Submissions by toniscales (Lost Girl)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I am very critical of my own work but I tend to love intensely, and writing is an emotional release and catharsis I can't seem to resist.
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
18th Dec 2014 2:24am
18th Dec 2014 2:24am
Letter to My Child
You ask if I believe in God.
I think He's left us all alone
like sweaty children in a mall,
searching for our mothers.
But one glance
at your tenderly upturned face,
I can only breathe of white angels,
gossamer reunions,
answers to your silver secrets.
A corsage of light
haloes your head.
All the sweet bouquets
buried in me long ago
you've made blossom,
turn pink once more.
I watch as you soar delicately
through those gates
of mesh and pearls.
Then I kiss you, whisper,
You are God for me.
I think He's left us all alone
like sweaty children in a mall,
searching for our mothers.
But one glance
at your tenderly upturned face,
I can only breathe of white angels,
gossamer reunions,
answers to your silver secrets.
A corsage of light
haloes your head.
All the sweet bouquets
buried in me long ago
you've made blossom,
turn pink once more.
I watch as you soar delicately
through those gates
of mesh and pearls.
Then I kiss you, whisper,
You are God for me.
861 reads
8 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
18th Dec 2014 2:08am
18th Dec 2014 2:08am
School Days
Apples on a stick.
Make me sick.
You learn the rhythm, this way.
That way.
You and your friends on the jungle gym.
Penny Drop, Dead Man’s Drop.
Learn to hurtle your body
into empty space without a thought.
Your first sweet taste of death.
You and your friends in a burnt-out house.
Its scorched carpet, shattered chandelier.
Can you keep a secret, they ask, teeth chattering.
Your pockets lined with broken glass.
That's how he did it, that's how he did it,
he slammed her through the screen door.
You'll...
Make me sick.
You learn the rhythm, this way.
That way.
You and your friends on the jungle gym.
Penny Drop, Dead Man’s Drop.
Learn to hurtle your body
into empty space without a thought.
Your first sweet taste of death.
You and your friends in a burnt-out house.
Its scorched carpet, shattered chandelier.
Can you keep a secret, they ask, teeth chattering.
Your pockets lined with broken glass.
That's how he did it, that's how he did it,
he slammed her through the screen door.
You'll...
897 reads
6 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
17th Dec 2014 4:27pm
17th Dec 2014 4:27pm
Mama's Night Out
(This poem is about when my daughter was very young and at the time I was screwed up emotionally, partying all night at clubs and doing drugs... It concerns the guilt I felt and how eventually it led me to change.)
my reflection in your Christmas portrait
little thing of peaches and cream sighs
Mama a ghoul, around her eyes
fuming a grave deliberately drenched in blue
dancing on the catafalque
like a resurrected banshee
stink of corpses, Camels, and Cuervo
on her clothes
back at home an erratic heartbeat
thought she’d sizzle come...
my reflection in your Christmas portrait
little thing of peaches and cream sighs
Mama a ghoul, around her eyes
fuming a grave deliberately drenched in blue
dancing on the catafalque
like a resurrected banshee
stink of corpses, Camels, and Cuervo
on her clothes
back at home an erratic heartbeat
thought she’d sizzle come...
826 reads
4 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
17th Dec 2014 4:00pm
17th Dec 2014 4:00pm
The Memory Rock
he had once affected an erotic mercy
and lent his scent to my clothes
and essence I could grow drugged upon later
that entrapped opiate
lingering within such scant garments
as indigo lace and stained chiffon
the chamois nestled feline into the pillow
at times scattered upon the hardwood floor
to make a shocking quilt
his scent feral, overwhelming
a pungent urgency jolting the senses
that of a wolf within shadow
talons bared, moisture glistening
in ragged crescent moons
and now reliving the spectacle
I lie sprawled on...
and lent his scent to my clothes
and essence I could grow drugged upon later
that entrapped opiate
lingering within such scant garments
as indigo lace and stained chiffon
the chamois nestled feline into the pillow
at times scattered upon the hardwood floor
to make a shocking quilt
his scent feral, overwhelming
a pungent urgency jolting the senses
that of a wolf within shadow
talons bared, moisture glistening
in ragged crescent moons
and now reliving the spectacle
I lie sprawled on...
960 reads
7 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
17th Dec 2014 7:43am
17th Dec 2014 7:43am
Suck 101
I used to think I'd be loved
because of my ability to give a good blow job.
There were simply some boys
whose essences I craved like water:
the haunting curve of a collarbone,
a delectable jaw line,
the satiny trail of hair leading down to a groin
could make tears spring to my eyes,
my stomach surge with love.
There is nothing like the feel
of a silken shaft in your mouth,
the heart-beat throb massaging your tonsils.
I'd weigh their engorged testicles
like bags of gold in my palms,
pausing to bathe those swollen plums in...
because of my ability to give a good blow job.
There were simply some boys
whose essences I craved like water:
the haunting curve of a collarbone,
a delectable jaw line,
the satiny trail of hair leading down to a groin
could make tears spring to my eyes,
my stomach surge with love.
There is nothing like the feel
of a silken shaft in your mouth,
the heart-beat throb massaging your tonsils.
I'd weigh their engorged testicles
like bags of gold in my palms,
pausing to bathe those swollen plums in...
1265 reads
6 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
17th Dec 2014 7:36am
17th Dec 2014 7:36am
Burnt Offerings
Go softly.
Do not grow substantial,
let me taste you on the day,
always.
Envelop me
in an agony of passion,
distilled perfume of sheets,
anguish and defeat.
My mouth seeks to anchor you.
I swallow a magnolia.
My tongue learns textures,
the shape of your secrets.
Teach me this raw, quivering imagery.
It is all sweet contact,
a perfection of collarbones,
never enough.
Elude me to the point of madness,
then offer no surrender.
Pull my body onto yours,
slide me into place.
I am haunted by a...
Do not grow substantial,
let me taste you on the day,
always.
Envelop me
in an agony of passion,
distilled perfume of sheets,
anguish and defeat.
My mouth seeks to anchor you.
I swallow a magnolia.
My tongue learns textures,
the shape of your secrets.
Teach me this raw, quivering imagery.
It is all sweet contact,
a perfection of collarbones,
never enough.
Elude me to the point of madness,
then offer no surrender.
Pull my body onto yours,
slide me into place.
I am haunted by a...
970 reads
4 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
16th Dec 2014 12:45pm
16th Dec 2014 12:45pm
Alice
(a lost girl poem)
My mother burns my face with the iron,
my corkscrew curls turned limp in fog.
Our white pinafores gone green
in wet, sodden grass. That time my father
lifted me by the leg, beating me in front
of all the neighbors. I am tormented
by the sadness of mahogany end tables.
Even the doors are dangerous.
At the funerals our grandmothers’ hands
rest at the napes of our necks. Making
sure we behave. That we believe.
Grandpa lets me sleep in their bed
while Grandma wrings the house of devils.
The lamps lit low...
My mother burns my face with the iron,
my corkscrew curls turned limp in fog.
Our white pinafores gone green
in wet, sodden grass. That time my father
lifted me by the leg, beating me in front
of all the neighbors. I am tormented
by the sadness of mahogany end tables.
Even the doors are dangerous.
At the funerals our grandmothers’ hands
rest at the napes of our necks. Making
sure we behave. That we believe.
Grandpa lets me sleep in their bed
while Grandma wrings the house of devils.
The lamps lit low...
833 reads
3 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
16th Dec 2014 12:35pm
16th Dec 2014 12:35pm
Sponges
(A funeral home poem)
There is something dark and weary in me.
Something bleary-eyed,
in need of rest.
There is something in me
that lingers along with the dead,
something they take
into the ground,
the claustrophobic silence
of their caskets.
I imagine when the lid
is closed, their only
faculty available is smell
and this is rewarded
by the floral soap we use
to cleanse their doll-parts.
It must linger for years,
trapped as it is.
Must permeate skin and dreams,
so porous and soft–-...
There is something dark and weary in me.
Something bleary-eyed,
in need of rest.
There is something in me
that lingers along with the dead,
something they take
into the ground,
the claustrophobic silence
of their caskets.
I imagine when the lid
is closed, their only
faculty available is smell
and this is rewarded
by the floral soap we use
to cleanse their doll-parts.
It must linger for years,
trapped as it is.
Must permeate skin and dreams,
so porous and soft–-...
799 reads
9 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by toniscales (Lost Girl)
