Postcard Poetry @postcardpoet-blog - Tumblr Blog

everything I grip cuts lines into my hands, that are small and fine; split like dried branches they reach out towards the moonlight which bathes and bitters my white, chipped skin in marred softness -- a callus smoothed by Time instead of the lips that kept Endymion.

#poetry #creative writing

holidays & poetry

I haven't posted in weeks because everything I write is hidden away in notebooks in my car, at my job and beneath my bed. Christmas swallowed my December and won't give it back. It isn't even tug of war any more. I've been steamrolled, wrapped and lit up like a skirt-less, punch-drunk evergreen. In all the craziness, I never expected my relatives to start demanding me to read some poetry for Christmas. I don't know why I didn't think they would; they try to get something out of me every year. But imagine my horror when I started scrounging about for something and found all of my horror-esque holiday verses and little else. I can write about dead bodies and drugs and crazy stuff to Tumblr folk, but not to people who love me and think I write pretty things all the time. I then proceeded to offend everyone by refusing to read. Now I have holiday guilt to trim my not-so-white Christmas. This is America, though, and courtesy is nothing in the face of expression. I should have known better. Censorship never wins, not even on behalf of Rudolph. So. My sister and my dead grandfather are going to be served with coffee. Hurray!

#freak out #holidays

sepia advent

wax on the wreath and cranberries, pine on carpet, on rugged stairs, only crumbs on the last of the dishes and lights circled by fly-like memory: she sang at her grandfather's piano cradling a box and a wobbling note oh how prettily the box's paper shined -- a robe over an organ-robbed body bloodless, empty, alone.

#poetry #creative writing #weird #spilled ink #original poetry

I do not want people to be agreeable, as it saves me that trouble of liking them.

Jane Austen

#quotes #authors

...

I am very sorry to have stayed from Tumblr for so long. I lived as if I were in a daze for the past few months, mainly because of work, and thought poetry had abandoned me. Thankfully I have regained my appetite for reading and writing. It's funny how my dashboard has changed over the course of my away time. Some people still post, some of disappeared -- a few that I loved, to my sadness. I've been flicking through tags and reading people's work that I have never read before. I am grateful that people keep posting their poems and other people's poems every day. And the art. I love seeing all of the art. It's like walking through a museum of liquid word and paint, breathing and slithering and living. Anyway, it's good to be back. And thank you to those in the community who have continued to keep my journal on their lists. I appreciate it.

#back from the past #hello #apology

for those who sit outside

occupy occupy golden bull park linked number-fences towers hollow of heart occupy occupy drums and wool caps gloves working without shelter signs made without cash occupy occupy speak in dead mics wave at black screens eat little and lean walk tight-rope on curbs, cross streets as streams occupy occupy letter without address stamp pocketed senates seal bills with spit send up good citizens reject calls for your rent occupy occupy grow never to serve, care to know who, want to know why, catch every paper question the watching eye: where's our receipt, what have you returned? when will you change? for what life do you yearn?

#poetry #original poetry #creative writing #spilled ink

turkey for all

frizzled little kittens bristled with tickled noses and bright-eyes kindled, puzzled by turkey roasted and sizzled meows unmuzzled hurried and scrambled, while ensorcelled humans lose what's tabled through dazzled fingers giving to paws all jumbled and those frizzled little kittens skedaddled quibbled, hightailed -- joy quintupled.

#creative writing #fun nonsense #original poetry #poetry #spilled ink

to a known knife

I will call you future while you have called me dull, and I will look to the horizon as you have looked inside me to see where your cut has & will have gone.

#poetry #creative writing #spilled ink #original poetry

between us sisters

I would like to breathe our time sweetly rather than in a sharp-metered suck scalding like wicked frosts setting the throat against words, the eyes against clarity -- I would love sugared moments with you in the morning, with cream, a light steam to bring back years posed in silence: of girls sharing ribbons and oddly matched socks, of flashes and cheek-straining captures. But the taste between us now is bitter, a crush of years soaked in a boiling pot that holds less beauty than function; little honey can be offered in talk laden with smoke and dances where I stand forever with the next week's invitation, the next conversation with you, looking forward blankly, and I, staring back with folded hands.

#creative writing #poetry #spilled ink #original poetry

at ten past eight

An electric guitar plucked him from my skull and out on the floor he was diminished fifth by fifth, riding slow slaps of whiskey poured straight under low light: no better way to destroy a smell than with a hot throat breathing nothing and numb lips saying what they can't mean.

#poetry #spilled ink #creative writing

to the absent

A parking lot river ruined my socks and across a fire lane your likeness watched. Her hazel-bright eyes lit a store window, hued in brown and red, distorted by rain on the glass. The stare she gave was clean and passing while memories of you sank into my heel. She turned her head to chew on words, not yours, her lips opened a question and I turned away, not yours. Blame curled toward you from coldness in my instep, but the chill moved unfairly, for I was far from where you were.

#poetry #finally poetry #creative writing #spilled ink

a room on the carpet

In July, I gamble with the Sun an hour here, a spit of minutes there on a flat realm whose transparent panes crack the white, flaking skin of Titan-like shoulders crafted by some sub-Promethean artist circa 1970. Will light sweat the drywall into warming the room and shush songs of vent-dwelling Anemoi, sweet with cold; will it force the sill to shrug its burden upward to entertain the outer-evening's breath? Or will the burden be borne and kept shut, paint splitting further along subtle woodwork to expose veins of a once handsome oak now gritted to dullness? Who wins depends only on calendars, glasses of wine and how quickly one can pour into a small space, how much pleasure can be gotten from lifting up or locking down.

#poetry #creative writing #spilled ink

Crazy Dance

the head bob started as an itch, hips swaying came from leaning on one foot, the wrist shake emerged from fingers shut in a drawer, feet stomping mirrored your angry sister's gait and maybe one day I'll explain the choreography more but for now these movements stir a quick, wobbling twirl whose speed is obsession until we forget the song we were shouting or the concert of individual limbs, until the kitchen floor shakes and metal mixing bowls become loose on their shelves. people are below us frowning, people are above us calling the police, and people inside us are shivering and staring wide-eyed into mirrors, mixing low sounds with babble from open mouths where sharpness is in their teeth and darkness in their red throats. as for us, we end only for water or nausea. you follow me, a sailor to my storm-sick captain, in our sinking laughter as feet march up or down the hall stair.

#poetry #creative writing #spilled ink #weird

Quick, Chemistry!

I only met you briefly in the aisle by the soup and dino-shaped cookie cutters. I did not smile, you did not lift your hat but I know you would make me coffee if you could remember if it were one scoop per cup or two, and I would speak to you in French if I could remember more than mon ami and parlez-vous.

#poetry #spilled ink #creative writing #random

financial weight

My piggy bank eats lot of pennies and I think his eyes were made white from all the zinc in him, if zinc can steal color more than children's thumbs or falling books or 409 and coffee. I can see all the digested Abrahams through his slotted back; in two years, piggy might qualify for surgical belly plug removal and perhaps a trip to a real bank who dutifully eats greener monies, who I think would not have any eyes at all and would trim us both considerably.

#poetry #spilled ink #creative writing #nonsense #too much coffee

a service

press here! on the hardest part of her skull until her neck sinks below her polo tee press, keep her jaw descending to the rod of bone holding shoulders to a hunched spine, press down until her head disappears into her chest and becomes a lump beneath her skin, press harder, her hands shoot out, timed with an bell whose ringing, wedged somewhere between her ribs, does violence. pressed, her fingers open and drop money while a suited man emerges from a shadowed door to place a letter of apology atop an empty collar.

#poetry #spilled ink #creative writing

on the edge of the bed

A pin-shaped pain against the lower rib grows to the shape of a mud-brown eye and ginger ale loses fizz in my stand on the night. The mockingbirds are restless until the moon glides across their wire— a half measure rest, I think, a brief forgetting of why we woke or ever spoke at all.

#poetry #creative writing #spilled ink

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