Tag Archives: kiss

Plums


A tanka for Three Word Wednesday. Deviant, minuscule, trivial.
I like words!

Plums

My deviant mouth
Bites a plum, she laughs aloud-
Mess is trivial,
Minuscule compared to the
Taste of kisses, plums and love.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

 

This poem is for all of us poor sods who can’t eat a plum without getting plum juice everywhere. I don’t eat them inside or I’ll have to mop a floor. This is a problem with most yummy juicy fruits, actually. And popsicles. But they’re so good! I refuse to feel bad about being messy with yummy foods.

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Found Poetry: I Drew a Map of Love


Hello readers, this is your poet speaking. I’m sure you remember my poem Is it Beginning? from earlier this month. I did another one- I really like this found poetry business.

This time, the song chose me weeks ago. Well, more like, the song leapt up from the depths of my memory, grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. I know I’m not your typical 20-something product of my generation when I say that I totally dig Joni Mitchell. I mean, come on, she’s Canadian! Her song A Case of You is one of those songs that struck me like a Zeus-style lightning bolt. Kind of like Going to California by Led Zeppelin, come to think of it. Maybe I’ll try something with that next time.

I have digressed enough! Read on for poetry.

disclaimer: I don’t own the rights to any Joni Mitchell songs. This is a creative exercise, and I make no money from it.

I Drew a Map of Love

I could be your painter, darling;
I sketched the still darkness of you,
I drink the bitter and sweet deeds.

Cartoon lines drawn in blue light
Before my drink poured, she said
I would part with you, and bleed.

I’m a lonely woman; you drew me in,
But had me stay in a box apart
From your life: oh, where’s our time?

I knew your mouth twice:
You taste like blood and wine.
I remember in that bar

You said, “I ain’t afraid of the devil,”
With your face so bitter, and lost–
I’m frightened of that time.

If you want me, I’ll be
As constant as the northern star–
I’ll drink you, bitter and sweet.

You had just met me, you said,
“Love is touching souls.”
Surely in my case, in my blood,

I’d be prepared if I touched yours,
So holy, so bitter, and so sweet.
I’d like it if you knew mine.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

Also, I feel I must add another disclaimer: I have been in lust a couple times, had some crushes, and I read a lot, but I have never been in love. I remain hopeful that it’ll happen some time. That passionate, delightful, being-with-you-feels-like-home, you-make-me-want-to-be-a-better-person, I-hope-we-get-old-and-grey-together-so-we-can-mock-each-other-at-the-retirement-home, snuggles-and-sex-are-only-awesome-with-you, blissful, if-you’re-not-beside-me-I-don’t-sleep-well, all-consuming deal. Or something like that.

Though I maintain that there’s a different kind of love for every person that we love. We can call it platonic, romantic, familial, or whatever, but it is subtly different every time. Like fingerprints, or lip prints, or the flecks of colour in a person’s eyes. Or maybe it’s just me.

…I am a soppy ridiculous romantic. I don’t know how or when that happened. Must have been right around the time I started writing poetry.

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Bare


I had a crazy productive night. I was going to return my (sliiiightly overdue) library books, but then I saw the moon, and my good intentions went down the tubes. Cruised down to the lake to watch the moonlight dance on the water. Then I decided to go find a quiet stretch of ditch to park in far out of the city limits, where the world still smells alive and the crickets sang.

I needed it- needed to get away from people and their noise.

So I had to write a piku-style thingy, among other things that need a bit of spit ‘n’ polish before going up here.

Bare

we are bare,
full
of the moonlight;

we will dance
bare
in the water,

this empty
beach
our sweet escape.

night swimmers
dive,
silent and sure.

full moon night
hides
nothing from us

we swim, bare,
bathed
in healing light,

fearing no
thing
in the darkness

as long as
we
are together.

weightless, we
kiss
never fragile

hesitant?
no.
full moon watches

over us
while
we splash and laugh.

our steady
hands
on warm bodies

floating out
deep
abiding love

we are bare,
brave
women in love.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

You think I’m romantic now, just wait until I find a lady to write for/about. Jeez.

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The Taste of Blood


First of all, I’d like to say that watching Mumford and Sons on the live YouTube feed was… indescribable. Lost for words, I am. (also I am apparently Yoda today?) I am in love with this interconnected network of awesome that allowed me to be here in the comfort of my own home and yet be watching one of my favourite bands perform live thousands of kilometres away. ❤

Secondly, I have another poem for you, dearest internet. It has to do with love, but not the same boundless stirring love that I feel for music.
“Always this ridiculous obsession with love!”
Yeah, here goes.

The Taste of Blood

I remember
The taste of blood on my tongue as you told me you were leaving. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, to halt the flood of accusations that threatened to burst forth.

I warned
That I would fall hard for you; this was not some foolish infatuation. I asked for one last kiss before you left me with the door half-open. You shook your head.

I begged
With my eyes as you stepped backward, bag on your shoulder and sleep folded on your face. Your resigned sigh cut through me, and I pressed you into the wall with my body.

You whispered
That this was never meant to go so far. The corners of your eyes were red. We turned to look as your friend honked her horn, and I saw the indecision in your face. I reached up on tiptoes.

I remember
The taste of blood salt coffee gum nicotine whiskey, and you. Your bag hit the floor when you cradled my head. My hand on your cheek, the other on your heart, both pleading for mercy.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Well, that was fun. Time to go do… something else. I don’t know. Maybe sleep. Maybe not. Definitely something mindless for a bit though. Because I still don’t really know what that just was, or where it came from, and I’ve been working on it for a couple weeks.

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