Archive for Poetry

Blue-collar Rorschach?

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 2, 2009 by 1writegirl

If they were making
A movie
He asked me

In a recent
Job interview

Who would you want
To play you?

If you could be any
Any make and model

What kind of car
Would you be?

I paused for a moment
And stared at him
What the fuck?

Then smiling
My most diplomatic
I said
Please tell me

If I say I want
Demi to play me
Or Charlize Theron
Or Drew Barrymore

Are you more likely
To hire me than
If I say
Maggie Smith
Or Kathy Bates?

If I say I’d like to
Be a Jag
Is that better
Than a
Volkswagen Bus?

Is a Lamborghini
Somehow more apt
Than a fifties
Pick-up truck?

I’ll admit
Your psychological
Profile questions
Throw me into
A tizzy

Cause I SO want this job

I’ve always dreamed

Of cashiering at
A mini-mart

Haiku #28: Lone States

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on October 11, 2009 by 1writegirl

Alone is a state
Of body, lonesome is found
In a state of heart

Meet me

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on August 18, 2009 by 1writegirl

Meet me

In the hayloft of the old
abandoned barn…

On the corner of
5th and Elm…

Behind the shed
Down the alley
At the water’s edge

Under the railroad tracks
Over the bridge
Beyond the forest

Up the avocado tree
Past the highway
Across the meadow wide

After the sun sets
Before the moon rises
As the tide comes in

In front of ghosts, shadows
Memories and demons

Outside of the box…

Meet me

Haiku #18: April fools

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on March 31, 2009 by 1writegirl

In a jester’s world
Can every day be seen as
Proof of April fools?

Haiku #4: Obsession

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on January 22, 2009 by 1writegirl

How to write Haiku
Is all I can think about
How I wish I knew

Bemoaning the ends

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2008 by 1writegirl


She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving


hot wax


foul smelling creams

food deprivation






a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.


Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.


She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.


Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.


It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.


It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.


Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.


She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.


He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.


She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.


She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.


She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,


Bemoaning the ends.