On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods Behind Your House
Just in time, you are made to think
you might be getting somewhere, but a river
funneling the same chromatic fish back
to the puddle where it multiplied
is gravity, not progress.
My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus
without regret through endless squares of nowhere
because Life’s too short or Hey, we've got the time.
So many cows we’d never meet,
hills stretched out like billboards,
the idea of vacation as a postcard
buried in my brother's swimsuit magazine
that made me scared of women. I didn’t want to die
without experiencing perfect breasts,
I knew my awful softness
not to want to die at all. The future looks the same today
as it looked to me then, which is to say: blurry.
It smirks back at me through the glass. It knows
something I don’t.
The past is running shirtless
through your wedding party flask
in hand, asking the MC if he knows where
to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing itself.
It always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you can’t help
coming back for more
and more
and more.
past versions:
On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods Behind Your House
Mark would say that time was just a reflex notion
in the spine, a river funneling the same chromatic fish
back to the puddle where it learned to multiply
when he was still alive. My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus without regret
through endless squares of nowhere because Life’s too short or,
alternately, Hey, we've got the time. So many cows
we’d never meet, hills stretched out like billboards, the idea
of vacation as a postcard buried in my brother's hidden swimsuit
magazine, its terrifying women: time had made them ageless
teeth immune to any stain. Before my sister gave birth to a child
who only talks in poems, none of us had any clue
how boring were our lives. The best of them all end
with someone bleeding and begin with This one time.
Time is running shirtless through your wedding party
flask in hand, asking the MC if he knows
where to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing himself. You'd hate him
if he wasn't always good for a convenient bump,
the baggie stashed reliably behind the hand machine.
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you and your desperate heart
keep coming back for more.
Time is running shirtless through your wedding party
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
I like the image of running shirtless etc but the “Time is” bit is declamatory in a way that doesn’t fit with the rest of the pome
The second “time is” is worse
And this one has sounds a bit cliched
and your desperate heart
It’s very difficult to write a poem like this one. The title and style bring to mind Ted Kooser, who is an ace at this sort of style. And comparisons are inevitable. But it’s a lovely poem, if with a few blemishes
(08-27-2026, 03:37 PM)busker Wrote: Time is running shirtless through your wedding party
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
I like the image of running shirtless etc but the “Time is” bit is declamatory in a way that doesn’t fit with the rest of the pome
The second “time is” is worse
And this one has sounds a bit cliched
and your desperate heart
It’s very difficult to write a poem like this one. The title and style bring to mind Ted Kooser, who is an ace at this sort of style. And comparisons are inevitable. But it’s a lovely poem, if with a few blemishes
Loved the cows and the postcard hills
Thanks for reading and commenting, much appreciated. Everyone loves the cows and the hills. Maybe should save the poem from the initial conceit. Maybe time motif holding the poem back? Ted Kooser mentioned! <3
Hi, first I love the title. Those stairways are all imagination but can't help but lead nowhere. Got one with a chimney down the road.
I think your edit improves the poem, the layout improves the readability. Some notes:
(08-26-2026, 01:03 PM)matsunosuperfan Wrote: On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods Behind Your House
Just in time, you are made to think I'm not sure if you mean "when" after the comma. the opening is a little blurred for me.
you might be getting somewhere, but a river
funneling the same chromatic fish back
to the puddle where it multiplied
is gravity, not progress. "chromatic" is veiled but interesting here.
My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus
without regret through endless squares of nowhere
because Life’s too short or Hey, we've got the time.
So many cows we’d never meet,
hills stretched out like billboards,
the idea of vacation as a postcard These seven lines are chockfull of childhood images/emotions.
buried in my brother's swimsuit magazine I miss the the break on swimsuit but the poem is probably better for its loss. Maybe.
that made me scared of women. I didn’t want to die
without experiencing perfect breasts,
I knew my awful softness
not to want to die at all. The future looks the same today
as it looked to me then, which is to say: blurry.
It smirks back at me through the glass. It knows
something I don’t. I miss the unstained teeth a bit and especially miss the child speaking in poems but they are probably best left for another poem.
The past is running shirtless
through your wedding party flask
in hand, asking the MC if he knows where
to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing itself. The change from himself to itself is perfect for me and pulls the whole poem together. Happy to see the whole bump/baggie thing gone.
It always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you can’t help
coming back for more
and more
and more. Not a fan of the accusatory tone, possibly from the previous version:
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
why your desperate heart keeps coming back for more.
Desperate heart is cliched so maybe something else, but I like the compassion that "desperate" implies, I think that's where the poem lives now. Losing addict here deletes the last wisp of brother Mark but he lives to haunt another poem. I'm not sure I can read the new version correctly because I've already met him but this may be a better poem.
past versions:
On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods Behind Your House
Mark would say that time was just a reflex notion
in the spine, a river funneling the same chromatic fish
back to the puddle where it learned to multiply
when he was still alive. My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus without regret
through endless squares of nowhere because Life’s too short or,
alternately, Hey, we've got the time. So many cows
we’d never meet, hills stretched out like billboards, the idea
of vacation as a postcard buried in my brother's hidden swimsuit
magazine, its terrifying women: time had made them ageless
teeth immune to any stain. Before my sister gave birth to a child
who only talks in poems, none of us had any clue
how boring were our lives. The best of them all end
with someone bleeding and begin with This one time.
Time is running shirtless through your wedding party
flask in hand, asking the MC if he knows
where to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing himself. You'd hate him
if he wasn't always good for a convenient bump,
the baggie stashed reliably behind the hand machine.
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you and your desperate heart
keep coming back for more.
(08-28-2026, 10:53 PM)wasellajam Wrote: Hi, first I love the title. Those stairways are all imagination but can't help but lead nowhere. Got one with a chimney down the road.
I think your edit improves the poem, the layout improves the readability. Some notes:
(08-26-2026, 01:03 PM)matsunosuperfan Wrote: On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods Behind Your House
Just in time, you are made to think I'm not sure if you mean "when" after the comma. the opening is a little blurred for me.
you might be getting somewhere, but a river
funneling the same chromatic fish back
to the puddle where it multiplied
is gravity, not progress. "chromatic" is veiled but interesting here.
My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus
without regret through endless squares of nowhere
because Life’s too short or Hey, we've got the time.
So many cows we’d never meet,
hills stretched out like billboards,
the idea of vacation as a postcard These seven lines are chockfull of childhood images/emotions.
buried in my brother's swimsuit magazine I miss the the break on swimsuit but the poem is probably better for its loss. Maybe.
that made me scared of women. I didn’t want to die
without experiencing perfect breasts,
I knew my awful softness
not to want to die at all. The future looks the same today
as it looked to me then, which is to say: blurry.
It smirks back at me through the glass. It knows
something I don’t. I miss the unstained teeth a bit and especially miss the child speaking in poems but they are probably best left for another poem.
The past is running shirtless
through your wedding party flask
in hand, asking the MC if he knows where
to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing itself. The change from himself to itself is perfect for me and pulls the whole poem together. Happy to see the whole bump/baggie thing gone.
It always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you can’t help
coming back for more
and more
and more. Not a fan of the accusatory tone, possibly from the previous version:
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
why your desperate heart keeps coming back for more.
Desperate heart is cliched so maybe something else, but I like the compassion that "desperate" implies, I think that's where the poem lives now. Losing addict here deletes the last wisp of brother Mark but he lives to haunt another poem. I'm not sure I can read the new version correctly because I've already met him but this may be a better poem.
past versions:
On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods Behind Your House
Mark would say that time was just a reflex notion
in the spine, a river funneling the same chromatic fish
back to the puddle where it learned to multiply
when he was still alive. My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus without regret
through endless squares of nowhere because Life’s too short or,
alternately, Hey, we've got the time. So many cows
we’d never meet, hills stretched out like billboards, the idea
of vacation as a postcard buried in my brother's hidden swimsuit
magazine, its terrifying women: time had made them ageless
teeth immune to any stain. Before my sister gave birth to a child
who only talks in poems, none of us had any clue
how boring were our lives. The best of them all end
with someone bleeding and begin with This one time.
Time is running shirtless through your wedding party
flask in hand, asking the MC if he knows
where to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing himself. You'd hate him
if he wasn't always good for a convenient bump,
the baggie stashed reliably behind the hand machine.
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you and your desperate heart
keep coming back for more.
Good work being done here, thanks for posting.
Yay ty for the feedback! I tried to kill some darlings here. I think the ending is still inorganic and searching for its gesture. "Desperate heart" was the true feeling but the language couldn't be salvaged from cliche. HMM.
