she kept a razor blade
in the cupboard
the razor slid out
of a yellow plastic box
with a clear safety lid
that i’d once seen my father use
to get his cigar started
Continue reading
Tag: poetry (Page 12 of 21)
Revising the Day
Vicky revisits her fondest day
in the center of repose,
the afternoon she wanders through
her luscious and her best.
A lover in flannel trousers
sinks teeth into a peach, reciting
lines of a coward but a courageous
man himself. Lapping foam
dissolves sand beneath her feet
and the girl they shepherd between them
no longer embodies her disgrace
or their defeat.
Nothing Happened
Quite suddenly, nothing happened.
With all the force in the world, nothing happened.
Assured the condition was only temporary,
we were told to return to our houses,
to leave the lights off and get into our beds.
To tremble at powers far beyond our comprehension.
A CHILDLESS DREAM
See the spectral
blaze of a child’s
silhouette seared
against the plaster.
Sound waves of
laughter take shape
into that of a hum
drumming through
my body, no
ponderous
force pulling me
down the center.
Her phantom bore
a hole through me.
Pink fractals sprout
throughout my skin.
The longing has
gone, disintegrated
into the brackish
water that’s
extinguished the
flames of need.
I no longer
sense the urgency
in my womb.
She’s just a faint
memory of want,
an etching fading
from erosion.
INSOMNIA
I ruminate about the past and
future, in a world that subsists
in the present, spinning in a
cyclical existence. Stories
form creases across the folds
of wan, scarred skin. My
clothes are torn and faded.
Dressed like a vagrant, I let
words slip out from my mind,
down through my fingers,
and onto the typewriter.
Indelible memories flow out
in ink. Into the night, my
head nods as sleep beckons,
a miasma of cigarette smoke
and ash hangs. A nicotine halo
wreaths me. Disgruntled
drones wake carrying off to
work in a sleep medicinal daze.
I am the stupor filling in the
fractures of their skulls. Dusk
has long passed and dawn
sneaks its way across stretches
of moonbeams over the
landscape of my psyche. I
yawn, fanning my face with
scribbled pages in the heat.
Show me it’s time to lay my
head, my world upon a strained
neck, down on my pillow
to greet the escape of slumber.
BEFORE YOU ANSWER
Don’t analyze me, complain about my size,
or conclude I’m an idiot with cat breath,
don’t glibly flash frowns or smiles
over this octopus stew and ginger beer.
We’ve tangoed together longer than forever,
so don’t defer with those sly eyes or
grin with trust in your silver tongue.
I’ll splurge for diamond and platinum rings,
feared by everyone, for I’ll soon own
the Vatican. I know where cottonwoods
pray to depressed skies, when cardinals sing
to their shadows, why perfume lingers in dark Continue reading
Palimpsest
This is the wall of his memory
A photo to his disappearance
Pale, washed out with years
Yet, still, there he must be found.
His laughter haunts the echoes;
Not too far, she too remains;
A moment so long ago, outside
Of the time they both knew.
There, I will stay, searching
The nooks, the crannies, the seams,
For a signature has been apposed
Perhaps only a sketch of a life.
Palimpsest, the scientist
Will uncover every layer
Of the story finished too soon;
Unshroud a death only in rumors.
His skin reddened by the attacker
Weather of all seasons,
A shirt wearing spots of inks
And many chapters untold.
He laughs into the thickness
Of an unfathomable fortress,
Only from time to time, to
Emerge and wink at finitude.
It is his wall, the cover he built
Upon which his portrait lasts
Author of his biography.
The First Day We Met
She found words running loose in the Strand,
fit them for goofy hats
corralled them into a corner
and conducted them into photographs.
She knew how to assemble them.
You kiss like you are,
she whispered
as I sat stumped on eight across,
You’re vulnerable,
Then you’re not.
If Love Felt Like the Water Cycle
Drift out the window
Land in a puddle of silk
Float skyward, unbound.
I’ll Be
I wish that my jealousy
Would stagnate like a dammed river.
Instead,
Jealousy rages on—swelling, overcoming.
While the only damned thing
is me.
Tiffany Firebaugh is a freelance writer and poet, but by day she works in the non-profit sector. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rogue Agent Journal and The Fem. If you like, you can follow her on twitter at @tifficaltiff.
You Are Nightmare
lapses, lingering at the corners
of my consciousness, a flower-
petalled dagger I cannot refrain
from touching. Poisoned,
your passion is a needle
that renders me numb. Brain-dead
zombie, I return automatically,
submerge myself in the familiarity
of your darkness.
Yesterday
The end of a century flipping like a calendar number,
and here I am kissing a short squat building where
everyone says hello, and no one recognizes me.
Upstairs there are families I once lived in, but
pawnshops have moved in like stray cats. In the garden,
rhizome dreams borrow the curiosity from a stare,
sending up tomorrow as a stalk and teaching it to listen.
Yesterday
By Rich Ives
The end of a century flipping like a calendar number,
and here I am kissing a short squat building where
everyone says hello, and no one recognizes me.
Upstairs there are families I once lived in, but
pawnshops have moved in like stray cats. In the garden,
rhizome dreams borrow the curiosity from a stare,
sending up tomorrow as a stalk and teaching it to listen.
Recent Comments