I am not very good at poetry.
My daughter recently left some of her poetry on my computer.
Have to admit I don't always understand what it means.
Maybe you understand?
Here is some of my daughters poetry:
In the sparse light of my bedroom
fireworks freckle beneath
my closed eyes.
Their shrieks sound in the humid air
and I scribble in the interim,
neon colours staining the lined page.
Blasts of light time my progress
as the hours gnaw away
for a simple
yes or no
The ceiling above me creases
curving at the edges like a wet envelope
paint leaving snowy traces on my carpet.
We sit below this crack,
the T.V a flickering peripheral
and the ceiling much too far over our heads.
You and I;
Too separate a sentence
To describe our unit.
Use a synonym
I donâ€™t remember
Hanging in your yolk
This milky universe
A genetic brand.
Soon the shell
On our viscous stability.
Yet you remain:
The wooden weight on my shoulders.
Slurping a shade
Of milky brown
Reminds him of
Exhaling steamy mist.
A population of particles.
Our vapours plume;
Extending into a murky pool
Freckled with luminous white grit.
Sucked to the centre of the cyclone.
I am stirring the spoon
Of my own cosmic latte.
In my stomach.
Spooning soggy oatmeal.
The persistent droning
Of my sticky shoes
Clinging to the grit
Of this narrow hallway
Is a Bland Comfort.
On the table
The newspaper proclaims a tribute:
â€œTO MULTICOLOURED SMARTIES!â€
a sweaty anticipation.
Which colour is next?
Iâ€™ll stick to my oatmeal.
Their whizzing limbs motor through frigid water
gently rippling past bubbles falling upwards into air.
Pink fins whip awkwardly,
propelling them like curved beans
in an underwater minestrone soup.
a shrimp gets lost in the murky pool
bumping its feeble feelers
against the reflective glass
that is his rectangular life.
Give me solid chocolate,
none of this airy crisp.
I am pleased to find:
your whimsical edge remains constant
even when chewed raw.
The â€œhigh classâ€ are bored,
tired of your persistent texture.
jaws eager to swallow snatches of crunch.
gnaw at plastic taste buds.
And as they crack open
they illuminate a gaping interior:
concave shards of brown.
He trimmed the minted stems
with loving care
his wrinkled skin.
She would watch from the window
her eyes smiling
through glossy glasses
at the tall figure.
Then he died,
and greasy metal
churned the cedar hedge
into pulpy mulch.
She cries beside a flower print pillow,
lingering over black and white photos
of the wall that used to protect her.
Display Case Living
A contrast to Beethoven,
you've kept your ears
but in your brain,
all that lingers
Body upholstered to the car's seat
sagging in the muted sun.
Split open the window,
erase the taste
of your routine lull.
Break in the tinted glass,
atmosphere coating your throat
grime lumped in the creases
of this flimsy facade.
Let the urban world paint
the doll in the window.
The perforated edge of a refreshment ticket,
clinging cautiously to a cork board.
Thick blanket pouring over the edge of the bed,
unconcerned with the limitations of a narrow mattress.
Dim car-lights setting moonlight patterns of colour adventuring on the room.
Obstructed only by limply hanging plastic shades.
An unmoving body.
Eyes filmed over.
trying to forget.
Doomed to remember
and fated to re-live inactive guilt.
In this tranquil state,
no peace at all.
I wonder what it would be like
if my hands were thick
their blunt nails encased in grit.
Would the radiation of my fingertips
Would the sensory scratch of my thumbnail
launch a violent tingle through my nerves,
mimicking the texture of the thousands of molecules
that reside on the edge of my present slender counterpart?
Is there more to touch from a different perspective?