Posted in poetry

The Garden, The Gun, The Hive

about the 2000m mark while
on the row machine at the gym
Tupelo Honey came on the radio

i stopped

Have you even tried Tupelo honey?
you probably buy yours at the grocery
holding a hand basket-
carts don’t exist where you are
there’s not enough space

but in your hand basket,
there is enough room for
that
little honey bear with the orange
cone top

You buy it, don’t you

Then again,

maybe you splurge for the
“organic”
in a mason jar
version (because everything in a mason jar is all the rage).
i bet you two hold hands and giggle
thinking of how much toast
you’ll eat now that you have
the good honey…

and then i start to row again

thinking

you haven’t been to the south-

how would you know about
the delicious,
heavy taste of honey
from Mississippi

let alone how to be nice
let alone how to be
let alone

 

 

Posted in Life, poetry

Plaster of Paris

At some point
between the late news and the infomercials
i became unconscious

we were in your new home
which was a castle
or maybe the living room
just had stone walls-
you wanted me to marvel at
the masonry work

all i noticed
was that you continued
to pull plaster off the rocks
and the floors
were thick pieces of wood

tree trunks shaved
into long strips
the way you shave a brick
of fancy hard cheese
with that kitchen tool
when the nice company
comes over

but you kept on saying,
‘this is the best part,’
pulling more plaster off
the heel of my shoe got
caught in a knotty circle
on the floor

i looked down
then back up

you’d already walked
into a long, willowy corridor
and I stood there,

my heel stuck

while i stared at all the
piles of white, chalky
plaster
a cross breeze kicked up
some dust and i started to
cough

you didn’t look back
to check on me
and I remember
the way your blue tshirt
was fitted across your shoulders
fading in the sun
a window into another room
was caressing you,

i see now

and this is where
the story ended
and the morning
news began

Posted in Life, poetry

Nobody and Thursday

The past few weeks have been difficult for me. It’s an internal thing, peppered with some outside forces. The struggle is real. The sads are deep.  It’s not PMS either. It’s PMS’s punk ass step sister.

The peppered outside forces crept up onto my shoulder this morning and I tried to brush them off. I was met with resistance. Deep breathing helps, but I still feel their weight. I logged on and into my workload for the day. My mind feels empty- but full of heavy, wet, fog.

I opened another tab in my browser and stared at the screen.  I closed my eyes and this poem flashed in my mind:

the laughing heart

your life is your life.
don’t let it be clubbed into dank
submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the
darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you
chances.
know them, take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death
in life,
sometimes
and the more often you
learn to do it,
the more light there will
be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have
it.
you are marvelous.
the gods wait to delight
in
you.
-Charles Bukowski, 1993

And with that, I felt the resistance give way, just a bit.

 

Posted in poetry, Writing

Threadbare

I have become

the thread that hangs

from your sleeve

the blue shirt

that you wore for brunch

the one that brings out the

madness in your eyes

and the ice in your veins

I am

tickling your wrist

a panic

that perhaps it was a spider

crawling higher up your arm

to perch on your collar

and whisper

that I’ve hated you for so

long

maybe I’ll be the dead

grazing your flesh

to remember

to forget

to know

that the balance of all

that we were

hangs on a thread

that you’ll eventually

pull

and discard

onto the floor-

but what else

is

new?

Posted in poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

Ore

We were,

like two fire escape ladders

Always next to one another

Never touching

icebound in winter,

when the city is wrapped in gray.

Broiling in the long summer

when the city radiates in reds.

Never used

No emergencies

No hero’s parade

A penchant for all that is good

Until we are replaced

with new

sinewy

ladders

That may or may not

ever touch

or be heroic

or in love.

Posted in poetry

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.

Posted in poetry, Writing

Sun Peach

If the sun took a moment,

to hush itself and turn down the heat,

waiting for itself to darken, like a rotted peach

it would take eight minutes for any of us

to realize that life as we know it

would be snuffed out,

like a hot match between two wet fingertips.