Remember that poetry is both auditory and visual--make sure your poem both sounds and looks exactly as you want it to before you publish your comment. Structure matters.
Do not reveal your object in your comment (keep it a secret!)
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ReplyDeleteAbandoned
ReplyDeleteThe metal part hit the ground with a
clink
clink
clink
A sinister slot machine swallowing up loose change.
Its handle was bumpy like an unpaved road
And was frantically smeared with a myriad of colors.
Like the 80s.
The paint on the handle was starting to peel away
And the wooden handle was weathered like an old plank that washes up on the beach.
I ran my hand along its splintery handle
Angry bees stung my fingers.
Was there once a time when its bristles did not disagree
And try to escape in different directions?
When one could not taste the overwhelmingly thick smell of oily paints
Wafting from its bristles?
Its handle smelled like a fierce forest fire
and tasted as bitter as coffee.
Crying out for attention!
Abandoned, it sat
Still
Alone.
The Mountain on the Counter
ReplyDeleteA mountain is there on the counter
Rich, chocolaty, moist
Underneath its textured butter cream
Its fragile sponge crumbles
The cream contrasts like the moon
On a rocky, black peak
Observers, like climbers, explore its dark chips
Oozing, melting and sweet
A taste lingers like night’s bright stars:
Godiva Extra Dark
Its aroma permeates the air
Like a lone camper’s fire
It is tempting, there on the counter
Wanting to be eaten
And with that taste, that smell, that texture,
Its gone in a flash
A clean plate is there on the counter,
A fork lies beside
Her leaves lift to the sky in prayer.
ReplyDelete“Why am I avoided?”
Light shines through a canopy of trees, illuminating her delicate petals.
“Can no one see my beauty?”
She screams with color as the forest around her sighs with normality.
“Can no one hear my cry?”
Her white spots leap from a brilliant red.
“Why isn’t anyone paying attention to me?”
She is poised.
She is radiant.
She is alone.
She smells like rotting flesh.
Suddenly her appearance is irrelevant.
“I am not alluring enough?”
Her beauty is deceiving.
A tiny little gift
ReplyDeletePresented like a new treasure to the opulent
Carefully indented, precise in every way
A precious statuette, handcrafted from love
After a day of possession it had the mark of the house
Pasta smell and taste, paint already chipped away
Its name proclaimed dominance, and would put the mischievous to work
Yet its nature contradicts the name, much like Michael Scott from the Office
Small enough to warm in your hand
Big enough to place all the love in the world in
He’s mine, and always will be
My tiny little 老板 (Lǎobǎn)
Inky black shadows dart across the room,
ReplyDeleteAlmost as dark as the midnight black tone of the tattered fabric.
I imagine hearing the soft melodic pattering,
Echoing down a long stretch of hallway.
Yet today they remain still.
The smooth blackness envelopes you,
As if a candle has just been blown out in a cellar.
Or the darkest part of the night,
When all the streetlamps are out,
And you cannot see your hand in front of your face.
Laces dance across the top,
Like rays of light peeking from behind a rain cloud.
They weave in and out.
Like curious worms peeking out of their homes in the ground,
Unaware of the hungry bird swooping in for its next meal.
It smells of musty closet
Just being reopened for the first time in years
A vivid reminder of the wear they have received.
The taste would be no different than the smell.
The rubber being as bitter and pungent as dandelions or Brussels sprouts.
Delicate white threads glide across the murky black cloth
Giving it a textured surface.
They reach across like fingers attempting to grab something,
They can’t reach.
It appears to give the uneven surface some order,
Like ants marching to their next meal,
Or soldiers going onward to battle in the night.
Fading Paint
ReplyDeleteBright, lime green
Like a traffic sign that desperately directs people day after day.
Spherical
Like a small globe.
Its identity based on a single word and a number
Printed in black fabric paint, slowly decomposing as it is battered around.
It reeks of the smell of the left over chemicals after hair has been dyed,
Yet dusty, as if it has been sitting in an antique house for years on end.
Gristly, but rubbery
As the long, thin indentions travel around it like a never ending road
That you search so ardently for the end.
Thump, thump, thump
As it mocks a heartbeat struggling to pump blood through a body
When it hits the wall.
The fibrous filaments faintly floating on the air,
Are pungent like bay leaves
And bitter like unsweetened chocolate,
Leaving the sensation of thirst on the tongue
As if a timed mile had just been sprinted.
It will eventually wear out and die,
Like the rest of its kind lying on the hard, hot asphalt
And lose its identity when the paint has completely faded.
Worn Out but Fun
ReplyDeleteThe color of aged wood-
gradually becoming smoother with age.
Eight panels, practically the same
divided like the lines of longitude around a globe.
A seasoned smell of salty sweat
Fun alone, but more exciting in a group
Shoes squeaking, sometimes screaming-
sounds that accompany that echoing bounce
With "Wilson" imprinted on it,
any gym is home.
Black Beauty
ReplyDeleteIt sits there all day, waiting for me to return from school.
The smell of wood polish is such a strong cross between lemon and leather that I can smell it the minute I walk into the room.
Black as strong coffee, the exterior, shines as it reflects the light from the window it lives by.
A small off-white line runs around its hour glass body.
It acts like a spoonful of creamer, adding a soothing touch to the strong coffee.
Even its barely visible wooden interior shines and contains a faint but relaxing smell, similar to paint.
It’s milk chocolate wooden neck stretches the length of two rulers to the head, like a giraffe stretching for best leaves of a tree.
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ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteInfluencing Box
ReplyDeleteIf dead at sixty-five,
Nine years were wasted staring at the box of entertainment.
Cubic, yet plane-like rested upon the mantle
Fire burns, yet focus is on the icy glass above it
This distraction it brings makes long nights brief
Reality, sports, plots, and more: scenes found in the box of entertainment
Bringing enjoyment to the audience
Through connection to their lives, goals, and dreams.
Though far from truthful,
Ideas introduced about personal image and behavior
Effect reality
Vision is complemented by what is heard; and
The silence of sleep surrenders to bursting, booming bombs
Violence of a script,
Encouraging actions and thoughts
Through a box of entertainment
It is like a pair of glasses
Replaced or fixed if broken,
Made of glass, plastic, and metal
Used in a daily routine,
But mostly effecting how the world is perceived.
Worn Warrior
ReplyDeleteUnwrapped and unforgiving
Standing stiff at attention
Their purpose is protection
The arena is a battlefield
Each equestrian encounter breaking them down
Hardworking and humbly rugged, a friend and necessity
Once proud and perfectly polished
Now camouflaged by dirt and memories
They slouch weary and ready to retire
Battle scars acquired in duty wrinkle them weathered
Missing buttons and broken zippers render them defeated
The forgotten soldier shows the scars of a job well done.
Awaiting by the Sink
ReplyDeleteStiff like a toy soldier,
The handle bent gradually increasing upward like a vase of flowers.
Sporadically and unevenly placed,
The bristles, frayed like split ends on long hair.
Throughout the marbled bathroom,
The lingering peppermint aroma radiates.
Gliding over the teeth,
The sound is that of a cat scratching on the kitchen door.
Feeling the bristles against your lips,
The sensation that someone with a mustache is kissing you.
When the brushing comes to a stop,
The frothy foam forms around your lips like a dog with rabies.
While the clean, fresh scent emits,
The matted toothpaste clings and dries to the bristles.
Just waiting for the next use.
First Impressions
ReplyDeleteSqueak! Rustle! Whoosh!
First impressions are critical. They explain many things about something.
It flashed in front of them like an inflicted bruise,
Colors black and purple.
Rustle! The fabric sounded like a light breeze blowing leaves off a tree as the girls moved to their places.
Whoosh! Said the fabric, as flexible as a rubber band, as it allowed the girls to tumble easily.
They were amazed..
It was elaborate and as shiny as the medal they were competing for,
And the odor was very distinct. It smelled of sweat
It clearly showed how hard the girls had worked.
First impressions are critical…
What Do You See
ReplyDeleteLooking through the clear plastic lens?
Does President Roosevelt
Pick up his fork?
Stab his steak and wait
For you to do the same?
Finish his meal,
Push his chair under the wooden table,
And wait for you? click.
For you to meet him
On the SUN DECK
Under the blue sky
As beautiful through the plastic lens
As through the eyes of Seurat. click.
Does he open the garage
And let you sit in his shiny black CONVERTIBLE?
Take a cruise down
Little White House Rd? click.
Did your hand slip?
Is your eye tired of squinting?
Are you tired of trying to locate
The perfect amount of light?
To illuminate the murky white plastic?
To finish the perfect evening
With President Roosevelt?
Set down the little box
From WARM SPRINGS, GEORGIA.
You will go back someday.
An artist in his studio
ReplyDeleteAn artist in his studio;
Little silver button, like a paintbrush, holding imagination,
Musical lens closing, like the un-capping of paint tubes,
Fragrance of soft leather and metal, acrylic.
Black, cold lens staring, a tiger to its prey.
Eager hands rush to the focus dials, paint-stained hands hurry to the paintbrushes.
The ribbed straps bump against the stomach, like a hungry baby to its mother.
Homely scents of cardboard.
A little rotation and the picture is a piece of art.
Moments captured forever, just like a painting.
The film is bursting with photos, pictures seeping out of the seams
.
And it is laid to rest once more.
The Giant
ReplyDeleteIt stands tall, elevated above everything around,
basking in the warmth, near the creek,
tasting like freshly exposed earth,
the breeze tousling its limbs.
There is brown that is every shade and hue
that you could ever think of;
chocolate, umber, chestnut, caramel.
It gives distinction against the robins egg sky.
The white budding flowers kiss the sun's raise
as they fill the air with a soothing scent.
Stunning is their beauty,
so unaware of their inspiring existence.
The greens make you squint as they reflect,
their shiny surfaces sleek to the touch.
Fluttering and fumbling in the wind, one breaks off
and it spirals its way to the ground.
It rests like a statue, alone in the front yard of a neighbor.
Towering over all, a giant in nature.
Shining in the night
ReplyDeleteShe walks by with no sounds
Careful not to wake her sleeping mother.
Eliminated by the candle,
Shadows lightly dancing on the walls,
She goes to the place where it lies.
The tiny black box hidden in the corner
Awaits for her the thing she wants most.
Bringing the candle closer, it shimmers.
Shimmers as bright as stars in the clear night,
Just waiting for someone to pick them out of the sky.
Slipping it on she admires the engraved black letters
Spelling out the memories she had in her youth.
The cool smooth metal against her skin ignites her soul with memoirs and feelings
That have long left her life.
Waking from her thoughts, she strides back to bed
Keeping it close.
The scratches from long wear become pronounce
As her finger softly touches the words that once held meaning.
She slips it off onto her desk, blowing out the candle,
And falls asleep to the gentle wobbling as it
Cascades to its end.
Persistence
ReplyDeleteThe glass globe sits atop its ruby red base like a bird on a nest;
In the glass, arched and lucid, you notice a blurry version of yourself,
On a backdrop of loud colored candies.
The paint as red as Dorothy’s slippers is chipped and crusting but remains defiant;
The glass is scratched and dented from overuse but shined to a proud glossy finish.
The polished, fading silver handle sits slightly crooked, eager to fulfill its purpose:
A black-crusted penny is dropped into the coin slot,
A handle cranks as it switches downward,
A penny makes an empty clunk as it reaches its destination,
Chocolate pieces crash and collide as they slide harmoniously down the chute,
Each piece makes a hushed pang as it hits the small silver flap and,
By this point,
The candy is so near that the smell begins to linger,
Like melting chocolate as cookies bake.
Its purpose is complete, fulfilled, refined,
It returns to its abandonment,
Waiting, waiting
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ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteFallen
ReplyDeleteA quite zing rings through the air, like a noble sword.
Torn from its master it releases a hushed cry of abandonment.
The bristles separate, losing their grip on the air.
Then, then it is swept away by the wind.
With white, jagged tip and pale, brown vein running down its spine
it playfully bobs through the sky.
Slicing through the breeze, it gently begins to descend.
The smooth armor acts as a humble aegis, defending against every leaf and kite in its path.
Growing restless,
the wind tosses it back and forth, savoring the taste of worn, dried wood and of musky wheat.
Without warning, the rain begins.
The current of the air becomes more and more negligent,
whistling through each weak bristle.
“Phew, phew,” the lone wing mutters
at every missed droplet of water.
Filled, wet sacs fall through each isolated shaft.
Its luck soon runs out.
One drop, two drops …
then it is bathed in the forsaken tears of the sky.
Beneath this new burden, the damp bristles mat together.
No more is the plume light and careless.
No more does it soar through the skies.
Releasing a soft hiss, it plummets towards the cold, wet ground below.
Moments before impact: the wind thrusts its crown upwards,
catches the quill in its embrace,
coasting it slowly downwards.
“oomph.”
The shaft lands softly,
and rolls in its own unfamiliar fragrance of a wet stray.
Tapping to a stop,
choosing a final resting place,
and stretching its moist bristles towards the sun.
The plume lay resting there, like the elegant, white comb of an angel.
Enigma
ReplyDeleteBright like the sun, she lights up her world
With the color of fire;
the dancing flames are vivid yet subtle
Unlike her fiery color her touch is cool,
but each part of her is different like a snowflake
She could be mistaken as silk with each delicate touch,
but part of her makes your finger drip.drip.drip
like a leaky faucet
Yet, her aroma is familiar like granny's perfume,
but not as strong
Her taste is a sweet sensation;
a fresh liquid that dissolves on your tongue
She is truly mystifying…
Tiana Mills
FUN YEARS
ReplyDeleteSitting atop the once shining tent-shaped roof,
A glittering rose-red turn knob wounded up like “Jack in the Box,”
Click. Click. Click. stile of an amusement park.
“It’s a Small World After All” the rusty old machinery chimed.
Jumping and Jouncing hardened wax horses
Were corralled by plastic blueberry and cherry licorice sticks,
Holding the roof up like Grecian columns of Candy land.
Old Johnson’s Baby Powder and spoiled baby formula traveled through the air
The licorice sticks were mounted to the dust enveloped turquoise floor
With a peeling sticker banner wrapped around reading,
Chunky, childish, true yellow letters, “FUN YEARS”
Behind the Door
ReplyDeleteHow bold and brazen it stands
So solemn and quiet
With dark features like that of a vast night sky,
The gleaming metal fragments produce an eerie feeling.
Yet so dark and mysterious,
Who would ever know?
Behind the door that reveals its true identity
The turn of a dial creates an image so vivid and radiant,
That one would never know.
It’s scorching heat and barren embers
Form a scent unknown to any man.
The luminous tinge forms color like that of a scarlet rose.
Behind the door lies a sweltering heat that is waiting to be exposed.
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ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteHe sits alone, in a shadow of darkness;
ReplyDeleteHis arms hang like empty bags, covered in burrows big enough to fit fingers
With threads snaking out from the seams.
His body is as rough as sandpaper
And his worn-in boots, the color of faded leather.
His arms have been stretched far, like chocolate taffy;
And his eyes, once glassy like water, are now frozen over.
Febreeze tries, to no avail, to mask the scents of childhood.
He is so worn down and ragged, and yet so similar to years ago-
His milky brown fur is as soft as a pile of fresh snow
And his mouth is forever frozen into a smile.
The gloss of initials on his leg runs over my fingers;
And the salty taste of tearful nights linger.
He brings back memories of carefree days, when everything was so simple.
As It Waits
ReplyDeleteIt sits in the yellow chair.
The chocolate brown leather
Crumbled and caved,
Faint tan flowers distorted
With handles tilted to one side but
No hands to hold.
It is empty now, once full.
A purple hair brush,
Three tubes of lip gloss,
Five pieces of gum,
Lost,
At the bottom of burgundy darkness.
Yet revealing anything,
Everything to those who gaze
Into its open mouth.
Glimmering, glinting, gold
Like little teeth
Lined into a uniform smile.
Shakes muffled,
As it shuffles along,
macaroons and cigarettes
Following close behind.
As the winter mint lingers
And the smells of a town of enchantment
Long lost;
It waits to be used.
Shaken
ReplyDeleteFrightening.
Not in the way of brute force,
But by the thought a slow, clever demise.
Trailing behind the slithering, fluid body
And warning others of its presence,
Maybe too late.
Musical in a twisted and organic way
Like the crack of lightning.
The last sound heard
The last fear felt.
So beautifully made,
Such a deadly sound.
“Pillar of Protection”
ReplyDeleteHer black and white coat was as bold as
A midnight full moon shining on a starless night.
The song of her being was “You are My Sunshine”.
Her gentile touch was my guide
And her strong gaze was my shield from insecurities.
Her perfectly pale pink ribbon gave her a bit of serenity, however
She was anything but.
She was like an eight year old boy.
She had the personality of an old woman
Whose principles were backed by years of wisdom.
But she was my sunshine and my pillar set in stone.
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ReplyDeleteJewel of the Garden
ReplyDeleteStanding tall in its green velvet bed,
Incrusted with liquid diamonds and displayed
Proudly in the golden morning light,
The living jewel captures my eye with effortless grace,
Like the rings is see on old ladies’ withering finger.
The soft arch of the six petals
Dare my fingers to reach out and touch;
Their complexion bringing back the image grandmother’s
Priceless doll porcelain, blush covered face
Staring at me from its perch up much
Higher than I could dream to reach
Short green burst of petals draw my eye up and
To the bursting firecracker the petals form
But all I hear is the soft, sweet silence of the morning,
This garden gem demanding my attention;
It will not let its value be ignored, even by me.
Oblong and Forgotten
ReplyDeleteOverused plastic, worn and discolored from its load,
Its large, oblong, bulky presence
Is unobserved by those who pass by.
I slide a firm finger across the inner wall.
A screech,
Like a small child screaming for its mother
Pierces the air.
My sweaty hand rests on its cover.
The plastic feels sticky against my palm.
Sliding along
With an unpleasant hiss,
Its abrasive texture rubs against the floor.
I stumble and hit its wall
THUMP!
Its cover quivers and vibrates as surfaces meet.
It rests silently in the corner
With its thick, but flexible walls
That are rough and coarse to the touch.
Bearing the heavy weight
Of forgotten childhood relics,
It stretches and strains,
A slave to its contents.
This big royal blue, bulky beast
Unnoticed in the corner,
Lives out its silent life,
Gathering dust
Month after month,
From its beginning,
To its slow, inevitable end,
When it will melt down
Into a thick, gooey liquid
That will be reshaped
Into some improved polymer object
That will be sold, overpriced,
To a customer who will place it
In a new corner,
Forced to sit there
Gathering dust once again,
Alone and forgotten.
The Humble and Unappreciated Honesty of Ordinary Objects
ReplyDeleteThey stand together summer after summer,
Weathering gracefully where Camp Desoto earth meets
The waters of Little River,
Where the sticky June afternoon breeze moseys on
Through Mentone, down Highway Above the Clouds
To join them both.
Forgotten paint brushes are quietly camouflaged
By the crusted and clumped mosaic of mistakes.
Adorned with the handprints of hundreds.
Bowed like the roof of a Chinese temple,
Groaning when any pressure is applied,
They threaten to collapse under strain.
Masking tape fringe blows to the underside and sticks
Sticking. Unsticking. almost a faint clicking sound,
Like a beetle who tried to launch itself onto a leaf
And falls on its back in failure.
Splinters spike from the split wood into soft hands
Young girls are led bawling to the infirmary
They brag to their cabin mates about their battle wounds
Proudly pulling at their Fresh Prince of Bellaire band-aids
Like they just fought off Sparta, or something.
Stunning white fluorescent lights softly flushing blue,
Buzzing ever quietly with electricity
And extraordinarily interested insects,
They give away an icy, wet ring of a possibly pink Camelback,
Covered in Jackson Prep School bumper stickers,
Continuously sweating condensation on splotchy pink palms.
Algae grows in the musty wood which always absorbs everything liquid.
Sweaty elbows and sneezes from grass allergies
Collaborate with the sharp, toxic Sharpie ink,
Hard water, Modge-Podge, and strong orange scented soap,
Pressed flowers and abandoned half eaten gala apples,
Leaving that irremovable, soaked-in stickiness.
The combined smells are like licking a stamp or even sucking on a cough drop.
One that is meant to taste good, but really doesn’t.
The kind where you keep sucking till it’s all gone,
Not even knowing why.
That’s what they would be like.
There is nothing to question about their reality;
Nothing hidden under the tenth layer of paint.
They are real. They support creativity. It is what they are for.
Why the decades old wood doesn’t just deteriorate.
Why they are never replaced.
He sat,
ReplyDeleteFalling apart gradually at the seams,
Perched on the top shelf
Between two, old, dust covered leather bound books.
Crumbling apart like an ancient, much loved book
That had been read and reread hundreds of times with markings in the margins and fingerprint and coffee stained pages.
A thin layer of dust cloaked the folding cloth
Like the snow found on the rolling, wintery hills of Alaska.
Neglect,
Moisture and dust filled his surrounding atmosphere.
His lumpy insides were tumbling and rolling out of his torn, indigo leg
Like rolling mountain streams and puffy, summer clouds.
The rainbow bowtie was the perfect accent to the
Multitude of colors covering his threadbare body,
Acting as the icing on the cake.
The dilapidated, cracked leather felt crinkled and furrowed,
Yet still had the soft feeling of new leather.
A long lost lifetime friend sat waiting.
Lonely.
Waiting for returning love.
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ReplyDeleteWaiting
ReplyDeleteSitting on a desk, nothing changes it
Waiting in the warmth of the sun, the surface still cool
My name carved on the back
The bright blue cover protects scratched metal
Smooth, blank glass sits opposite
Indented is a small, round button
This button can end its waiting
The inside is a mess of wiring
Copper, metal, batteries:
They taste acidic and tangy
And smell even worse
But to end its waiting, every bit is necessary
Fifty two
ReplyDeleteRed and black shuffled together
Worn and faded colors make each individual card
Queens and kings, always poised
Jacks with grins lining their square, symmetric faces
Slim, black spades and clubs slide easily through practiced hands
Diamonds and hearts are red as blood, their edges sharply slapping the smooth glass
Worn edges that once cut like a butcher’s knife are now dull and rounded
Tiny folds and microscopic tears lend to the worn look
The papery surface is covered in red and black ink
Linear faces and small digits opposite a red geometric pattern of lines and dashes
All elements adding up to memories
His black blending in with the night sky
ReplyDeleteOnly seeing his glowing eyes piercing through the darkness.
Four legs, short, close to the ground on which
He lies. His aging joints causing him to slow
Like the snail that slithers across the hard concrete.
His scent sends the slight smell of grass, fresh cut grass,
Everywhere he goes. The white stripe, for which he is
Specifically named for, turns gray day by day by
Day never returning. Aging is all he live for, growing
Old by the minute, by the second never returning.
His youth, gone, in the past along with his white stripe
Neither ever returning. He is all I live for, striving
To make the remaining days count.
Vanilla Reflection
ReplyDeleteSturdy, standing still
Looking out o’er all
Simply reflecting
The day passing by
Smooth, vanilla hue
Streamline, thin and plain
Not shocking but yet
Catching attention
As does royalty
With the bird on top
In place like a crown
Stately, commanding
Quietly waiting
Crisply cut edges
Curved hands, shoulders, feet
Positioned ready
For what’er may be