Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, Poetry | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, National Poetry Month
we blow kisses easily
we once met the death of
dandelions with so much
earnest hope
wishes pour from
skeletons to join
pollen and dust that spike
afternoon breezes with magic
two lips two hands two feet
ten fingers ten toes
to tend to the tasks
doled out from a hat
on high
steps on a pavement that
fades in to sandy dirt and trash
the glint of broken bottles
the retch of used condoms
they all commit the same crimes
under a long wheezing streetlamp
we echo down alleys and
remember the sudden
easy sweetness
maple syrup notes poured out
from the man tucked into a stoop
Oh how we wished we could feel
the relish the sun
takes in bouncing off
a dented trombone
there are the pieces of conversations
that float from mouths
from teeth
from hearts
from stomachs
they drift on the same breath
that once lifted the wishing seeds
and join the sunlight
swirling around shoulders.
***
I’ve been struggling a bit this week- so easy to be distracted.
-e
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, National Poetry Month
sometimes there is
in dreams
a shocking practicality
and often in reality
there is a frightening
loss of possibility
to be honest
I’m grasping at thinnest air
praying I can remember how to make
Mr. Hemingway proud-
the truest thing I know, right now
though sir,
is that I am not nearly
enough
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, National Poetry Month, Poetry
OH my children, oh such preciousness
lined like patient dolls on shelves
we all once wore patent leather on Easter mornings
and they began so slowly
those bloody sunsets
set all the buildings cotton candy
glowing friendly pink cheeks
it doesn’t make it easier
all the pastel colored words
the first time meeting
the first languid finger tracing
the same pale tracks on new skin
all the same color as the evening skies
above
OH you pretty children
I’d love to lock you away
dolls on the shelves don’t see daylight
and the shoes are scuffed at the end of the day
OH these grass stained knees
and the crack of a surging baseball bat
concrete that knows not skin nor bone
Children, my precious children
where is your plastic
where is your glitter
we have some sweetness to burn
OH my children, my precious children
it tears so gently these things made of
lace and spiders webs
OH you remember the way the stones
cut your knees
and how suddenly red stains fingers
HOW hot new tears are
HOW precious, my children
HOW sickening yellow the old cure-alls turn
the metal of mercurochrome
pale lavender bruises
OH how I lost those shoes
OH how I kicked them off
unfeeling feet so lightly on very sharp rocks
OH my children
OH my God
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, National Poetry Month
I’m waiting for the dust
I’ve kicked up from hurling myself
across the country again
to settle
I’d like to then sweep it up
take a week or so to sift through
the fineness of it all
then chuck it out the window
watch it fall like snow on the
coldest days
to that pebbled pavement
four flights down
I’d like to sit then, in the windows
above this relentless street
kiss the afternoon sun
with parted lips
just a little too dry
lazy summer kisses
with just a touch
of that wind from over the river
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, Poetry | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, easter, Esme Writes, National Poetry Month
I.
Airplanes don’t stop for Easter
neither do buses trains coffee feet
bikes televisions or baseball
Really I don’t know about the baseball
but it sounds nice, like a pennant in ’55
and a tee shirt I got in LA
that fits me better here.
II.
Woke up praying to God
I wouldn’t have a hangover
and it’s not so much a hangover
as a hangunder
morning with the sun out
my step light
since the ferry took me to Dumbo
I’m slowly fading with
every aging hour
III.
There’s the memory of baskets
the hiding places for neon eggs
that plastic grass that got everywhere
the scent of vinegar
as white orbs sunk to the bottom of
tea cups that stained both shell
and fingers
certain ghastly shades
how often I took one bite
of a chocolate rabbit
only to let it sit
to turn to chalk
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, National Poetry Month, Poetry
broken today.
not much feels right.
the moon was ghastly bright over the bridge on the way home.
I wanted to punch it in its face.
there were the moments I forgot about thinking.
I didn’t cut myself shaving in the shower.
the wind is picking up and it’s pulling at the windows in their frames
the kid you didn’t want up in your treehouse.
whining.
threatening mom and dad.
Called them tonight.
The same.
Got distracted by nothing.
I’m drinking wine but it’s not working.
most of the bottle gone.
the floor is uneven and kinda makes me feel drunk
and that damn wind is crying.
makes my heart hurt a little
wish it would shut the fuck up.
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, Poetry | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, National Poetry Month, Poetry
it’s all there in the middle
on the edge of concrete and
the broken glass glittering
soft receding light punctuated by the
sweeping knives of taxi headlights
there’s an ocean somewhere to my left
but all I can smell are flowers
all I can hear is a shrill nightsong
and know it’s pompous robin
puffed up important
reminder
he’s the bearer of
all things new
lest I forget
its been a while since I’ve felt
this spring in my bones
moved quickly through time
space all blurry
eyes burning
I crossed three bridges in
the span of a day
on the last one I cursed
all things man made
aching for bed
then I remembered floating above
water oily
reflecting city sparks
murmured low to my
complaining legs
in between the breaths I could
just barely catch.
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, Poetry | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, National Poetry Month, Poetry
a fogged mirror and a face I don’t quite know
I ate a burrito too quickly
and wished I had ordered it without cheese
like Los Angeles
the nights where I was just as drunk
and yes, I am drunk
in bed listening to chatter and still hiccuping
I remember little things like standing
on my head or holding my breath
but you know
they’re just the excuses
that come from gaining a face
you don’t recognize in a mirror.
3/30, written at 10:30 pm 3 April.
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, Poetry | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, Greenpoint, National Poetry Month
He said “I want my cornfields back”
We were nearly trashed on my back patio
surrounded by stucco
staccato shouts
annoyed spanish
We were halfway into the whisky at that point, I think,
the memory’s a bit faded
it happens
the color lifts into oven-hot summer air
from another thousand ads for dent repair and auto-insurance
the dusty testaments of Angelenos and spidery
veins driving that sluggish blood from
Glendale to my front door
We sipped Wish-key spoke low slurred a little
laid out-
midwestern daydream hazes
hidden lakes certainly now swamp mud
abandoned cul de sacs
all night parked cars
the smells
the emptiness
our bustin hearts
stretched to fill
the spaces too empty
those wide skies
glorified-
ghosts of
salt strewn highways
the creaking ropes of friends we knew
the funerals we attended
dramatic darkness
our minds empty
pulled out-
the maps rustling from glove compartments crammed
with remnants gathered
like our fathers and the farmers
bounty tucked and shoved into
the trap door that learned the contours of soles
of feet itching
for streets
for stucco
We poured ourselves some more.
the bottle clanked emptily
He said he’d like to hear one song before he’d never hear
another
He said he’d like to hear one song before his color faded
We watched my neighbor scold her son in echoing lashings
He said he’d like to hear “This Must Be The Place”
As I drained my glass the burn in my throat brought tears to my eyes.
Filed under: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Esme Writes, Poetry | Tags: 30 Poems in 30 Days, Poetry Month
far flung and fetched I open my eyes to a white wall and a city
I am not yet acquainted with.
I am still in the habit of raking my nails across my scalp when anxious.
my flaws, inescapable, followed me to New York.
so it is
the silence is ok as well as the view from our rooftop.
It reminds me of something, except I can’t quite tell you what that is.
so it is
April has come with a vague chill and rainy depression
something nagging that I’ve forgotten somewhere
I just cannot remember where I left it.
so it is
I’ve started the same letter a hundred times
since asking for its destination’s address
and I think it might be impossible to say in words
what I want to say, so I am looking at another hundred
or so false starts.
so it is
my heart aches today, thinking
of people I’ve known and the insanity of throwing
half your life away and how that causes the eruption of memories
of something that happened somewhere with someone once
to follow me like the owners of rooms I’m still getting to know.
so it is
***
After my miserable attempt last year, in celebration of my new workspace, desk, home, city and this beautiful month, I offer you, again, my celebration of Poetry Month, with subtle and even unknown encouragement from my mentor and long-lost-and-found brother, Andy Sell.
Esme Writes. 