Latest Posts by laceandpaper - Page 2

Sunset Over Atlantic

The tan line on my ring finger has faded,

just another reminder of the time we’ve lost

since that day at the beach when my ring

washed away with the tide. We couldn’t afford

to replace it. Maybe I should have taken that as

a sign.

Gas Prices Skyrocket

He bluffed, “It’s the cheapest you’ll find a vintage sports car.”

She huffed, “It looks rather new for a vintage sports car.”

Love for the ages: soft, steady, slow, and sweet, or a

flame: fast, beautiful, and deadly, like a vintage sports car.

Pulling off her shirt she felt revealed, reviled, repulsive,

telling herself it’s not trashy if you do it in a vintage sports car.

Cherry red, blood red, red wood. Scattered under moonlight.

On the accident report they called it a vintage sports car.

Heaven forbid honesty! Hide your feelings, your secrets,

undercover. Like in the driveway, a vintage sports car.

Status symbols: a Rolex watch, a million bucks, a

yacht in the bay. Trade your wife for a vintage sports car.

The past thrown away, left to rot and not be remembered.

Left to decompose in a junkyard next to a vintage sports car.

Lost, lonely, loveless? Ditch the club, forget online dating.

One thing that can never leave you: A vintage sports car.

To escape your problems you must run far away.

My suggestion? Zero to sixty in a vintage sports car.

A gold-digging robbery! Get away with his money, his heart,

a license plate reading RAY-RAY on a vintage sports car.

Forward, The Only Way to Go

Rusty white with a big blue stripe,

the old pickup, a pick-me-up

in the shape of a flatbed truck.

He drives fast with the music blasting,

windows cranked down because the AC never works,

or maybe just to share his music with the world.

His voice pours out the window to the beat of a drum

as the pounding music rocks and swells

and brings the old radio back to life.

It’s an adrenaline rush, that old white truck,

and the driver inside. Four wheels, one heart,

flying on a song down the old dirt road.

With the blood of a cousin, the heart

of a friend, a protector, a brother, a guardian.

Wings hidden beneath thick skin, or rusty white paint.

The heart of freedom, a crazy heart.

A heart with no direction, a truck with no map.

Windows open, open heart.

To The Once Ingénue

The giver of blood and love is fragile

as it beats faint within the fold of your

broken breast. The giant’s grass of the forest

sways gently in the wind, unaware of your

selfish weight crushing the earth below.

You used to dance with grace as light as a breeze

among the blossoms of spring, but now you

have been stripped and knocked down, lying

heavy in the cold dirt of disenchanted

winter. You bury yourself in the decay of your

innocence as the rain of remorse now pours down

your cheeks. The one who did this to you feels no

regret. You let him take the silver trinkets

from your pain-streaked body and he

hung them from the bedpost that he might

admire those trophies of his conquest.

You have given up that blissful ignorance that you

once held so dear. Now you must stand alone and

face the world, for he is not there to lift you.

There is no changing what has been done.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Before our first date you bought me white lilies. I guessed you didn’t know the symbolism. But as the two of us become one for the who-knows-what time – you, deep inside me and I, clenched tight around you – I wonder if you did. Sometimes I feel as if we have become dead together. Your burning skin pressed against me, answering my need, no longer smells like cinnamon, only sweat. As your lips caress my collarbone, my breast, my navel you no longer taste strawberry, only salt. This four-story apartment building, box-shaped and bland, no longer is a stepping stone to a better life, but just another reminder of how our plans fell through. I remember the lilies as your hands squeeze my aching flesh, too warm for a corpse. The sun rises and the birds chirp and I convince myself that we are not yet dead. Even if that sun has long faded our yellow curtains. Even if we hardly speak. Even if you no longer call me liebe, though  we still make love. Even if your touch is the only thing I’m still living for.

So ends the collection, To Save A Wretch Like Me. I hope you enjoyed, whether you read the entire collection, or only caught a few poems along the way. If you haven't had a chance to read the whole thing but enjoyed what you saw, I'd encourage you to go back to the beginning and read the collection, since I think it works well as a combined product. Whatever your feelings on my work, though, I'd love to hear from you, praise, critique, comments, or questions. Or jokes. Whatever, really.

Thank you for reading!

Beauty from the Beast

Sadness was my gut reaction

when I saw her picture in your wallet.

She: more beautiful than me,

eyes brighter than mine,

her smile sweet, pure honey.

But behind my sadness came joy.

Joy that you have someone so beautiful,

someone to love and to love you

as once upon a time I did.  What we became was

ugly, but it taught us life. We were not a waste.

But as our beautiful flowers bloomed,

we came to see we could not share the sun.

Our petals grew shriveled and brown,

choked by the harsh sting of broken promises,

of life and truth, and what is not meant to be.

He is now my light, and she is now your fire,

and as we grow apart we will grow closer to them,

and they will and lift us up toward the sun, and

we will be alive. Apart, we will grow to be

the beauty that we now know we can be.

Closure

Upon this wall I sit and watch the tide

roll in and out, affection for the sand

as indecisive as your touch. Your hand

grazes mine. Is it true we really tried?

Perhaps I missed it when you tried to hide.

Your touch lingers, and I feel it demand

a part of me that no longer can stand.

Was this love just far too long denied?

But there was something here, and it still is

alive somewhere inside our broken hearts.

This poem is far too sentimental,

And yet I feel somewhere, somehow that this

needs to be said, before we fall apart

and crash into the waves that we feel call.

Liar

You forced a laugh and told me

You were heartless

As your head fell into your hands,

Hiding a pained smile.

I’m glad you’re a liar.

Spring

Cut through the pallid skin of the fresh corpse of winter. Bleed beginnings.

The close of winter is a silent night, still darkness giving in to a vibrant day.

Dying frost. Awakening Blooms. Welcome to a new world.

Sweet, the scent of birdsong and blue.

In the movies, this is where the newborn enters the scene.

The dawn light breaks on pale pink, the bright call

of miles to go before I sleep.

I swear it’s too hot for this time of year.

Venus, why bring love in Spring if it dies in winter?

Dying minus the end equals resurrection.

Passerby

You know, I really love it when you pretend

that I don’t exist.

You climbed out of your car,

alone in the grocery store parking lot.

We made eye contact,

I almost dropped my bag of eggs.

You locked the car and zipped up your jacket

and jogged to the door, out of the cold

as if I never even existed.

Not even a smile?

The least you could do is acknowledge me.

My stomach clenches as

I shove food into my trunk.

My appetite is gone.

Warm Body

Time can never erase the taste, the touch,

the heat of smooth, soft skin. My fingertips

ached to pull him closer. Hands felt my hips,

urging me onward, still forward. So much

depends upon simple contact, and such

sweet, plum caresses from succulent lips.

But this is not quite right. Fantasy rips

and he is not my warmth, the one I clutch.

Not lover, friend, my partner strong and bold,

who brings me to my sweetest, perfect form.

He is a stranger, a poor substitution,

an improper plaster cast, hard and cold.

He could never mold to your humor or charm.

You are gone, he is just an illusion.

Winter

A special snowflake disappears on warm skin

just like all the others.

Frost laden bark skeletons scar the sky,

casting shadows in the sub-zero sun

shining on the deathly pallor coating the ground.

The branches look so alone

without leaves to bridge the gaps.

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

There is no desire left to melt this frozen world.

To Save a Wretch Like Me

Palms sweat thick as blood. I fold them so as not

to stain my skirt, too clean, too white. The wine of redemption

burns my throat, bitter next to the sweet sin so heavy on my

unholy mind. The call to confess crushes the

soul. There are no secrets left. I can’t look up, can’t

burn my eyes with the sight of his neck, red with the embarrassment

of awareness beneath a shock of blond. He sits two rows ahead,

his head bowed in humility, and I sink to the depths of the

earth, opening to swallow me beneath the altar before me,

drowning me in the tears of the women at the cross.

Confess?

Track 5

Hard rock as            the door lock slides

   slowly into place, drowning out the

memory of your               face before you

         stepped over the threshold. The

timing was wrong              but I had hoped we

    would fight to save what wasn’t yet

broken. Now           headless dolls stumbling

  aimlessly across the toy box are what

we have become.            Too far even to run

 back into ear shot. Turn the music up.

Dusty Morning

At least I told the truth, and yet

the truth of the matter is that none of it matters.

Reasons why, what made it die, the goodbyes-

I cry but none of the questions wash away.

It just makes mud, mudding up my mind,

making me wonder more and more: why?

I wish I had that answer.

I wish you had that answer.

I wish, as you sat there in your leather jacket

with no shirt, and me underdressed

in faded pajamas and old jeans,

I wish you could have said- or maybe I don’t.

To accept that it happened is

a challenge alone. To know why is more than

I could stand. Who, what, when, and where:

these will have to do. I’ll never accept a reason

why you can’t forgive me the way I forgave you.

Track 4

You step over the threshold to the

          sounds of Beethoven and Mozart. Beautifully

                    complicated, an enigma I plan to spend

my life solving. Figuring you out is a

          full time job, but all I’m paid is promises

                    and disappointments, affection and fear.

The definition of forever grows smaller

          and smaller, a wrung out sponge. Will

                    we be the ones to soak it full again?

Arpeggios leave out what’s in between.

Repentance (Part Three of To Save A Wretch Like Me)

The third and final part of the collection, To Save A Wretch Like Me, contains the resolution for the lovers as they reach their rock bottom and are left to pick themselves up and find their way back to themselves on their own. 

One Speck Spoils the Glass

Awake in a photo. Black and white, head hurts too much for color. Loose black slacks drape over a barely there dress on the floor. Milk on the nightstand in front of a background of wood. My hands rest on my stomach. Is milk on my skin? Man’s milk, perhaps. I want milk. What did I do last night? Rolling over, see what I did. He has a stressed smile, spindly at the ends, emblazoned with a promise. Don’t think I want what he’s offering. A sour taste coats my mouth. Turn over, drink the milk. If only the creamy froth could make my insides in its image. The word “milk” crowns everything. I too would like to be pure white.

Crime of Passion

I saw you, anonymous among the masses, a

passerby spending some time. Come closer,

lead me into artificial intimacy. Body on body,

eat me, crave me. A strange, succulent sweet.

Are we still strangers? I feel I know you so well.

Do you even know my name? Does it matter?

Give me more and who we are won’t matter.

Under these pulsing lights we could be anyone.

I am yours, sweet stranger, just for this song.

Let the beat hide our fears, inhibitions, and

those who are holding us back. The air is hot,

you stick to me. Sweaty sheets and mussed up makeup.

Autumn

This time of year the rain turns cold.

Amber leaves rustle, threatening to fall.

Before long everything smells of golden brown.

The leaves are most striking right before they die.

They dance in the wind, wild horses with no reins,

As vibrant as a painting from the hands of Van Gogh.

The plunge starts when the will to live minus gravity equals zero.

At last the drop. A gust of wind. Finally, ground.

Once again at rest. Beauty: their last request.

Give it back, the lost color, the lost time.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.

God, will the cycle ever end?

Cold Shoulder

Sugared words drip from

sultry lips, making his threshold

glow with the red heat of

inner fire as he opens the door

to the jasmine scent in the evening chill.

She is the one from before.

May I come in?

He thinks it’s better she didn’t.

Jezebel in a cashmere sweater

pouts. I thought you left her.

The fire winks out.

Sex and Exes

Bitch, you wanna see me sweat?

You shoulda seen me on top of him.

When you heard the news did you

think you’d won? I hate to break

it to you, but hon, even without my

touch he still thinks I’m good in bed.

And that’s when he’s thinking with

both heads. At least he was the

only one I shed my clothes for. I’m

sorry, I’m sure you needed the ego

boost when you realized he was too

good for you. Sweetheart,

green is not your color.

Track 3

Low beats pound deep beneath our

                    skin so close under wrinkled sheets.

                    Sweat as heat penetrates our bodies,

pressed against each other, gripping,

                    unrelenting. Keep the rhythm of what

                    you’re giving to me. Please. Release the

hate you make me feel.  Least of all

                    I love you. Most of all I love you.

                    Shades of gray but I’m seeing red.

Your touch is more forgiving than any priest.

Addiction

Kiss me until it’s cliché and

I’ll tell you I hate you. Drugs

will kill me. Too bad I’m addicted.

You are the lemon in my tea.

Squeeze into my wounds.

The sting makes me love you more.

Our warmth chills me to the bone.

A yarn sweater unraveling

as you pull mine off in the

backseat of your car,

idling in my empty driveway

when I get home.

This end is a beginning

for better and for worse.

Lover, I cannot stand you.

I will run from this bi-polar

love affair. Run into your arms.

Give me a kiss. Push me away.

Even the unending waves must

come and go with the tide,

pulsing steam on frozen windows.

Poison Apple

The church is cold as I perch on my pew.

The heater is broken again, third time

this winter. The preacher has begun his

sermon, but all I hear is the silence of your

absence.

My phone rings. It should turn it off,

especially since it’s playing our song.

I know it’s you. I shouldn’t answer.

I stand and duck out to the lobby.

I know judgmental looks are following me.

Your hesitant hello send heat coursing

through my frozen veins, awakening

my stifled senses. Brother Phillip’s

voice echoes over the loud speaker,

but his words are as distant as God.

All I hear is your heavy breathing.

Stuck in July

It hits me as I see your face

smiling bright from the photograph,

green eyes shining, blond hair

brushed perfectly to the side.

I resent you for giving up on me.

I always thought things

you would come back.

You and me, together, for better

or worse.

This is worse, but we are not together.

Did you forget that you are the love of my life?

I meant it when I said it then. I mean it now.

I see your smile and I feel

the love and I resent you

for giving up so soon.

I wanted so badly to be yours.

I thought you wanted me badly too.

I guess our want was not enough.

Passing By

His heart took a swan dive,

spelunking into his stomach with

a sickening splash. He could see

the hate in her eyes,

the hurt he’d brought her.

He had to look away.

He sees his stark reflection in the

glass of the door before it

slides silently away, welcoming him

into the forgiving warmth of the store,

warmth he knows he doesn’t deserve.