Image source: Google
I shrug
at religion
you spy me walk away
thinking I’ve walked away from God
you’re wrong
you see
in our Cosmos, vast, infinite
I’m a speck, but you’re less
when you tell me
“God hates”
** *
Written for imaginary garden with real toads Out of Standard – Signs of the time prompt, imagined By Isadora Gruye . Come check out the rest of the toads.
I’m sitting in your bathroom with a bottle of your pills. I fished them from your medicine cabinet. I didn’t read the bottle. It’s the only way I know how to get your attention. I am desperate to win you back from him. I don’t care if he’s smarter than me or better looking. I don’t care that he’s on-track to become our high school valedictorian. It doesn’t matter that he can discuss the finer points of Germany’s unification with your mom while I sit silently, thinking about Optimus Prime dunking on Megatron. I don’t even care that he’s your ex-boyfriend and you think your feelings have reawakened. I don’t give a shit about any of that. He can’t possibly love you like I do. No fucking way. That’s why I’m sitting on the windowsill in your bathroom, waiting for you to come in here to witness how much more I love you than he does. I probably won’t take them, but you need to see that my life isn’t worth living if you’re not with me.
soft amber streetlight
wash out most of the starlight
man’s constellations
I’m startled as you throw open the bathroom door. I search your eyes for any sign of warmth, fishing for any semblance of our summer of holding hands and making out; of dreamy I-love-you’s or nothing-can-come-between-us’. I find nothing but midnight frost in them. You demand the pills, and I give them to you, still mining your eyes for the heart that once beat for me. Those eyes I quested were examining the pill bottle like a scientist coldly working a math formula in her head. You deduce out-loud to no one in particular that no more than seven pills should kill an adult male. When you tossed the pills back to me, I barely had time to catch them before hearing the door close behind you. And I’m alone again with the pills.
crisp, windy twilight
litter twirls and loops the night
I watch it falling
I stand, facing the bathroom mirror, trying and failing to fully contemplate my insignificance, not just in your world, but within my own. I had never actually considered taking the pills at first, but the way you coolly dismissed me shook me; had me looking at our universe – and my place in it – differently. I stared at myself, wondering what a fish saw when staring up at its own reflection instead of the planets, stars, and galaxies I saw when I stared up at the night sky. I was a small, pointless fish in an infinite pond with a vial of pills.
Venus outshines man
piercing our light pollution
curved in crescent form
A fish’s perception of reality is bound. Unlike a fish, my view is unbound. But in that bathroom, I was a fish, crippled by my own vision, staring at myself, failing to see our future together when the future valedictorian would dump you for a second time, compelling you to crawl back to me, compelling me to gladly take you back due to my poor self-esteem, leading to our ill-advised marriage and our dysfunctional decade-long dance of codependence that would end with me refusing to heed your pleas to hold our sham together a moment longer, leading me to love, loss, and mending in the arms of others until I would finally meet a woman willing to sit with me and stare up at the night sky together in wonder.
Like a fish, I am limited by my reality and cannot see my future, but I also couldn’t see any future in those pills. I place the pills on the sink and walk out of your bathroom, past your indifferent eyes, out of your door, leaving you to call our future valedictorian. Leaving you to our past. Leaving you to our future.
vapor clouds forming
crystalizing my exhales
chill cuts through my bones
** *
You’re not alone. Confidential help is available for free.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Call 1-800-273-8255
Image source: dessertsforbreakfast.com
You
my dark chocolate
sweet
earthy
when I nibble
you bite back
smearing tangy goodness
onto my sneering lips
within my mouth
I quest
cresting the center
of your melting point
drizzling down my chin
daring me to lick my fingers.
I crave more.
** *
Written for dVerse Quadrille #30, hosted by Mish (mishunderstood), where the safe word prompt word is drizzle. Drizzle made me think of candy for some reason… that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
Don’t forget to visit other poets’ take on this prompt.
Image source: Unsplash.com
Night comes
again.
I welcome and fear it
for its embrace
protects me not
from unknown specters
and she will
leave me barren
at sunrise
again.
Night, day;
irrelevant.
Terror slinks in gloom
but agony bites blindly,
my heart
seized by dark claws
till I plead for night’s
sweet release.
Yeah but
with a flick of my finger
billions of subatomic particles
will rush to banish the dark
maybe it is the night
who should fear me.
** *
Written for imaginary garden with real toads Twitter Me a Gothic Poem, imagined By Magaly Guerrero. We were challenged to write a poem with three stanzas, each stanza not to exceed 140 characters (a basic tweet, if you will). The first two stanzas, or “tweets” would be in the voice of one of the thirteen selected gothic writers, as if they’re having a twitter conversation. The third stanza was to be my reply or commentary to thr first two. The catch is that the whole thing is supposed to read as one piece.
I chose Edgar Allen Poe (1st stanza) because his work influences me quite a bit, and I chose Sylvia Plath (2nd stanza) because I identify with how she described her lifelong battle with depression.
I gotta say, this was one heck of a prompt! It was more challenging than I anticipated, but I greatly enjoyed this one. Real Toads is quietly becoming the front page of my window to the internet. Thanks for all the wonderful prompts, and keep em coming!
Her old, lovely bones breathe
warped and creaking
with visions of what she could be
and past pitter-patters of
Saturday morning cartoons,
sleepovers, and birthdays.
She shelters me,
never passing judgement
should I sleep in on a Saturday.
Within her old, lovely bones,
I carved out a space for myself,
panting it in blues
impressed upon nostalgia from
the bluest oceans, coves, and depths;
when sunbeams enter on perfect angles,
my lungs fill with briny air of days long gone.
Her galley is a patchwork antiquated mess;
shams shimmied together in muddled nonsense
resembling the before photos of a makeover
that hasn’t happened yet, and
probably won’t for some time.
It gives her old bones character,
like an endearingly gapped-tooth
or the slurring lisp of a loved one.
Her living room, where I do
my least amount of living,
ties everything together.
Her redone floorboards
are coming undone
at some of the seams,
I can’t put too-positive a spin on floor damage
because they were expensive to redo,
though I do I blame the ghosts
of rambunctious children I’ve never met
pounding her hapless floors
running through their home,
before it became mine,
their laughter I’ve never heard
reverbing off the not-yet-blue walls.
This old girl shifts and creaks weirdly at times,
but she also whispers me to sleep
when rain pours onto her roof.
She is drafty and scantily insulated, but
she’s also a cool respite in sweltering summers.
She is unfortunately imperfect
and I’m perfectly lucky to have her.
Just beyond her walls though, I hear
there is a garden full of dead or dying foliage
that desperately needs tending,
but I don’t entertain such baseless rumors.
** *
Written for imaginary garden with real toads Hope and the Places That Heal You, hosted by Sherry Blue Sky. Drop by and visit the other toads contributing to the pond!
hazy shades of gray
lazily blurring the lines
I exist, but not
my blood rushes to color
the margins clutching my soul
***
A storm is brewing. We may lose power. I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m also grey.
Meh. Have a tanka. It’s all I got.
Image source: Google
The sun did not shine.
It was nighttime, you see.
So I sat with my book
Just as bored as can be.
I sat there with Daddy.
Mom slept and I sat
I hoped I could read her
The Cat in the Hat.
We were almost done!
My treat was on track!
For next we would read
How the Cat would come back!
I saw where she hid my new
Treat!
Treat!
Treat!
Treat!
If I could sneak a peak
That would be cool and neat!
I would not make a BUMP!
That would make Mommy jump!
I snuck!
In the bottom drawer it sat!
I snuck!
Out with the next book
Of the Cat in the Hat!
Half done with the first
Why did I skip it like that?
I knew I was wrong
Breaking rules was not funny.
But I wanted to peek
Before the sun was sunny!
“I knew I could get away with my prize,”
I thought with a smile
“And Mommy will not wake or stir
Not for a while.
I will take a quick peek
Like a bad little sneak
And once my sneaking has peaked
With not even a squeak
I will un-sneak my sneak
Oh how Momma would freak!
But my sneak-game’s on-fleek!
She will never know
Of her son’s geeky streak!”
I climbed up the couch
By Daddy I sat
With my major awards
Two cats in one hat!
Dad looked and said “Hey!
How did you get that?
How did you get two cats?
You did not read the first hat!”
But I whispered, “No! No!
Please speak softly, OK?
Or you will wake up my Mom
She would take it away!”
Then I heard Mom yell loud,
“Bring that book back, B.J.!”
I scowled at my dad
Who laughed with a wink
I was so very mad
At that foul Father fink
As my sneak was un-snuck
I thought isn’t this rich?
Never would I have thunk
Dad was a punk-ass snitch!
** *
Written for imaginary garden with real toads Celebrating Children’s Poetry – Dreaming with Stacie, and shared on dVerse’s OpenLinkNight # 193. The prompt was for us to write a poem that draws upon our childhood imagination.
When I closed my eyes to speak to my younger self, I was instantly transported back to the 70’s. True story! I was about four, or as I liked to call it, “Four-and-a-half”. Mom was teaching me to read, and I took to it like a duck to water. This is where my nerdery began.
I was nowhere near emotionally developed enough to deal with a cliffhanger, and Mom was too tired to let me read the first book to her so I could get to the second one. I took matters into my own hands, and Dad ratted me out real sneaky like and laughed in my face after I got in trouble with Mom. I swear, if I had been big enough to kick an ass, his ass would’ve been the first one I kicked that night. It’s like dude never heard the old “Snitches get Stitches” nursery rhyme, Knaamean?
So yeah, I wanted to kick my dad’s ass that night. Dirty snitch! May his soul rest in peace.
Read other dVerse poets’ OLN poems here.
Image source: Google
Every day
at the same time
she catches him.
Back of the bus,
eyes fixated
on his handheld
luminous rectangle,
corners of his eyes
softly, sadly yielding
to gravity.
Every day
at the same time,
she catches him
surreptitiously
studying her
from behind the
safety of his
luminous rectangle
as her blush-brush
burnishes
her best face.
Every day at the same time,
for the beat of a hummingbird’s wing,
they are locked within the same space-time,
with her smirking a silent challenge;
is today the day?
Am I stunning enough for you
to break the ice and say
good morning?
Every day
at the same time,
the answer is always yes
she is indeed stunning enough,
and
every
day
at that same time,
he stubbornly ignores
this obvious answer.
Every day at the same time,
before the hummingbird
flaps wing for a second time,
his eyes retreat to his rectangle,
only to feel her eyes
burning him from behind
her bronzing brush.
Every day, like clockwork,
within the third flap
of a hummingbird’s wing,
he returns her hidden gaze
wondering if this woman
was willing to breach his
technological barriers
to lift the corners of his eyes
with a peacock-feather-brushed
good morning.
Every day,
at the same time,
the answer is always yes,
but not today.
Today,
unlike every day,
after their daily ritual,
both resolved to take action.
Next time,
the burnished,
blushing lady said to herself,
if he doesn’t greet me,
I will move closer to him and ask
if he sees anything he likes.
That should break the ice.
Next time,
the sad-eyed man said to himself,
I’ll just take an earlier bus.
Image source: Google
** *
Posted to imaginary garden with real toads for Physics with Björn: Space time and the special theory of relativity. Björn has us writing poems about space time! I know! So dope, right? I like to think that I would’ve made a pretty rad astrophysisit if I hadn’t wasted all those formative years hating myself and whatnot. Ah well.
(I left astrophysicist intentionally misspelled just so that everyone could have a clear idea of how far away I am from becoming an astrophysicist.)
Anyway, head on over and check out all the wonderful poetry about space time.
Image source: Unsplash.com
Back off, weekend daddy
Crawl back to the lies from where you came
Foolish journey
You can’t love her part-time all the same
Ruled by convenient choices
You run away when realness makes you feel
Beggars can’t be choosers
You can’t have the nectar without the peel
I feel like you should know
That the seeds you sow
In the garden will grow
Even if you don’t show
You can say what you want
Empty words ring hollow
Like the life that you flaunt
Your substance falls below
Beat it, winter loser
Slink back to the fires that kept you warm
Spineless coward
Couldn’t brace to fight against her storm
Tread through that least resistance
Your privilege paved a way I couldn’t follow
No man is an island
You left me alone; alone you’ll know sorrow
Could you recognize me?
Would my eyes be the key?
Like yours they show misery
At what you’ve stolen from we
I know that you must hurt too
Withered possibility
I cannot grow into you
Cause you weren’t there for me.
** *
I followed NaPoWriMo’s day 4 enigma prompt somewhat. And now, I could use a drink. Sweet dreams, everyone.
trE shared our collaboration on her blog. This is our first collaborative effort in many years, and I’m happy with the result. Check it out if you like.
it stings a bit: A Collaborative Effort with “Just Barry” – http://wp.me/p1traG-1Nb
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