Posts Tagged ‘302poetry’

It’s Dark In Here

Sunday, April 21st, 2013

Come to Your Senses

b. Go into a closet, close the door, let your eyes adjust, then, take notes on what you hear, touch, and smell. Turn your notes into a poem.


Soft cloth swats my face,

I have too much stuff.

Fingers grope at the dress that struck me,

it clings to my skin,

the hanger rings against the metal rod,

it clatters and with it falls the

stubborn fabric.


Stagnant air,

I inhale cotton and age.


Dust settles on my tongue,

when was the last time I…

a muffled thud, air hisses through my grimace,

sharp pain travels up my foot as

the little-used shoe rack attacks my toes.


My limbs protest the overcrowded space,

the curved way my back has fitted itself into the corner.

Time to get out of this damn closet. 




The Moment

Sunday, April 14th, 2013

“We both laugh and run and the moment is so thick around me that I feel like dropping into it to let it carry me…. For now just let us run. We run straight through the laughter of this night.”

            I Am the Messenger, Markus Zusak


The suburbs sleep as we make our escape,

the silent houses stand unaware of

the moon’s concert:

Cicada’s sing to their mates,

the swings cry out their metallic melody,

as we propel them back and forth.

Directing their notes with our flip-flopped feet,

we harmonize with this summer song.


The black sky, scattered with light, laps at my sun-soaked skin,

washing me with the sticky sweetness of this heavy night.


I am

wholly human;

my greedy senses gulp

every thing I am offered tonight.

Overwhelmed but entirely satisfied.


Our laughter threads through my consciousness,

in, out, out and in.

Like a tattoo needle

this feeling pokes at me until,

smiling I let it in, relishing

the taste of joy,

a little bittersweet.


Life is not perfect.

The morning sun will blind my view of the night.

I wish I could take it, hold it, forever,

like a picture, captured and printed on glossy paper,

sitting in a frame it becomes tangible.


One moment –

The abandoned book waves at me

from the backseat,

The wind turns its pages over and

I recall its poignant words:

the laughter of this night


a time worn memory,

and the instant when

I gladly drowned in my happiness.


Saturday, April 13th, 2013

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. 

Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters… 

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.”


Before there was color,

there was darkness. And

then rays of yellow, gold,

the light’s time separated by a glowing orb of silver.


The horizon parted the roiling

waters, hemmed in by the newly

christened land. Green peppered

the landscape, flourishing.


Time began.


Fish swam through the liquid

salt, birds flew along the blue backdrop,

animals strolled the earth

looking for their mate.


And one surrounded by this fresh world,

without his pair. But,

there was an apple tree.

A Book’s Cover

Monday, April 8th, 2013

Jane Austen (1775-1817) was an English writer whose books of romance and courtship have earned her a place as one of the most famous novelists of her time. Her novels are known for their wit, realism, and biting social commentary. Austen was never married.


Tomorrow I will curtsy at them,

Smiles and petticoats I will don,

masking the acerbic tongue and

sharp mind

from those who whisper:

old maid.


Tonight I mock them within these pages.

Weave my wit into an arch remark,

cast my hopes with each marriage plot,

bestow these characters with bits of myself,

and forget

the disappointment of the day.


Snuff out the light,

shuffle to the four poster bed,

arrange myself on the white counterpane,

careful not to wake my sister.


Dreams of Darcy float through my head:

I compose his surprising steps to love

and Elizabeth’s crumbling prejudice,

save them for the next time

I can sit down to my desk.


Ink, quill, parchment.

Another line, a sigh, a happy ending.

Another pair happily united,

the only moment I open the cover

and reveal my contents.

Soothing Touch

Friday, April 5th, 2013


Write a love with harsh-sounding words or a poem of attack with sweet or gentle sounds.


Your words caress my ears.

The cheerful tone clouds the message,

masking it.

They tiptoe, these words, into my head,

whispering sweetly to Wernicke,

let me in, let me in.


Your fingers drape themselves around my neck

hugging my windpipe.

They embrace until

my breath parts with my lungs,

inviting a troupe of black dots to dance across my vision.


Your feet twirl away.

I sink,

the floor welcomes my body.

Things I Remember

Monday, April 1st, 2013

I don’t know why paper made me cry.


Lay my head on the table,

cheek, nose pressed against the coarse, white sheet.

Breathe in the ink, the pulp, the puzzle piece memories.

Is it strange to say the scent reminds me of you?

Your familiar cologne of age and wood, sun and sweat,

that clinging nicotine

comes off the page.

I would run into you at the end of the day, bury

my face in your torn sweatshirt, inhale.

You covered me with your arms, press your grin

into my curls, laughing.

Day after day,

the paper smell wrapped itself around you and me.


We were happy,

I think.


Each year steals a bit of you from my mind,

till I am left with a poor outline.

What remains was made by Picasso’s brush:

fractured, fragmented, fictitious,

it is a cubist’s dream,

but I am no artist.


Your portrait I paint with cluttered impressions:

piles of pancakes,

a mustachioed smile.

Laughter and light,

waves and carnival screams,

a soccer ball, the blur of black and white

as it meets the net, your yell from the sidelines;

a happy cry, daddy, I layer onto my

paper mache creation.


Pictures recall your rust-red skin, the suns tattoo, or

a symbol of the too great effort

your fatal heart made,

and your work worn hands, marked

by the hammer and nails of your day;

the eyes you gave me,

teardrop, Mom says.

The fuzz of hair that meant you were not bald, yet.


He loved you,

they say.

You were his little girl,

they say.

So much of you is supplied

by them.


Eight year olds don’t hoard away memories,

when they were supposed to have a lifetime.

Out of My Mind

Friday, March 29th, 2013

Give yourself another name.

Be in a different place.

I’m rather attached to the things I know, but

I guess I can try a little harder.



sounds too ordinary

she lives in North Dakota,

mountains and green fields clog my vision

with her normal family

more like irritating, frustrating

mom, dad, brother, sister

the only people for miles.


All I want is to move, to go, to escape their

typical American dream home. 

Daily Battle Against the Clock

Monday, March 25th, 2013

The alarm

clangs, the same manufactured sound

meant to declare:



Feet hit the floor,

like a soldier at roll call.

Wildly I race to silence

the programmed noise

that drags me from

my sweet dreams.


My heart pounds,

beating a rapid rhythm

against its cage,

machine gun fire in my chest.


One, two, three steps

and I am there,

striking the cold, mechanized flesh

of the snooze button.

I curse the artificial bells that woke me.


The temporary silence taunts me,

Ten minutes and the automatic buzz

will detonate my sleep again.


My limbs, drained of their urgency,

shuffle back to bed.

I slide into my trench, still warm,

close my eyes and wait

for the next attack.