April 9, 2023 § Leave a comment
I would rather miss you
so much that I suddenly can’t
bear even the sound of my own voice
than to have you gone and
have it not change anything.
I don’t want to be carefree,
and I will feel this loss as a hollow,
the place in my heart where you
are, still, and will stay.
I want to be less because you
are beyond the reach of my
you can’t tell me you’re on the way
or suggest we get together Saturday
It seems only right that
my whole being feels the stars
shedding light, the skies shifted,
and every falling petal misaligned
in the winds of April. Don’t
tell me that the beetles under the leaves
can’t feel my sorrow, that the
songs of the birds don’t include
a note for you.
I won’t believe it. I don’t want to. This is mine
I know you would understand.
Happiness Does Not Keep
June 24, 2022 § Leave a comment
Sadness is shelf-safe.
It preserves forever, uncaring if the dust is thick;
It will be waiting, even if forgotten.
It never goes rancid.
Who could tell, anyway?
Even fresh, it makes one sick,
a bad odor, a terrible taste,
a texture to cause gagging.
must be newly picked
So that its juices are sweet and flowing.
It spoils so quickly
One must have a ready supply
Happiness does not keep.
In its abundance, share it;
Happiness is not for hoarding.
Poem 117: Mean Reds
July 22, 2021 § Leave a comment
This is the hue of my Mean Reds.
This is cruel and wild and violent.
I want to bite something til it bleeds,
pin it down,
and mock its cries;
I want to bite something while it screams.
This sharp-clawed thing has a dragon’s wings.
I know what kind of meal it needs.
It wants to tear my heart
out of me;
It wants to taste the flavor of that meat.
I want to bite something and make it bleed.
I want to swallow blood and vomit fire.
I want to destroy
what I can’t acquire:
the balance of my spirit at peace.
I want to feel flesh cut under my teeth;
I want to rage until I am spent.
Blood and tears have the same salt taste;
This is the hue of my Mean Reds
a darker color than Holly meant.
May 10, 2021 § Leave a comment
Words, I thought, would tumble out
when I opened the door to them.
So I took a pen and readied paper
but there was breakfast with hot coffee
and so I talked, instead, for hours.
It’s fine. Isn’t the way to write a poem
through the experience of living my hours?
Whatever comes, no one is waiting
for me to hand over a poem.
Well, no one expects one, except my future self
But I think
I think she’ll understand
what happened on the way.
June 15, 2020 § Leave a comment
because you have had them before
colorful feathers out of reach
and the bird in hand
understands the feeling.
There is room for more
but while you are chasing
what left you empty-handed
the one you have
The open sky offers her
a warmer hold.
April 18, 2020 § Leave a comment
In the easement between
God’s will, and the plans of devils,
where the roots and leaves of time
mingle without season,
a girl can pass.
Girls belong neither to the apple
nor to the garden;
we are not made of clay,
that mud of Eden,
though we inherit the stride
of our mothers who answered betrayal
with a step that crushes serpent’s heads.
Even angels cannot walk with us
without bearing burdens,
not while we are only girls:
the blush of knowledge new in our cheeks,
the breath of creation in our chests.
The power of girls
passing between —
we lose it when we lose
pieces of ourselves
to the odd devils of changing age.
December 21, 2019 § Leave a comment
Do you remember what you came here for:
Green tea & Rock and Roll,
The convictions of a monkey’s mind,
Liberty for All?
What conspiracy theories?
Speak, I’m listening ~
the maddening musings of a misunderstood mind,
the babbling of a not very tortured soul,
Powered by paranoia,
Fluff, flowers, and verbosity;
Your life can be used as a bad example to others.
Where the rivers meet,
All the lights are blinding;
The trees are singing water.
Between a rock and a hard place
a Sanctuary of darkness;
in this other corner of the web.
Let me tell you about my boat
Because for some reason, you want to know me
I’m innocent, by standards.
I am your Painted Whore.
If you let me… I will change your world
One day I’ll be famous… I hope
Time to move on.
My assault on the world begins now
The reluctant nomad
on Journeys through writing
Making love to language
Scratched into the door,
a Chronicle of a life measured out in coffee spoons.
Peace found here ~
Sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t
July 10, 2019 § Leave a comment
Instead of stone, I will be paper
Conscientiously, with simple folds
remembering what I have already learned
Several times over.
I am folding a thousand cranes.
I am seeking calm in valley and mountain
and traveling toward the understanding of
where patterns fall and rest,
the solace of geometry.
Restraint is not control, and control is not peace
In this exercise there is no place
For scissor cuts, for the force of blades
on something that will not take
the shape of my wishes.
I have stopped counting
the ones behind me and those ahead.
At my peril, I will be paper;
Within me, enfolded, the breath of my patience.
June 9, 2019 § Leave a comment
Is firefly light, flashing over water
and a hope for something
than my own reflection, there.
May 2, 2019 § Leave a comment
Now is the time for all good cats
to rise up from their afternoon naps
and shed the bulky, cold weather coats
leaving them on their keepers’ laps.