Freezing cold and bitter
Woollen hats, chunky scarfs
slippery and sliding paths
children's runny noses
Red lips and looking chapped
A festive time
Happy elves and Santa's sack
He sees if you've been good or bad
I know that for a fact
Christmas crackers, candy canes
Songs are played and party games
winter is for all to enjoy
No matter what your age
A special season, I love so much and that will never change
When I was little,
life was supposed to be filled with laughter,
sticky fingers from melting ice cream,
and afternoons lost in make-believe,
toy cars and plastic dinosaurs battling in the living room.
I’d look up at the adults, safe in their tallness,
never guessing that one day,
I’d be the one holding up the walls.
Instead, my afternoons were cluttered with sighs,
echoing through a quiet house,
where I’d drag your slumped figure from the front steps,
breathe in the stale scent of beer that clung to you
like a second skin.
Eight years old, trying to stand tall enough
to be your keeper.
When I was little,
Mom was supposed to pack my lunch,
Capri Suns and fruit roll-ups,
instead, mom wasn't ever there
I was busy slicing bread,
rationing out the peanut butter,
making sure my little brother had more than crumbs.
I’d wanted crayons, chalk, new paintbrushes, OH! the pink bike, and maybe an iphone
but my pockets held grocery lists,
my hands chapped and rough,
scrubbing dishes, sweeping floors,
Searching for that imaginary line
that had been drawn somewhere
between us:
the parent I wished for,
the parent I became.
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