Desolate Poetry Collection
Here is a poetry dump (can it be called a dump if it’s only two?). I’ve been reading a lot of lonely novels lately and they inspired a few poems, enjoy.
Will be an on-going project.
“>50lbs”
I will carry around my ghost. There is no other alternative.
She came to me when I was young,
the first time my brain conjured desolation.
The first time I lost a precious treasure,
lost my parents in a crowd to large for my small frame,
lost a daydream in a blink,
it became smoke inhaled through tears,
a moment to cut off the oxygen and obfuscate my surroundings.
She bears down on my shoulders when they slump,
on my knees when they buckle,
on my hands when they shake.
Her voice echoes in the stories I tell,
in the longing I fall into,
in the insults I breathe though,
in the hate-piloting actions.
Her acrid smell decays parts of my life,
the now bitter memories of childhood
scored into the wrinkles of my brain
all to carry my ghost.
“They are holding.”
I keep all my stuffed animals out of an impulse I no longer know,
I’ve taken out boxes to bury them,
to keep them safe,
my mind will assure but my fingers slip before they reach the lip.
They’ve held my tears for 26 years. they deserve better than a box.
They’ve held my fears, my frustration, my boredom, my happiness, my stories.
They held memories of a women I no longer see or hear,
of a child who shrieked in delight before being told to quiet down,
of a teen who needed to be heard, even in whispers,
of an adult desperate for an outlet,
of an adult looking for a listener.
You can’t just box them up.
My childhood bear is missing a button,
eyes for the matching face on the slippers,
and stuffing—I haven’t gotten around to fixing any of these simple things, even as the lumps make it slump.
Her lilac jumpsuit and blue sunhat showcase a forgotten whimsy.
She carries my hope and love for my family.
Her name also forgotten, though she seems like a Beatrice,
she held my hand for thirteen years.
I retired her near my window.
they were here for you when no one was around.
My teen years were accompanied by a onesie-wearing Eeyore,
he is less vibrant with matted hair,
though the little Santas on his boots are well preserved.
I run a comb through my hair and the thought to run it through his will float up,
before the comb is returned to the bathroom.
He held my heart three years,
I retired him near my beside table.
to abandon them is a cruel thing.
The two cats my mom crocheted are oddly shaped and coloured,
protruding with stuffing and one green and one yellow,
I put a shrunken shirt on the long green one,
and a tiny bandana on the other,
it felt like putting a blanket over a sleeping loved one;
a unique kindness awarded to the unaware.
They guard my dreams;
the one I sleep through and the ones that shine light through to give me direction.
They are holding on a ledge near my bed.
I keep all my stuffed animals to protect the pieces they’ve held.
