Archive for the Poetry Category

Mother’s Day

Posted in Poetry on May 14, 2017 by 1writegirl

I think I would prefer to die
my second death

Now while the scent of him lingers yet
in the soiled clothes strewn around on the
floor of his bedroom

While his footprint remains oil on glass
from our last long road trip
on the windshield of my car
valuable no longer for its re-sale value
nor cargo carrying capacity
but only for this fading track

While his voice is still trapped in someone’s answering machine
Why can’t it be mine?
so that when they come to town
they can play it for me
They haven’t yet erased it
but they will

Before I close my eyes and can no longer see his eyes
Or the dimple in his cheek
Or the mole on his back
Or the dozen other things
that made him mine
especially, mostly, but never all

Before I have lost all trace
and the fine line between memory
and fantasy blurs
and he becomes a saint
or a hero
or a legend

Instead of just a boy
Whom I loved above all others,
All else, present

In the silent aftermath of my
first and last deep breath

The Seven Deadly Sins

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2010 by 1writegirl

I am guilty
I confess

Of occasional
Gluttony

And frequent
Lust

Now and then
Envy colors my view

And Pride shows its face
From time to time

Rarely do I experience
Wrath

And Greed
For the most part
Feels like too much work

But Sloth is right up there
On my daily to-do list

And I can’t help but wonder
With all this sinning
I’m doing

How I manage to
Stay alive

At all

Haiku# 30: My dog, the teenager

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on February 24, 2010 by 1writegirl

At first, a Mohawk
Then clothes, showers, chewing gum
Now, the dog wants bling.

She Digs Him

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2010 by 1writegirl

He’s undeniably, eye-catchingly
Handsome

But that’s not why
She digs him

He has a tattoo
Speaks several languages
And was educated
(Among other places)

At the prestigious
School of Hard Knocks

He writes plays, poetry and
Uncategorizable prose

But that’s not why
She digs him

He has traveled the world
Cooks like a gourmet chef
Excels at saving money
And the art of bodyspeak

But even that’s not why
She digs him

She digs him
Because he
Thinks about things others dare not
Talks about things they won’t
He reads Nietzsche
Tolstoy and
Kerouac

He reads her

He
Refuses to conform
Kowtow or
Acquiesce

To dictates
Dogma and
Convention

He cares not for
Status symbols
Nor the
Material world

He drives the divine
Mamita

He understands her inner battles
Between chutzpah
Patience and passion

He tells important stories
He shares without
Imposition

He respects her independence
And keeps her secrets

And when he holds her
She feels more at peace
In this world
Than she ever has

He’s the gift
She wasn’t expecting
What she sees when
She closes her eyes

The face without the mask

That’s why she digs him

Dogs with Mohawks

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 20, 2010 by 1writegirl

My love and I
With nothing better to do
One rainy winter day
Took a look at my shaggy canine
And decided he needed a trim

We started slow
With a pair of shears
Behind the ears
Under the chin

And as we trimmed
We talked as always
About whatever came to mind

And the conversation turned
To the subject of what we’d imagined,
In the glory of dewy youth,
Our lives would look like today

I thought I’d be married, I said
As I swiped at Mugsy’s tail
Be grateful you didn’t go there
He grimaced
Believe me, it’s misery ad infinitum
Compounded by devastation

I should be teaching poetry,
He mused
At some prestigious, west coast college
Off came the left side of Mugsy’s beard

With co-eds hanging on my every word
Gone was his moustache too

I expected to be a famous writer
I exclaimed with an air of whimsy
As the clippers zoomed over Mugsy’s back
And flew up under his stomach
With at least one bestseller, I added
He nodded, I know, huh? he said
Then shaking his head in a daze of wonder
Started in with the scissors in earnest

I’d have a mansion by the sea
He explained with a faraway look
With servants to do my bidding
And an agent, an editor,
Stupendous advances

Fur was flying in all directions
Frenetic buzzing filled the air

And so it went for quite some time
With every word, another cut
For every lost dream
Another lock shorn
Until at last we were out of shouldve’s
And before us quaking in forlorn regret
Stood the product of our mutual despair

There was nothing left of him to speak of
He was half the size he’d started
And the only hair remaining
Was a strip from head to toe
A Mohawk of black and white
From his forehead straight up and spiking
Down his back to the tip of his tail

We put down the scissors, dropped the shears
And swept up the pile of fur
Thinking perhaps we’d made a mistake
Gotten too carried away
Until Mugsy stood up and shook himself
Then pranced up and down the room

Showing off his brand new do

Unencumbered, with nothing to block his view
Of cats and cars, food and chew-toys
And laps to settle into

I think he likes it, I gasped in amazement
He seems to feel freer, he agreed
Go figure, we said in unison
Then sighed and settled back down
To the one thing we both can’t not do for long

The process of writing our hearts out
To the tune of the pouring rain

I dig my new Do!

Resurrection

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 17, 2010 by 1writegirl

One distraction follows
Another
In pursuit of
Purpose to daily

Life

When there’s rarely a place
You have to be
Nor legal tender
To be had

Yet who knows
What stumble might lead
To what
What you might find
In the face of
Life
Re-defined
By the unexpected

The way you can
Move through
Wrongs grown wider
While Reason escapes and
Reasons escape

As a heart
Wakes up one day
To something new
And old at once
And wants it anyway
To realize that
What you dreamed
Is dreaming now
Beside you

And the how or why
No longer matters

Hope is resurrected

A Writer’s Lament

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on December 27, 2009 by 1writegirl

I only want to write
And get paid for my words

My words all strung together
In unique, inimitable style

With their own quirky bent
And their peculiar rush to mind

Of memories old
Possibilities new
And another distinct life

Apart from what you know
Separate from your beliefs
Foreign to your system
Alien to your code

Yet resonant
Charming
Intriguing
Entrancing
Enthralling
Engaging
Piercing
Provocative
Profound

And just
Downright

Well-written

Yass, I want to get paid
For this life inside of me
For this life that is what I have to give
For what I do best
For what I know
For what I understand

For the chance to make you
Smile
Cringe
Cry
Laugh
Scream
Plead
Celebrate
Grieve

Then when all is said and done

Pass it on

Presence

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 25, 2009 by 1writegirl

Don’t give me presents
On Christmas day
Give me your presence instead
Wherein my heart flies
To meet my soul
Beyond words into
Truth
Felt only

Uncontained
By wrappings and ribbons
Undefined by greeting cards

My piece of peace
My joue my jew
My joy
My magi
Magically real

This day and
Any day

One Winter’s Night

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 28, 2009 by 1writegirl

One of these nights
When words are
Too heavy
When the darkness is
Too cold

Lay me down
Beside you
Flesh against flesh
Warm and tender
Under llamas wool

Let our dreams
Come and go
Like fingertips

Grazing temples
And souls

In the midst of breath
Between us

Loose
Unbound
And
Gentle

For the duration of
One winter’s night

One blue moon
One light in the shadows

From spellbound dusk
Till breaking dawn

Find reprieve
With me
In the silence

Of night

In the act
Of silent

Communion

Haiku #29: No Where

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 17, 2009 by 1writegirl

It’s an illusion
Sink to the bottom with me
We’ll play in the mud