Sort of Hurts

My name on your knife mouth
Sounds strange like loose teeth
And coins hitting a wall

My skin in your blade nose
Reeks of teen spirit yellowed
Under chalky white cakes

My eyes in your spear hands
Will not hold the shape of slashes
Gouged into hollow rounds

And it sort of hurts

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Today’s prompt: take the phrase “Sort of (blank)” and make it the title of the poem.

The title comes from the song, “Beautiful Mess” by Jason Mraz. The image of the knife comes from “Belief” by Gavin Degraw.

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Today’s prompt is to use an epigraph to start the poem. I need help with the title.

Untitled

“As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.” –Virginia Woolf

That you read my flesh all wrong
Does not make me a body of lies

You ignore my soft shape where blood and water
Make paint for rubs of primitive war upon cave walls

A generation drinks of me from leaves tender torn
Steeped in visceral heat that clouds what was clear

I leave a taste upon the tongue

The November PAD Challenge is here! Ahhh, there’s no better motivation than the pressure of a daily deadline. It has been a dry couple of months, but my muse has finally returned. In the words of George Costanza, “I’m back, baby, I’m back!”

Today’s prompt is to write a procrastination poem. I really hate explaining my poems, but the hub has asked me to help him understand what the heck it is I’m trying to say. In this poem, I am comparing procrastination with the comfort of a safe place by juxtaposing the image of the inside of a flower bud with a mother’s womb while dangerously hinting at the metaphoric still birth of life and creativity. There.

Tomorrow’s Bloom

I like the warmth of darkness
In this space where life
Lays down against itself
In folds of fold in hollow wall

The world is big out there
Where life is sunlight and pain
And fragile beauty drowns
In each drop of salty rain

So… it’s been a while. Almost two months. Two months of busy-life-induced writer’s block. It was a struggle to pick up the pen, which may explain why this offering turned out so abstract. The lack of punctuation probably didn’t help, but that was intentional.

I began with a prompt at Poetic Bloomings to write about goals, achievements, victory, etc. One of my goals is to live an abundant life, instead of merely existing. All you moms in survival mode know exactly what I mean, right?

I took that as my starting point and gathered my inspirational stew. First was the statue of Nike, the winged goddess of victory. Next, were the stone figures in Narnia that turned back to flesh when Aslan breathed on them. I finished it off with a dash of “heart of flesh” à la Ezekiel.

The beauty of poetry is that it can speak differently to different people. That is why I don’t often give explanations of my work. And because it makes me seems cooler and more legit. Consider yourself special.

Turning Stone

I am turning stone
Heat hardened into clasts
Of sedimentary freeze

Standing among statues
Relegated memorials that exist
But do not breathe

Days run into days
As echoes of life reverberate
With tremors of discontent

Fearing your chisel
Hammered pain gouged
Into my deepest chest

I see my heart of stone
Turning in your hands
Into something warm

Mason Jars

Wide-mouthed mason jars are perfect
For drinking lemonade at night,
Dressed up with lemon slices
Like your mother always did.

You too a long drink
Before each open-eyed kiss,
Your mouth placed on thickest threads,
Addicted to the feel of residual sour.

You hated those jars for reminding you
Of our pretend house and our pretend love,
A passion too raw for normal.
The breaking was real enough.

Kick off the patent heels and panty hose,
Shake out the tight chignon with girlish zeal,
Hike up your pencil skirt cause no one knows
This momentary splendor that you feel:
The glory of the grass between your toes.

This photo by Deanna Marie Metts is the prompt offered today at
Poetic Bloomings. It provided the inspiration for the following poems.

Memorial Day

You came home from war
Like a thief in the night,
Stealing time and hope.

I dreamed of beautiful
Falling, a wailing nest
In the cleft of a mountain.

Your name was etched in concrete,
Weathered by an echo of bells,
A resounding toll paid in full.

Please, come to the table.
I set a place for you still,
Stored up in my heart
Where there is room.
__________________________

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He loves me.
He loves me not.
Each petal a coracle
Sailing frozen seas.

A temporary memorial
Of once colorful love,
Flakes into scales
And black dust.

In the passage of time,
In the dripping of minutes and days,
Life is poured out
Into the desert places
Of waiting rooms,
Holding patterns,
And last shreds of hope,
A hospital of broken things
Pushed out of the nest
That did not fly.

This week’s “Friday I’m in Love” features Gregor the Overlander by Suzanne Collins. It is the first book in a five book series called the Underland Chronicles. I am a fan of Collin’s Hunger Games trilogy (except the ending – don’t get me started on the ending) so I was excited to learn that she wrote a children’s series before Hunger Games was published. My nine year old daughter is a voracious reader, so I’m constantly scoping out new books and series for her. I just finished the audiobook last night.

Gregor and his 2 year old sister Boots (love her) fall down a deep hole in the laundry room of their New York apartment building. Sound familiar, Alice? They land in the Underworld where they meet humans with violet eyes (none of them are Elizabeth Taylor), six feet tall rats, ginormous cockroaches, and humongous bats. Oh, and they call all speak English. Natch.

The book is dark for a children’s series, reminiscent of the Fellowship of the Ring. Different species joining in a quest, the outcome of which will determine the fate of their existence… you get the idea. It lacks the color, magic, and whimsy of other quest stories like, say, the Wizard of Oz. The questers’ journey follows a prophecy which foretells the death of four questers. There is violence, betrayal, and blood, not to mention the weight of living in a world with sunlight, moonlight, or electricity. Like I said, it’s dark.

The Underworld is truly an otherworld, and the strangeness of it all is a constant reminder that Gregor is no longer in Kansas. I mean New York. Paul Boehmer’s narration did a pretty good job of capturing the Yoda-esque speech of the Underlanders. Hearing the wispy voice of the cockroaches repeatedly ask “Be she princess, be she?” gave me the creeps. Then it got stuck in my head, making it even creepier. Then I started saying it out loud, which was just ridiculously hilarious. And embarrassing.

I won’t be letting my daughter read this series until she is a bit older. The fact that I woke up this morning from a horrible dream about being covered in cockroaches, was only confirmation. I suppose it’s odd to feature a book that I won’t let my daughter read and gave me nightmares, but it was a good read that kept me engaged till the end. You can call me a martyr for good reading. I can call you Betty. And Betty when you call me… oh nevermind.

“The mighty warrior excused himself and changed a diaper.”

“Courage only counts when you can count.”

“Mutual need is a strong bond. Stronger than hate, stronger than love.”

“‘Together, together,’ said Ripred in a singsong voice. ‘What a lot of togetherness you are planning, and what a lot of solitude awaits you. Ah, here are your friends now.’”