Category: Poetry

I Haven’t Written In A While (A Love Poem For D)

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Well, I have.
In my head.

But you don’t know this
Unless you could creep around
In the Squoosh
And Mush
Attempting to make sense
of the scattered bits
of mangled paragraphs
half-finished words
let alone
mismanaged punctuation.

Make your way through
my glow worm caves
dangling luminescent
thoughts
pooling into the collective
goop
which I will eventually
strain into something
formative.
Maybe.

But I’ve “written”.
There are essays
and strong opinions expressed vehemently
sharply jutting out
haphazardly
here and there.
Gardens of prose
jagged brambles
and the sickly sweet scent of dying lilies
intertwined
making a mess…

The bees have been happier.

I suppose
I just wanted you to know
That I have been keeping up

And every thought of you
Incites inspiration

You make me want
to bring order
to the chaos
mend and organize
my fragmented parts
and pieces

I am
motivated to
light a trail
leading out of my darkness
exposing
the shards and
skin slicing edges
(though I can’t imagine
not getting a small cut
*bound to happen*
especially if you’re
walking barefoot)
so you can better make your way
deeper into my soul

There I can tend and tame
the prickly burrs
Not an easy task
But
Better for the bees
who will be keeping busy
with the new buds that have blossomed

Because of you.

For Daidria

“Your glance scatters seeds.
It planted a tree.
I talk
Because you shake its leaves.”

– From Letter of Testimony Coda by Octavio Paz

Smeared

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how wretched this predicament and how stinging the pain wrenching deep down into the place where i would run to be happy – to find an escape from the seduction of agony and her silky wiles of indigo blue dank

she follows it follows
and i might finally be done

not yet

i convalesce

how gorgeous this spot becomes – i just never before noticed the velvet of the violet hues – so vibrant – and how strange that this isn’t really my place anymore…. it has transformed into something completely different

in the corner a crumpled mass of sorts – what a marring sight to the dark beguiling magnificence of my secret grotto – beige and malformed it taunts me with its ugliness but i am too distracted to approach

besides
i don’t want to know

how completely in awe i am that i begin to spin and spin and spin until the blues and purples become nothing but a hazy canvas and i am the center or maybe the circle on the right – perhaps the ? on the bottom left

i am everywhere and anywhere – nowhere – and i collapse into a pool of crimson that i soon realize is nothing but a deep puddle of my perceived and actual failings which have collected into a quicksand pit around my feet and i begin to sink and sink and

the beige mass – crumpled deformity raises what i think might be its head but i can’t see past the thick of the deep maroon

all i hear is silence and my breath as it rasps swallowing my gargled delirious sobs

i am
home

Note To Self

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I’m not fond of it. And it’s something I can never put my finger on. I can be having quite the innocuous day – somewhat pleasant, fairly uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary will have occurred – when I am just dealt the most sucker of punches to my emotional sternum. I feel my mental legs buckling beneath me, slipping into the wash of melancholy, muddy and oppressive.

I am hit with the Sad.
A Bushel of Blegh.

You could lay at my feet all the smiles and laughter that had just been bouncing about, deliver happy chirps of well-meaning pick-me-up cliches, wrap me in the Tomorrow Is Another Day positivity that you keep handy for occasions such as these…

They will all be shunned.

Not because I don’t want any of those and more.
Not because I enjoy the depressing descent into Debbie Downerville.

No.

I will ruin every last bit of bright and shiny you give me. I will dejectedly demolish every grin and chuckle with my clumsy clompy feet. Accidentally muffle and strangulate the once vibrant twittering of good intentions. I will shred to pieces the shawl of optimism, never a chance to warm against the shivering dankness of the dark.

I would rather you keep those bits to yourself. Keep every last piece intact. Protect each one from my awkwardly ambling slippery with the Sad self.

I may be a dumpy mess, but I am not a monster.

don’t mind me

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Just ignore me
No one likes the moody woman cloaked in silence and a hard lined grimace.
You won’t ask me what’s wrong
Because you’re afraid the answer is You.

At first… No.
It isn’t.
The world in all its ignorance upsets me,
Time with its fast paced stroll
Just short of sprinting past me and my memories that are lagging behind in a different era
Yeah.
Time angers me
People in general
Not completely happy with their lives
Tolerable of their friends
Disgusted with their occupations
People … make my head hurt.

And while I am morosely curling into my shell of quiet,
You ignore me.

Content in your bubble colored oblivious
You’ll never ask me what’s wrong.
So with each passing second
It becomes
You.

The Musician

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I found
old correspondence
from some years ago
between my former
self and
you,
the always on the road
wielder of stringed instrument
and debaucherous exploits

Former paramour
partner in deviance
and infatuation
What a pair…
Addicted, lustful
heathens
we were
Two moths
Two flames
Destruction was
inevitable,
Of course

But still.

Bemused, I
shook my head
Reading the
To and From
Slightly aggravated
by my own desire and loathing
Your seemingly sincere
yet
apathetic apologies

“You may be crazy, but I am weak. And that’s worse. I don’t know what else to say.”

Clearly.

Our combustion
while not spontaneous
still surprises me
Yet,
After some years
the flames
have all but turned to
simmering, dying embers
in a growing
pile of ash
which along with
the charred
and disintegrating
bits
have been
flying and
flaking
away
to somewhere
not here

But I wonder.

Nowadays,
have your messages
of remorse
to Her
Become any better
Than what they
once were?

Maybe…
you should invest
in a fire extinguisher.