Monday, April 30, 2012

#POETRY Last Day 30/30

So this was just as challenging as it was last year.  So I leave you with the last two.  Enjoy.

If I Can

If I can steal away
for a few precious moments
hold fast and take breath
into this full-throttle paced life
step back from the storm
watch it pass
there might be some space left
to create something new
out of the rubble
into something greater than I ever dreamed.

The Wooden Door

Two hearts stand guard atop
Weather worn wood
Outlived the lifetimes that carved it
Hinges rusted paint faded
Once someone's dream house
returning to the woods now
Moss topped roof growing sprouts of birch trees
Weight weary
Abandoned or forgotten
The lives that once lived there
Still the door
Stands watch.
Waiting for someone new to enter
That never does. 
Wrecking balls and junkyards
unless the woods reclaims it
as one of it's own. 

Sunday, April 29, 2012



I just got started:
Community college class-load
Part-time employed
Starving student vegetable rice dinners
Cheap tennis-shoes
Growing out dyed hair
Retro-fied hippy wardrobe
Minimum payment on maxed out credit cards
Running slippery rain hills
Boyfriend at the 4-year university
Push start Volkswagon Super-beetle.
I went on to waste my time in various ways,
70's disco themed parties,
Hippy to office appropriate to yoga culture
Moving states,
Changing boyfriends and bedroom furniture
and jobs and careers,
Having choices.

You no longer have choices:
Ended in dirty lands
Filthy wounds
Too soon is a fucking understatement and a crime to say.
As I saw your name and age
Amongst the list
Of 33, 31, and places like Idaho
Hunting, Simi Valley
Families never getting their prayers answered
Hopes smashed
Dreams of college education
What happens to that money that should have gone
To community college class-loads
Vegetable rice dinners
And cheap tennis-shoes to run in
Slippery rain hills?

Your names now on a list
That is far too long
And too often forgotten
When we can’t be pulled away long enough
From being entertained
To recognize the sacrifice
The loss of dreams
The elimination of choice
So we can still think we have one. 

Thursday, April 26, 2012

#POETRY "To the Maidens"

To the Maidens;
You less than skinny,
stockings runned, pock-marked, less than perfect beauties
You who can not compete with airbrushed lies
But live full out in your speckled skin wonder
Worsened by the unknown chemicals in food
Supposed to feed but poisoning us.
Those earned feathery eyes
Sparkling behind oceans of tears,
Shed in moments of pain or joy
They do not compare
To the soft weather of your hands
Worked to keep mouths full
Of sunshine and hope
Tired, oh yes,
 but in those moments of wondering,
 Whether to ball into rage or comfort, you make choices
To laugh,
To breath,
in spite of polluted air and better beauty products
made only to consume what has already been consumed
hips made to sway
lips made to smile
cracked open you are and you run anyway
on feet bounding through blistered dreams
cause this, girls, is what it is to dance
and this, is what it means to live
in a world that doesn’t believe you’re worth saving
Hair, wild, burning through forests of
Doctors making surgical options
To make a better you,
And politicians making god-like decisions
That they were never hired to do,
And believers so lost in their own pollution
They forgot the holy words left by their savior’s blood.
But these are stitched into your fingernails
Hollowed into your marrow
Gray mattered gospel it can’t be broken
They try to erase you and yet the angels sing praises in your name,
The vibration of their voices shake them all awake
Crumbling institutions that can not save,
Because we knew that already.
Holding onto pieces doesn’t put them back together
It just makes us stronger.
These tree-trunk legs were made to work
And dance and hold ourselves up when no one else did.
This, you fire-dancer, keeper of the down-trodden, lover of the beast, speaker of the truth, shoulder-crier, breathless rebounder, giver of all you have got and then some more,
you are what makes this world bearable. 

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

#POETRY catchup 22, 23, 24


Let us just call it
what it really truly is
hot red angry skin. 


Childhood sweet delights
Sticky mess when stuck in hair
good until the stick.


My husband wants one
A chance to live in the wild
But I am the wild. 

Saturday, April 21, 2012

#POETRY or lack thereof

Can't live without you

Tasty delicious
once black now creamy goodness
my morning coffee.

An Love Letter to Chocolate

So many ways you have come to me:
hot chocolate with marshmallows
milky goodness or dark mystery
bitter bars used for cooking
melted goodness for dipping
sometimes dipped and then hardened over bananas or pretzels

heated by flamed marshmallows between layers of graham crackers
poured over ice cream
sometimes in your appearance you are hot fudge
liquid sipping kinds

round confections
surrounding liquid caramel
infused with things like
nuts, vanilla, coconut, raspberry, mint, cocoa nibs, chilis, lavender sea-salt goodness,
oh chocolate, you had me at hello.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

#Poetry so far behind I don't know where today will land

We've been here before
and yet we repeat the same words
hoping they'll mean something else
but their truth holds stronger
than those items on the old crazy glue commercials.

And all those needs for normal
all those holes trying to fill
with cigarette smoke and clairol hair dye
short skirts and big hair
only further pollutes the environment,
kills the fish and the river and even the trees.

It's never going to be enough for them,
there's no one coming
there is only hard work, painful stories and wasted days
drink the coffee and put down the hair gel
put down the cape and pick up the reigns
you're gonna ride right out of here
but you have to find the horse first.

You will bandaid the broken
Wipe away tears along with the makeup
And hold onto tokens of achievement
they will get you where you need to go.

Legally responsible
Rented Room
Working Upward
One Day at a Time.

seemed like a wonderful idea
but this is really not a wise
or wonderful decision
but boy you will learn
and you never have to return if you don't want to
but 19 and 31
young and healthy
and practicing junkie
do not mix
but this is a lesson
that some of us have to learn the hard way.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

#POETRY 15 of 30

Birthday party
Bouncing Baby Boy
French onion dip deliciousness
Birthday candles never lit
Freezing in Southern California

Wandering mallards
Bocce balls
Women talking
Brilliant Ideas
Words of Wisdom

No one lit themselves on fire
No one shot their eye out
No one got food poisoning
No, it was a good day.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

#POETRY co-written by Tiffany Tang

I'd post a link to her blog but I can't find it!
We wrote this on text messages back and forth.
We may add more later.


Death sits on the couch,
doesn't like the drapes,
hates the furniture,
and wonders when his time will come.

Death sits on the couch,
contemplating suicide and thinking,
"Well, that's just redundant."

Death sits on the couch,
realizes that so many wait for him,
but never get beyond that thought,
and then it's their turn.

Death sits on the couch
He watches me as I move in and out of her room
We eye each other
As I pass into the hallway
Is he here to comfort me?
He can't
He's too bony
Not a good hugger, Death.

Friday, April 13, 2012

a blog post a little #POETRY

My thoughts for the day:  I still stick my foot in my mouth, I just have learned not to chew on it.  This pretty much applies every day.  And it's a little atrocious sometimes.  But I've also learned to keep my mouth shut and THAT actually helps.  A LOT.    Now here's the Poetry, I'm behind 2 days so it's 2 days worth:

Update on the Psychosis

I didn’t feel like
Writing shitty poetry
so here’s to crappy….

51 degrees
Light rain
Bus stop
No umbrella
Useless shoes
Ruined hair
Sopping wet
Bad cell reception
Missed call
Cancelled date
Wasted bus fare
Thunder claps
Lightening flash
Seek cover
Puddle rivers
Storm drain tsunamis
Lost shoe
Frigid toes
Coffee comfort
Card declined
No shoes
No service
Bus early
Kind eyes
Deep breaths
Kind offers
Wiped tears
Warm cup of tea
Grateful hands
Phone Frenzy
Sympathetic ears
Rescuer coming
Many thanks
Cold wait
Warm car
Comfort heat
Safety net
Homeward bound

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

#POETRY Day 11 of 30

To the Self-Proclaimed Wine Steals Whore:
You may make out with them in the parking lot,
Share wine and tales in the same room as some of your former consorts,
But unless they see you for the diamond you are
Tell them to pay their own damned cork fee!

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

#POETRY 9 and 10

Tuesday Morning Blues
Going for that big long drive
Might be the wrong town....


I guess you thought that
Occupying my kitchen
Wouldn't make me mad...

Sunday, April 8, 2012

#POETRY Happy Easter


Candy-filled, hollow chocolate bunny, peeps, rabbit-poop jelly beans.
Easter outfit. 
New shoes.  Dress. Usually floral.  Sometimes white.
Easter Hats.  New outfits.  Long sermons.  Boredom. 
Maybe sun.
Maybe rain.
Easter Egg Hunt.  Pretty hard boiled yuck.  Plastic-filled goodness.
Japanese Cherry-Blossoms.  Daffodils.  Pansies.  Easter-Lily.
Ham.  Potatoes.  Salad.  Easter candy dessert.
Childhood. Family. Rituals.
Liberation.  Freedom. Relief.
Forgiveness.  Release.  Absolve.
Into Something Else.

Phone Calls

I am not sure about you.
Nor sure why you are really calling.
But it is good to hear your voice.
But I hesitate. 
Blood relations are complicated.
And non-blood history makes it ever so twisted. 
But still, it is good to hear your voice.
Phone calls make it convienient for those who
Do not wish to traverse miles to see one another
And for those who can’t really bring themselves
Face to Face with their failings. 

Friday, April 6, 2012

#POETRY 6 of 30


In a strange mix of common numbers and fondness for all things verbose we intertwined.
You started showing me the shards early on.
A blanket of ocean sized love could not put out the fireworks that light up and burned the ground of a rational human being when the flint accidentally got ignited. 
These are the scars that don’t heal right.
This is the place where creativity and positive thinking collide with the reality of brain trauma and broken love that turns nuclear and lays waste to three hundred and fifty thousand miles of hope.

I, unfortunately, am not known as a quitter.
I, actually, know how to surrender. 
To put up a white flag and hope that someone else is watching.  Even when that someone else can’t be defined as an actual person or existence because, lord knows, no one can agree on anything including defeat. 
Surrender is not releasing the idea of hope
but rather leaving the idea of your definition of hope behind for someone to replace it with something better. 

This is not an easy task for the controlmonger.
Don’t let that idea sink in for a moment.
This is called claw marks scraping the sides of anything I let go of,
This is called taking a forty-thousand pound chest breath,
This is pulling eye-lids back and understanding that they may never grow back.

But for you, you broken-winged demon, determined to get back to hell, fire-breathing, raging ogre showing your best ugly,
All of which are also contained inside of me,
I see rain coming.
Sprinkling at first, then moving to showers.
Covering wetness to put out fires of unrequited pleas for mercy
soothing flares of sadness
putting to bed all of your unholiness that never were your truth.
I can’t promise you that you’ll forget hell,
But I can promise that you don’t have to live there.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

POETRY 4&5/30

Emergency #1

They say don't try this
at home but some can't resist
the need for stitches!

Emergency #2

Noodles falling down
over clean floors please don't feed
ant infestation.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Monday, April 2, 2012

#POETRY 2/30 "Grace"

I looked up Wikipedia for the definition of grace.
Looking up things in Wikipedia is usually a mistake.
But I needed some reassurance so I went to the online dictionary
And it came out a little something like this:
Elegance or beauty of form, action, manner or motion; a pleasing or attractive quality, favor or goodwill, a manifestation of favor by one’s superior, mercy.

See, it gets messy here in humanity.
There are those that think they have the corner on the market of grace.
And because they do,  they get to judge who gets it and who doesn’t and why they should or shouldn’t. 
We humans are like that. 
We like to judge.
We like to put things into categories.
We put labels on them, sort them, and then condemn those for not sticking to their little labels, and tell others that they’re going to be punished.   
It’s Barbi and GI Joe on a much grander scale.
When Barbi did something wrong, she got put into the toy box and pulled out later after she was significantly punished….
Except our judgment is a little twisted.
Our human survivalist notions of self-preservation clouds our vision so that only if things are in my category, my label, my sorting decides who gets punished. 
We have the idea that we are in the job of handing out justice rather than correcting our own mistakes.  
We offer judgment rather than observation. 
We offer righteousness without self-reflection. 
“Barbi you are guilty of driving Ken’s sport coup under the influence of Coco Puffs through the neighbor’s back yard and now there is mud on the carpet, you are sentenced to your box.”
You can’t just traipse through life driving someone else’s sport coup and getting mud on the carpet. 
So, what about grace? 
We decide whether or not we are capable of handing out grace.
 It’s because we have a hard time defining what grace is to begin with and how it applies to us.  I have a hard time defining what it is, what it means.  How can I explain something that I don’t apply in my life?  How can I offer something that I have no idea what it is?

But somewhere there has to be grace.  Someone has to figure that one out.   I can only define grace because I’ve seen it once or twice.

A stream of relief that comes when you least expect it.
A merciful moment in the middle of chaos. 
A mother telling her story of her first born that lived for only for moments, choosing to hold her baby until the last breath was taken and heartbeat stopped.
A parent offering of forgiveness to the teen-aged child who made the mistake of shooting his schoolmates, including her own son.
A woman pleading for mercy in the sentencing of the boy whose careless deed permanently disfigured her.
A violent drug-addicted offender choosing recovery on a daily basis.
Holding the hand of a dying parent whose deeds left scars no human is able to heal.

These are what I call grace,
and while I don’t know that I am capable of any of these things
I know, they exist for me to have something to look at
And define
And capture and hold in my heart
For they show me
What it really means to be human. 


Sunday, April 1, 2012