Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
💚
Fact
I find myself
or lose myself
here
at about four thirty everyday
between high notes I've sung and
heartache I no longer wish to publicly announce.
I wonder
within the memory of your evening
and the memories I've constructed
where the line is,
how touches fell,
how heat built
and why
after laying there
you come back, with your sullied body and averted eyes, to lay here.
On soil, where damage
is ingrained
into me
and there's no dilution, there's no solution ...
or lose myself
here
at about four thirty everyday
between high notes I've sung and
heartache I no longer wish to publicly announce.
I wonder
within the memory of your evening
and the memories I've constructed
where the line is,
how touches fell,
how heat built
and why
after laying there
you come back, with your sullied body and averted eyes, to lay here.
On soil, where damage
is ingrained
into me
and there's no dilution, there's no solution ...
854 reads
8 Comments
Spiral (write or life)
The clock hit nine
twenty three,
I've been riding
on one of those l-
o-
n-
g days, you know,
when there's not even enough time to piss
and my hair's tangled,
and don't ask about my face.
I join forces with the pan
and stove
and pasta
as it's all I seem to eat these days;
not that I wouldn't like something else,
there's just not time to worry on it.
As for new tricks, I've been playing solitaire too much,
sitting too much,
cleaning too often.
I can't force inspiration, kids....
twenty three,
I've been riding
on one of those l-
o-
n-
g days, you know,
when there's not even enough time to piss
and my hair's tangled,
and don't ask about my face.
I join forces with the pan
and stove
and pasta
as it's all I seem to eat these days;
not that I wouldn't like something else,
there's just not time to worry on it.
As for new tricks, I've been playing solitaire too much,
sitting too much,
cleaning too often.
I can't force inspiration, kids....
821 reads
9 Comments
Queen
This one time, right,
a kid fell off his chair
and a girl, quite a lot like me,
decided to write a poem about it.
You see, a pedestal of any kind
is never fair or healthy
yet that's where I sat you at my plastic table.
He had no idea.
One day we were sitting, drinking
air from plastic cups and saying all of everything
and nothing. 'Don't want to meet family. Don't want to meet
friends.' at the start it made you want me more.
I had no idea with too much rubbing I could make it sore.
I had to be sweet, polite,...
a kid fell off his chair
and a girl, quite a lot like me,
decided to write a poem about it.
You see, a pedestal of any kind
is never fair or healthy
yet that's where I sat you at my plastic table.
He had no idea.
One day we were sitting, drinking
air from plastic cups and saying all of everything
and nothing. 'Don't want to meet family. Don't want to meet
friends.' at the start it made you want me more.
I had no idea with too much rubbing I could make it sore.
I had to be sweet, polite,...
761 reads
4 Comments
one one
on one particularly french friday
i set the iron chairs and table
out on the veranda
and hope you would arrive
with a bucket and spade living on
dreams of castles and such
candle wax ruins the cloth
adorning the place we might have sat
and i contemplate
our affairs
against the clock
with a joint
and a glass of white zin
the november air toys with the winter chill
i listen for the knock that
will ease responsibility
a youthful stench of widow
retches and...
i set the iron chairs and table
out on the veranda
and hope you would arrive
with a bucket and spade living on
dreams of castles and such
candle wax ruins the cloth
adorning the place we might have sat
and i contemplate
our affairs
against the clock
with a joint
and a glass of white zin
the november air toys with the winter chill
i listen for the knock that
will ease responsibility
a youthful stench of widow
retches and...
804 reads
2 Comments
Head-space
Shower me in dust,
heavy that I may make a 'Snow angel' in the filth.
Filter those pebbles and old coins
through your fingers
Bathe beneath Achelois' half-light
when the blue steals my weary, over-smoked chest.
I look
within those deep, dark eyes
and love you,
indiscriminately.
Here on the wet grass take
me at my most restless
and show me how to lose this head
in a resolute climax.
Give it up
with a heart of stone,
with torturous passion....
heavy that I may make a 'Snow angel' in the filth.
Filter those pebbles and old coins
through your fingers
Bathe beneath Achelois' half-light
when the blue steals my weary, over-smoked chest.
I look
within those deep, dark eyes
and love you,
indiscriminately.
Here on the wet grass take
me at my most restless
and show me how to lose this head
in a resolute climax.
Give it up
with a heart of stone,
with torturous passion....
896 reads
4 Comments
Dedicated to country
You took too long to take the time to look at her properly,
her deep green eyes of cyanide and great, big dreams -
you took too long to take time to sit beside her
and now you've only got the burnt off remains.
Since the days are long
and the nights are quieter
now,
you took a girl with stranger hopes and
started a fire.
Bet you
she didn't even see it coming,
too busy falling in love
and you were too busy
playing it rough.
You took too long to take the time to fall beside yourself for her
and she took shaded, deep breaths,...
her deep green eyes of cyanide and great, big dreams -
you took too long to take time to sit beside her
and now you've only got the burnt off remains.
Since the days are long
and the nights are quieter
now,
you took a girl with stranger hopes and
started a fire.
Bet you
she didn't even see it coming,
too busy falling in love
and you were too busy
playing it rough.
You took too long to take the time to fall beside yourself for her
and she took shaded, deep breaths,...
819 reads
6 Comments
Spot of bother
When I was little
I painted,
you know,
those hand print paintings
where colours merge
and a kid's ideals become nothing more
than a failed attempt at a flower
on the bitter edge of the shore.
I realise
I'm not that petulant child,
I'm not in that rebellious place,
the ideals have changed - the moments
are less frequently joyful
yet more consequential,
ever playing into the ploy
that keeps me sitting,
if not double-guessing
the day and the shot and the way I sway
to...
I painted,
you know,
those hand print paintings
where colours merge
and a kid's ideals become nothing more
than a failed attempt at a flower
on the bitter edge of the shore.
I realise
I'm not that petulant child,
I'm not in that rebellious place,
the ideals have changed - the moments
are less frequently joyful
yet more consequential,
ever playing into the ploy
that keeps me sitting,
if not double-guessing
the day and the shot and the way I sway
to...
773 reads
2 Comments
Stalker.
In the Summertime
I get awful, awful mash-up high
and stumble back to your house
in the Summertime
when it's pissing it down sheets outside
I make a call, at three am, to you.
I don't mind that it's
not a two way street,
reciprocated at all.
I like knowing you
aren't far, you know?
I like that you're breathing,
that you're sleeping
alone.
I don't mind now,
if I stumble back home,
throw the keys on the table,
strip of the wet clothes that hinder me.
I'll turn off...
I get awful, awful mash-up high
and stumble back to your house
in the Summertime
when it's pissing it down sheets outside
I make a call, at three am, to you.
I don't mind that it's
not a two way street,
reciprocated at all.
I like knowing you
aren't far, you know?
I like that you're breathing,
that you're sleeping
alone.
I don't mind now,
if I stumble back home,
throw the keys on the table,
strip of the wet clothes that hinder me.
I'll turn off...
774 reads
2 Comments
How?
I pick leaves,
dead ones
and with a pestle and mortar
I pretend I'm a cook,
or a great looker in the shiny work surface
but no,
it's time to accept it.
I'm just another waste of skin,
too emotional,
too weak,
too trapped within caring for others.
There were packets,
in a see-through bag
and I collected up the paracetamol,
and the pain relievers
and popped them in my handbag
barely able to see through tears.
Why can't you just let me go?
How can you be so selfish? You knew I'd stay. I care for...
dead ones
and with a pestle and mortar
I pretend I'm a cook,
or a great looker in the shiny work surface
but no,
it's time to accept it.
I'm just another waste of skin,
too emotional,
too weak,
too trapped within caring for others.
There were packets,
in a see-through bag
and I collected up the paracetamol,
and the pain relievers
and popped them in my handbag
barely able to see through tears.
Why can't you just let me go?
How can you be so selfish? You knew I'd stay. I care for...
770 reads
7 Comments
Toying with boys.
911 reads
4 Comments
Making it work.
1042 reads
2 Comments
Post-war.
You strip back the wallpaper,
the paper you put there to cover cracks
and damp and dry rot.
I smoke a cigarette, let it add to the
stench in the air,
procrastinate while you struggle
stealing paper from stone.
You slump, against the brick,
against the hate we've built
between us,
I get high with my head fighting for my heart.
Feel, hear,
taste, smell
the Heaven that once was
and the char and ash and nothing it is
until the clock chimes noon.
I fetch the ready meals from the microwave, ...
the paper you put there to cover cracks
and damp and dry rot.
I smoke a cigarette, let it add to the
stench in the air,
procrastinate while you struggle
stealing paper from stone.
You slump, against the brick,
against the hate we've built
between us,
I get high with my head fighting for my heart.
Feel, hear,
taste, smell
the Heaven that once was
and the char and ash and nothing it is
until the clock chimes noon.
I fetch the ready meals from the microwave, ...
824 reads
4 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)