Sunday, July 3, 2016

A Life Left Untitled (a Poem)

I've been spending too much time in hospitals and I've been working too much. I miss my poet friends. And I miss my poetry (although I have been writing other things).

Photo by Linda G. Hatton
She Is Left Open to Interpretation

A Life Left Untitled

She lost all identification
with herself. She used to take shortcuts,
but then became a person
in eternal mourning, her guessing game
was wrong. She was a box of kittens
left outside the Dollar Tree,
a stranger that came
to town. She was torn between
two loveless lovers, an impostor
and an oddities collector, a person
born wealthy wouldn’t have changed
a thing. The script from her last
rehearsal left a paper cut
in her heart, she was a person mistaken
for a movie star, knee-deep in cheating
herself out of life’s mysteries and ex-
plorations. She became her own
talking doll, left next to the bedroom
door, stomped on during that nightly walk
to the bathroom where she questions
her existence, questions whether this is all
there is, whether this is all
there is not. 



*****


Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Three Days of Doubt (a Poem for Day Three of the April 2016 PAD Challenge)

The prompt for Day Three was to take the phrase "Three (blank)" and fill in the blank. 


Photo by Iuriatan Felipe Muniz
Doubt Never Tasted This Good

Three Days of Doubt

Three days of doubt added up
to dreams of fall
                         i
                       n
                         g
into last night’s sticky
smashed spaghetti noodles
clinging to my back
alley dumpster, added up
to love gone
through wash and dry, left
shredded and pilled
all over my favorite comfy man
                                                    ’s sweat
                                                               pant
                                                                      s


* * * * *




Sunday, April 3, 2016

A Round Conversation (a Poem for Day Two of the April 2016 PAD)

It’s April! Yes, that means it’s time for another April PAD Challenge with Robert Lee Brewer (of Writer’s Digest). 

The challenge has a new format this time and (not related to the new format) I’m already behind. In any case, here is my attempt at the Day Two poem, write a “he said, she said” poem. I guess I had R. D. Laing on the brain.


Photo by Timothy Russell
We Go Round and Round

A Round Conversation

She stretched
out on the couch.
“Why isn’t sharing my
artificial dreams enough?”

“Because everybody”
—he yawned—
“ends up more captivating
naked, running home—”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

She winked. “Want to live
in these pages?”

“Ask me about a free mirror
look, the reality . . . decreases
the ability to provide
temporary relief, make—”

“Love?” She smiled.

He shook his head. “Make
your . . . space . . . your own.”

A hummingbird hovering
outside caught her eye. “Why
are you so official? It’s unnatural.”

“Wasn’t it you that asked me about
your artificial dreams?”

“Yes, but what does that even mean?”
she asked. “I was just testing you.”

“It means we can talk about two different
things but think we mean the same.”

“Forget it. Just kiss me, and maybe 
I will captivate you.”


* * * * *



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
sun
still shining,
the only light
left in this turbulent
world.


*****



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
—you—
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
pretending
you hide inside,
positioning your love
on antique lipstick stains,
left me
rejecting
winks on my pillows,
left me
with nothing but
pillows in an empty closet.



*****




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