Stay safe and healthy, my friends 🙏🏻
Artsy, poetess, socially distant Sunday.
Tag: poetry
Let us keep driving – from 10 & 2, an upcoming book of poems about drive.
“Let our scars fall in love.” – Galway Kinnell
Let the tire tracks we leave
in the fresh powder
fall in love with the arms
already asleep with The Walking Dead.
Let the fuel lights of our minds
love us enough to keep us
going twenty more miles,
on the nights we can’t stop
for fear of missing the next brilliant idea.
Let the snow-covered curbs we hit
while making careless right turns
forgive us and love us anyway
though we forget they are there
to keep us inbounds.
And let the windows we fail to defrost
thoroughly in the morning have mercy upon us.
Let their benevolence allow us
just the right amount of clarity to see
the brake lights ahead of us,
the coffee shops to the right of us,
and the phantoms behind us.
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.
The Others
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.
Life is a Journey
If that is the case, I need to stop
handing out free boarding passes
to the flights of my mind.
There’s no more room
in my Samsonite soul,
bursting at the seams
with ripped kimonos,
cheap espresso stained
handwritten pages with
the legibility of a tired child,
the scent of cigarettes
and hot hard liquor.
Maybe I should walk the miles
instead of dream them,
with only a backpack full
of empty pages, a grey hoodie,
and a bottle of blackberry Merlot
with only a thin layer of condensation
on its body.
Serotonin with a side of fries, please 