When you kissed me on that bench,
by the lake,
under that tree that dripped with summer romance,
I thought I must be the luckiest girl in the entire world.
You imitated the bullfrogs, and I laughed,
and you loved to make me laugh,
so you blew raspberries on my neck,
and we spoke about pink elephants, and black holes,
and islands we would discover together.
We held each other like lovers who would soon be without
their counterpart,
and swore we would never love like this again.
But we both knew you were leaving.
I asked you to stay.
Asked you how I was supposed to seduce you from
hundreds of miles away,
And you told me there were plenty of benches in
Tennessee for me to kiss you on,
(and you always had something clever like that to say),
and I told you your wit needed updating, so you said,
“your kisses are better than hot coffee under my front porch
in a morning rain.”
I said, that’s pretty good,
kiss me ‘til it starts raining.
And you told me I was your favorite girl,
and I was thinking... “you bet your sweet ass I am”,
but I diplomatically replied with... “and you are my favorite boy”,
and you insisted I call you if insomnia set in,
so I did, and I’d lay on my pillow with my cell phone to my ear,
smiling, while you read me poetry in your deep, playful baritone until I was too sleepy to complain of the places between us,
‘til I slipped into slumber and dreamt of your hands
moving over my body with such deliberate strength,
but so....gently, so....perfectly.
And I like how you speak in full sentences in text messages,
and how your eyes soften when you see me,
like I’m some relief you can rely on,
And I’ll probably never long for another as I have for you,
and I can guarantee that no person has ever been so expertly missed as I have missed you,
and you will live in the deepest parts of me until
bullfrogs stop ribbiting and rain stops falling on roofs made of tin,
until that little, bald section of your beard begins to grow in.
I will love you until then.
July 05, 2009
Ice Queen
He was like every other early advancer I had come across.
He thought dinner, and a movie (WOW), and some eloquence-lacking conversation would make my clothes fall right off in the passenger seat of his trendy 2009 Jetta.
He was just like every other 9 to 5, pink-tie-wearing,
drunk-off-Michelob-Ultra,
buy-your-girlfriend-a-Coach-bag-so-she’ll-keep-putting-out-kind-of-guy that makes me want to chuck my chilly ass off a train bridge.
He wouldn’t have known a real woman if she walked naked through Nordstrom with ninety grand worth of axe body spray
strapped to her back.
He said I think you are an ice queen, and I said well,
you and your nice jeans,
and your manicured fingernails don’t melt this iceberg.
I like a man who wears cut off t-shirts,
who can build cabinets with callused hands,
who drinks black coffee, shoots straight whiskey, but still reads me poetry by candlelight before we make wild love as dawn peeks its way onto white-washed walls.
I don’t need a man with fortune,
I want a man who appreciates the greens in the stems of wildflowers and
gets lost in the leaves of lofty oak trees.
I don’t need a man to protect me, I want a man with safe arms,
always open and optimistic and strong in principles, not in arrogance.
But you, you are not this man.
You are all the same.
With your spikey hair, and perfectly polished pearly whites,
and not a scar on your body,
because you’ve never done anything dangerous enough,
you’ve never taken the rough road through windy, dark streets.
You’ve never taken a chance,
you won’t even dance by yourself,
with the door closed,
and the lights off.
But I suppose I can’t fault you for this. Because it isn’t your fault.
It’s probably what everyone’s always wanted for you your entire life.
It’s what your dad did, and what your friends do,
and you probably think you’re successful,
and you may call me an ice queen now, but if you only knew the pictures I can paint with my tongue you would rip off that Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie bullshit and let me teach you a thing or two about living dangerously.
Because I am not your average Barbie bimbo,
but I can do back bends, and I can limbo,
but HIM though,
YOU though, you’ll never know what it feels like because to you,
I’m just an ice queen,
unwilling to give it up.
So you call me when you’re willing to give IT up.
He thought dinner, and a movie (WOW), and some eloquence-lacking conversation would make my clothes fall right off in the passenger seat of his trendy 2009 Jetta.
He was just like every other 9 to 5, pink-tie-wearing,
drunk-off-Michelob-Ultra,
buy-your-girlfriend-a-Coach-bag-so-she’ll-keep-putting-out-kind-of-guy that makes me want to chuck my chilly ass off a train bridge.
He wouldn’t have known a real woman if she walked naked through Nordstrom with ninety grand worth of axe body spray
strapped to her back.
He said I think you are an ice queen, and I said well,
you and your nice jeans,
and your manicured fingernails don’t melt this iceberg.
I like a man who wears cut off t-shirts,
who can build cabinets with callused hands,
who drinks black coffee, shoots straight whiskey, but still reads me poetry by candlelight before we make wild love as dawn peeks its way onto white-washed walls.
I don’t need a man with fortune,
I want a man who appreciates the greens in the stems of wildflowers and
gets lost in the leaves of lofty oak trees.
I don’t need a man to protect me, I want a man with safe arms,
always open and optimistic and strong in principles, not in arrogance.
But you, you are not this man.
You are all the same.
With your spikey hair, and perfectly polished pearly whites,
and not a scar on your body,
because you’ve never done anything dangerous enough,
you’ve never taken the rough road through windy, dark streets.
You’ve never taken a chance,
you won’t even dance by yourself,
with the door closed,
and the lights off.
But I suppose I can’t fault you for this. Because it isn’t your fault.
It’s probably what everyone’s always wanted for you your entire life.
It’s what your dad did, and what your friends do,
and you probably think you’re successful,
and you may call me an ice queen now, but if you only knew the pictures I can paint with my tongue you would rip off that Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie bullshit and let me teach you a thing or two about living dangerously.
Because I am not your average Barbie bimbo,
but I can do back bends, and I can limbo,
but HIM though,
YOU though, you’ll never know what it feels like because to you,
I’m just an ice queen,
unwilling to give it up.
So you call me when you’re willing to give IT up.
For Sam
I wish I could write you a poem that would explain everything.
I wish I could write you a poem that you could reference
when you need to know how you should feel
when you don’t make the basketball team,
or when your first girlfriend leaves your heart broken in pieces,
or when you think that no one in the world understands you,
but this is not that poem.
This is not a poem about love, or successes,
This is not a poem about life’s mysteries, botched wisdom,
how to swim, how to read, how to understand women (yeah, right).
This is a poem for you, my little brother.
This is a poem to tell you how much I love you, unconditionally, forever.
I wanted to tell you that when I look at your little hands,
I get a feeling deep in my soul that peace is possible,
that all is right in this unforgiving world.
When you smile that toothy grin,
geez, that little smile,
it’s the brightest thing that’s ever blinded me with happiness.
I would give you everything in the world if I could.
I would gather all the good things that were ever created,
mold them together in a giant mass of awesome,
and keep it in the basement so you could tear off a little piece when you were feeling sad,
or needed a reminder that things generally turn out okay.
I want you to know that things aren’t always going to seem fair,
that you WILL get caught doing stupid shit,
and you WILL wish you hadn’t done it,
but be glad you did,
because you shouldn’t EVER hold regrets within yourself.
Live every day like you do right now.
At 1 year old.
With cheerios on your fingers, juice in your sippy-cup,
and a contentment that every adult wishes they could grasp for
one
single
day.
I wish I could write you a poem that you could reference
when you need to know how you should feel
when you don’t make the basketball team,
or when your first girlfriend leaves your heart broken in pieces,
or when you think that no one in the world understands you,
but this is not that poem.
This is not a poem about love, or successes,
This is not a poem about life’s mysteries, botched wisdom,
how to swim, how to read, how to understand women (yeah, right).
This is a poem for you, my little brother.
This is a poem to tell you how much I love you, unconditionally, forever.
I wanted to tell you that when I look at your little hands,
I get a feeling deep in my soul that peace is possible,
that all is right in this unforgiving world.
When you smile that toothy grin,
geez, that little smile,
it’s the brightest thing that’s ever blinded me with happiness.
I would give you everything in the world if I could.
I would gather all the good things that were ever created,
mold them together in a giant mass of awesome,
and keep it in the basement so you could tear off a little piece when you were feeling sad,
or needed a reminder that things generally turn out okay.
I want you to know that things aren’t always going to seem fair,
that you WILL get caught doing stupid shit,
and you WILL wish you hadn’t done it,
but be glad you did,
because you shouldn’t EVER hold regrets within yourself.
Live every day like you do right now.
At 1 year old.
With cheerios on your fingers, juice in your sippy-cup,
and a contentment that every adult wishes they could grasp for
one
single
day.
April 28, 2009
"A" for effort
You. He told me.
You are the nerdiest nymphomaniac I ever encountered.
He told me the words I chose to speak and the topic of conversation was all Greek to him,
that he couldn’t understand why any woman would read poetry,
let alone hold “outdated” ideas of feminism.
He wasn’t the deepest, most seasoned lover I’d had.
Sometimes he wasn’t sure where his hands should caress, or how his tongue should press against my...lips.
Sometimes my hips would ask him if he could move just a little bit to the left,
and sometimes he understood,
and sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes he’d say, “hey! Slow down up there!”
And I’d say, “hey! You’re so slow down there!”
Most of the time he moved to his own rhythm, and that was okay with me, as long as he,
you know,
respected the outcome.
And the outcome was always slightly better than average, but it was never that clenched-fist, muscle-spasm, bury-head-in-pillow-for-fear-of-waking-the-neighbors’-neighbors
kind of orgasm,
But it was dependable.
It was that little, black dress in the back of your closet that always feels flattering,
and that book,
that book you’ve read over and over and the pages are falling out,
but it always takes you to the same, wonderful place.
See, I didn’t care that he needed direction as to where to put his....erecti....hands,
because I was his professor, and criticism was something he could surely withstand.
So I gave him an A for effort,
not because he made up in coordination what he lacked in experience,
but because there is always praise to be given for passionate persistence.
You are the nerdiest nymphomaniac I ever encountered.
He told me the words I chose to speak and the topic of conversation was all Greek to him,
that he couldn’t understand why any woman would read poetry,
let alone hold “outdated” ideas of feminism.
He wasn’t the deepest, most seasoned lover I’d had.
Sometimes he wasn’t sure where his hands should caress, or how his tongue should press against my...lips.
Sometimes my hips would ask him if he could move just a little bit to the left,
and sometimes he understood,
and sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes he’d say, “hey! Slow down up there!”
And I’d say, “hey! You’re so slow down there!”
Most of the time he moved to his own rhythm, and that was okay with me, as long as he,
you know,
respected the outcome.
And the outcome was always slightly better than average, but it was never that clenched-fist, muscle-spasm, bury-head-in-pillow-for-fear-of-waking-the-neighbors’-neighbors
kind of orgasm,
But it was dependable.
It was that little, black dress in the back of your closet that always feels flattering,
and that book,
that book you’ve read over and over and the pages are falling out,
but it always takes you to the same, wonderful place.
See, I didn’t care that he needed direction as to where to put his....erecti....hands,
because I was his professor, and criticism was something he could surely withstand.
So I gave him an A for effort,
not because he made up in coordination what he lacked in experience,
but because there is always praise to be given for passionate persistence.
April 21, 2009
My God
I saw this man standing on the fountain at my school,
He was yelling at passers-by and shaking his bible in the air like a weapon of war.
His imposing, roar of a voice was getting rather heated by the time I passed by in my tie-dye and jeans, my brown eyes met his
and I smiled without thinking, (mistake of the century).
He cried, “Sinner! You need some saving!”
My God, that’s strange, I don’t feel as if I’m drowning, or choking, burning in a pit of hot lava, being trampled to death by a herd of wildebeests. I feel...good.
I said, I appreciate your concern, sir, but I’m simply not sure that I agree.
Because the God you shriek of is all fire and brimstone, spiting and smiting, judgment, deprivation, drip some water on your head and you’re granted salvation...my god.
You preach of exclusions and black and white with no grey in between.
How can that be, sir?
Your God tells you to shun the Jews, the Muslims, the Buddhists, the gays, the gay-supporters, the pro-choice-ers, the feminists, the liberals, the evolutionists, the trans-gendered, the women who work too much, the men who don’t work enough, the divorced, the free-thinkers.
Sir, I don’t mean to sound combative, or at all as though I have this insight into His nature within the scope of my worldly understanding.
All I can convey is my consciousness and the
God that visits me at night.
I’m not saying you’re wrong and I’m right,
because the realities we see are molded by our experiences
and maybe I’ve been more fortunate than you.
But the God I know is all peace and kindness.
Not tolerance, but acceptance with open arms.
He’s warm and natural, greens and blues and purples and reds.
He smells like a baby’s soft skin, and rain and wind,
and the perfume my mother wears only on special occasions.
He tastes like a lovers’ kiss, wild raspberry stains on my fingertips,
and chocolate chip pancakes with whip cream faces.
The God I know records no wrongs on His Blackberry with a petty vengeance, no.
He’s always on love’s side.
I find my God in the strangest places. Not in cathedrals or mosques, or masses or sermons, no. But, on a flight to Miami and the woman next to me is flying to the funeral of her young sister and I hugged mine just last week.
Or in a mother saying good-bye to her son, a Marine, and she’s so damn proud but scared as hell this may be the last time they’ll speak.
You see, sir, your description and mine could not be more disparate,
my God is all tender touch and compassion,
not discrimination and prohibition.
My God is
love,
sir.
He was yelling at passers-by and shaking his bible in the air like a weapon of war.
His imposing, roar of a voice was getting rather heated by the time I passed by in my tie-dye and jeans, my brown eyes met his
and I smiled without thinking, (mistake of the century).
He cried, “Sinner! You need some saving!”
My God, that’s strange, I don’t feel as if I’m drowning, or choking, burning in a pit of hot lava, being trampled to death by a herd of wildebeests. I feel...good.
I said, I appreciate your concern, sir, but I’m simply not sure that I agree.
Because the God you shriek of is all fire and brimstone, spiting and smiting, judgment, deprivation, drip some water on your head and you’re granted salvation...my god.
You preach of exclusions and black and white with no grey in between.
How can that be, sir?
Your God tells you to shun the Jews, the Muslims, the Buddhists, the gays, the gay-supporters, the pro-choice-ers, the feminists, the liberals, the evolutionists, the trans-gendered, the women who work too much, the men who don’t work enough, the divorced, the free-thinkers.
Sir, I don’t mean to sound combative, or at all as though I have this insight into His nature within the scope of my worldly understanding.
All I can convey is my consciousness and the
God that visits me at night.
I’m not saying you’re wrong and I’m right,
because the realities we see are molded by our experiences
and maybe I’ve been more fortunate than you.
But the God I know is all peace and kindness.
Not tolerance, but acceptance with open arms.
He’s warm and natural, greens and blues and purples and reds.
He smells like a baby’s soft skin, and rain and wind,
and the perfume my mother wears only on special occasions.
He tastes like a lovers’ kiss, wild raspberry stains on my fingertips,
and chocolate chip pancakes with whip cream faces.
The God I know records no wrongs on His Blackberry with a petty vengeance, no.
He’s always on love’s side.
I find my God in the strangest places. Not in cathedrals or mosques, or masses or sermons, no. But, on a flight to Miami and the woman next to me is flying to the funeral of her young sister and I hugged mine just last week.
Or in a mother saying good-bye to her son, a Marine, and she’s so damn proud but scared as hell this may be the last time they’ll speak.
You see, sir, your description and mine could not be more disparate,
my God is all tender touch and compassion,
not discrimination and prohibition.
My God is
love,
sir.
April 20, 2009
My Breasts
My breasts.
My knockers, my funbags,
my titties, my ta-tas,
My love lumps, my love muffins,
My hooters, my jugs,
My boobies, my girls,
My melons, my chi-chis,
My bosoms, my sweater puppets,
My breasts.
See, my mammaries have been displeased
With all these pen names they’ve been forced to work under.
My chest is distressed from this mess of misnomers it’s been cloaked in.
These euphemisms created by my male counterparts, such an art, guys, really,
but I think you’re missing my meaning.
See, I’m no angry feminist hating on men, but you guys need some pointers,
so please take this in.
Boys...my breasts aren’t your play toys but I invite you to enjoy them
if you promise to adore them and not try to hoard them as your own and please don’t pinch them, or rub them so hard they feel like they’ll fall off!
They’re attached, you know!
Don’t go back and forth and back and forth, no woman wants that course of action,
get some sense!
Don’t suck and suck like your mother’s teat,
you’ve been weaned too long to be holding on to some Freudian notion of juvenile pleasure.
Don’t yell at me from across the street, “Nice rack!”
Did I ask for your approval? I’m very aware of the...qualities I possess.
And if you think that your crudeness is cool to your cronies please reconsider that your words are just bitter perversions of desire,
cause you KNOW you can’t have ME.
Don’t think I don’t notice you staring me down in the grocery line and pretending to reach for a magazine so you can lean in to see in my cleavage.
Don’t think I won’t pop you one right in the kisser, cause mister this sister has HAD it with men who think my self-esteem is pieced together with poor pick-up lines and honks from your dodge neon, PLEASE!
I used to think that my breasts gave me power over men,
I could tower over men in my five foot three frame because I became the master,
But I was all wrong, see, 'cause I won’t be a woman who uses her body as a weapon against the male species,
I want to use my body for running, for dancing, for hugging, for lov-ing.
My breasts aren’t ME.
They’re a part of me that happens to be made fabulously.
But that doesn’t give you free reign to ogle and fondle,
and openly express your judgment on how I must be eas-y 'cause all you see’s a great pair of
breasts.
My knockers, my funbags,
my titties, my ta-tas,
My love lumps, my love muffins,
My hooters, my jugs,
My boobies, my girls,
My melons, my chi-chis,
My bosoms, my sweater puppets,
My breasts.
See, my mammaries have been displeased
With all these pen names they’ve been forced to work under.
My chest is distressed from this mess of misnomers it’s been cloaked in.
These euphemisms created by my male counterparts, such an art, guys, really,
but I think you’re missing my meaning.
See, I’m no angry feminist hating on men, but you guys need some pointers,
so please take this in.
Boys...my breasts aren’t your play toys but I invite you to enjoy them
if you promise to adore them and not try to hoard them as your own and please don’t pinch them, or rub them so hard they feel like they’ll fall off!
They’re attached, you know!
Don’t go back and forth and back and forth, no woman wants that course of action,
get some sense!
Don’t suck and suck like your mother’s teat,
you’ve been weaned too long to be holding on to some Freudian notion of juvenile pleasure.
Don’t yell at me from across the street, “Nice rack!”
Did I ask for your approval? I’m very aware of the...qualities I possess.
And if you think that your crudeness is cool to your cronies please reconsider that your words are just bitter perversions of desire,
cause you KNOW you can’t have ME.
Don’t think I don’t notice you staring me down in the grocery line and pretending to reach for a magazine so you can lean in to see in my cleavage.
Don’t think I won’t pop you one right in the kisser, cause mister this sister has HAD it with men who think my self-esteem is pieced together with poor pick-up lines and honks from your dodge neon, PLEASE!
I used to think that my breasts gave me power over men,
I could tower over men in my five foot three frame because I became the master,
But I was all wrong, see, 'cause I won’t be a woman who uses her body as a weapon against the male species,
I want to use my body for running, for dancing, for hugging, for lov-ing.
My breasts aren’t ME.
They’re a part of me that happens to be made fabulously.
But that doesn’t give you free reign to ogle and fondle,
and openly express your judgment on how I must be eas-y 'cause all you see’s a great pair of
breasts.
March 17, 2009
Don't go
Baby don’t go.
If you go from this place
the pain I will face will disgrace
this beautiful, sensual, sexually charged
bit of wonder we’re under, this thunder that roars
as we soar through the doors of the clouds
of this love so loud, and we’re proud
that we shroud none of these vows that we’ve made
in such haste, but this taste, this taste!
This taste of embrace,
such a waste to discard this part of ourselves
that we’ve melded from you and
from me and from blue and from heat
And we meet with a sweet, such a sweet sense of longing,
belonging that comes only through calming
with embalming of a love so deep
That it cheapens the very word...love, love
Love, that mystical, magical, actually difficult place to live
where faith is responsibility, where you’re
given so easily, breezily a gift that moves mountains!
I’m shouting! I’m shouting!
Don’t go my baby, don’t go.
This rhythm of livin’ you’ve given my heart
can’t be taken away, say you’ll stay!
don’t betray all the things you’ve been feeling inside,
let it ride, my love, let it ride through the night, it’s so right,
feel my hips sway along to your syrupy song
hold my head in your palm, let my neck meet your lips
and we’ll kiss and we’ll kiss,
let no feeling like this be dismissed,
pure bliss that exists in electricity
between you and me, we’re freed by this sea
of emotions that’s anecdotal to the notion of you leaving me be,
only to dream of the days we shared under sheets
when the beat of our brains mattered not,
just the thump of our hearts and the start of our selves,
united in throws of rose-colored prose,
Don’t go my baby, don’t go.
If you go from this place
the pain I will face will disgrace
this beautiful, sensual, sexually charged
bit of wonder we’re under, this thunder that roars
as we soar through the doors of the clouds
of this love so loud, and we’re proud
that we shroud none of these vows that we’ve made
in such haste, but this taste, this taste!
This taste of embrace,
such a waste to discard this part of ourselves
that we’ve melded from you and
from me and from blue and from heat
And we meet with a sweet, such a sweet sense of longing,
belonging that comes only through calming
with embalming of a love so deep
That it cheapens the very word...love, love
Love, that mystical, magical, actually difficult place to live
where faith is responsibility, where you’re
given so easily, breezily a gift that moves mountains!
I’m shouting! I’m shouting!
Don’t go my baby, don’t go.
This rhythm of livin’ you’ve given my heart
can’t be taken away, say you’ll stay!
don’t betray all the things you’ve been feeling inside,
let it ride, my love, let it ride through the night, it’s so right,
feel my hips sway along to your syrupy song
hold my head in your palm, let my neck meet your lips
and we’ll kiss and we’ll kiss,
let no feeling like this be dismissed,
pure bliss that exists in electricity
between you and me, we’re freed by this sea
of emotions that’s anecdotal to the notion of you leaving me be,
only to dream of the days we shared under sheets
when the beat of our brains mattered not,
just the thump of our hearts and the start of our selves,
united in throws of rose-colored prose,
Don’t go my baby, don’t go.
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