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The Decay of Flowers Poems by Sarah Hoffmeier
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Acknowledgments
This chapbook is dedicated to those friends and family that have been lost through the years. The ones in struggle, the ones left behind.
But she wasn’t around, and that’s the thing when your parents die, you feel like instead of going in to every fight with backup, you are going into every fight alone. —Mitch Albom
Losing people you love affects you. It is buried inside of you and becomes this big, deep hole of ache. It doesn’t magically go away, even when you stop officially mourning. —Carrie Jones
And an acknowledgement towards the Macabre.
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Table Of Contents Acknowledgements Poems: The Decay of Flowers Two Hundred and thirty-six funerals Butterscotch The Chair Basilisk Woman Winter’s Fright Is it my win or loss It May Be My Win The Wake A Worn Out Soldier An Addict Whistling Teapot I Paved This Road For My Future The Other Side Eat Your Vegetables A new nursery rhyme The Pied Piper Town No. 42 Love is Cyanide From Ash and Bone Looking Like Shit Water Place I Call Home Conversely Proportional A Message in a Kiss Water Like Warm Hands The Widower Don’t Forget About Me Anorexia Oh Beans! Helpless Woman Capital Rewards There might be something in the dark Adumbrate (For the Shadow) My shoes carry me
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6 7 7 8 9 9 10 10 11 11 12 12 13 13 14 14 15 15 16 16 17 18 19 21 21 22 22 23 24 24 24 25 26 27 27
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The Decay of Flowers Wilting and drying Life smells of age Vibrant colors drained With what remains Is that of seedlings Smothered as fodder By the corpses All that remains Will eventually fade Some seen once Others all ignored And the next day The children Will have replaced The old To be forgotten In time Is a waste and Is too sad to think To preserve the dead Only to keep the bodies In their unnatural state All for the beauty To be kept is for The memories’ sake
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Two Hundred and thirty-six funerals 68 pairs of eyes. Thirteen days 300 hearts. 64 barely beating. 12 murdered. 12,000 tears. 10,000 meals. 310 arguments. 23 deeds. 15 hanged. 14 shot. 29 poisoned. 97 stroked. 73 drowned. 3 choked. And 1 marriage.
Butterscotch The early mornings at Nana’s. Coffee, Black and robust. Papa’s tobacco pipe. Waffles and waffles and waffles. Sunday mornings at Grandma’s. A country feel, a bite of a warm meal. This is how Grandma’s house should feel.
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The Chair A being of purpose. They are used and are use to being used. Many forms of unique, ordinary, mechanical. Some come in threes but mostly seen with four. But one was broken. All legs accounted for, paint was glossy. He stood straight, posture normal. He looked normal, regular. But he was broken. In His house, no low hanging pillar, no high hanging pillar. So he found a hook, ledged it in the bare and empty ceiling. Declared missing by day three, found some other day. Broken, and in plain sight. There she was, sitting under him. He used her and then left her. All was normal, ordinary, regular. Because she was his chair.
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Basilisk Woman Eyes that can entrap. I’ve been on the other side of those crystal orbs before. Golden and orange in the sunlight. Lashes fluttering like monarchs. Least we know that those eyes can entrap. Succulent like honey. Glaring daggers when flustered. Those eyes that turn men to stone
Winter’s Fright
Classical pianos play in my road runner. The sun shines iridescent beams through blurry clouds and cold puff balls that show no limit. My heart is racing. The ground gives way and my cruiser swerves I’m driving on top of Nature’s sharp and glossy teeth that at first glance appeal to nature's beauty but I see her laugh with skeletal flesh she has gripped my heart in her branch fingers while staying still I move forward and to the left with my mechanical sled—I've convinced Death and Nature alike that this was not my time they had the wrong soul. She releases my heart pounding faster to make up for it being still and away. She guarantees my ride that it is safer to continue. I take no chances and head back the way I came for sanctuary and relief. For I know that Death and Nature alike change their minds quicker than the passing of seasons.
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Is it my win or loss I lose. She has blue eyes. Her lashes are longer. Her face unblemished. I lose. She has the charisma. Her hands contain multiple tasks. Her hands talented. I lose. She has the wits, the bits and the tits. She is bright. Her mouth many uses.
It May Be My Win
I win. I keep my dignity. My body. I keep the things she broadcasted. I win. Beauty comes in all shapes. In all sizes. It comes to all no matter what. I win. For though I hide. For though I am frumpy. For though I wear glasses. I win. Because I too have the wits, the bits, and my own tits.
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The Wake Electrifying! Numb! So much that the brain had become overloaded. A joke? A lie? Seeing the face of solemn. Hollow. Pity. Sorrow filled words rehearsed. Gone! Lost! I am sorry for your loss
A Worn Out Soldier The job is well paying, but it cost you much more. They say ​a house is your soul but yours looks bare. You get to see so much of this world, do you still see yourself? Vast land of sand is much better than, a house filled with flesh. A family now in tears, poison spat on eyes. Your heart is not made of gold, but you still try to care. Numb but still in torment and pain, morals need regained. Features are worn on a young face, yet still smile with a hint of grace.
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An Addict Her boyfriend
like that of the Mockingjay takes her needle . Dissatisfied The bubbles are rapid. The liquid now clear. Kelly takes her son’s new winter scarf and pulls hard. The needle now full, she finds a small clearing. This wasp hive on her forearm so bruised and yellow. The awaited feeling Numbing and electrifying Her life, a life of 23 23 mistakes, 23 prime
Thinking to herself, can I be a better mother this time? She slides the needle out and falls still.
Whistling Teapot The pressure builds. Sweat is protruding on the outside. Letting the mouth open lets the air release some moisture. But the pressure will always have more in spades. It becomes too much. Popping and sputtering. There is no going back. Her screams are shrill and blow through the wind. Her pot body is hot to the touch. The screams will only ever stop when the pressure can be released. All that is needed is the simple motion. The motion of her neck bent back. Letting the droplets of warm wetness flick up and down on the hands. The release is so calming.
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“All great men are forged in flame. But it is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame.” - Quote from Doctor Who, Day of the Doctor I Paved This Road For My Future Carry on With my lessons you may learn of my mistakes Take them as the road not to travel and think no less of me as when I was still alive within your eyes For that is when I was a hero That I could be seen as something better and not soaked Covered in blood that I have shed and the blackness that I had coated myself in to hid from those I have wronged Think not the path that I have formed for the younger generation as corrupted But as a signal for change Believe that I did this so that life can continue and not be halted in destruction Please do not think less of my ideals
The other side A vulture can be eager as it is a coward. A cat can be aggressive as it is envious. A bat can be shy as it is daring. A moth can be charming as it is fierceful. A crow can be faithful as it is mysterious. A rat can be adorable as it is vindictive. A knife can be useful as it is foreboding. A gun can be skillful as it is terrifying. And I can be kind as I can be hateful.
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Eat Your Vegetables Eat your pea pods, are they not cute little things she said. I snapped their necks with a sharp crack. Eat your Yellow cucumber, they will make you work harder she said. I eviscerated their innards. Eat your Red beetroot, they will make you loyal she said I wedged apart their skin. Eat your Black beans, do they not amuse you she said I eyed them up and down. I picked up a few french fries. Mother smacked my hand. But it is a potato I explain. They are fat and stupid and destroy everything they consume she abruptly yelled.
a new nursery rhyme Splatter her head all over the roads, She is just a poor wench who nobody owns. Shear her clothes down to the bones. She is just a poor peeler who nobody owns. Leave her alone with no paternal kin. For we are wolves who nobody took in.
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The Pied Piper Our children are gone. Gone through the night. Stolen from their beds by some serpents slithering hands. That bastard, that mongrel. It could have been the Old Man Jerrad. A lonely old coot that cleaned up the town of scraps. Poor is he that he loot through trash heaps in search for cans, aluminum, and beer. Lady Mary. With hair quite ugly. She owned cats like a botanist owned plants. Lonely and dirty. No, it was that bastard Nick. Nick the nark. With you in one deal, selling your wares to the pigs another. And one can bet that Nick will get treatment. Whether he was the man or not. The whole town will come to throw punches. Pluck and tug the stinger of his bee’s ass.
Town No. 42 Everyone will tell you about the beautiful landscapes, and the lovely garbage of their town. But what they will not tell you is that the men in this town, and in many more, have had their share of giving to the poor. They will not mention the dark buildings with the blacked out windows and cracked parking lot next to the 869th First methodist church. The blood red neon words glowing next to pastel blue cartoon girls. Past those double doors and sweaty muscles that smell of buttercream and pepper, In the snakes underground hole made with the devils charms is the pair of leeks. White and smooth, sexy and dangerous. On the brick walls next to the curved bar with the sign “no smoking.” is the legs that are always ready to ponce. So that they must be locked up. Locking the great tiger in those tight fishnet stockings.
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Love is cyanide Sweet romance coated on the lips. Lips with caked on white powder. Powder cakes, and dough rolled with my own cash. She smokes each bundle and returns ditzy with visions and sights. Sights of her is a sweet poison to the brain. Brain be damned as it will feel like cotton in this colored pill. Peel down the clothes And clothe up the mouth. Not much for talking as the only connect we share is The lies of love like candy on cavitied teeth.
From Ash and Bone From womb to tomb, we are bound to others. bound to doom. Bound to love. To leave. We weave ourselves into the blankets of their lives as others Leave themselves from ours. From womb to tomb, Birth to death. A leash, A contract more constricting than an oath. An oath of blood, Blood to be shed and then meld into a new form. Another day, bound to others. In their image and never your own. Identifiers, special features, mannerisms. All decided, Even in death will be passed the burden, The invisible cage that strikes from the ribs To the next gen of kin.
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Looking Like Shit Everyone looks so disgusting. Why can’t they look more dignified. She could paint her nails, Rather than eating a pigs breakfast. He could work out his muscles, Rather than learning about cameras. Me, myself and I wouldn’t even think of bringing this up to them. They should be smart enough to know already. I wake up early to skillfully paint my gorgeous features, And I stay beautifully thin by not eating. God has made me this perfect. But I already know that. I know all the right words, I look the best with my crooked smile. My voice is like the sun, My posture is the easiest to control I am beauty:nature incarnate. I can’t care for anyone else, I need all time to be focused on me and me alone.
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Water You can be a nice chill for the hot summers. But you can also be the sting of death in winters. You can be my comfort in submerged waters. But you can also be the suffocating. You can be joyful tides. But you also be the raging currents. You can be the healer, hope, and calm factors. But you are also 80% me.
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Place I Call Home
1. I see that couch that has memories of me plopping down my weight as it makes a noise but comforts me more than anything. It’s a bed. It’s a recliner. It’s my boyfriend's arms. In any direction the cotton contorts to my image. The back is braced into mine and I snuggle into the touch. In this state I am at peace, I am absent of mind of thoughts and worries. The world is as it once was in the younger days. This is my home. 2. The depression of green carpet with flat areas where I would lay while watching tv, or fall asleep. I have left my impression there throughout my younger days. In other areas it takes its old form from the glory days. It is fluff and bright. It smells of burnt vacuum. In the bottom loops in the further corners lies the missing pennies and paper clips left from times past. It’s my dinner table. It’s my indoor grass. It’s a memory foam. This is my home. 3. It’s old but it is a part of the family. The Fridge has gone through many pictures of holiday drawings. The rough sound is just the bones rattling. Black marker messages on its bumpy off white surface. It’s shelves draws off center. The door shelves cracked and repaired with silver duct tape. The polar bear with the cool shades in the far back that probably holds the remnants of baking soda. It’s a reminder. It’s my notice. It’s our starving saviour. This is my home. 4. The hallways that encircle all that are not aware of this maze. In one door and out to another world; or the bathroom. My father would play the horse and I the rancher. Circling ‘round and ‘round. They provided safety from the hands of tag, from the leather belt, from mysterious captures of Halloween nights. The sounds are more traveling and the walls more narrower. The view is great from the upside down glance on the green carpet. The rain sounds so peaceful against the attic fan up above in such the pale wallpaper where I follow secret patterns. It’s my sanctuary. It’s my racetrack. It’s my studio. This is my home.
5. The tree that over towers a few feet past the back entrance of the house facing the concrete patio stands preeminent. It bears the strength of our state in its image. The yellow and orange and green flowers smell lovely when they fall. It has gone through many family nights of bonfires. Sometimes not so lucky on starry nights when it catches a flame and we rush towards
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the hose. The other end in a downward slope lies sticks from each hike down to the stream and squirrel hunts just several meters further. It’s a strength. It’s my outdoor couch. It’s the symbol. This is my home.
6. Off in the side sticks the metal ladder to the roof. Every year green snakes slither up to its siamese twin that once picked up cable. The snakes heads are natures hydra with their blues and rare pinks in the morning light. It’s a skyscraper. It’s Jacob's Ladder. It’s my playground. This is my home. 7. So I wonder why you want it more than me. Why must you take all the things that have made me? I could learn to share, but I am selfish. I don’t want anything out of place or missing. You only see money. You see renovation, a new start, a new family's home. You are a robot, a looming threat, a government. Your eyes are laughing while you look away. One hand is shaking another while the other is stabbing out a hole where my heart, my soul, my sanity resides. I will wait clinging to the panic that every year brings. I will scurry and plead and fight to stay myself. For this is my home.
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Conversely Proportional
The walls should be silver or pink, he says. No way!
They need to be vibrant blue or dull green,
is her response.
Could we add this wooden rocking chair? Dude!
I think a metal
one would be better!
I kinda think some stuffed animals would give this room some character, he whistles. I want a big tv!
I think that would fit better,
is her interruption.
No, how about a painting? Fine!
One set in the medieval era with knights and blood!
Um, how about the Victorian era? Nope!
They always look so bored!
How about one with cars? I do like cars! He smiles as he pecks her on her head.
​A Message in a Kiss A little hint, a little note, full of love. The ribbon- cheap. My words- filled with wish. A big heart, a big trust, this message in a Kiss.
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Water Like Warm Hands Water like warm hands embrace me. Standing under the hot water as it flows It soothes my aches from the mourning. Alone now, Oh Strangled air. Water like warm hands embrace me. Deserted with too many thoughts It distracts with many thimbles. The deed done, Why Leave me be. Water like warm hands keep embracing me. Working the soap that stings Once out the heart will still beat.
The Widower Another day another woman. Another hour another heartbreak. Another minute another tissue. Another second without you here.
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Don’t Forget About Me
You named me, now you’ve turned away from me I can’t be what I am because of my size. At first things were white, a Tabula rasa. All together, let’s paint till the skies become black dyed in all of it. Now my world is white, blank once more. The man who loves the sea is my neighbor, but he is dark purple. He believes in what you’ve now stated about me. Charon is too blue to cheer me up, she needs to see she is bigger than your image. Out in the Styx alone and decrepit, all I see is grey and yellow. The world has enacted the Kerberos. It's envious. So sickening, I feel so green. Can anyone see me as more than this clear color? I will make sure you see red. I may be transparent now But,
I will show you!
Pluto will be remembered.
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Anorexia Endless starvation. He keeps to avoidme. Hatred within. Small and alone here. And I ate a bagof potato chips.
Oh Beans! Your smell is strong and robust. I do not know if this is trust, or simply your tickling of my brain. I strain to recall the most basic of things, like you and me, all alone with this coffee.
The Helpless Woman Hot passion full of love You carry on through the mud. Giving crumbs Though you have none. Holding on to love’s last shimmer You wonder what you will have for dinner.
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Capital Rewards It has meat, oh so juicy and tender. All melt and collide with the flavors on my tongue. The smell and taste are oh so beefy. My mouth salivates at the thought. It has desert, so sweet and simple. One can be damned to forget the pie. Oh so very cherry and sweet, With crust so frail. I weren't one for eating my greens. But mama would want me to be her healthy boy Once more. Though tart and dirty, I quickly pop them slimey trees in. The pointy side first. Can’t say this is the best food. But the memories of common times, Makes it. Alone within stone. This is the best choice, My last meal on Earth.
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There might be something in the dark
Silence falls but it is not quiet. It creeps and stills in shadows. But it is not there, not real they say. Chills fill hollow bones. The sun left long ago. Fear shifts. Lusus naturae. Mind runs wild. The criquites fall silent. Whispers Strangle Hidden behind. Sinister. Nyctophobia. Silence falls but it is not quiet. It drags and cracks the bones. The cave crickets fall silent. The screams, Unearthed. Unnatural. Unnatural. It comes closer to me. I am motionless with fear. The spine shakes, my teeth rattle. This thing summoned to me. Freed from its Unholy prison. It comes to me. But never does it reach me. The thing lingers. It has paralyzed me. It never consumes as it should. This thing only ever merges within my very soul and being. Never leaving, It is me. And I, it.
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Adumbrate (For the Shadow) Always there to remind me I can never be alone. An ugly figure. One that reflects an image wider and fatter than what television can capture. Legs and chest abnormally long and slender when the day gets longer. Time only makes it grow.Shades becoming opaque. Even at night on a solitary walk, I know that she is right behind me. Silent and never speaking words always there to remind me she will never leave me alone.
​My shoes carry me My shoes carry me. To shores and seas. Through mountainous trees. These shoes carry me. Always in a pair. Breathing life in the air. To take one without the other is not dared. For These shoes are always a pair. I can not assume, One day they will be exhumed. It may be sad, but joy comes with doom. Life’s happiness carries a friend of foredoom. They tell me not to despair. Death comes in pairs. It can not be guaranteed , but my shoes will always carry me.