Saturday, November 27, 2010


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
her biggest decision involved 
choosing what marble to use in the kitchen
and what cut
her diamond earrings should be
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,

Monday, November 15, 2010


Today I found myself
pulling one of your letters
from the dusty shoebox
hiding behind wrapping paper and old yearbooks.

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,

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!

Sunday, November 14, 2010

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,

Monday, November 8, 2010


      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.

Friday, November 5, 2010

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.


She looks down at the granules at her feet,
"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,
"Fuck you, God.
Fuck you."

[In reply,
there is nothing but the sound
of the wind and the waves,
"They were never yours to give."]


She looks down at the keys on her keyboard,
"I will find the words to bring you back--
that can heal us both."

She looks up at the whirling ceiling fan
"Fuck you, God.
Fuck you."


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.
her friend bolted upright from her beach towel.
"Are you ready to go yet?"
"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."


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!