Alone at the Reading

WOOHOO THE LAST FAUXPOWRIMO!!!

#30, comin' at ya.

Alone at the Reading


I left pieces of me in the cafe,
Pieces that clung to the clamor of poets on parade:
A raucous bunch I'd be loathed to quiet.
They trumpeted as they hooked onto my hands and feet
And stretched me across the room like a trampoline.
But no one wants a jump.
Tempted, perhaps.
Curious, as their fingers drum up and down their cups and cans
And plan to ask, "Who is this girl alone at the reading,
Scribbling blue babble while the lions roar and she ignores?
Maybe she's a poet too.
She looks unglued enough to join our tribe."
I am hopeful as the scribes call me over
And give me smiles and smokes
To coax me out of ALONE. 
By the end, it is the beginning.
Although my poetry goes unspoken,
I litter it across the cafe,
Along with the pieces I left for another parade.

Disbelief

FauxPoWriMo #29

Disbelief


He prays the only way his heart allows.
Skeptic, he sketches what Heaven is etched onto his heart:
An empty Elysium. 
No cloud is a town,
And no god is an entity beyond breeze. 

Vacation

FauxPoWriMo #28

Vacation

I was resolved to spend those days in ink:

Fighting languor and vexation

And making the most of my vacation.

Instead, I laid pen and paper aside

So that you could have my lap.

Many pages remained blank,
But it was worth it to watch you nap. 

Surface Confusion

FauxPoWriMo #27

Surface Confusion


The years keep telling me my age.
The lines refine and remind me
How many smiles have crossed this face
And creased it with joy.
But the rosy spots of youth remain,
Confusing my reflection.
All my life, I've been trying to follow the advice to grow up.
But my skin refuses,
Infusing a woman with an eternal teenager,
Minus true youth.
I try to grow up,
But the future is spotty. 

Turning Home

FauxPoWriMo #26


Turning Home



These roundabouts don't belong
In straight-paved schoolyards.
Neither does reminiscence, say the turns.
Let the memories nap for now.
It's better to accept the rest
Than wish the past into
Eternal sleep. 

Our Path

FauxPoWriMo #25

Our Path


From my toes, a path stretches
Into chasms littered with plaster-cluttered pittance
And lands in simple revolution.
(The turn, I stress, not the evolution.)


We still stand in sitting
And still hope in betting
That every day will rise in fire
Of life's desire and forgetting. 
Forgetting will come slow
But desire burns it to a subtle glow.


Your footsteps grace the path
And rake the leaves aside.
The path then leads to
Beauty: uncluttered, unfettered,
And undenied. 

Pretty Words

FauxPoWriMo #22

An Ode on Ozymandias

FauxPoWriMo 21

An Ode on Ozymandias

Through whispered smoke,
A poem arrives on a school boy's tongue.
Numb in all but lips and eyes,
He recites to me
A dirge turned idyllic melody.
Every stone, every sneer,
Every hazy dream stands clear before my borrowed bed,
And the school boy stands a man
At finally knowing what Shelley meant.
My audience gave the words dimension.
Before my glazy-eyed awe,
The intent was spent in the day's assignment.
Teenage rebellion kept worth at a distance:
About as far as I sat, curled in wonder
Under a shawl;
So small I was, it blanketed me with wool to spare.
But at the poem's end,
I shed my shelter and embraced another:

Ozymandias, King of kings,
Cover me from this night to the end of mornings.
Touch my works with stone turned flesh,
And let no King or Queen despair it. 

The worth is in our traveling words.
The worth is in our sharing it.

For anyone who doesn't know, my favorite poem is "Ozymandias" by Percy Shelley. It has been my favorite poem since I was around 9 years old. While celebrating Christmas with relatives in North Carolina, I heard the poem for the first time, recited to me by a stoned cousin. I would later go on to write a book that includes Ramesses II (aka Ozymandias). So, as you can see, that first recitation made quite an impression on me. Enjoy!

Helliday

FauxPoWriMo #20


Helliday


We cling to twinkle lights
And strive to, in all things, be evergreen.
But when the bank breaks the bulbs
And time takes its daily due,
The strands fray to filament
And the prick of pine becomes more apparent. 

This Penny Dream

FauxPoWriMo #19


This Penny Dream


Wedge your thumb under my head
And flip me into the air.
This penny dream sails past all sense,
But I cling to the chance that you may catch me,
Slap my tales onto your palm,
And be richer. 

Give Thanks

FauxPoWriMo #18

Give Thanks

Polish up your phoney grin

And your funeral heels.

Buy Chablis for the others,

But use rum to grease your wheels.

Try to bake as well as fake

Pumpkin Pie contentment.

Lay your napkin on your lap

To catch crumbles of resentment.

Remember that you love them all

Although you cannot say it.

Hug the strangers, quake in fear,

And hope the joint allays it.

Curb the cursing, ditch the bitch,

Pretend you're wholly sweet.

If you can't think of a topic,

Why not have some more to eat?

Be thankful for the lives you touch

Even if they skeeve you out.

It's better to be welcomed in

Than quickly ushered out.

To hell with the apologies

From both sides, overdue.

Give thanks for having family

To give your thanks unto.

Soul-Poor

FauxPoWriMo #17


Soul-Poor


You say you'll sell me pieces of your soul,
But I can't afford the best bits:
The oxygenated areas that keep me breathing you in,
Deep and slow,
Instead of these staccato gasps that never quite catch you.
"Grow up, girl," you say
As you shake your piggy bank.
The fullness mocks my hollow pockets,
The deepest one still begging to beat for you.
Beaten down, I scrounge for change
To afford your scraps.
Even if it's dogmeat or whisky-dick dreck,
I am sadly glad to pay for your pieces
With the best bits of me.

He Spoke to Worlds

FauxPoWriMo #16


He Spoke to Worlds


The stranger on Double Tree
Spoke in a language
We didn't understand till we were grown.
Set in worlds we'd never known,
The stories made us dream for the first time.
In tongue turned paint,
He spoke of ridges unclimbed and seas unsailed.
The gibberish rivers flowed in sleep
And made us feel the unveiled possibility
Beyond the language we embraced as "home".
We wanted to roam,
And the stranger knew.
His mythos grew from Double Tree to Earth:
A place we never saw until life let loose.
Through the dust and through the lawn
Encrusting his penny blazer,
We saw only silver,
And as we grew old,
Perfect Gold.
It was the only John Doe funeral we attended.
Through our lives, we remembered his tales
And always sought to set sail
To the worlds he had in mind.
It was strangely simple to leave real worlds behind.
I wish we had understood his language
And his anguish.
Now we know.
Now we are strangers,
And Double Tree beckons for new ears.
Our lulling gibberish comes too easily.

Under the Icy Heaps

FauxPoWriMo #15

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!! I'm 29, feelin' fine, and writin' rhyme. Dig it, Droogies. :)

Under the Icy Heaps


A leaf sees the world and changes with it,
But when the deep dissolve comes to conquer,
The veins remain
And carry stories through the snow.
Under the icy heaps,
It speaks to the earth
And the earth replies,
"What a delightful stranger."
The leaf is pleased
And allows the moisture to finally
Fray its veins. 
It is gone then, but it will return.
The leaf never remembers its repeated fall,
Nor the great worlds it sees in Summer.
But the earth always remembers,
Anticipating Winter's gift of an old friend. 

Fly Again

FauxPoWriMo #13

Fly Again

The bird's last flight
Is tasted for all time.
They say wingless is Springless, 
But the Winter wears bright colors too,
And the journey through life
Is flight enough
For those willing to brave the air.

Duty over Love

FauxPoWriMo #12

Duty over Love

Your casual avoidance
is a chilly reply;

With your back to my face

And eyes half closed,

I suppose you don't love me.

Your attention is better kept

By yourself,

By the duty to which your race is adept.

You choose it over me.

Every time I see you start,
My heart hopes to be chosen instead.

But it happens over and over again.

He ignores my whistles,

My kisses and calls.

Nothing hurts like the preoccupation

Of a cat licking his balls.

Champ

 FauxPoWriMo #11

Carelessly, I
Hold on
And the feeling goes on,
Meandering
Past all proper
Acts.
Giggles are groping me,
Nudging and roping me
Eagerly onto my back.

Cheer Up, Charlie

FauxPoWriMo #10

Cheer Up, Charlie

Charlie didn't smile much.

Smiles were for kids

Whose lives lacked real artistry

And lived on perfect grids,

Where breakfast comes with sunshine

In saucers made of gold.

That wasn't Charlie's scene at all,

Not even at nine years old.

Dressed in gray and grayer,

He painted pictures of the sheep,

Who bleated shallow drivel

While he didn't make a peep.

But his paintings spoke volumes

About the world he saw:

A dismal, dreary, dungeon,

Ideal for him to draw.

He delighted in his darkness.

He adored his sullen tones.

He celebrated the things he loved

With scores of scornful groans.

“Cheer up, Charlie,” said his mom.

“Be jovial, light, and jolly.”

Though he loved her so, he barked,

“I'd rather be melancholy.”

“Your friends want to play with you.

You used to be so close.

Now you sit inside alone,

Painting yourself morose.”

“I don't mean to be a bother,”

Sarcastically, he spat.

“But I do need more hoodies.

Do they come blacker than black?”

She sighed and left him painting.

How could his mother know?

He couldn't go outside and play

Until he was ready to show

The dark world something pretty.

Something innocent and pure.

Someday the paint would speak to him.

Till then, he would endure.

From crouched behind a thorny bush,

The playground seemed so small.

And though he was quite tucked away,

Somehow, the big red ball

Still found its way over

And smacked him in the head.

“Thanks,” he yelled, sneezing blood,

“My drawing needed red.”

“Sorry about that, Charlie.

It's my first time playing Dodge,”

Valerie Grimm said, tilting her head

And Charlie's focus dislodged.

She was dressed just like a sunrise,

Dipped in honey-golden cheer.

She smiled, waiting for her fate,

And Charlie forced a sneer.

“Watch it next time,” he grumbled

And Valerie rejoined the game.

Looking back to his drawing,

Charlie had lost all his aim.

Growling and crumpling and tossing,

He figured as much would transpire.

Cynicism was a hungry muck,

And there was no avoiding the mire.

But in his darkest hours,

Painting an unconscious work,

Charlie bordered on cheerful,

Adding pink stripes to her skirt.

Her braided hair followed them,

And with ribbon laced throughout,

Her curls rode her shoulder blades,

Making it painful to pout.

Little by little, his sleep added on

Freckles and polish and trim,

Until the day he couldn't deny

The portrait of Valerie Grimm.

The innocent girl was a beauty.

He hadn't seen it before,

But he had to see her again to know

If the painting was honestly pure.

He approached her on the playground,

Shaking but hiding it well

Behind a sour expression,

So she wouldn't be able to tell

How much he admired her color,

Her spirit, her beauty, her cheer.

He couldn't confess that her sunrise dress

Enthralled him as much as things drear.

“I made this for you,” Charlie said,

And the painting passed into her hands.

Her eyes widened and jaw dropped,

And just when all appeared grand,

She grumbled and rolled her emerald eyes.

“Oh jeez,” she said in distress.

“The first time someone paints me,

And I'm wearing that horrible dress.”

“You don't like it,” Charlie whimpered,

And Valerie shouted a “No!”

“I think it's beautiful, Charlie.

I just hate my mom's taste in clothes.

She makes me wear these bright things,

Though I beg her to cut me some slack.

All this purple and turquoise and orange,

When I really just want to wear black.”

“My mom's the same,” Charlie explained,
Feeling ten times his height.

“Amazing!” she said and withdrew a pen.

“Wait, I have a poem to write.”

“You write?” he asked hopefully,

But she didn't answer until

The poem was inked onto her arm

And she tucked away her quill.

Valerie Grimm smiled at him

And Charlie's smiled at her.

She was the one he was waiting for:

Something pretty and pure.

And an artist to boot, what wonderful luck

To find her in sunlight near.

So pretty she was in a dark, dark world:

The Grimm girl who upped Charlie's cheer.

Character Machine

FauxPoWriMo #9

Character Machine

The hour sets the scene for slaughter.

Lady Danger knows it well and rings the bell,

Beckoning the burgers-to-be

And bludgeoning their brains

With politics

And passion-plays.

She knows the long sip that will coax them in,

Those children dressed for the graveyard cotillion.

She pinches each cheek

And grins.

“My, but it's been a dog's age” she crows,

And they flock to her grinder:

Her character machine.

They will soon know her game.

They will be more than food for gluttons,

But there is blood on the Lady's hands.

It pleases her and terrifies them.

“Murder!” they cry on the tongue's last waggle.

She giggles as they tumble into her glass, bobbing.

They are only bone below the neck,

But there is more meat in the marrow

Then in the moral majority.

When all is said and done,

When every scrap is crimson clay,

Play is all that remains

And Lady Danger can sled the hill on humeri.

Pesticide

FauxPoWriMo #8

Pesticide

When I was ten, I killed a cricket

With a stick that

made me King.

Quelling curiosity,

I made the cricket sing.

Once a chirping soldier leaping

O'er the sleeping

green and gold,

It was naught but empty armor

Faced with Death at ten years old.