Category: poetry

steam – #smallstone – day 6


confused geese pass invisible overhead.
puffed air swallows the hilltop in a bank of
steam.  my pores open in this transient
warm air mass.

I’m writing “small stones” as past of Mindful Writing Challenge 2014.  If you care to participate, here’s the link. Feel free to read and enjoy more wonderful mindful posts from across the world on Twitter at #smallstone.

Bat – #smallstone – Day 5

Mindful Writing Challenge 2014 Small stones


one last glow-in-the-dark cling film
bat, still holding onto the
glass pane. Halloweens gone by neither
here nor there.

I’m writing “small stones” as past of Mindful Writing Challenge 2014.  If you care to participate, here’s the link. Feel free to read and enjoy more wonderful mindful posts from across the world on Twitter at #smallstone.

Nails – #smallstone – Day 4

Mindful Writing Challenge 2014 Small stones

unvarnished and plain,
jagged edges at the end of my body.
Toenails
Unabashed sign
Of Winter.

I’m writing “small stones” as past of Mindful Writing Challenge 2014.  If you care to participate, here’s the link. Feel free to read and enjoy more wonderful mindful posts from across the world on Twitter at #smallstone.

Helleborus – #smallstone – Day 2

Mindful Writing Challenge 2014 Small stones


helleborus in a washed-out chinese-food tin;
her spiked hearts and freckled petals
turning towards the pane.
Yesterday
I marveled at your shades of pale viridescence.
Today
I wonder ‘how long before the blooms fall?’

I’m writing “small stones” as past of Mindful Writing Challenge 2014.  If you care to participate, here’s the link. Feel free to read and enjoy more wonderful mindful posts from across the world on Twitter at #smallstone.

No One Wants to Hear You, You Aberration

Sky

I keep hearing them say:
No Drama
No Drama
Yet, all our lives and all the world around is a series of dramas playing out.
Of characters passing across the thrust
Of hearts being broken and lives being twisted
Into unexpected shapes tumbling towards resolution.

What kind of no drama do they mean?
No drama, you cancer-girl.
No drama, you single mother.
No drama, you exhausted supermom
No drama, never-alone, it never-lets up homeschooler.
Stalwartness shall be your burden.

Go get lost in the garden, between the dried out chrysanthemums
And water the plants alone with your
Tears. No one wants to hear you, you
Aberration. You who dares speak
Louder than the crisped interstate hum,
You who feels its OK to say out loud
She disagrees. You who
Cries foul. Leave us.

We are busy cementing our
Feet in molasses pride. You girl
Dripping with your fat emotions,
Making puddles of
Noise and need and complications

Wherever you go–
“Get out of the way, drama queen” said them,
Which is
No person anyone has
Ever met, and
No human being at all.

(I kept hearing people saying “I don’t want any drama.” And “I’m glad when I can get the people with drama out of my life.”

I thought about this today, thinking about mental illness, women, and friendship and acceptance.

This poem came up)

I am Hiding

It’s just past 8 and
Summer. I am hiding on the
Bottom bunk. My daughters have
All gone downstairs. My
Son is echoing in the shower. I am a
Sliver of time away from being set
Free into the night, into their
Dreamland, after hugs and kisses
Recede and I’ve read the required
Pages of Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, and
Then, oh then, I’m free to let the
Twilight catch me, and hold me.

Until then I am hiding on my
Daughter’s bunk, eyes on the blonde pine
Slats, listening to my son warble
Between the soapy drops.
I’m caught by light that isn’t young anymore,
And I am sure of this day: as sure that this narrow bed will return as a gift and
My daughters too will feel this exhaustion like a weight on them
Someday.
On that same day, far flung, I know I will
Recall perfectly the toffee of her wet hair at bedtime and
The cocoon of the bottom bunk.

— from some traveling place

We’ve Been Known To Rant


My moral sensibility does not
Like to be quiet and has
A pantyhose-thin filter and
I seem not to be able to
Stop the sound wave once
She latches onto an
Bullied principle or
Bloated sense of patriotism or
Some blindly ironic act of love.
She is quite loud, even in
The hair salon, and
Partial to f-bombs, because
As she tells me, people listen
When the f-bombs start
Flying. And as I hear her
Ramping up from some
“Did you hear about the so-and-so?”
I duck for cover because there
Is no stopping her
Once she starts rolling, rolling
Like a circus clown balancing
Downhill on top of a
Rubber ball. It’s often armchair
Righteousness on a Sunday afternoon
But I can see it makes her
Feel better, makes her feel
Heard, and it’s always a
Conversation others are trying not to
Have and, besides, sometimes it
Works. Sometimes people really do
Stop shopping at Walmart, stop
Buying every plastic piece of crap in their
Sleep, start timidly using the word “feminist”
To describe themselves, so
Even if she isn’t
The gentlest advocate for
Change, I am ok with it
Because loud noises often
Interrupt rapists and thieves
And wake up the living dead
And so I let her rant.