Tag Archives: poetry

Mother


destroying_mother_nature_by_williamorihama-d7ag83t

The fable of the world doesn’t exist.
Ask the hologram of his kiss.
The dreams we dreamt evaporated.
Ask the schemes of the advocated.
The blindfold is fool’s gold.
Ask time; it never grows old.

And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.

The moment arrives and befalls.
Like the highs and lows of cholesterol.
The things I wish for are transient.
Like the ambiance of accidents.
The faith in my chest is insoluble.
Like consolation in the uncontrollable.

And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.

The memories spin on its own axis.
And feelings give way to its blackness.
The wind whispers your sweet name.
And I’m allowed to say hi without blame.
The seasons change vast and fluid.
And warm and cold weather are reputed.

And although nothing can stay
I wish you were here today.

-Pennington

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Bedevil


art jenny liz.jpg

It’s your birthday month.  Will someone bring on the Bacardi rum?  I no longer feel the sun since you’ve been gone.

 

I want you to trouble me, puzzle, muscle and rebuttal me.  I want you to disturb me, discern, immerse and return to me.  I want you to haunt me, taunt, flaunt and want me.

 

I think I found love with you.  I spoke to mourning doves about you.  I swear I found a home with you.  I even ask the honeycomb on my altar about you.

 

I think I found wholesomeness with you.  I’ve been at homelessness without you.  I swore I kissed the skies when I was with you.  I even ask my thighs why they cry now that I’m without you.

 

You put a love inside me I can’t get rid of and at times, you were my antidepressant drug, the one I sometimes dream of handcuffed, strangely enough.

 

I’ve been cold since we both disappeared.  I haven’t found my heart in two years.  Won’t you appear with your childlike light in my sullen atmosphere?

 

I had a boyfriend who cared about me but he came with his own limits, his own gimmicks and every minute he’s attempting to disguise low spirits with a million cigarettes.

 

He’s nothing like you and you’re nothing him and that’s just one problem.  You barely came with conditions or superstitious wishes, but you were the warmth and blood to my heart even when it rocked bottom.

 

And I look to the sky and I ask why.  I look far and I look wide and the answers were because I cried honesty rather than decide to spend the night with pride.  You made me work for forgiveness like I was some damn spy.

 

What if I asked you to send for me?  What if I asked for your body?  What if I admitted to my monstrosity?  What if every fear we own were given to prophecy?  Would it change the divinity of possibility?

 

I can’t forget the first glance that cemented our song and dance.  I can’t clean the scent of your home from my hands.  I can’t eradicate the taste of you from my throat glands.

 

What if I still loved you beyond this distance and chip on my shoulder?  How am I to know when my heart froze that last time in October when my entire life as I knew was over?

 

And if I show up at your door, will you come?

 

Trouble me.

Disturb me.

Haunt me.

 

-Pennington

Chewing Gum


chewing gum 2.

You know what’s to come. 
You hear war drums.
You heard about the hunter in me.
You know I’m butter toffee.
You heard I bruise egos.
You know I’m blacker than Negroes. 
You heard I have a million sins.
You know I don’t fix things.

You can’t stop yourself.
You like the pains and welts.
You know the sum of what’s to come.
You love my Puerto Rican in your rum.
You like the ecstasy and high I bring.
You enjoy how I leave you on brink.
You like the bountiful sex I give.
You love me so much to forgive.

You know exactly what’s to come.
You can hear the bass and thrums.
I can’t bring you safety baby.
I’m high, low, manic, crazy.
I’m not stupid to guard your heart.
I can’t even blueprint my art.
I can’t be like you:  Lost in love.
I’m dead inside – a little too tough.

You know shamelessly what’s to come.
Interestingly enough you’re off the cuff.
I’m going to hurt you like the others.
I’ll haunt like the suffering of mothers.
I’m going to give you a world of hurt.
I wouldn’t be able to without teamwork.
You heard of ruin and what’s to come.
Now you’re my next chewing gum.

-Pennington

East Coast


Lana Del Rey West Coast
The night is sultry
The night is sultry

Our eyes are lovely
Our hearts are hungry

Under the stars
Blanket of stars

The city lights
Washington Heights

Vanilla skin
Vanilla skin

Melts on mine
Swells on mine

A slow chorus
A slow chorus

Freshly fine
Every time

-Pennington©

Artificial Verve


science-fiction-art--angel-in-battlefield-t-koni

I wanted to believe in your words the way people believe in the terms of fiction.

Now I look at you like a fraud, same as fiction. It’s why I rarely read into fantasy addiction, why I believe they’re unoriginal, imitating the channels of life sucking the masses dry of an artificial verve jacketing a world of hurt.

Except there’s a reality between you and I.

I think it might have died.

-Pennington©

Pennington’s: Dispatch from the Future


12397354-art-tree-with-butterflies-for-your-design

In the future, we know everything.
We communicate without boundaries,
We comfort from the unknown of our hearts,
We love as if we were always the wiser.

It’s a degree of perfection, (probably from past failures)?

No longer do we search for time in each other’s faces.
We gather round a pool of eternity.
We set our minds free from exasperation
And the depth of deaths in the present.

There’s a haven and within, a familiarity,
A constant incidence of urgency
Where abandonment flourished
Yet, within, the unconditional, forgotten

And we left behind the skeletons in the closet
The transitional skin of metamorphosis
And out the cocoon we became the butterflies of love

Our parents could only dream of.

-Pennington©
(a.k.a Ines Garcia)

Dispatch From The Future


In the future, we are tender.

We temper our irreverence
with intimacy.

It’s, like, slightly wonderful.

We pronounce magic
like we’re from Michigan,
and all our mothers continue
mothering, like harbors,

indefinitely.

There’s a sense of indeterminacy
with mothering and we take

turns standing like breakwaters.

Life is dangerous, wild, and yet
we welcome it.

We’re in therapy.
It’s called water.

-Leigh Stein

Mammoth Crush: Dark Knight


Aries

It all happened over a year ago.

I met a very popular guy, a professional personal trainer who looks like a linebacker with detailed beautiful strong and graceful features of a black stallion whom many people worshipped just by being in his presence in and out the gym environment. I remember the first time I officially met him, at the top floor where the big boys and big gals play. Barbells, hammer strength machines and steel dumbbells awaited for my arrival. It was after gym hours where the lights automatically shutdown on a timer and whomever decided to stay had to fend for themselves with a small flashlight from their phone like me.

On that particular night I was out to deadlift, but before I started on my merry training session I saw a new person up there: Tall, dark, muscular, handsome and the thing that stuck out the most was the fact that he’s one of the few men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting who has a nose piercing. He came up to me and introduced himself as one of the trainers and quickly asked me what I was going to work out on and when I replied he asked if I was an athlete. I told him I was working on it. And I never thought about him again the way he slipped out my mind despite his physical appearance.

Somewhere along the line this changed and before I knew it we worked out every single weekend together for months straight through the cold warming one another with our laughter and conversation delights. I’d wait for him to make his protein/supplement cocktail mix after the workouts, sometimes I’d be in the locker room with him while we chatted and chatted about anything and everything about life way past midnight. Than he would walk me to the bus and wait until I got on giving me the smile of the sun to which I enjoyed immensely. Than one night while on the bus I realized how much he turned me on mentally by the conversations we engaged in and I became hooked. He became my muse and every time we spent quality time I jotted a poem, made quite a few blog entries on here and stalked him around the gym, along with many different things.

I knew he liked me because he spent a lot of time with me when he could as long as others weren’t around to observe us. We flirted but kept things calm and collected. One day I became frustrated at all the time we were spending and was beginning to think he was leading me on and I texted him, “Well are you interested or not?” He shot my heart down with, “Hey, aren’t we friends?” And if I wasn’t getting to the point of obsession then, I definitely was going to obsess until I could get over him because rejection turns me on almost as much as a deep stimulating conversation does.

Suddenly I thought that all the time we shared could have been imaginary, that I have quite possibly could have related to the male sex of hope and delusion. But my gut told me different, the universe in all its coincidences like picking up on his scent right before he would come to the gym to let me know he’s on his way and multiple frequencies kept voicing me the truth, that indeed he’s interested and I just have to sit back and remain patient.  Or find it in my heart to get over him?

To be continued..

Here’s the first poem I ever wrote about him dated September 30, 2012.  The title will be under the nickname that recently sprung up to mind:

Dark Knight

We’re having moments

Together

And I’m pulled by different forces,

And recurring neurosis

A question balloons:
Why do you strike me caring and tender?

Sweet giant!

Can you get to me without prying?

You stare through me
with eyes of mysterious fire

I melt in a tension of dangerous desire

Your every word is lush and comfort

It’s southern in the city

Roots from the blood

You edge me to taste the optimism from the mud

You want to teach me the ways

Of your spirit

I can feel you there.
I can feel you there.

-Pennington©

Limerence


Woman-with-rose

I’m uncertain why I enjoy being obsessive over you?
The lingo of the mind, both voluntary and involuntary
The play room of the bloom. I’m heartless obsessing over you.
You give me a wink and my heart fetches for invisible adoration.
It’s easy to be consumed by this dopamine. These chemical reactions.
The biology in me conducting your science, your returning interactions.

You make me angry by saying you’re a different guy.
All I gather is hot and cold, hot and mischievously cold.
Your presence lights up the sky with pots of gold, uncontrolled.
I’m aware we’re aiming in the direction of part-time,

But to no avail and what is amiss? I’m not completely sold.
I know I’m afraid to ruin the image of you in my head.
To think that you’ll turn out to be a regular guy,
Full arrays of dreadful imaginations similar to Drop Dead Fred.

You make me angry by not giving me what I want:
A photo, the opposite of obscurity, a penny for your thoughts sir.
This passion has bled brick red with familiar haunts
Of subtle bouts of nonchalant and errs.

-Pennington_Hall©

Leeway


ciga

I smell cigarettes and it connects me
to the thought of you.
In your car, you keep a cig lingering
between your fingers and talk your head off.
I tell you to light up and smoke.
On two occasions I asked for a few drags.
Surprised, you wondered why but dare not ask.
I want your bad habits to be on display,
I don’t want them hidden.
I’ll take the good along with the bad;
Inhaling the cigarette allows for
open boundaries and zero limits.

-Pennington©