[x]

And Call Me in the MorningJust past twenty-one,
and my liquid luck has drained.
In the shuffle to the doctors,
I stare through the concrete
and analyze patterns
on the waiting room carpet.

From one landmark to the next,
first drinks and live jazz to
checking off symptoms on a list
and describing my history
in the same tearful monotone
I've learned to adopt
after the seventeenth telling.

Maybe the burden slips from here,
having finally accepted that
like I can't ignore aging I
couldn't meditate this away.

Like the tableted relief
I hope to receive,
these feelings and alcohol
shouldn't mix.

Honorary Sun SpotI'm going to tie a string
around the new dawn
and make the sun my balloon.
I won't let go as it keeps rising,
I just need warmth and this seems
like the best way to find it,
the day taking me with it
round the world.
Take a picture of your rooftop,
and I'll wave as I go by.

EasyWas there ever a girl so strange?
Smoky hearted, grabbed at the waist
by the next passing breeze.
She keeps one foot stuck in
the wrong side of her conscience,
the other grounded in nothing.
She replaces men like lipstick, she
wears her promiscuity like
last night's perfume.

Strung OutConsider me hanging on the line,
a dress without a body waiting for the sun,
vibrant when she's not heavy, waterlogged.
As a child, I enjoyed making orange smiles,
while wondering why we didn't have
a clothesline stretching from tree to tree
like I'd seen on the television.
I admired the way skirts became birds,
picked up by the wind they adored,
while sheets grabbed the wind like a sail,
and the clouds were always made of cotton,
and the denim sat like lead.

Now every time I put myself out to dry,
the sky gets heavy and breaks on me.
I am halfway towards being ready,
and then the rain rips me down again.
Maybe that's why

UnbridledLet's dance, you and I.
Hello rambling psyche,
ambling soul,
grab my hands and
lead me in a jitterbug waltz
across my floor.

You've got two right feet
to match my lefts,
and our laughter hits
with the downbeat of the toms.
We sing flats and sharps,
perfect at being imperfect.

My hair's a mess and
you're not really there,
but I've got enough spirit
to be my own partner,
and anyone watching from the window
would understand.

Burning HeartWe built a beautiful pyre,
and in my heart,
I'm holding your hand as it burns.
The sparks could become the stars,
jewels in Orion's belt.

I'd lace my fingers through yours
in a final act of faith
while we stare down the smoke
cradling the moon,
and each piece of kindling
that crumbles in on itself
leaves me a little less broken.

The light flickers,
so do the corners of your lips.
We needed this.

HeavyWhen you let me go
by the side of the road,
please remember the string
that you tied to my soul.
I'm the balloon you inflated
just to let go;
the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.

Why'd you have to cut this
delicate cord,
the thin wire trailing
from my heartbeat to yours?
Remember the science of
the desolate sky,
because the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.

The Midnight InheritanceAll I had was the waxing gibbous
admiring the tilt of my chin
as I played with one shower-fresh curl
still perfectly corkscrewed
and lightly perfumed.

What strange relief,
watching the advancing rain,
a walking wall of grey
that made the mountains tip their heads back,
to drink that midnight wine.

Before the storm could eat the moon
and whisper rumors to my windows closed,
I watched how Cassiopeia
alighted on my reflection.

Seven stars graced my brow like a garland.
I felt my heart swell like a myth,
my breathing hushed as I found myself anointed.

When the last bead of water
rolled down the small of my back,
the sky rel

StuckYour empty gaze was the crack in the road,
staring past the pool colored
almost the same shade as last summer's paint job
meant to cover up the scratches
you left on the passenger door
when you were one tequila past sober.

I am a fly trapped in this spiderweb crack
that catches the blue-red urgency of
midnight sirens that you summoned without speaking.
They can't drown out the soundtrack
of our last sixteen seconds,
all caught in my head as if to prove
I don't want it there.

You looked up from letting your fingers linger
on the radio dial when your song came on,
laughing about how it reminded you of cotton candy
and your fir

Papercuts and RecollectionsI had forgotten your love letters
until they cut my finger when I
grazed the bottom of my drawer.
Folded crisp and neat,
some of the ink had smudged like
the crimson filling the whorls of my thumb.

I could hear your voice clearly,
saturated in the scrawling script.
You promised me forever,
now forever's gone.

Lost in that rush of reanimated feeling,
I could almost remember
the way your cheek felt resting
warm against my hair,
how you smelled like home.

The traces of you lingered like
the last hours of yesterday
before turning to the smell of dust
and the feel of paper too dry
to write on again.

RetrospectRetrospect

The three miles takes as many minutes
To drive
But roundabouts, road islands
And traffic lights
Made our MP3 playlist
Worth it.

In the super market you navigated the aisles
With ease,
Having worked in a larger branch
In your home town
Since you were sixteen.
We filled a basket with
Chocolate, instant noodles
And isotonic drinks.
We split the cost between us,
Five pound each.

On my desk were set
Two laptops, either side of one another,
Playing the same game.
Yours had a better processor,
The frame rate outdid my own.

And so we would stay
Until early morning
Where you slept on the floor
And me in my bed.

W

AdriftRun headlong into the wind with me.
We are only ships on this endless blue,
without anchor, north star, or compass spinning.
Find me as I lose myself with you.

BlissHappiness smells like
chamomile and sun-washed sheets...
I want to pour it into a mason jar
and store it in the pantry
next to my teas and chocolates.
When I mix it with a hot drink,
it settles at the top,
but leaves just enough hope
at the bottom of my mug.
It settles warm,
like the late-spring sun.

GhostsI put my regrets in the
same box that holds
what love we had for each other.
You didn't break my heart with
words sharpened into poisoned barbs,
but with as gentle a goodbye as
a kiss on the forehead.
We were not meant to break grace.
But oh, does it hurt when
my thoughts turn to you,
and if I am left in a room by myself
I can see the ghosts of
kisses past, hear our whispers
long since uttered.
You seemed so steadfast,
I wonder how this is for you.

I stopped dreaming about you last night,
and it felt like a fever had broken.
I didn't miss the ache, but I do miss you,
but only in these dull, invasive waves that
simult

PapaThe halls of death are cold and dark,
I don't know why they beckoned to you.
Please tell me you at least tried
Searching for life before
Giving up your faith in its glow.
Please tell me you read
the card I made you,
That you tried to get better
Like the crayon drawings pleaded.
Tell me heaven welcomed you
Gates wide like the arms of a cross.
I miss the sandpaper scratch
Of your mustached kisses.
How your laugh was loud and heavy
Like your cannon-fire humor.
The way you sang all the wrong words
When you bustled in the kitchen.
You won't dance at my wedding,
Or whisper love to my babies.
But I pray you'll lend

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 672 bytes more ▶

More from *callerofcrows

KillerFury fills his eyes as he cradles the gun,
which shakes unsteadily as he sees his target,
who trembles, hands clasped.
"You are not God, you are a thief,
and my life isn't yours to steal."
As if he didn't know the constant cycle
of the killer and the killed.
He wishes the bullets were blank like her eyes are,
wishes the nervous flush in her cheeks
wasn't spread in a rapidly cooling pool on the concrete.
He almost wishes she screamed louder than gunshots.

The KilledTerror fills her eyes as she watches the gun,
which shakes furiously as she sees her assassin,
who quivers, hands clasped.
"You are not God, you are a thief,
and my life is not yours to steal."
She thinks he does not know
the constant cycle of the killer and the killed.
She hopes the bullets are blank as his face,
prays the angry flush of his cheeks
won't turn to a rapid bullet in the atmosphere.
Fervently, she wishes
she can scream louder than gunshots.

RelinquishedYour last gift is release.
The aging tension 'round my eyes
is gone,
and my heart is no longer
a clenching fist.

You were the breath I was holding
and now I've exhaled.

Peeping TomEyes raised, smirk in place,
he looked up Future's skirt.
Supposing by the pale of his face,
I imagine he disliked what he saw.

AlmsgivingI could donate to the poetically homeless,
the literarily thirsty,
the linguistically starved.
Put me in a word kitchen,
I'll serve alphabet soup and
you can read me
what floats in your bowl.

My apron is stained with bad stanzas.
I don't mind if you spill yours on me.

The Midnight InheritanceAll I had was the waxing gibbous
admiring the tilt of my chin
as I played with one shower-fresh curl
still perfectly corkscrewed
and lightly perfumed.

What strange relief,
watching the advancing rain,
a walking wall of grey
that made the mountains tip their heads back,
to drink that midnight wine.

Before the storm could eat the moon
and whisper rumors to my windows closed,
I watched how Cassiopeia
alighted on my reflection.

Seven stars graced my brow like a garland.
I felt my heart swell like a myth,
my breathing hushed as I found myself anointed.

When the last bead of water
rolled down the small of my back,
the sky rel

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: January 1, 2012
File Size: 672 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 6
Favourites: 14 [who?]
Views: 111 (0 today)
Downloads: 5 (0 today)

License

Creative Commons License

Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

[x]

Ache

by *callerofcrows, Jan 1, 2012, 7:17:18 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

It comes and goes
like an unwelcome houseguest,
leaving me with messes I don't need,
and it never shuts the door
to keep the cold out.
I tried shutting off the lights
and closing the blinds,
twisting the key in the padlock
and boarding the windows,
but as long as light can
seep through the cracks,
this shadow will follow
and dig its fingers into my shoulders.
I bruise easily, it knows,
and it revels in watching
me shift in discomfort
while it grips me.
Like a ghost,
it won't let go.

Acheby *callerofcrows

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Because, as someone told me, recovery isn't a straight line. But I know that hurt doesn't last forever, it can't.

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

Please sign up or login to post a critique.

*Scarlettletters Jan 2, 2012 Professional Writer

This unwelcome guest has come calling again....

Reply

*callerofcrows Jan 2, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Absolutely.

Reply

*Scarlettletters Jan 2, 2012 Professional Writer

You are featured here: [link]

Reply

*callerofcrows Jan 2, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much for the feature!!!

Reply

*riparii Jan 2, 2012

I hate house guests.

Reply

*callerofcrows Jan 2, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

LOL. I'm usually fine with them, but this one is *not* one that I enjoy hanging around!!

Reply

Previous
Next