March 2, 2008 - Sunday
strong in our being
some of us
are so strong in our being
we have no niche
no stereotype within which to find solace
and comfort
the confusion to others –
of our identity, their inability to label
or find basis for connotation –
leaves us in wanderlust
searching
and them
thinking we are not in need
and never understanding we do
want
desire
March 1, 2008 - Saturday
for Mandy, et al.
Some of us,
we are low, yet others?
Are coming into their well deserved good fortune;
All of us, though, we are blessed
with good hearts
and friends surrounding
that see
that love
that will endure the years.
February 28, 2008 - Thursday
with a taunting glare
I came across a day once
it was easy
low
drank my ice tea
with a taunting glare
and I ended up back fisting the son of a bitch
for being a tease
but my drink was gone
then the day was gone
but my itch was still there
February 24, 2008 - Sunday
oh ye strong women
There's a little heart
that shines
under years of dust
and grime
but no one cares to claim it
no one cares
to claim it
and the girl sleeps alone
February 20, 2008 - Wednesday
bright is her forced disposition
it is not a good tired
the kind that lets you sleep through
it is a senseless thing
where the mind never stills
and the body remains weary
February 12, 2008 - Tuesday
lyric
Sometimes<------- lovers leave<
and sometimes<-------
lovers leave>
but in between>----- was you and me
late nights early morns> and
oh------------------
sweaty sheets]
How<
we loved<
my baby>
Oh----------
How< you made me-----
blue>-------
conundrum
these last few months of disassociation
and the heart numbing toward him
and he is not going
and surely I will not let things go on as such
this last year and a half
but I adore him
I adore him
January 31, 2008 - Thursday
as I made ready
I waltzed in, quiet and low-key,
filled out paperwork
looked at the dog I chose
from countless others
and took her home. It all seemed so easy
I felt like a thief and left giddy, scot-free.
Then I took stock
while my new pup waited in the car:
leash, harness, food, comb, shampoo
stuffed snowman, new and fuzzy,
unaware of his pending dismemberment,
gutting, and decapitation; poor bastard.
At home I foraged.
Would this bowl be better or this one?
And a blanket? Oh hell, two or three
old ones I pulled from the drawer.
Chelsea Fay Ray Princess 'Rat Dog' Buttercup
gazed on curious, still in her shell
as I made ready my heart
to nurture and love.
January 25, 2008 - Friday
your girl sometimes
I didn't mean to be
your girl sometimes
but it was a
second week thing
and never got better
oh but those nights of long hellos
and wallowing inside
each others heart;
mornings of reticent goodbyes
while you tried to sleep
after my failed efforts
on too sore flesh
madness
could you blame me
for wanting more
madness
but I was only your girl
sometimes
on occasion
when you called
except in my heart
where it's always.
January 22, 2008 - Tuesday
snake totem
One day a young girl came across a snake at rest in a warm dark place. It was a baby white snake, an albino with shiny light opaque blue eyes. She caught the snake by the tail, trying to carrying him away to a safer, more snake-like place in the bright sun. But the snake was crazed with its tail pinched between her thumb and forefinger and writhed until free.
The girl awoke from her dream to her bed, an intense fluttering along her neck between shoulder and ear. She moved each pillow one at a time, pulled back the covers, turned on the light, and found no snake.
That afternoon she was shopping, which she rarely does and found a dainty silver ring, a snake wound head to tail. His head, a light blue opaque stone. It fit her finger snug.
That night, the pain in her side worsened, she stopped to wonder and blushed a strange way of peace and sorrow for the life she would shed but smiled, a keen desire for the unknown.
January 16, 2008 - Wednesday
journalesque - The Heart of America is Breaking
My first day of teaching this semester, yesterday, I had left a class of fourth graders that jumped right into things. They were bright and engaged. The principal sat in, walked around, nodding, and the children beamed under his and our attention. I had little to do with four of us watching over like mother hens.
At three p.m. I frantically drove from Mesquite to Oak Cliff, only to walk in to a room of first and second graders. I had been expecting third and fourth. They were so little, so quiet and some, incredibly, visibly afraid. Ms. R, the main facilitator, was slowly engaging some to participate. A teacher came in to take names, the principal sat for a few minutes. Those previously engaged, found their shell again, began to retreat. I wanted to cry for them. Instead I set to work.
These are bright children; staring mute at the page, unable to write in English, yet when coaxed into Spanish, brightened and set to work. We are teaching these kids how to form sentences and paragraphs in order to pass tests when we have not given them the basic skills with which to communicate
The first day of teaching is a strange mix of confusion and sink-or-swim. We're only there for an hour a week for four to twelve weeks. So often I've just remembered everyone's name when it's time to leave them.
An hour a week is almost more than I can bear. The heart of America is breaking and it's a hard thing to watch.
January 13, 2008 - Sunday
morning
I thought to wake him with my mouth
my hand closer
but my proximity already had him stirred
and the rest
was gratuitous and greedy on my part
as I took what I pleased.
In six or eight weeks
you'll be gone and I
will exist on recollections of madness.
January 7, 2008 - Monday
Journalesque - a personal admittance
I didn't mean to be a poet but I suppose for anyone with the innate need to write, a broken soul that leads to broken thoughts leads to poetry. Thus my predilection for enjambment and verb noun displacement I suppose.
You're asking what the hell I'm talking about, how do you break a soul and if I didn't mean to be a poet, why have I written thousands of poems. (You haven't stalked me well enough if you haven't found my blogger.)
Many of you know my brother died in early 2002. Some have surmised from my writing and blatant admittance (if you paid attention) that I had to step up to adulthood and make the decision to end his life. It was difficult to watch my husband grow distant. It was difficult to see my father unsure and so frail. It was difficult to take such a thing on alone. And though no daughter should see her father as frail, no Father should have to end his son's life. So I did it. In the denotative sense of the word, I killed my brother. No, don't sugar coat it…it is what it is and your loose connotations of moral turpitude don't fly with me.
I didn't mean to go in to all of that but I'm in a funk and it has been almost six years since the funeral. Some strange things have happened: I cheated on my husband of sixteen years, got my first tattoo, divorced him, (he remarried awful quick for someone I apparently hurt beyond belief), I became a poet, my ex and I became good friends, I got my degree, went from four piercings to nine, got my second tattoo, quit my job to write, had five or six crushes along the way, took four lovers (three briefly and one…) I fell in love and let that love go.
And that's all after the age of thirty-two. Watching my brother die was the lowest point in my life, though, obviously. The low point of low points that made all the other low points seem like happy recollections. I am haunted daily: was it the right decision? I can't say but it was the decision I made. So…the broken soul…I started journaling seriously in early 2003 as a way to heal. I would have started sooner but it took me a year to stop crying every damn day, morning, noon and night. Journaling turned to poetry quickly.
So I didn't mean to be a poet. (But I'm sure Dahmer never meant to turn cannibal.) I set out to be a novelist; science fiction, fantasy, gore and yes, even romance though that latter genre bores me infinitely now. When I was young, I cut my teeth on C. J. Cherryh's "Drinking Sapphire Wine" and "Down Below Station", on Asimov and Heinlein and somewhere along the way, I became learned.
It's a silly thing but after Robert died, I whispered to his spirit, "I will live for both of us." I can finally admit it was not all his death that drove me to tears but the turning inward and facing – that I was not living. What I had was not a life but an existence.
You know, a broken bone can mend crooked when left unattended and sometimes has to be reset to heal straight.
I don't know. I suck at metaphors.
January 6, 2008 - Sunday
and her tail wags
she comes to me in the living room
dropping a mouth full of food at my feet
looks up at me
and proceeds to eat
one bite
then a glance my way
another bite
and a glance
then nuzzles my hand
as I turn to scratch hear ears
the top of her head
the soft spot between her eyes
she still doesn't trust me with the comb
but we have time
"what a good girl," I coo
and her tail wags till her body shakes.
January 5, 2008 - Saturday
the whole of the moon
In this winter of discontent
under the gray grey ash
of a once bright flame
lay red hot coals aglow;
a slow deep simmer
of a blushed heart free
and on the brink of a madness
well deserved.
January 4, 2008 - Friday
in absentia
I
pretty soon
there will be no one left to work the land
to walk the earth
to dream
to cry
for the others
for who they become.
II
I am in this limbo
graced
something brilliant gleams
in the corner
his words eat mine whole
I want
to be eaten whole
it was a very nice week
some of us never lose hope
but accept things as is
on some level
and then a thing happens
you question as is
only to realize
you want
you want this thing bad.
January 1, 2008 - Tuesday
knock knock
what do you do when your lover who is leaving in two months messages;
I love you
and your admiration for the thousand mile man is growing?
have coffee with cream and raw sugar
two toasted English muffins with whipped butter
write poetry that no one will ever read
