This Is Incredibly Silly

1.

I was told there would be doves:
and there were feathers, like thumbprints on a photograph,
and I went looking for them in the boughs of of the telephone poles
with my eye pulled wide and my fingers pressed hard
like the seal of a goggle's lens
into the bone.

I saw white things:
a sneaker, laces elegant looped,
and tongue ajar to let the perfect dark out of the gap;
a tissue dragged moist from a loved boy's nose;
a fuse plug.

I saw bright things:
glass and copper and the sheen of rain.

I saw small dark birds.

Should I have laughed? I gave up on the wires
after whiles and went away to dig up the earth.
Unhanded, my eyelids slid with one another
like folded wings
to keep the water from my now defenseless eyes.
The dirt offered me a bony peace
and I took it not.




a/n: Obviously not quality poetry. But a start is a start.

Keep it going Helpful, I'm ur number one fan.

MeanMrMustard wrote:Keep it going Helpful, I'm ur number one fan.

Lies. (I love you for doing this)

I guess I'll just sit here and sulk at you all.

Oh, I missed your poetry.

EVERYONE BACK OFF.
-nuzzles up in Helppants's poems-

2.

That day,
pigeons were drinking from the puddles
in the shadow of the church.

a/n:

This is a poem I have been trying to write since Christmas.

It remains unwritten. Obviously.

03.

I am in the business of losing weight,
and in the mornings I breathe the clean pain,
and in the evenings I cut carrots.

My mother came to me and said that I should run
with sunlight gathered in a horseshoe of brilliance
around her eye's hard socket. Run, she said.

I asked if she wanted a grape.

Now she is not in my kitchen anymore and
I have known the quiet:
it has explored my emptinesses without once filling them.

4.

Water mixed with paint, in her soft palm
flowing like milk through the partings of finger from finger.
In the sink physics became a private thing.

She slid skin over skin
and out came paint

like the first evidence
of infection,
streaming from the wound.

The movement of her hand
describing a split in meat.

Helpful McHelpfulpants wrote:4.

Water mixed with paint, in her soft palm
flowing like milk through the partings of finger from finger.
In the sink physics became a private thing.

She slid skin over skin
and out came paint

like the first evidence
of infection,
streaming from the wound.

The movement of her hand
describing a split in meat.

No offense, you must make these longer and more fleshed out. I want to see more. Your style is begging for more. Don't skimp and blueball, k?

In the sink physics became a private thing.

Yes, please. I love you. I miss you. MORE MORE MORE.

OKAY WELL

Obviously I'm not really... DOING NaPo per se but

I did write some poems this evening, thanks to the generous prompting of Navita! 06., 07., and 08. are all courtesy of her germination.

05.

I bit into the strawberry
and loved its white heart.
In the sweet stretch of pulp
over tooth I thought
of the shade moving
on my skin, and I chewed
and my cheeks were alive
with the shapes of the leaves.

06.

But the sky is pushing apart the day;
I have felt the hours of my lost afternoon
warm at my elbows, and looked up
into a swelling dark, a hammock's curve
cutting on every side into the undergrowth
of gold. The hills are thick
tongued and high eyed
with shadows but
no shine. The light was here
and it is here
a wood of tangled sun
and paths put in by heaven
and the dark.

07.

I am, for the briefest moment, suspent.
I paid away my weight
my every perfect collapse
in coins that smiled in the hand
like bullet holes, looped round with gleaming lines;
and I paid away my wings
in coins that were coins,
only coins,

and so soft.

I know the music that flowers
when the soul is starved of time.
It is all harmony
and brims with cooling blood.

08.

Helices of light spool up the dawn,
and store its secret blues under white spokes.
The townlights hiss like water doomed
to boil out its water soul.
We walked together in the undertow;
wheeling our shadows through waves.
I had seen her silhouetted
and I would see the white wonder
of that part of the album page
that showed through her outcut outline,
like a single slope of snow waiting in the shade
for the one hiker who risks all the loveliness of spring
who leaves behind the silent, selfish stair
for the strangeness of that which is preserved;
but on that morning she went in every direction,
all depth and glass-cased steam,
and through her glowed blue wire
and old yellow waters
and all the tools of a minute,
the means by which a minute makes a world.
(the weapons by which a minute wounds a world?)