8/365: Precedence

 

I'm supposed to be writing a poem,

words arranged just so as to create

the same image in your head

as is in my own.

I'm supposed to be playing with grammar,

pretending I remember the rules

so I can feel superior when I break them

and say things like "Poetic license"

with an indignant shoulder raised.

I am instead in bed with my child,

watching the sun rise as she finally sleeps,

wincing with each blink because the eye she

sucker punched when she reached out to make

sure I was still there saw stars flash for

just a moment.

I'm supposed to be sleeping after playing with words

and making pretty pictures with them and

nothing else.

Instead, I lie in bed and watch the stars fade into the

rose blue dawn and the sun rises.

 

 

6/365: Presently Speaking

She asks where babies come from so I tell her I wished her down from up

above a star so bright.

Eleventeen stopped being a

number. Cherub cheeks replaced by the smaller

version of her future self.

Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy,

still shape her reality, but one day

too soon

they also will be a happy memory of when she was

younger

innocent

needing me

and I will miss the now that has faded into

remember when?

She asks me where babies come from so

I tell her I wished her down from up

above a star so bright. Science and biology

can kiss my ass because no matter what she learns

as she grows into the older version of her

present self, I will have always

wished her true.

Day 5/365: Product Description

  Words stuck to the refrigerator in singular blocks

make us poets because the box they came in says so.

All we have to do is move them around now and then.

Validation.

 

I’m giving this #365poems craziness @schmutize came up with and blame her if I lose my mind or bore you with really bad poetry. Click here for @Schmoetry and be amazed. Click here for what I’ve written wrapped up with a pretty little bow in one place because it’s just easier that way, and well, there ya have it.

 

4/365: Walk a Mile

 

Sometimes I think it would have been

easier

to have a drinking problem

than feel the need to

stuff

myself

down

as

far

as

I

can

bury

myself

within

because everyone takes pity on the fat girl

with the doughnuts who lies

when she orders a dozen.

Everyone knows she isn't going to share.

Everyone pretends to think she is.

Eat less. Exercise more. You'll be fine if you just

focus.

Then I remember wearing my dad's flips flops at home

because we had the same size feet.

 

I’m giving this #365poems craziness @schmutize came up with and blame her if I lose my mind or bore you with really bad poetry. Click here for @Schmoetry and be amazed. Click here for what I’ve written wrapped up with a pretty little bow in one place because it's just easier that way, and well, there ya have it.

 

 

Miles between

They say distance makes the heart grow finder. I disagree.

Distance makes the heart forget.

Emotion means little when miles between facilitate a disconnect;

A new beginning when the old one was good enough no matter how many times the rug needed to be lifted to sweep away the broken pieces.

Now the rug is gone, torn apart thread by thread, the strain of stretching from coast to coast too great.

No matter.

Distance makes the heart grow harder.

The mind weeps instead.

If the hat fits...

poet hatI have a new hat. This is important because:

1) I look totally cute in it and...

2) This has been confirmed by total strangers commenting on my cuteness and because...

3) I found out after getting back to the hotel this past weekend that my hat is apparently a "poet style" hat. I swear to you that I had no idea when I purchased it. I was just going off of the fact that out of the million I tried on, this was the only one that I didn't think I looked like a total jackass in when I saw my reflection. That, and The Husband didn't point and laugh when I asked him what he thought about it. (Yeah, I know. He's sweet like that.)

I. Have. a. Poet. Hat.

This amuses me beyond words and I may actually start wearing it when writing poetry. And you can bet your ass I'll be online later searching for a Smart Ass Mama with a Hefty Side of Snark hat. You know, 'cuz then I'll be able to literally switch hats when necessary.

Open mic: The end of the rainbow

I've been getting a crazy amount of hits with "Roy G. Biv" as the search term. My ego thinks that's pretty snazzy. So I dug through my word doc and decided to post one more. If the hits keep coming, I might get brave enough to revise a few of the weaker poems and start querying. I'd love comments!

The end of the Rainbow

At the end of the Rainbow Are Violet and Gold

But no one pays attention to Violet

They can see her just fine But since the beginning of Time

It has always been about where Gold Is hiding

Roy G. Biv: Violet and Violet

It's been a while since I posted a poem from my children's book, Roy G. Biv. But lo and behold, the term keeps popping up in my blog searches from visitors, so I thought I'd pick another favorite to share.

Who knows...maybe one day I'll be able to share with you that the collection dreamed itself into a real-life book.  For now, I'll just share what I've got.

Violet and Violet

Violet the Crayon is Very proud

For a flower was named in Her honor

Violet the Flower is Even prouder

For she knows the crayon was named After the Flower

On choosing water

The difference between blood and water

lies not in the consistency, but in the

glorious truth that water comes with

a choice.

Blood binds me, ties me to

nothing

and to

everything.

But it binds me, nonetheless.

Blood comes with baggage, with history,

with future, and with family arguments,

most of which are held in my head.

Blood comes with love and with pain and with

laughter

and

tears

and strangers who once were more

until they decided that sometimes

blood just isn't thick enough.

Blood comes with a heavy responsibility

to remain loyal to what was in order

to maintain appearances because

it's just easier to lie to ourselves

with strained smiles for our public

and save the bitching for when

the appropriate backs

are turned.

Blood comes with a silence so loud

that we must laugh louder

to drown out the sound of

words left unspoken.

So I choose water when blood remains

the only tie.

Because sometimes, blood just isn't

thick enough.

zombie

Normally I post my poetry without any commentary and just let the words speak for themselves. But this one I feel deserves a little extra attention.

I suffered from bulimia and anorexia from the ages of 15 to 21. Because I just didn't have the willpower to outright starve myself for long periods of time, I always considered myself a failed anorexic. Like being bulimic was the best I could do. Yes, it's a warped way of thinking, but eating disorders work wonders on one's mindset.

So here I sit with the poem I wrote at the tail end of my struggle (which only means I stopped the behaviors because the mindset with forever be skewed) for a college English class with a recent copy of the Hip Mama zine sitting on my desk. There's an upcoming deadline for submissions dealing with body topics, and I'm seriously thinking of sending "zombie" in for consideration. The topic is one I feel strongly about, obviously, so I may write a few more pieces and send them along as well, but for now I'm concentrating on this little piece of myself.

Take a moment. Read. Then comment. What do you think?

Voices raised fingers pointed

tears

thoughts racing guilt swelling

eat

something anything

chew

swallow

repeat

words thrown overhead

salt in wounds

pepper in soul

let them yell escape

zombie-like

walk downstairs

enter bathroom

lock

get on knees

lift the lid

open mouth

despair

insert finger

gag

release

stand up wash hands

glance at reflection

mascara streaks

flush

wash

mesmerized

anxieties

fears

turmoil

swirl

sweet nothingness

lock up self

unlock door

voices raised

fingers pointed

go through motions

again

Passing

Raindrops fall as wet wind dances across my cheeks. Flowers dance beneath the sunshine

before the

stars

moon and

night clouds lay a blanket across my world.

Seasons of my life pass quickly like

sand between my fingers.

**from Juicy Journaling with SARK

Hidden Reflections

My eyes do not see what the world sees when they look into a  mirror.

They see more; more than the soft curves and pendulous breasts,

they see a timid soul hiding from herself. Afraid to shed the armor of flab that protects her

because it ensures soft landings.

My eyes do not see what the world sees when they look into a mirror.

They see less;

Less than the round of my face and the folds of my belly.

They only see the woman inside who is patiently waiting, hoping, wondering when she will be free

Desert Moon

Desert moon dips in sandy clouds that dance across the skies as

October winds caress my cheeks.

I smile at the rainbow that hugs her.

Roy G. Biv

I submitted this poem for critique to an online writing forum and got battered with criticism. So I stopped posting there. Not very mature, I know, but I figured it was better than the alternative (which involved me, a few four letter words, and a "Submit Post" tab).

I happen to like this one and so do the kids I've read it to, which helps a bruised ego recover from Other People's Opinions.This poem, and the book I intend to publish one day, may only remain a dream in my head. But I'm pretty sure the opinion of my intended audience matters a bit more than those who like to rain on other people's parades.

So there.

******

I know a man named Roy B. Giv

and he’s a funny little man.

Always talking ‘bout colors like

Red and blue and yellow, too

and his walks on Rainbow Lane.

Roy…Mr. Giv, I mean, comes from far away.

He travels the world on a raindrop or two and scares away the gray.

Roy…Mr. Giv, I mean, dances in the clouds.

Singing and laughing and dancing on air, for his only reason to

rise and greet the sun each day?

Living a glorious riddle and playing his

fiddle while he paints the

world a color he likes to call happy

I love the 80's

I've been busy trying to dig up my old writing in an effort to remind myself of excitement and dreams. Here's a favorite. I wrote this in the 6th grade as a student in Mrs. Grabner's Project Promise class. The poem was the cornerstone of my Roy G. Biv collection of poems about the rainbow, which was one of many selected for "publication" in the school library as part of a writing contest. Customarily, each student was given their book upon graduation, but Roy G. Biv stayed in the library until I graduated from The University of Detroit Mercy.

Turns out, the kids liked it enough to keep checking it out.

Spring is here!

Spring is here!

Hip,Hip,Hooray!

I see a robin, a cardinal, and a Blue jay!

The snow is melted, The grass is green, And beautiful flowers are everywhere to be seen!

The squirrels are scurrying all about…

And it is definitely Spring… Without a doubt!

Haiku moments

I've been writing a lot these past few weeks, much of it inspired by writing exercises. One recent exercise asked me to brainstorm random moments and turn them into haikus.

I haven't written one since the third grade but after I got a hang of the 5,7,5 thing, this is what I came up with--

On writing:

Words race fast fast fast faster my mind wakes rushing thoughts pour on paper

On my daughter growing up too fast for my liking:

Every moment

precious moves faster always

slipping through my fingers

And on honesty in writing:

Honest words shared with

strangers are easy because

judgement is withheld