Tag: poem
member name: Laura Cushing
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August 10, 2008 12:47 AM EDT --
Yesterday, I knew this girl
who wore 'tragicly hip' as an accessory
to thrift store jeans
and manufactured angst
she drowned her happiness in bottles
then peeled the labels back
. . .
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March 19, 2007 03:31 PM EDT --
Four years of war. I can barely comprehend how many lives have been lost. When I was a child, one of my earliest memories is of my mother crying when she learned the Vietnam war was over. I couldn't . . .
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August 11, 2008 11:08 PM EDT --
All Aboard the Crescent Line
by Laura Cushing
1. Penn Station, NY
A Columbia University student
backpack on his shoulders
i-pod in ears, a going-home smile,
checks the schedule . . .
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February 03, 2007 03:20 AM EST --
"Your poems are too personal," he says.
"Remove the you; the I. What is left? That's your poem."
Imagine this poem
without you, without I.
Maybe it exists in
the vacuum of space. . . .
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February 18, 2007 01:57 AM EST --
The sky made me feel small
that day we walked through history
and I felt disconnected from myself.
The trees were shedding bark
because all the wind had gone
and the leaves tumbled away
yet they still . . .
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March 07, 2007 07:44 PM EST --
The car is our vardo, our gypsy
caravan. We speak our words
for cheap bread and expensive
wine. We pray for the ins of
Ginsberg, the knack of Kerouac.
We are a living limited offer, our
infinity bartered . . .
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March 17, 2007 01:37 AM EDT --
Oh homemaker
boilermaker
three lined obituary!
How you puzzle me.
Did they call you Margie?
Or Margerita? Did your
husband go to war
and leave you waiting breathless
until inspired by
patriotism, . . .
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March 22, 2007 07:59 PM EDT --
the split belly
of a South Central Liner
spilling metallic intestines
over a rusty track
the picked remains
of a bum's last meal
a black speckled
bird's hymnal crowing
and the exposed
white . . .
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March 30, 2007 12:37 AM EDT --
I order cherry pie
and a coffee,
black remembering how
Traci (with an i, not y) was popular-pretty
cheerleader captain, darling of the football team.
Her teeth, white and sparkly, shined like beacons . . .
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August 03, 2007 03:10 PM EDT --
She always threaded her hair
with a ribbon three inches
wide, red as her lover's suicide
her face dark as the miday
alaskan sky, black eyes
ice-smooth and reflective
of a heart that . . .
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February 01, 2007 02:02 AM EST --
The Boilermaker
a poem by Laura Cushing
Thighs fused
welding like metals
Luke constructs
internal combustion engines
powered only by that
Moldy source of
deadfall love
white and bunched
this . . .
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February 11, 2007 01:24 PM EST --
We can slip on the threadbare soles
of our ancestors
and slip them off again, just as easy.
We are not
(despite the feeling
of the bit at our mouths,
the crop at our flanks)
horses.
These shoes are . . .
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February 21, 2007 03:10 AM EST --
And he said to me
"Love is like lemons.
When life hands you
lemons, you make lemonade."
But I say
Love, if a lemon,
is far more likely to find you
at three am shaking on the kitchen . . .
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June 27, 2007 01:38 AM EDT --
"Make love to me," she said
and by that, she meant Make me
feel less like I am dying.
The sun through the curtains
colored the room
blue and white and yellow.
Her fallen hair
shone like fool's . . .
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February 06, 2007 01:13 AM EST --
Leigh pushed me through the cellar door
and the cellar stank of roots and earth
floorboards creaked and marked our berth
the lightbulb overhead burned bare
She closed behind . . .
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February 14, 2007 01:56 AM EST --
In their eyes is a certain
uncertainty that this
Polaroid contraption
will instantly capture memory.
In their youth, memories
were hard-earned, chemically
forged on photographic plates
while ramrods . . .
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February 20, 2007 06:21 PM EST --
Living as you do in California , I'm not surprised
to read you've fallen for the partly cloudy girl and her overcast eyes.
She flashed your life like lightning, left you blind-struck, deaf-sided . . .
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February 06, 2007 12:43 AM EST --
He will never be your lover.
He is not really your friend.
He is a stranger to you
and to this town.
He is the penny
lying luck side down
in the crowded street.
Don't pick him up.
Just pass on by. . . .
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February 04, 2007 01:59 AM EST --
I.
I remember when I met you,
how I expected your indifference
but never your praise. The way your hair
framed your face like a picture
of humility was unexpected, too.
On the way home, the drive in . . .
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February 01, 2007 12:08 AM EST --
Keys
a poem by Laura Cushing
You keep your keys single-ringed,
crowded like sixteen fingers on a fist.
I ask if you know what each
is for, and you explain
in meticulous . . .
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