Tag: muses

My Homage to T

Tara A. Lesko - Writer

after Patricia L. Goodman

You are a test of existence, T

All challenges and hopes fused together in a tight torsion. 

Your presence in time didn’t tell me when to trek those mountains

or wander those twisted trails. 

You are part of what I teach – tall tales about what the world 

was and could be. Tattered promises and gentle lies 

stirred together in a tasty soup. 

For some reason you don’t keep my tires intact for too long.

Tell me it’s to keep me on my toes, to keep me 

from letting everything wear down until it’s too tempestuous 

to keep moving or growing into the hot, twisted mess I need to be.

T, you are the largest molecules that make tears. 

Tumultuously, you are the cross I wear proudly in tantalizing storms.

D Story

Tara A. Lesko - Writer

Damn it! 

I did it again. 

I forgot to tie dandelions into crowns 

as I sat in the dirt writing the occasional 

death poem.

I forgot to change “dessert” to “desert” 

in the part of the story when he leaves 

the table to message his new darling.

Dusk seems to be the only time I remember 

to turn on a dime, to the beat of my own drummer.

Dawn is when I dread swallowing drugs 

and dancing with cliches. 

One day, I forgot to keep drinking in the deluge 

of your daring words.

Now I won’t dare let them disappear in the desk drawer. 

I need your daunting verse the way a dahlia 

needs blackish purple to be beautiful and dangerous. 

I need your distance the way the darkest night 

demands stars to disappear.

The Others

Tara A. Lesko - Writer

Believing the voices of others

is like a fatal a accident on the side

of the interstate.

You promise yourself you won’t 

pause and look, but you do it anyway.

Feeling the stare of others on your skin

is an afternoon when you’re body is done with the ocean-

when you’re not sure whether you feel soft, salted,

and cleansed – or weighted, wrinkled, and burned.

Tasting the deception of others 

is like that one deceiving berry,

the one on the bottom that looks as brilliant as all the others,

but when you bite into it, the blandness fails

to satisfy your violent need for sweet half-truths.

touching the hand of another can be the last thing

you want to do if you don’t want to chance

remembering a name – and the only thing 

you want to do, if you want to forget your own for a while.

Muses 10 through 18

Tara A. Lesko - Writer

Muse 10 allows 

for that amazing voice 

in the shower. 

11 helps that same voice 

bounce beautifully 

off gravestones. 

Muse 12 dries your eyes 

after a too-big glob of wasabi 

or a too-hot shot of saki. 

13 is the impossibly long wait 

for coffee in the morning 

that makes you miss the multicar 

pile-up on the interstate. 

She’s the extra dead rose 

hidden in his “forgive me” dozen.

14 gives you the years 

you get with your dog or grandparents.

15 hits you with thirteen’s thorns 

for wasting that time. 

16 builds up your walls 

and shapes your wrecking balls 

that crumble them. 

17 helps break the news gently 

when all you want is to be alone. 

18 pummels you with sixteen’s wrecking ball

when you think you need permission.