Tag: slam poetry

Daffodil

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He will come into your life with lips smooth like buttercups

whispering forevers in the summertime.

Finding the softest parts of your heart

and making promises with good intentions.

He will wipe away your dewdrops in the morning

and find ways to hold your darkest moments

that will make you feel safe in your own structure.

He will paint you with sunshine and kisses.

He will grow you up like a daffodil,

stand you tall, and blossom by tomorrow.

He will be the thunderstorm that pushes you down,

dirt-covered, broken-stemmed, drooping under rainclouds

and he will not be the one.

And you will wonder how you will ever bloom again.

But you will.

You will.

The Gypsies

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Beneath my heart

my soul

and dancing gypsies

resting with a hip sway in oblivion to the chaos of my

epidermis.

If every cut, scrape, bruise were not a portal to my insides.

My internal nomad,

inhaling and exhaling in the space between my lungs.

Beneath my heart

my soul

bleeding out, clueless.

Squeezed from soaking hip scarves

Red cell after red cell

jingling like coins

draining from the rain-catcher

of every human experience I will ever have to face as an artist.

People see my eyes and assume there is more than life behind them

the way they assume gypsies dance because they’re happy.

And there is not a day where I don’t wonder

if people have caught glimpses of themselves

reflected on the edges of dull blades

brushed across their skin

ever so gently like a pen gliding seamless across

lined paper.

And I know writing is a form of self-mutilation

and I sleep uneasy.

Beneath my heart,

my soul,

what I’ve hidden inside my shell of flesh

squirming deformed

like an infant newly amputeed.

It’s shrill cry so loud it’s silent,

reshaping my carved mind into carnival music

building and unbuilding wordform compulsively.

“Poet” they say

“Poet”

Like a mandate of Shakespeare.

I am sonnets and rhyming and roses and violets

firmly pushed beneath visitor glass,

pulsing to the beat of tambourines.

Beneath my heart- shhh

If you’re quiet sometimes you can hear them.

Shark

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You, sir, are a shark.

Teeth sharp, wit to match, gleaming bright, entrancing,

mesmerizing the fish. I see you,

Shark.

Eyes narrowed, focused,

moving slowly with grace and impure intentions

like many men before you,

Shark.

Teeth sharp, wit to match, gleaming bright, entrancing,

mesmerizing every woman you smile at,

every stupid fish. You

Shark.

Eyes narrowed, focused,

watching from the edge of the tank,

like any intelligent woman. I, too, am

Shark.

You muster your guts

and feed through the fish to approach,

but that’s the thing about

Sharks.

They don’t mess with other

Sharks.

So you are either brave or stupid.

 

Or, god, I might be a fish.

Captain

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Don’t call me captain.

We are past the times of pretending the other is on every plane we see.

Hoped to see you at dance recitals or at the train station to meet me.

Call me impatient, call me jealous

but I am in the backseat

and you can see my gaze drift out the window

like a ship at sea.

Why is it any surprise that I am soaked salty in disappointment

as you remind me that there were other captains before me?

I’ve seen enough to know sometimes you miss them.

Your wheel turned by other hands, perhaps more soft,

perhaps more experienced,

and I am only good at working with mine.

My grandpa used to tell me I belonged in a garage-

my heart, a porsche convertible beating red with engine revs under a sawdust-covered hood,

hidden.

I found your initials keyed into my love handles,

unlocked every journey I might ever hope to have,

you told me my eyes were beautiful like mirrors and you could see sunlight in my teeth.

I told you that holding my hand doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.

Telling me to come back home doesn’t mean I want to be there.

Moving forward doesn’t mean you’re not leaving me behind.

You said you’d always wait.

Now you say I drive you crazy.

Well I want to drive you west to the beaches I grew up on and show you how fragile oyster shells are so you can see what happens to my chest every time I hear you say her name.

Wonder if you notice how her hair blows in the ocean wind.

Ex-lovers, just friends, but I know better.

And I have no one.

And I know it’s not fair that I’d feel less lonely if you had no one, too.

But if you stop letting your wheel be guided by memories and stare hard enough at the water maybe you can see I’ve fallen overboard for you.

My feet heavy like car tires, meant for solid ground.

And I am not sure your wordless apologies are still enough to keep me afloat.

So don’t call me captain.

The Current

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I hope you’re never self-conscious about the way you speak

the way you’ve spoken

because I may never have the nerve to tell you outside the format of a poem

that the sound of your voice

turns me on,

electric

the way it crinkles without cracking like the vast empty waters of a

bubble bath and

holds vibrancy like a baby,

weeks old,

a new thing

it feels like you’re lying on my chest

entangling our shoelaces

warmth uncontrollably pouring in through my shirt pockets

you put your hands there and squeeze

it feels like rain on telephone wires

buzzing with content

vibrations

empty conversations

we will only remember we used to talk often enough

for saliva to drip from our restless tongues

it feels like camping by the river

with one sleeping bag

and no pajamas

watching the water change infinitely with time

I wonder if the same two molecules ever

brush against each other’s backs more than once

before finding a new companion

and I want to be more than the water with you

I want to press my lips against yours

hear the trembling of your voice flow like

broken sink faucets

you can put me on the kitchen counter

you can put me to bed in the most tranquil way

you can put me anywhere you want me

drowning out useless noise

heavy breaths, quick and quicker

your tone soft and shielding like

looking up at an ocean wave

I say hello, you

come here

I want to be wet with you, please

don’t stop

don’t protect me from the current.

Work Poem.

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The linoleum floors in the break room ice my aching calves,
unmopped and sticky,
still the only relief from the humidity of Floridian weather.

Twenty-six thin blurring faces,
brushing shoulders at our incremental heights,
all in the same grey t-shirt and gym shorts that graze our knees,
marked with white barcodes plastered across the front.
We believe we are special as we march in
every morning, recaptured in a dream-
every evening, abandoned by our fans.

We scramble like ants around each other,
Tossing socks, switching spots, kicking off shoes,
Winnie the Pooh motioning to be let out,
Tigger bouncing at my head,
Eeyore tripping,
velcro ripping,
zippers coming undone at the seams
Mouths filled and dripping
with swear words whispered when the
shift manager steps out for a smoke.

I pull my costume cushions on,
fleshy pillows
wet with the sweat from the last set before parade.
My senses saturated in my childhood,
colorful
eager
continually disappointed in the people around me
as the shift manager politely reminds me
I’m only here because my waist is small and my
shoulders wide enough to work with.

Oven-like heat leaks in from the door crack and
sweeps over me, heavy,
carrying me out from the Boat Dock break room and
on stage to
make magical memories at
the happiest place on earth.

I hold my character’s head on my hip like a helmet,
and acknowledge that sometimes it just isn’t enough
to put on a happy face.

Clipped.

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There are sometimes feelings

you must ignore for the sake of functionality.

There are sometimes butterflies

whose wings must be clipped

and I will admit that I am tragically lonesome

and I will admit that you are captivating

and I am trying to forget

feelings far too dangerous to shrug off as the delicacy of an almost flutter.

You could slide those shears across every vein in my body

but the blood will still rush to my face every time you say my name.

I have pretended for far too long

to have found flight in someone else’s voice,

never admitting to anyone but the page

that yours sticks to my clothing like campfire smoke when I am pretending to breathe clean air.

And there are sometimes palpitations

that you can’t do anything about

so I will keep clipping butterfly wings

and you will never know that they’ve flown.