So.
For those who haven't been keeping up: I've recently started teaching a new subject, to a new grade level, at a new school, gotten a new apartment - both in new cities, and am trying to navigate some new rules for an old relationship....hmmm...For those who have been keeping up...we know that I don't deal well with new.
This is where Chriss (and everyone else in my inner circle) will tell me that a line of medical defense would be extraordinarly helpful against this state of depression I've been choosing to "beat back" with cookie dough and sleep. But you don't have to know me well at all to know what my response to that looks like.
What does this mean?
Be on the look out for some really bad, really angsty poetry...or maybe some really hostile pseudo-political rants here in the near future. And if are one of the "chosen few" that edits my stuff for me (is it wrong to say groupies? Are you mad? You can call me your groupie too if it helps)....be on the lookout for something honest.
Speaking of poetry - guess who decided to take a year from Slam? This is not a throwback to the time I took off from writing (Do you remember that foolishness?) - this is a "it really isn't cute to disappear from your job to spend all of your money acting like you're 20 with a group of poets also pretending that they're 20." Next year, when I've built some cred with the boss and have *gasp* set aside some money for this kind of trip, I'll take my spot on the team back. Because that's not arrogant. I'll compete again, and hopefully be able to get a spot amongst the best that Piedmont's got to offer.
More to say, but I'm...tired of talking. So.
Peace Be
Search This Blog
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Adventures in Poetry
on Monday
the word is alarm clock
mine a shrill pounding on the head of my ear drum
a war cry awakening aimed at beating the sleep away from my body
it is twisted sheet and snooze button
and praying I set the coffee timer
cautious hand reaching to brush the hair away from your gentle face
the way I would when the wake up call was good morning
and a kiss
on Tuesday
the word is tantrum
since it's your turn to do the dishes
and I did them yesterday
and will be made to do them tomorrow
do you know the weight of dishwater
when you can't stop cooking for two
on Wednesday
it is pep talk
from anyone paying attention
to the way I refuse to go home after work
a seething cauldron of empty words
boiling into a witches' brew
on Thursday
the word is usually regret
which washes into Friday's reckless
eleven shots of anything strong enough for my heart as target practice
jukebox and table dance
and sloppy on the bar stool
it is lip and teeth and tongue and hands
to whomever presents themselves willing first
it is knowing memories are a dime a dozen
and paying the cost to be forgetful
Saturday morning
the word is mirror
and how the reflection grays in the frame
a dull whisper in the sag of my eyelids
each with the weight of the world on its lash
and I force myself to be still
to stand heavy and broken
lost and unsure
as to how to cull smiles from the ache in my throat
to shed tears
and not see your face
there is no word
for how I miss you on Sunday
hands raised during morning worship
a chorus of church folks calling on God
when all I want is to scream your name
their tears
a connection to something holy
mine
a desperate longing to hold you
to hold you
and be made whole again
and have no need to find words
the word is alarm clock
mine a shrill pounding on the head of my ear drum
a war cry awakening aimed at beating the sleep away from my body
it is twisted sheet and snooze button
and praying I set the coffee timer
cautious hand reaching to brush the hair away from your gentle face
the way I would when the wake up call was good morning
and a kiss
on Tuesday
the word is tantrum
since it's your turn to do the dishes
and I did them yesterday
and will be made to do them tomorrow
do you know the weight of dishwater
when you can't stop cooking for two
on Wednesday
it is pep talk
from anyone paying attention
to the way I refuse to go home after work
a seething cauldron of empty words
boiling into a witches' brew
on Thursday
the word is usually regret
which washes into Friday's reckless
eleven shots of anything strong enough for my heart as target practice
jukebox and table dance
and sloppy on the bar stool
it is lip and teeth and tongue and hands
to whomever presents themselves willing first
it is knowing memories are a dime a dozen
and paying the cost to be forgetful
Saturday morning
the word is mirror
and how the reflection grays in the frame
a dull whisper in the sag of my eyelids
each with the weight of the world on its lash
and I force myself to be still
to stand heavy and broken
lost and unsure
as to how to cull smiles from the ache in my throat
to shed tears
and not see your face
there is no word
for how I miss you on Sunday
hands raised during morning worship
a chorus of church folks calling on God
when all I want is to scream your name
their tears
a connection to something holy
mine
a desperate longing to hold you
to hold you
and be made whole again
and have no need to find words
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Adventures in Roadtrips
So.
Piedmont Slam (minus Kross and E, plus iShine and Mel) are heading to DC for the Beltway slam, which is a good time, but is full of inside jokes I'm not really privy to. And so, instead of feeling lame the entire trip, I pulled out the notebook and crafted this little ditty. No title yet, but I think its more or less finished. Enjoy.
Before my brother or I
were ideas in candlelight
my family folded into eastern Kentucky
like a 20 dollar bill in your first money clip
that will not go emerald at its edges
The photographs themselves are storybook enough
for a bedtime story or a history class
and the couch from these days sits in our garage
like a relic from earlier times
And something about the tattered and thin
still feels like home
Like the view from I-64 at sunrise years later on a mission to shed your skin
in the arms of a lover who curves your body like a swan dive into still water
Home
is the first swell of oxygen
in a body blue-blooded to the tips of its fingers
and the cold in its touch
reminding you sometimes
away is the only direction
In Kentucky
is the only poet I know who is ever more honest than me
along with a broken heart
The tattered and thin of its atria
just a few beats away from arrest
and I have stopped willing myself not to miss you
I see home in the smiles of our photographs
like a romance novel I've not finished yet
And they are still doing construction on I-64
There was a rock slide after our last goodbye
It put something solid on the fissure in my heart
And this is how we never love the same way twice
Not like skipping stones on the smooth of a river
Or curling yourself into a favored chair
Not like thumbprint pressed to the edges of a fading photo
Not like this
Not like home
--
Peace Be
Piedmont Slam (minus Kross and E, plus iShine and Mel) are heading to DC for the Beltway slam, which is a good time, but is full of inside jokes I'm not really privy to. And so, instead of feeling lame the entire trip, I pulled out the notebook and crafted this little ditty. No title yet, but I think its more or less finished. Enjoy.
Before my brother or I
were ideas in candlelight
my family folded into eastern Kentucky
like a 20 dollar bill in your first money clip
that will not go emerald at its edges
The photographs themselves are storybook enough
for a bedtime story or a history class
and the couch from these days sits in our garage
like a relic from earlier times
And something about the tattered and thin
still feels like home
Like the view from I-64 at sunrise years later on a mission to shed your skin
in the arms of a lover who curves your body like a swan dive into still water
Home
is the first swell of oxygen
in a body blue-blooded to the tips of its fingers
and the cold in its touch
reminding you sometimes
away is the only direction
In Kentucky
is the only poet I know who is ever more honest than me
along with a broken heart
The tattered and thin of its atria
just a few beats away from arrest
and I have stopped willing myself not to miss you
I see home in the smiles of our photographs
like a romance novel I've not finished yet
And they are still doing construction on I-64
There was a rock slide after our last goodbye
It put something solid on the fissure in my heart
And this is how we never love the same way twice
Not like skipping stones on the smooth of a river
Or curling yourself into a favored chair
Not like thumbprint pressed to the edges of a fading photo
Not like this
Not like home
--
Peace Be
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)