Tarnished

The following poem is written for Magpie Tales, a weekly photoprompt that everyone should check out!

Clumps of designer mascara

Trickle down surgically-crafted cheekbones

Yesterday

her biggest decision involved 

choosing what marble to use in the kitchen

and what cut

her diamond earrings should be

Today

her biggest decision involves

choosing the fanciest urn for his ashes

and where

on the mantle he should go

Red wine and valium

serve as the cocktail of the elite.

Tiny Pomeranians

serve as living accessories to her Gucci boots.

Running to the bathroom,

she vomits

(For once, not by choice)

He left her without instructions

or a designer clutch to carry them in

And now

she must navigate the dreamhouse alone

The 2,000 thread count

Egyptian sheets on

the king-sized bed grow cold.

Oh lonely trophy wife,

who will polish you now?

Tiny Blessings

         The following poem is a submission to Thursday Think Tank over at Poet's United.  The prompt was inspired by the recent holiday of Thanksgiving: thankfulness.  May you realize all of your blessings this year.

Mom's ambrosia salad

The way Dad cuts the bird in methodical strips

Little brother finishing my sentences

Little sister arising from the sweet spot on the couch

(she knows it is my birthright)

Puppy warmth

As he nestles in the crook of my knee

Safe, content, grateful.

Fuzzy blankets

Wrapping this family in a cocoon

of peace

Nostalgia fills the silent spaces in the room

The only talking comes

from our bellies, overflowing

with pumpkin pie and happiness.

Somehow we survived

the icy years

to arrive, intact,

 here.

Navyman

Today I found myself

pulling one of your letters

from the dusty shoebox

hiding behind wrapping paper and old yearbooks.

Slowly

Under the swinging lightbulb

I ran my fingers over the aged ink

gently--ever so gently

In the moment I was touching you

for the crease of the paper

was the ridge under your nose

and i traced it seductively

all the way to the edge...

Staring in between the letters

I saw us dancing--

our shapes twisting in rhythm

to the rise and fall of the words

once again

To me,

this paper will always smell

of time and regret:

of moments captured and caged,

forever.

Where are you now?

I think you would be amused to know

that our memories

live, trapped, in a shoebox

in my closet.

The following poem is a submission to Jingle's POetry Potluck.   Thanks for reading a have a great week!

Losing It (otherwise known as "I'm.Not.Ready.")

The following poem is an entry for Poet's United's prompt of "family."  I had to go way back in the memory vault for this one, guys.  It straddles the line between poetry and prose. I couldn't decide which way to go.  I think it's a work in progress.  What do you think?

It has been going on for weeks.
 Forward, back.  Forward, back.
Wiggle left. Wiggle right.
My five year old tongue has become
a tentacle
probing the hollow space
and the mysterious "thread" my tooth swung by.
I picture myself walking around
 with dangling strings where
teeth once lived.

Eternities pass.
Forward, back. Forward, back.
Wiggle left. Wiggle right.
I'm. Not. Ready. 
I tell everyone
with conviction.
Can't they see they are asking me
to pull off a priceless appendage?
Tooth fairy be damned. 
Her promises of quarters lend no solace to
my anxious heart.

Forward, back. Forward, back.
Wiggle left.  Wiggle right.
A tiny crusader,
I would rather choke in the night
than surrender.
"No, they will not take my tooth," I vow to my Cabbage Patch dolls.
Tu-tu'd fairies could skip my pillow, thank you.
Keep your quarters, you devil creature.
I'm. Not. Ready.

With the stealth of a jungle cat
my father lures me into the bathroom one night.
"I just want some light to see it."
(Fine, but I'm Not Ready.)

Twenty minutes later my cheeks
are tearstained and flushed.
Warily, i grip the counter like a vice.
I inch my mouth open only
after he swears he won't pull.

"I just want to feel it," the charming executioner explains.
"Okay," I relent. "But don't pull.  Just feel."

Silence and stars fill my vision.  i am closing my eyes so tightly i see color splotches. 

"Kate, it's ready.  It won't hurt, I promise.  Count to three."

Tears cascade as i finally surrender
to the annihilation of my tooth.
A young Atlas, every second i hold my mouth open
I am holding the earth in the sky.
"Okay." I manage, and hiccup through the sobs.
"One..." I begin, then deciding I am only prolonging the inevitable,
I whisper, "Just do it."
"It's out," he replies.
"What?" I squeal as I open my eyes to my father holding up my bloody trophy.
"How'd you do that?" Amazed, I forget to cry.
He smiles in fatherly elusiveness,
"Magic."

Strangers

      The following poem was written in response to a prompt from the blog One Single Impression and the lovely Jingle for Monday's Potluck at Jingle Poetry.

Sticky graham cracker crumbs

decorate the boy's round face

and he reaches inside his overalls

to stash some for later, presumably.

A redhead.

He looks mischievious enough to be a "Dylan"

or possibly an "Oliver"--the angelic smile

and intrusiveness as he grabs

the laces of my worn out Nikes

and pulls.

A lethargic woman in an a juice-stained dress

bends to scold.

Not red.

A mother? (No, she seems too patient)

A caregiver, maybe?

Her disheveled head lifts toward me

she gives me an apologetic shrug

While her fingers dig in her knock-off clutch

for a quick ransom

Upon delivering a dented Matchbox car

she purrs in his ear,

"We don't play with stranger's shoes..."

Strands of hair have come loose from her ponytail

and encircle her face like a halo,

floating independently of one another

revealing maternal haste and practicality

Averting my eyes politely, 

I stare at the graham cracker shape

left on the carpeted floor.

An awkward silence.

I become acutely aware of the sound

of sighing and wheezing from one of them

(Leftover from a winter cold, perhaps?) 

The blinking numbers rise steadily.

After a brief pause,

our trio is saved by the "ding" of the bell.

I step out of the elevator

into reality

While marveling at humanity's complex nature

And curious interactions

with red-headed boys

I will never know their names.

The Shoreline

Okay, so here we go.  I think you can all tell where my head's at.  If you can't, please read my previous post to see where my emotions are originating from right now. 

My mom told me one time that God can handle my anger-- i should be angry with Him and then move on.  Here's to hoping.

I.

She looks down at the granules at her feet,

thinking,

"If moments of time were measured in sand,

I wish I could

go back and give you a beachful."

She looks up at the silent stars in the sky,

screaming,

"Fuck you, God.

Fuck you."

[In reply,

there is nothing but the sound

of the wind and the waves,

chanting:

chanting:

chanting:

"They were never yours to give."]

II.

She looks down at the keys on her keyboard,

punching,

"I will find the words to bring you back--

words

that can heal us both."

She looks up at the whirling ceiling fan

muttering,

"Fuck you, God.

Fuck you."

III.

An electric memory shoots from the back

of her brain

[or from the silent sky]

Lying on the beach with her friend.

The wind whipped hard that day,

mixing the pleasure of the sun's rays with gravely rain.

Irritated,

her friend bolted upright from her beach towel.

"Are you ready to go yet?"

"Why?"

"It's too sandy."

"Carrie, it's the beach."

"I know but it's windy and getting all over.  I'm going for a walk.  Just not a fan of sand.  Never have been, never will be."

"Well, i'm not ready to get up. I'm gonna lie here for a while."

"Okay, see you later."

"Bye, Carrie."

IV.

A granule of hope appears. 

She never liked sand, anyway.



       The previous poem was written as my first attempt at participating in Theme Thursday.  Everyone should check this site out!

Requesiat in Pace, Carrie 5/9/1979-10/25/2010



Carrie is the one on the far left in pink.
I'm the blond in the stripes.





Shades of Pink

*for Sizzle, who encouraged me to wear pink

In a heartbeat,

a heartbeat stops.





How the road must have been enclosed

in a snowy silence

and all of nature frozen, confused

by the sound of destruction

and screaming of metal.

Afterward.

Somehow "instantaneously"

brings me no comfort.

Surely you were a fighter--

You lingered the span of lifetimes,

if only for a split second.

Physical pain didn't scare you.

And if it did, you walked through it.

You believed

it was temporary.

I didn't know until today

that you were, too.

In peaceful moments,

I picture you in those last few seconds

Your ears filled with the sound of
"Boogie Shoes" or Liz Phair or Stevie Nicks,

singing to an audience of birds and the trees...

But most of the time,

I picture you powerless

trapped in a cage of steel

hurdling towards death--

a place of excruciating silence.

Everyone says it was a blessing

that you died clean.

They say that 11 years is a miracle.

Messages of comfort bring me anger.

Right now, all i know

is that

you are gone.



Motor City

          I am a proud member of Poet's United and love participating in Think Tank Thursday, where writers are given a prompt for inspiration.  This week's prompt was: The Beauty in the Ugly--trying to take an "ugly" thing and make it beautiful.

          I thought i would give some background information to this poem.  When i was little, whenever we drove through Detroit (i'm from a nearby suburb), i would see steam rising out of the vents in the street.  As i child i had no idea what this phenomeon was--and it seemed magical to me.  i eventually came up with my own theory as to what was causing the seemingly impossible columns of smoke: ghosts. (hey, pollution was a tough concept at 7!)  To some who look at Detroit from the outside, it may appear like a "concrete jungle" laden with graffiti and abandoned buildings.  It is; i don't deny that--only ask you to see the beauty in the unseen...



Driving down Woodward Avenue

Ethereal pillars

take the shape

of the long dead

spirits of Detroit

Floating homeless men

with plastic tarps for winter coats

smile toothlessly

clutching lottery tickets

with greased stained knuckles

Ghosts of teenage girls

beckoning in faux fur coats,

their pants and modesty

a distant memory

Phantoms

of forgotten revolutionaries

with age spotted hands

shake their fists,

rising and rioting

still

The smoky figure 

of a music man

tapping in time

humming under his breath

'bout the smooth-cheeked philly

who's ain't never comin back

Rolling down the window

in the Automotive Capital of the world

A naive suburban girl

I stick my head out the window

and inhale

I am smacked

with sirens blaring and

the portrait of struggle materialized.

Grime. Dirt.  Blackened soot.

A metallic taste in the back of my mouth.

The behemoth machine of a city

standing defiantly

up

off its knees.

Riding through the center of the ghosts,

the spirits are ripped in half.

They dissipate

only to begin their long struggle

once again from the underground tunnels of bondage

up into the

open

air.

Prisoner

Susan over at Stoney River gives a photoprompt every week called Microfiction Monday.  The task is to generate a response in 140 characters or less.

What they didn’t know:

Under her tresses—a brain;
Under her dresses—the king’s keychain

Emancipation

This is a weekly writing prompt given by Magpie Tales.   I decided to go a little dark this week.  Not sure if the changing seasons or spooky movies i have been watching have been affecting my brain!  Hopefully this sends a chill or two...

Dere Diare,
         
           Momma opened the door in the sky today.  She says it is time to leave Playland "for good."  i asked Momma what "for good" means and she says "for ever and ever."  
            Momma says we cant take Elise's Heavon Box with us when we go to Skyworld.  She has to stay sleepng in her Heavon Box in Playland.  i snuck when Momma wasn't looking and drew a picture of us on the side of Elise's Heavon Box in case she ever wakes up.  So she can find us in Skyworld.  Henry says she won't never wake up, she has been sleepng since my last birthday day.  And that was when i couldnt even reach the sink faucet without Mr. Bucket.  I wish we could take Mr. Bucket too.
            Henry says he is excited to go, that in Skyworld there are sooooo many antfriends  that brothurs dont even have to fight over them.  i wonder how the brothers in Skyworld remember their antfriends names if there are so many.  i think Henry is telling fibs again.   
            Momma says we have to leave PLayland because the Tall Man went to  his own Heavon Box and we wont see him no more.  He wont bring us orange crackers or crayons or Mrs. Bucket to trade for Mr. Bucket.  Diare do you think they have orange crackers in Skyworld? Henry says they have orange crackers in Skyworld.  I hope so cuz i am on wrapper 799 and i would be sad if i couldnt get another wrapper to make 800.  I think im gonna leave my collection of wrappers under Elise's Heavon Box.  That way she will still have something to play with in Playland if she ever comes out.
           I am scarred Diare.  What if lose Momma or Henry out in Skyworld?  Sometimes Playland seems big with 3 people, and Momma says there are sooooooo many people out in Skyworld we gotta hold hands "AT ALL TIMES."  I asked Momma what "at all times" means and she said "for ever and ever."
           When i look out the door Momma opened today, my eyes cry because they hurt. Do you think they will hurt all the time Diare?
          Be brave Diare.  If you get lonely you can talk to my antfriends (and Henrys too), but Pete and Smoky and Lightball can be mean so stay away from them.
           Love,
Charley

Autumn's Song

The following poem was written for Magpie Tales, a weekly photoprompt.

Creation on fire;

a symphony of color

playing a tune

that for a moment

drowns out humanity,

making us stop

in our tiny mammalian tracks.

Suddenly--

Hearts on fire

we must bow to a Higher Power

that allows us to sing along,

becoming

part of the chorus

of the eternal

Fairytale Revisited

The following prompt is for Poet's United Thursday's Think Tank.  The topic was complaints/grumbings.  I just so happen to be overflowing with material!

The prince is late.
This castle ledge is getting moldy.
My silken hair is getting split ends up here
and the glaring sun is doing nothing for my agelines.

Ominous crows circle at eyelevel
Thinking i must be a madwoman
waiting
waiting
waiting
for a charming voice from below
that bellows i will be saved,
at last.

For my mother

I remember being in the womb
Floating in love and anticipation
Knowing
that someday the gigantic cocoon i was in
would break free
and the soothing voice
murmuring from the heavens above
would teach me such things as
how to tie my shoes,
how to write a thank-you letter,
and how to hold a grieving person's hand.
She would show me
how to make "Better Than Sex" cake,
how to roll sock balls,
and how to make my own reservations.
She would know
how to braid my hair,
how to praise my successes,
and how to cushion my failures.
From inside my ocean,
i was certain
that she couldn't help but stay with me
Because her voice was all around me
And it was all i knew of safety,
of nourshment,
of bouyancy.
Today--and on fortunate days--
i get to see her face.
But inside, above, below and all around me
i always can hear
her voice.

This poem was written for Poet's United prompt #14 of "Water" and Sunday Scribblings prompt #230 of "Faith"

The Long War

The following poem is in response to this week's Magpie Tales prompt.

                The war-torn veteran stood on the grassy slope.  It had been over 50 years since he had stood on this very spot and gazed at her house.  The deceiving sun lit the face of familiar bricks, beckoning him forth.  Since then he had lost his idealism, his youth, and his left arm.

               He was returning, at last, to her.

              Would she stand at the threshold of the door in silence?  Pity?  Anger?

              Was she even alive?

             With every breath he wished so, as she was the one who brought him onto this earth.  And he wanted to be the one to take her out of it.

Whenever

This poem is a response for this week's prompt provided by

Thursday Tales.

 I gasp whenever

the winds of time blow you

to my door once again

(And for a short time,

it is

how it was)

The rooster momentarily pauses

and allows us

a secret coupling...

He winks

before averting his gaze

in a westernly direction.

The Parasite of Pain

“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.”

~Kenji Miyazawa

          Thursday's Think Tank from Poet's United

          The idea or concept of pain can cover a vast field of thoughts and emotions. We must confront pain no matter how simple or hard it is. This week write about whatever pains you.

                                                    

Swallowing your poison seed

I understand the infestation

won't take too long

before it goes

from my helpless nerve endings

driven into the core of my brittle bones

And then up into

my defenseless cerebral cortex.

Deep inside my innermost membrane,

your kernal of malice

is bured under a decade-old compost pile

of rotting fear and insecurity

Adding silence,

hatred blooms triumphant.

Witness Trees

                                                Thursday Think Tank #10
                                                       Poets United

"For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be”
~Lord Alfred Tennyson

It is said that the eyes are the window to the soul. Share with us your poem about the eyes. If we vote right now for our prompt for the week…the eyes have it.

Witness Trees

They watch our scurrying in silence.

Building our anthills with fervor,

marching in lines.

They can't understand the noise, bloodshed and horror.

They observe us slaughtering each other

with colossal machines of death.

Back and forth we run

moving dirt this way and that

in rhythms of chaos and explosions.

In their motionlessness

they must think we're lunatics

Racing, pacing, interlacing stones with sky.

They must know by now that they should be afraid.

And even if they could grow eyes,

surely all they would do is cry.

Halfway

This is a submission for Sunday Scribblings #227, and this week's topic was "halfway."

Halfway

I sit here.

You sit there.

5 feet apart.

But it seems more than 5 feet

because

in that distance

there are miles of hurt

there are highways of mistrust

there are oceans of pain.

I could fill the sky

with what you've done.

In that distance

is a space

that can't be bridged.

5 feet apart.

Here.

There.

And Halfway

is nowhere.

                                       

An Award! Yay me!

I am really honored that Traci over at  38 and growing awarded me with the Versatile Blogger Award.  This is my first award and i am truly grateful for all the wonderful comments and support.  You guys are awesome!

Now i need to tell you seven things about myself:

1.  My favorite book is Charlotte's Web, and yes, my pen name is the character from the book.  Templeton's scrappy and conniving and can be bribed with food (much like myself)!

2.  I like to eat dry cereal.

3.  I have two feline roommates, Frankie and Wilson.

4.  I recently started computer dating.  YIKES!

5.  I still feel about 8 or 9 most days.

6.  My TV remote is currently lost and i'm hoping it finds itself.

7.  I have written a Young Adult novel that i think is pretty good, but i don't know how to proceed.  (Meaning, how to get my stuff out into the world).  I also am trying to get a poetry book together, as well.  But for a girl from Detroit who doesn't have much knowledge about the business, and self esteem for that matter, getting to my dream of publication seems daunting at times!

Now comes the fun part.  i get to nominate 10 other blogs that i feel deserve this award.  Here are the blogs i frequent regularly:

                        Madison at Afternoon Tea

                         Crystal at Autism's Bitch

                        Brenda at Beyond the Bozone

                        Wookie's Girl at Bleeding Insanity Again

                         Mavis at Cinnamon Synonym

                          Amity at Dreams are My Reality  

                            Ellie at Ellie Garrett

                        T at T's Subplot

                            Rebecca at Just a Thought

                          Jack at Letters from a Sanitarium

Thanks again for reading!

Mirrors

Saturday Centus

Jenny Matlock gives a prompt that must be kept intact and used somewhere in the writing (it's in bold).

           Young Henry was exhilarated beyond belief when the Traveling Circus came to town. He had waited all day in line to see Fredrico the Fantastic Fortune Teller! He would finally get an answer to the most pressing question on his heart: did his beautiful classmate Mabel like him?
             Stepping in the tent, Henry posed this question to the marvelous Fredrico, who stared fixedly into a giant crystal ball. Fredrico narrowed his eyes stated mysteriously, “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

            “Huh?” Henry replied, getting angry that Fredrico had taken his nickel and given him nonsense in return. He had been duped!  At that moment that his overbearing mother popped her head inside the tent, “Mr. Ford, get your little butt out here this instant!”

            Henry scurried outside muttering, “What a sham!”

Haiku

Magpie 26
 

Drip Drop Drip Drop Drip

You are the watering can

to my thirsty soul

My Sanctuary

The Thursday Think Tank
Poets United will put out weekly poetry prompts in hopes of inspiring great poetry. We will attempt to do so every Thursday. This is not a requirement of our members, it is merely a way to provoke our creative urges.

PROMPT #9:
Sanctuary: a place of refuge
 

My Sanctuary

 

My sanctuary lies in a musty church basement.

It is decorated with uncomfortable metal folding chairs and smells of strong, black coffee.

My sanctuary doesn't have a choir.

In fact, instead of hymns I hear anthems of despair.  Anthems of desperation and, at times, surrender.

I don't find angels either. 

The voice of God sounds exactly like the stranger sitting next to me.

In my sanctuary i find my fellow tribe members.  And they will keep me safe from the visions in my head for a short while.

I am sheltered from the monster that whispers, "This time you can handle it."

This church basement holds

laughter and tears

hope and redemption

death and life.

 

My sanctuary is no longer in the shape of little white pills.

Now my sanctuary is in me.

Ten Little Piggies

Hey all! Welcome to Thursday Tales.

Here, every week on Wednesday/Thursday, we offer you a photograph to base a short story on, and no, you don't have to write thousand words!! The rules will be put up in the prompt too. And we hope you shall have fun writing on the basis of a picture.(It's harder than it seems.) Any one who participates will be added to our Tales Train.

Tale #19

Ten Little Piggies

       The ancient mermaid had finally earned her legs after 575 years, exactly.

       As she walked down the beach for the first time, the granules of sand squished between the stubby tentacles on the bottom of where her fins used to be.  (It kinda hurt actually.) She instinctively felt under her breasts for her gills and was met with hard, stony ridges instead. The new airholes in her head felt very small and inadequate indeed.

       The sun seemed angry up here, beating on where her scales used to be and slapping her face.  There were strange beasts swimming overhead in the light blue expanse of sky.  She missed the dark blue comfort of her home.

       It was extraordinary not to have to use her arms for movement.  She quite didn't know what to do with them, first holding them out parallel to the sand and then folded them into her torso.  Being human was a such a complicated ordeal!

       She had been told that she only had about 3 days before this body would break down from lack of feeding, so she decided she must begin looking for sustinance at once.  But where to go?  She was alone and a feeling of dread washed over her.

       Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all...

Ashes

Microfiction Monday #42

Only the crumbling walls remember now.


Only they recall the screams of the small children.


The burning of flesh and the witch’s maniacal howling.


The oven that held dark secrets was gone.


The very last gumdrops


Had long ago melted in the unforgiving sun.


New growth had sprung up, covering the dilapidated peppermint stairs.


Only the crumbling walls remember now.

Saturday Centus

Saturday Centus #13
100 word meme using the prompt highlighted in bold.

The summer breeze flowed through my fingers spread out like a starfish, as we drove last weekend.  Randingo and I were checking the local garage sales for hidden treasures, and I had just disclosed the fact that I had started a blog a few months back.


“I don’t get it,” she says, “I’ve told you before that your poetry is good. What’s different about hearing it from complete strangers?”

“That’s just it…they don’t know me. Their comments therefore have to be sincere, right?” I explained.

“Yeah, they don't know you," she pondered. "Now i see that’s why it meant so much.”

Pawned

Magpie Tales #25

Pawned

The leathery old man at the pawn shop reached across the glass countertop and blew cigar smoke in my face.

"Ma'am," he rasped, "You can't sell this lock.  Not while your first love still has the key."