Saturday, June 21, 2014

Taking a Small Break From My Blogging...

Hello friends, I am currently in the middle of moving to a new apartment so that's why I haven't been active much this week.

Will be transferring my internet, electricity and such next week, then unpacking all over again at the new place so I won't be posting much.

I will be back around mid-July and hope to catch up with you all then.

I will pop in and out when I can, but won't be writing or posting poetry.

Can't wait to rejoin you in weekly prompts and such.  :)

Hope everyone is having a lovely summer!

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Hitchhiking To Maine

Sometimes the words
“goodbye”
Can drop, semi-syllables
Like small explosions
In an empty room.
A relationship can become
Mere arithmetic,
Subtracted then divided
Into a series of vocabulary,
Whispery-lyric in a dim-lit room,
Sunday crossword puzzle
Left undone,
Each empty square a sad eye,
Abandoned as the old backpack
He used to stuff
For three-day holidays
Meant only for me,
Then abandon in my laundry room
Like an unused dresser drawer.
I imagine him with it now,
Hitchhiker on a back country road
Throwing the withered army tote
Onto the backs of classic Harley’s
And vintage muscle cars,
Into the beds of hay-littered
Country pick-up trucks,
It’s pull-strings clutched
Like a lifeline between
His nicotine-stained fingers,
Yellow as the palest stars,
Pale the way his eye-whites
Have darkened, his liver sick.
Sometimes lost love just leaves,
Walks into the cemetery fog of night,
Sad and poetic, smelling of
Cheap alcohol and bar grease,
A stranger in old sneakers
And bell-bottom blue jeans.


Written for Poetry Jam.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

The Middle Years

164

There’s something powerful
In the nostalgia
Of an old radio show,
Perhaps it’s the grandmother
And the great uncle
We hear in the muffled voices
Of bodies long-dead,
Ghost of their voice strings
Conjured to live again
In the existence of our ears,
Our heads, in the same old language,
Memory of a southern dialect
Sizzling like an antique transistor radio
Into our morning rituals
As we butter our toast just right,
Push the ache of our backs
Into eloquently-carved dining chairs,
A solitaire place-sitting for the single.
How loneliness at middle-age
Touches you, and your mother,
In almost the same way,
Crunching dates and numbers
Into a Fiber One breakfast,
Slumping into yoga pants
For the sheer, cotton pleasure
Of elastic comfort.
You smile at your ancient
Inner soul sister,
Shiny-eyed and decked in
Mary Janes and school-girl braids,
Embrace the life in times gone by
And bid those middle-years
A defiant, brittle-boned ‘hello.’

Written for prompts at Magpie Tales and Sunday Whirl.  Also to be shared at Toads for open link.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Dreams of the Fisherman's House

163
Summer dreams are fluid,
Willowy clouds I wish upon
When the porch of my Appalachia
Is mosquito-clouded and rained out.
I long for the scent of ocean water,
Sandy terrain of beach and dunes
That lean toward the open arms of the sea,
Palm trees breaking the seal
Of an unsaid invitation.
I’d trade these itchy fields
Of dandelion and honeysuckle
For the paved maze of a sea-side village,
Perhaps the long strip of Gulf Shores
Or the shaded rocks of Half Moon Bay,
An early-morning walk against
The birdcall of seagulls and pelicans,
Jovial smile of the seamen,
Sturdy in their tanned shoulders
And straw hats as they propel
Huge nets and fishing reels
Into the dark blue, open deep.
I’d waste countless days
With my feet buried in the sand,
Eye on the wave, book on my knees,
Cabana-style umbrella waving
Against the burn of a broad sun.
I’d chase my stiff drinks with diet coke,
Straight from 32 into middle-age.
Dine at the finest restaurants,
Home-fried fish, live music,
Someone romantic to share my table,
Dark eyed in a private corner.
I’d launch my heart into
The mortared water of some
Swanky fisherman’s village
And anchor away.

Written for prompts at MindLoveMisery and Sunday Whirl.

The 9am Appointment

The pills,
They make me beautiful.
There’s no point
In being myself.
They keep me perfect and quiet,
Submissive little lark
You can stuff between
The fat cheeks
Of your briefcase
And forget the flesh
That left me.
Watch me shiver,
Seedless dandelion,
My inner wounds
A cripple-stick,
Pushing against my throat
Until I cannot swallow,
My mind a brush-fire
Of memories and
I’m singed, you see.
So small and incomparable,
I’ve almost forgotten
The curves that were
Supposed to define my contour,
Make me a woman.


**Written of the eating disorder anorexia nervosa.  I know, I have been.

Written for a prompt at Magpie Tales.