Monday, December 30, 2013

Snapshot Summer (A Poem)

The stars unhinge themselves
A thousand candelabras,
Celestial explosion across
City swimming pools
And the love-struck
Irises of June,
Girls in their upturned toes,
The time of year when
Trees become me,
Quick as a cipher
In my jeans and books.
Manifesto of fiction,
I climb behind the eyes
Of Ginsberg and Poe,
A grinning has-been
Of the hall closet
Where I sew my girlhood
Into the frilly shelf,
A place of purity
Where baby dreams once slept,
Back before the sins
Of summer dipped
My dainty hands into
What it was to be
A woman well-read,
A woman that could stand
Before a crowd of thirty,
Unashamed the make-believe
Breast exam, the twenty minute speech,
Psychosis and cancer,
Nor the night before,
Books on the floor,
So many strange grasps
From a strange girl,
Her touch a perfect defection
Of my then-Christian fingers,
Her boyish curls
For treading fingers,

A perfect way to drown.

Twenty Spent (A Poem)

At twenty I found it strange
The way college kids
Would touch each other,
Each eye roll and busy
Intersection kiss
Meaningless advances
In vintage movie theatres,
Over stale popcorn
And self-spiked soda,
As if any mere act
Or aliveness or vitality
Were a forced nerve-strum
To stroke the sleeping
Dreams of sixteen.
As for me, I preferred
The less dramatic approach,
I’d hide the raccoon-shadows
Of my study-weary eyes
Behind book stacks,
Fiction and poetry,
All my early Wednesdays
A library maze of
Rolling footstools and
The heart of me that wound
The beat of itself against
A wire-cage of words,
And the cool, dark hands
Of a South American boy,
His tales of burning villages
And doctoral degrees,
Kissing the inner eye
Of my own dreams,
Teaching me to persevere
Against the set-backs,
The main stream.
His voice a black jet
That flew the isles of my mind,
A carry-weight of my twenties,
The exit sign of an excile,
The kiss that swam

A fishbowl of his new America.

**Written for a prompt at MindLoveMisery.

Monday, December 23, 2013

Winter Soup (A Poem)

She cooks for me,
An anonymous,
Bird in a blanket,
Veil of a napkin
Across the shaking knees
Of my winter shiver,
Embroidered initials
Of a man we neither know,
Soft thread of a no-name,
I strum the old ghosts
Of their soup stones
The mummified remains
Of their wilted silver,
a second hand silence
pushes against
taut knuckles
and full cheeks
as if this unknown
were whispering
into the silence
of our woodstove kitchen:
how to fold
their kitchen linen
into quarters,
how to trim
the trees and holly,
how to roast potatoes
and sauté onions
as if my father
were not a cook,
my grandmother never born.
These are the secrets
I’ve already been told,
Of the menial and plain
I have previously
Though I still listen
Like the child I was,
Soup on my chin,
Kitchen China falling
Through my eyes and fingers
Like see-through prisms,
A fine crystal,
The eight reflections
Of all my inner children,
Always watching, ever listening.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Blue Matter (A Poem)

Her love
Was a chest void,
A wickless candle
I could not light afire.
We’d grope each other
In the half-lit
Friday sidewalks
Or parking lots
Outside movie theaters
Or in -front of mirrors
In department store bathrooms,
The show of her tattoos,
Pulse at the nape
Of her neck
That beat two-parts
For only me
Though I could never
Witness the blue throb
Of her heart matter,
Her gold lockets
And silver bracelets
Wearing their old hues
Onto my skin
Like something cancerous.
I shrugged my shoulders
One morning and broke
The rope of her void
From the cuff of my heart,
She dangled there
For a few seconds,
Harsh words, sad love notes,
The disappeared.

Written for a prompt at MindLoveMisery.

The Broken Thing (A Poem)

That last summer
Was a dissection,
Razor-skinned and marsh murky,
We dumped our old hurts
Into a silky-gripped bottle
Of cheap whiskey
And carved the indenture
Of ourselves into one another.

We carried a union
Of painful events
Into lanky-chaired cafes,
Strong as the blackest bean
Or the hardest words of Ginsberg,
And across the rain puddles
Of an isolated campus,
The art gallery a mouthful
Of inspiration that neither one
Of us could fully swallow.

The, befuddled of loss
We could not name, we raced
The nervous fingers of each other
Into empty move theatres,
Hoping the stagnant
After-breath of dead stars
Could breathe something substantial
Into the back-roads
Of our writers-block brains

But nothing we did could change
The airless, invisible thing
That hung between us
Like a lightless chandelier,
It’s hardwiring faulty,
Something had gone wrong,
And not knowing what,
We simple tossed it,
One less wager for the moving van,
The wheels of my suitcase
Playing connect-the-dots
With summer ants and bird droppings.

Written from a prompt at Sunday Whirl.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Stardust and Dead Matter (A Poem)

Morning was a celestial collision,
Mars teetering off the axis
Of her roaming-planet legs,
Blowing dents into Pluto
And snapping back the rings of Saturn
Like too-sturdy rubber bands,
Skinning shards of neon green matter
From the moon’s right hip
As she skidded past, dropping her
Stone fire into the outer core
Of our Mother Earth,
Spinning our clocks backward,
Shaving everything living
From the atmosphere
Like dust from an antique chandelier.
We survived the shaking assault
Inside our love cave,
Four stone walls
Where the roaches crawled
Like a tiny army of red matter,
We watched out of the mouth
Of a dead-end hollowed space
As the moon, angry and off orbit,
Threw her spinning gray stones
To earth, each one as assaulting
As a round, angry God.
Everything went as black
As the blackest heart of Faust,
The electrical lights of big cities
Gone vague and silent,
The magnetism reversing it’s wheels.
We kept watching as the earth slowly
Floated into the abyss of a black hole,
Strolling us into a starless shade
Of universal, smoking gray.
So we carved our good-byes
Into ancient stone walls,
And there was nowhere else to go
So we drank cocaine shots
And dreamed of being stars.

Written for a prompt at DVerse Poets.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Of Morning and Manta (A Poem)

We dream
Two hearts
And one heap
Beneath a mountain
Of terry cloth
And floral.
You tell me
You’d like
To take me to
Some Spanish country
Or a tiny town
Nestled into the
Corner island
By the sea
Where village children
Ride their bikes,
Offering tasteless
To unsuspecting
My feet are cold,
Winter pushing itself
Against our
Bedroom window
And I reckon the sea
Sounds nice
So I smile and
You kiss my nose.
I stuff this moment
Into the happy sack
Of my heart,
Manta for
The lonely nights
Of some other year.

Written for Poets United and We Write Poems.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Inside The Ink (A Poem)


There is a face
In the black light
Of a frozen window
And it’s hands
Are reaching out
Into a world,
This town a ruin
That folds atop itself
Like a mandolin retired
To the farthest corner
Of a dusty room,
The upper-floor grave
Of an almost-empty house.
The town is gone,
It’s people have fled
The weekly world news
Of another war,
And words have
Lodged themselves
Into the mouths
Of an angry God
Who no longer gives orders.
The world has gone awry,
The sheep are roaming,
Crazy men are burning books
In the tin cans
Of their own houses,
And the smoke…
It is slowly choking us off.

Written for a prompt at MindLoveMisery

The Plastic People (A Poem)

What I remember most
Is how well they loved
The hard plastic bodies
Of one another.
How the unsaid words
Would keep their eyes open
Come every Sunday,
Time spinning it’s frozen,
Nimble halves into the lightless
Corners of each room
Like a sundial mother
Gathering her young,
Savior of the darkest moments,
In a pixelated rubber
Of forever after.
I remember how their
Long holidays never ended,
The stories their purple
Painted radio stations told
Of an Iraqi war and
The midnight blood baths
Of tiny, soldier men
Who roamed the desert isles
Of some other country.
They would tip their
Unreadable bibles,
Pink lips frozen
To undecipherable Gods
In black corner clouds,
They were as alive
And breathing as me,
Behind the perfectly-painted
Shutters and always-summer
Where when they dreamed
They hoped for better
And the hurts they felt
Were anything but imaginary.

Written for  a prompt at Dverse Poets.

Friday, November 8, 2013

The Bodies Between (A Poem)

Time is
Three minutes ‘till midnight
And I pull
The shine of my skin
Between us
Like a starry sky.
Three candles resurrect
The shadows
Of so many sleeping things,
And the wall becomes
A beating flame
Of abstraction.
And us
In moon white,
The floating earth orbs,
Thirsty of this long day,
We pour the atmosphere
Full of each other
Like tiliting cups
Of cheap coffee and cocoa.

Written from a prompt at Poets United.

I was Away For a Few Days

So this year I decided to partake in Nanowrimo...for those of you who are unaware what this is, it's a website/challenge dedicated to national novel writing month.  The challenge? To write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November.

Now, I have my novel outlined and have been working (this week) on writing roughly 1600 words a day.  I figured I'd skip a month of poetry writing and my beloved prompt sites I visit weekly (Poets United, The Mag, MindLoveMisery, We Write Poems, and Sunday Whirl).  I thought that'd be okay, after all I'd be too busy for poetry...right?  Wrong!

I have missed the outlet, the venue for expression through my poetry so terribly this week that it sort of made the nanowrimo not even worth it.  So, I've revised my own goals for that.  I absolutely must write my poetry, it is my true creative expression.  So then I will strive to write perhaps 800 words a day on the novel.  50,000 is just way to much for me to endure in a one month period, it hogs all my free time, it makes the writing a chore rather than a joy.

My revised goal for Nano is 25,000 words down on my novel by November's end.  And I will still have time to write my poetry.  Shew, this week has been hard!

So, if I usually do your prompt and I missed it this week...I will be there next week!  :) 

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Curse of the Common's (A Poem)

Image (2)


It’s funny how time
erodes things,
Steals your prime away
In the inky blot of everyday.
We plant the seeds of ourselves
Beneath an anchored TV station,
Small-town radio talkshow,
Left eye of our minds
falling into a blank space,
empty plate of the pie,
closed in leaf of the pea.
We yearn
Against the dim rings
Of saturn’s blind moon,
for a bend in the road,
A life lived nonlinear;
Hope against black coffee
And the luke warm water
Of every morning
For an immeasurable
Branching out,
Two hundred sheets into
The novelty of another life.
Yet the days only unwind,
Liquid vessels that sink
Into the running
Green legs of the sea.
We walk cavernous circles
Across the same old spaces,
Feet burning blisters,
Only a pebbles’ skip away
From the flames,
Of the king’s chair.
None of us are safe
Even in our stilled hearts
And rusted joint-wheels.

Written From prompts provided by:

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Coffee Dreams (A Poem)

She walks slowly,
Feet a leisurely echo
Amidst the earthquake shuffle
Of a morning commute,
She wears her raincoat
Like the robe of Christ,
Coffee stains dangling
Toward her fingers,
early winter wind whipping
A knitted scarf across her face,
Tickling her throat like
The bitter taste of chocolate.
A flurried wind pourettes
The strands of her hair
As if something invisible
Were swimming through it
As she passes church parking lots
And the old ladies who linger there
With their pursed bottles of liquor
And cheap cigarettes.
Smelling of food stands
And the busy city,
She tumbles into
The crowded bench seats
Where old men laugh
Like clowns in a caravan,
Bright-eyed and curious
On a day full of clouds and crow.
Café walls a portrait of colors
She wishes she could
Splash herself across
And live forever
In this wonderland of coffee beans
And freshly-brewed sweet tea.
She dreams the brake lights
Of stopped cars
At the corner intersection
In the near distance
Are the blinking eyes of fate
Pulling her into the strange arms
Of a reincarnated soulmate
At some coffeeshop
Along a delipadated back alley
On another morning.
She prays it’s true,
Hands a miniature clay temple
Crossed over the veins
Of one another, and not
A God in either one.

**Written for a prompt at Poets United.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

The Time Lapse (A Poem)


On a winter night,
Sky as bright as the moons open mouth,
We wander aimlessly
In our slick, metal time machines,
The vacant roads of this world
Branching out, swift as tentacles
That pull us into so many different lives.

We are young, our dreams shiny.
We borrow them from each other,
Stuff them into forgotten pockets,
Arrange them across mantels
And the boxed-in tops of walls
Like golden, amalgam bricks of mercury,
Barely blemished by the hands of humans.

On a spinning dew drop,
Between two separate centuries,
We walk the fenced-in grid of Zodiacs stars,
Never knowing the backward ritual
In all our ways of life;
The there and back motion
Of everything becoming and diminishing.

The time lapse between
Beginning and merely dreaming,
We balance our checkbook,
Take out the trash,
Cheat at mindless games of solitaire
As if time was an expenditure,
As if the blood of our clay bodies
Will beat endlessly,
As if the wind between our hair
Were not a magician playing time tricks.

We walk this earth as if
there were gravels glued to our foot soles,
taking and shoving and regretting,
then returning to the morning role call
of an endless losing game
as if the earth owed us something,
as if everything living
will one day die alongside us
while we go shouting into the glorious
blinking eyes of nothingness, and nevermore.