Poems Before Tuesday

Your eyes tore up the noon sky
And didn’t settle until evening
When the stars came out,
Like pinholes in your iris.



Three rejection letters came today.


To the point.

I accepted defeat with grace,
and a nap.


All that’s left is life & we’ll all write about it until a permanent slumber creeps across our hearts.

Keep on keepin on loves!

Compare, Contrast, Divide.

All you poets,

get your pens ready

Autumn is here and how, oh how,

are we ever going to capture the dying beauty of the season?

Time is not on our side-

Each one of us guilty of

using the words:

crunch, crumble, rustle, rustled, rustling

Here we go, trying to convey

the smell of decaying Earth

Capture it, swoop it up in your wide arms

which you’ll bring close to your breast

hug that decaying pile

so that you can show it all off

Here, here,

look at my words

dead like beetles under rocks

dead like the mailman’s face

dead like your eyes, when you wear

blue shirts

With sighing sighs and long gazes

you drink up the day

(Compare the day to a glass of amber beer, an extra dirty martini, or perhaps if you’re like me and milking a hangover, a large ice water. But you must compare. MUST).

noticing the sun is trying to blind you

from the right side, catching your peripheral vision

and pissing you off

through branches that were once thick and green

(Compare to life full and lush, now waning. Go on, do it).

Come on now poets,

don’t let anyone down

the world, or rather, those who follow your Twitter feed

are anxious to hear what you have to say about the

changing season- Tell them all,

get to getting

to comparing

to describing

before the day has merged into weeks

crashed into months

and before you find yourself

standing at the bus stop

in moon boots and heavy coat with cheaply made scarves

watching as your exhaled breath

fills up with words

about how you hate the icy prick

of winter;

which will give way to the birth of Spring

and the grade school glam of Summer.

Words on Wednesday

Currently listening to: Bruce Springsteen, I’m on Fire (which is on a playlist I created at my old desk job. 1347 songs of various moods).

Drinking: cold coffee. Which reminds me of my friend Merritt. She’d always say, “You pay for iced coffee, so why won’t you drink your cold coffee?” Simple: it’s gross.

It’s 9:27 in the morning. I watched the lunar eclipse from my bed, watched it turn red while walking the dog in the dark and have packed lunches, driven to school and back, drank a pot of coffee, cleaned the downstairs half of the house, started two loads of laundry, writhed my hands in anxious abandon over not hearing back from a magazine I submitted poems to, ate a cookie and vacuumed. The dog is panicking because it’s raining. I glance over at two canvas and my bucket full of paints. There’s no will there. Not yet, not yet.

Some mornings I feel like I’ve used up all my words:

You were sewn

into my shadow

by hand

when the sun set

i hung you on the line

hoping you’d be stolen

before the sunrise.

Laundry is done. This is where I bow out gracefully.

Poems for Tuesday

There are afternoons where
I’m jealous
Of the fawning over your words
By girls who try to mimick
The thirst in your throat

In the moment before I curse you
I take another swig of my coffee
And remember how many times
You tried to end the whisper in
Between your lips
And the scream in your mind

Young poet,
No one cares.