9 result(s) for Koumpounophobia Poems.
These poems are completely original - not copied from anywhere. Feel free to use them however you want.
The Jar on the Shelf
She kept them in a mason jar,
a glass of clicking, glinting eyes,
bone and pearl and tin and shell,
all stacked in silent, staring rows.
I'd climb the stool to fetch a thread,
my palm hung over that cold lid,
and feel them shift, a tiny rain,
the soft clatter of a thousand sighs.
She laughed and told me each one's tale:
the coat, the dress, the Sunday shirt,
but I could only hear the hush
when the jar was tipped and they slid.
Now she is gone, the kitchen still,
and still that jar sits on the shelf,
its round mouths watching from the dark,
and I still count them in my sleep.
Pearl Dread
Before the fingers touch the cloth,
the pulse has already started running,
a drumbeat rising through the chest
at the mere thought of the round, bright eye.
It sits in a jar, or on a shirt,
and still my breath climbs toward my throat,
the hands go cold, the room grows thin,
though nothing yet has moved to harm me.
I know the shape is only plastic,
only thread and metal in a row,
yet my body answers first,
and reason arrives a beat too late.
So I walk the long way round the store,
keep my gaze low, my steps quick,
and let my heart slow down by inches,
learning again that fear can come
before the thing it fears is near.
Clatter in the Dark
The night arrives and I lie still,
while something rolls along the floor,
a hollow, rattling, circling will
that counts each knock upon my door.
They gather round my pillowed head,
a hundred pale and hollow eyes,
the clatter stitched in every thread
that tightens with each sleepless sigh.
I wrap the blanket to my chin
and bid the dark to hold its tongue,
yet still they tumble, tap, and spin,
and still the rattling is not done.
By dawn their clamor thins to nothing,
the room is still, the floor is bare,
but I am left with ears still ringing
and fingers pressed against the air.
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Circles of Dread
The buttons on my shirt wait like a crowd,
Each hollow eye a stare that will not blink.
The polka dot, the ring, the spiral bowed,
And every round thing makes my pulse unthink.
A honeycomb, a drain, a coin, a lens,
The bubbles drifting up from morning tea.
The holes in sponges, lifelines, all dense
With clusters crowding close enough to see.
My skin begins to prickle, shallow breath,
The room contracts around its curving frame.
I close my eyes, yet still I count the death
Of every ring and dot that seems to aim.
So I will walk through lines and square-edged days,
And shun each perfect circle, slow and bright,
Until the world, unrounded, learns my ways,
And I can breathe again, held by the light.
The Spilled Tin
I was seven, reaching for the tin,
its rusted lid too stiff to turn.
It slipped, and then the world came down
in a clatter of pearl and bone and brown.
They skittered under chairs and beds,
rolled into corners, cracks, and threads,
spun on the floorboards, round and round,
until the hush was all I found.
My breath went shallow, hands went cold,
the ceiling leaned, the walls grew old.
Each button seemed a watching eye,
a thousand pale moons in the dusk nearby.
I couldn't pick them up; I froze,
my heartbeat loud as a drum in the rows.
So still I stayed while the afternoon wore thin,
that tin of buttons, a fear I never let in.
Even now, when I hear a soft spill,
my pulse stumbles, my palms grow chill,
and I'm seven again, on the floor,
surrounded by the small round roar.
The Recoil
Within my palm, a button waits,
its smooth round face, its cold, bright gleam.
My fingers stall at dreaded gates,
then tremble back from its lacquered dream.
No sound is made, yet still I flinch,
the pulse of panic rising fast.
I curl my hands and try to pinch,
but every touch recalls the past.
They tell me it is harmless, small,
a plastic disk of thread and hole.
Yet terror lives in me through all,
the trembling rooted in my soul.
So I withdraw and turn away,
my trembling hands held tight and still,
and wait for calmer, kinder day
to come and ease this fragile will.
The Gleam of Shells
They sit in rows, so smooth, so bright,
A polished sheen that catches light.
I turn away, I cannot bear
The glossy curve, the hollow stare.
My skin begins its silent crawl,
A shiver rising, cold and small.
I hold my breath, I count to ten,
But still the gleam returns again.
No harm is meant by these bright things,
Yet every nerve in me takes wing
In flight from what my eyes behold,
The glossy shells, the sheen of gold.
Thirty-Two Small Moons
They gather on the cardigan's edge,
little moons of bone and thread,
and something in my chest goes tight
when fingers tease them from their bed.
A stranger's coat, a tailor's pride,
half-fastened in the crowded train,
each clicking pulse a tiny knock
on a door I cannot bear to open again.
I count the holes, I count the eyes,
I measure every hem and seam,
and softly, softly, one by one,
I hear the clicking in my dream.
So I look away, and grip the rail,
and breathe the way the doctors taught,
while somewhere a stranger's buttons chime,
and all my dread is round and taut.
Behind Closed Lids
I shut my eyes to find some peace,
but round and round the circles creep,
a clustered swirl of holes and seeds
that bloom like stars behind my sleep.
They gather tight, they spin and bend,
the dots compose a spiraling tide,
and every pore becomes a throat
that opens wide and will not hide.
I press my palms against my face,
yet still they churn in pale designs,
the pattern stitched to darkest space,
a loom of holes in tangled lines.
So I surrender to the swirl,
and let the circles have their turn,
for even in the dark I find
the thing I fear is what I learn.
