Check out my poem “meeting again in the shadows” made with Instant Poetry 2
Happy National Woman’s Day
“Girls are not machines
that you put kindness coins into
And sex falls out” — Sylvia Plath
We’re more like the crane games
on a Jersey Shore boardwalk
Hands maneuver our hands
towards visible prizes
and treasures hidden in plastic shells.
If what we have for grabs is too heavy
the plushness slips through fingers,
weakened and rigged by the deceit of others.
Still, these hands keep rolling quarters of promises
into our waiting gaps,
the lights and sounds fill the quiet, dark
corners where we like to hide, waiting to see
how hard this one and that one will try
to catch our IPod hearts with irascible playlists –
to win our unicorns stuffed with everything
nobody else wants to know.
Driving to the edge of water – part of 10 & 2 – poems about drive
He called me a fucking idiot that night,
And I didn’t start screaming like the day
I told my father I hated him after calling me brain dead
for locking him out of the house.
I vowed that anyone who insulted my intelligence
would be pierced with arrows tipped with a venomous glaze,
and I didn’t want to forgive my father back then.
I wanted to forgive the man I was about to marry.
And I did.
But not before I drove to nowhere,
debating whether to stay at a hotel
or sit in a bar until anything with a pulse
agreed to take me to more nowheres.
I left my wallet at home.
Could have gone to a friends’ house
and let them see what I refused to look for.
Instead I ended up parking in front of an abandoned pool
on the opposite side of my complex.
Staring at the tufts of grass and weeds breaking through
the concrete, and the chipped, pale blue of the pool’s floor,
I saw a child run then fall and skin her knee.
I saw her dive as if she glided into a life
where algae only grows where you can’t see it,
The water is the right temperature
for the hot or cold of the day,
the concrete leaves your face unscathed
when you swim too far down with eyes closed.
Her eyes closed mine and I wondered
why I stopped diving the way I did.
Why now do I leap head first
into empty pools of shit I’ll never change?
Why do I swan
right into what compassionately turns me
into flayed skin and ashes?
I should have kept driving until I hit the beach,
let the weeds of my mind entwine
with clouds of seafoam freedom.
I guess I’m being extra – midlife crisis musing
Beautiful chaos & conflict
“But our lives our riddled with chaos and conflict. If everything fell into place like a few hard shakes of a Boggle game, our lives would be pretty damn meaningless because our worst choices make us the bad-asses we are. That’s what makes us all have incredible stories to tell without having to look too hard.” – Tara Lesko, Serotonin with a side of fries, please.