Thursday, December 10, 2015

Happy Birthday, Emily Dickinson!

To Emily: In honor of our shared birthday, I am once again posting my poem for you (although without the former last stanza). 

Photo by Jari Ruusunen
Carving Words into Wood

Living In Your Shadow

Sometimes I feel like Emily Dickinson’s shadow,
forbidden to flatter myself or flounce my dress, ink-
stained cheeks force isolation, denied
a paperless life, required to sit with legs
held tight, be a lady, hands designed
to shovel gritty pain from each
word, uncover gassy explosions,
reveal bulbous traits, onions I pull up from mossy
carpeting in my lived-in room.

Sometimes I feel like Emily Dickinson’s shadow,
locked inside dusty dictionary, tossing words back
and forth, Walt Whitman sitting on opposite page, pencil
behind his perceptive brow, relax, let the words come
as they may, be what they want, no ulterior
meanings, deliver them to the world.

Sometimes I feel like Emily Dickinson’s shadow,
my feet, a lamp base, my eyes the switch, hands
dangling down, tendrils of a spying plant
that reads each word, wavering in the windstorm
caused by this game of catch
with vocabulary.

* * * * *

Monday, November 30, 2015

To My Lonely Blog: I Miss You

I have a couple of poems over at Poets 4 Parisa project I am happy to be part of.

Photo by Kylo Œwita³a
The Color of My Heart That Day

I miss you.

* * * * * 

Sunday, November 1, 2015

A Day Later (a Poem)

How is it November? 

One thing I like about November is Robert Lee Brewer's Poem-a-Day Challenge. Today's prompt is to write a day after poem. My attempt is below.

Photo by Gerla Brakkee
Delivering Hope

 A Day After

In September I held you 
over my knee,
tickled giggles
from your single-
digit outlook.
October came
you wore your goblin
mask all month long, stabbed
me with your plastic
scythe, gouged
out my rose-colored
eyes, moved tears in
where my father’s
once lived.
Now it’s a day after
a new November.
The only hope a solitary
bird reporting
news of an un-wounded
still shining,
the only light
left in this turbulent


Monday, June 15, 2015

All That's Left of Our Playtime (a Poem)

I've been busy with some other things, but I do miss writing poetry.

So when I was invited (thank you, Pamela) to join a Poetry Chain on Facebook for which I need to write five poems, and I was told there is no deadline, I decided to accept the challenge. Only, I need to nominate five poets to play along. Interested? If so, please let me know and I will send you the details.

Photo by Daniel Andres Forero
It Was More Fun in Here With You

All That’s Left of Our Playtime

I had a pillow fight
with myself
in my California closet.
I found need, want, love
tufted and rolled sideways
into the sleeves of my lonesome
vintage dress. You, a boy
made of whimsical designs,
the one who stole
buttons to get
to my heart. You, who
left me
vulnerable, snipped
away my labels,
left me
without a red-carpet gown
for my Hollywood love story,
left me
with only pilled sheets and pillows
and this cavern of a closet,
left me
you hide inside,
positioning your love
on antique lipstick stains,
left me
winks on my pillows,
left me
with nothing but
pillows in an empty closet.


Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Bury the Traces (a Poem)

Photo by Penny Mathews
She Bleeds through the Pages

Bury the Traces

of her in your back-
                story. She was a dumb
girl (so you wrote) who never
got along with her-
                self. She wandered
desperate streets barefoot,
eyes wide, marbled,
a zombie made of glass,
her mouth dripping
the remains of those
she had eaten alive.
Now bury her. Just
bury her in your back-
                story and then edit her
out of your


Friday, May 1, 2015

Bury the Journals (a Poem)

Even though the PAD challenge is over, I'm still in a poeming mood. (I wrote the one below yesterday though.)

Photo by
Our Pages Are Now Blank

Bury the Journals

and bury them without
protection. Let two dozen
earthworms eat them up,
purify the college-ruled
pages of our past.
Bury them at mid-
                life on the eve
of  the fullest moon.
Save your time
capsule for something
important like that lavish
crumbling cork,
a stopper
for our whispers
                spilling out,
generating red
inky pages
                of me-
mories I’d rather forget.


Thursday, April 30, 2015

Bury the Emptiness (a Poem for Day Thirty of PAD)

I am copying and pasting in the prompt for day thirty:

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Bury the (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Some possible titles include: “Bury the Hatchet,” “Bury the Body,” “Bury the Past,” “Bury the Hate,” and “Bury the Acorns.”
Photo by Christie Thomas
Evidence You Were Here

Bury the Emptiness

Bury the space around me.
Smother it with tiny aprons
and European coffee houses,
scratch gritty grounds
against my raw emotions,
scrape your fingernails
through slippery timber
drifting around my edges.
You’ve dug me such a deep,
deep hole, there’s no wetting it—
not with milky tears
lapping both our shores,
not with all those
looting one-eyed love
thieves pretending to explore
with interest, not with beauty
or sea monsters of every
ocean blue. Just bury
my heart at the beach
and then carry it out to sea. 


Popular Posts