Eccentric
faces
made of wood,
mysteries of time
older than
golden cities.
Thick thighs
of fertility
creating order
out of nature,
and the warning
ever present –
look
but don’t touch!
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poetry blog
Poetry: Raising the Devil
Her last three footsteps
raised the devil.
At the sight of her,
hell surrendered –
besieged by the spirits
of plunder and
confiscation.
(Another blackout poem inspired by A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens)
Poetry – Stuck
Stuck
not sure where to go
so many roads
limited time
stalled
pick foot up
put back down
repeat.
Am I moving forward
or standing still?
The shadows move
but my footprints
stay right here.
Poetry (Haiku) – Grow Up
Grow up, they all say
But when I try to plant roots
they poison the soil
(Written for a #haikudaily tag on Twitter, theme was “grow”)
Poetry: Sick or Dead
(I created the following blackout poem from a random excerpt of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain)
Sick or Dead
What to do if a body
is sick or dead:
black crayons
black dress
black shovel
black veil
black tape
black slippers
black bird
black sealing wax
black hole
Poetry: Nightlights
I got a new blackout poetry journal that uses classic literature to inspire new works of poetry. This first one is my attempt at making original poetry from a random page of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan:
Nightlights
My love,
were not all natural
dreams forgotten?
The skeleton
crawled about the floor,
rattled up the chimney,
and bathed her hand in sleep.
Nightlights pulsed
while strange children
found new mothers
in the faces of the night.
Once all were safe
her fears sat down
by the quickening fire,
warming the nursery.
Poetry – Scrambled Savior
I meant to share this poem around Easter, but forgot. Guess I had too much going on. This poem just sort of wrote itself, with the images of both the commercial and sacred aspects of the holiday mixing together in my mind. It is not meant to be offensive to religion, but instead, to compare and contrast the cheerful, innocent brightness of welcoming spring with the actual gruesome reality of a crucifixion and resurrection:
Scrambled Savior
Easter
pastel eggs
poor Jewish carpenter
whipped, beaten, and scrambled
last supper
omelet
Poetry: Second First Love
I hated you
the first time we met.
You had replaced my old love
before I had the chance
to even say goodbye.
You dared to appear
right as he vanished –
and for that
you had to take the blame.
Afraid of Living
I am not afraid to die –
but I am not yet
unafraid of living.
I’m not sure I have ever written truer words than the 3-line poem above. This little gem came to me while taking a bath last night, so I repeated it to myself like a mantra until I got out of the tub and could write it down.
It is true that I am not afraid of death. I am a bit afraid of the actual feeling of dying, mostly because of the instinctual anxiety I fear it would bring. However, I am not afraid of being dead. In fact, I rather look forward to it. If there is something after death, it will be awesome to explore and find out what else is out there. If there is nothing after death, it will just be like the times I have passed out or been put out for surgery…simply a loss of consciousness which often sounds like a relief in itself. No more worrying. No more pain. No more anxiety or depression.
However, living is scary. Knowing I may have years and years of dealing with anxiety and depression ahead of me. Knowing that I will likely suffer from chronic pain and chronic illness until I die. Knowing that my degenerative conditions will likely worsen with time. Fearing that my husband may get sick or die and I will be alone. Fearing financial ruin. Fearing homelessness. Fearing potentially abusive situations. Fearing the entire planet going to shit (a justifiable fear from my point of view). Fearing that I may end up committing suicide if life becomes unbearable (not the ending I would desire for my life).
