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. 


If Only You Had Known (a Poem for Day Twenty-Nine of PAD)

The prompt for day twenty-nine is to write a what nobody knows poem.

Photo by Roberto Valdés
Everyone Misses You

If Only You Had Known

What nobody knows is ex-
            actly how many people
dropped to their knees
and gave up on living
when they heard you had

What nobody knows is whether
            you’d have kept on living
if you had known
they all cried
when you said


Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Mutual Annihilation (a Poem for Day Twenty-Eight of PAD)

First drafts are hard to post, but I want to finish this challenge. The prompts for day twenty-eight are matter and/or anti-matter.

Photo by Dominic Morel
Bending the World to Our Will

Mutual Annihilation

What matters is what we
are made of: flesh, bones,
blood, love. Our fleshy parts
hold us up when humanity
kicks us down. Our bones
are strong and flexible. Blood
swims through our veins
with the surprising silence of love
lost. Still, we tear down the right
to breathe, and build man-
            ufactured floors to stand upon,
we bleed cold water
to make it hot, ignore whispering
canopies, and raze forests
that had rainscreen technology
built right in. We’ve become
weatherstripped in a frantic race
to fight our nature. When will we
all stop settling for a dollar-
store life? What matters is what
we are made of: flesh, bones,
blood, love.


Tricks of Life’s Trades (a Poem for Day Twenty-Seven of PAD)

The prompt for day twenty-seven is to write a poem about looking back. 

Photo by Colin Brough
It's How I Remember You

Tricks of Life’s Trades

I’d give something for one 
more day to run that cordless circular
saw at sunset in your backyard shed,
slice juicy watermelon
in the middle of a drought,
sing about leaving on a jet plane
while tripping barefoot
over smooth, rounded river
stones, wave goodbye
to your tea pot and sorrowful
ivory keys that unlocked
my heart with a jerk, spilling
vibrations down me like shivers.
I’d give something to touch
your face through those scratches
engraved in the tired
rear window that last time
my tires rolled down
your driveway— that last time
I looked back.
Just tell me what to give.


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