#AmWriting

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Poetry: Ghost Flowers

Midnight whispers wake us, voices we know
Call, calling out from generations long ago
Begging us to climb vine-covered walls
Where shadows hide and moonlight falls
To secret gardens where nightmares grow

Hands clasped together—our protective shield
Quick, quickly we cross the vast muddy field
Through scrawny, tawny bramble copse
Where starlight magic jumps and chops
Past broken mushrooms laying half-healed

There we hear the night’s beating heart
Thump, thumping loudly as if tearing apart
Stumble, trip through twisty almost-road
Past two-headed raven and three-footed toad
Where ghost flowers’ bold eyes flit and dart

Luckily these sickly pink flowers can’t shout
Roar, roaring for backup from monsters about
Instead slowly blinking they don’t look away
Following our movements with nothing to say
Until dark gloomy clouds turn the light out

Panicked we run despite no guiding star
Trip, tripping on half-rotted logs where they are
Fingers slip, paths divide—until it’s only me
Standing beneath an unwavering willow tree
Hoping nothing near has the power to mar

The drowsy pink sun eventually rises all sad
Cry, crying for you—my sweet-hearted lad
Lost in the wood where the early bird sings
Days, weeks, and months we look for your things
Until winter wipes clear all the traces we had

  • This week’s poem follows the format of Robert Frost’s “Ghost House” using the same rhyming structure and ending words. The painting was found at Goodwill and my teenage daughter added the eyes and other pen details.
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Poetry: If you…

go where wide oak leaves fall
further than crows doth call
further still behind the wall
where shadows are so very small

you’ll reach a darkened little cove
deep inside an ancient grove
richly scented—cinnamon and clove
where moonlight threads are tightly wove

ignore raven’s sharp cry of nevermore
and search forest’s littered floor 
where muted colors dance galore
until you find nature’s hidden door

my dear child, don’t you fear
whispered voices you may hear
or tiny steps coming near
the fabled weefolk will not interfere

don’t be tempted to knock—rat-a-tat-tat
nothing good comes of that
—instead beside the welcome mat
you’ll find the perfect acorn hat

take it darling in your hand
running fast across the land
for now, you fully understand
Autumn’s magic is yours to command

This was inspired by a wonderful morning exploring the woods and collecting acorns with my dearest nephew. I think I’ll always be searching for fairy doors.

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Poetry: The Man in the Moon

time—
visions confuse night
with day again

sometimes I wander in circles
my eyes tracking the empty 
black sky, looking and looking
for your white glowing face
etched by night’s ancient magic
—are you even really there?

whipping backward into myself
there’s nothing and nobody
to blame as these
too empty white walls
keep screaming your name
so loud it vibrates
every swollen trapped cell

moon—
twisted hour hand
turns slowly south

when you see my eyes 
staring at your lunar ones
be not afraid you did
anything wrong, for I’m simply 
searching for cosmic answers
—can dark transform into light?

drawing with chalk along
sidewalks, chins, knee caps
caught in seclusion’s trap  
winding around and around
my neck until breath
stutters while tiny hairs
dance along wobbly legs 

isolation—
you stopped time
I started it

blue, green twisting, and wild
maybe you, moon man, can
turn madness and untethered chaos
into an endless bright sea
—do dark craters harbor truth?

dreams used to contain
promises of another tomorrow
and another, but suffocation
robs rainbows their colorful
transformative effect until diving
underground to cool tunnels
relief comes as sound
without him here to dance

*Last weekend I saw the new film “Moonage Daydream.” This poem is my response and tribute to my favorite artist of all time and creative muse, David Bowie. The artwork was created by me.

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Poetry: Nostalgia

I’m not sure what the snails
thought when you gathered them in
your tiny hands and raced them
across the slick glass back door

maybe they liked the chalk rainbow
you’d drawn as a finish line  
or how you happily cheered each 
one saying, “you can do it!”

or maybe they were terrified they’d 
suffer a fatal fall but kept 
going anyway because your belief in
them was greater than their fear

whatever they thought all those years
ago in our tiny wild backyard
the echoes of your joyful voice
still manages to make me smile

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Poetry: My Grandma’s Jinn

as a tiny girl, I’d stare at the pretty bottle
on grandma’s cherrywood dressing table
while she covered my head in foam curlers
so I’d look good for the Lord on Sundays

when she wasn’t looking I’d run pudgy
fingers along its sleek pink sides before
silently tugging at the curved pearl top 
hoping for a peek at its magical elixir

it never gave away its secrets though
and as I grew up and moved far away
thoughts of it faded like my imaginary
friend—lost in the realm of make-believe

grandma died on a Tuesday in October
while I knelt in the pumpkin patch pulling
weeds, but it wasn’t until mid-November
the small box arrived covered in stamps

wrapped in several layers of colorful silk
with a scrawled note from grandma saying
“this is for you” was her pretty pink bottle
smelling faintly like rosemary and mint

tenderly I stroke it with tears in my eyes
thinking of kneeled prayers and organ music
before curiosity takes hold and using a knife
from the kitchen, I pry open the sealed top

he springs forth with mystical blue smoke
singing foreign words with a husky bass
directly addressing the lonely parts locked
deep inside my shattered, broken heart

“Kate” he purrs while locking his sapphire
eyes on me, crawling naked across freshly
washed hardwood floors until his hands
grasp mine with a burst of golden sparks

“I’m Katie” I struggle to say through ragged
breath “Kate was my grandma”—I don’t say
she was a devout Christian who would never
keep a naked man of blue smoke in a bottle

pulling himself to his full height he laughs
like a thousand brass chimes in the wind
like the roaring of the sky before a storm
like all the words inside me spoken at once

“Kate was my lover and I her faithful jinn
but after two wishes she trapped me within
to await the perfect time when I would be free
to dance with my love along the foamy sea”

confused by his musical words, I inch back
muttering softly “she died” while looking
at anything but the fierce intensity of his
piercing eyes—”she left the bottle to me”

salty ocean air floats through open windows
calling me to run on sandy shores barefooted
as waves swell and crash, swell and crash until
falling backward I land in his strong blue arms

thick perfumed smoke billows around us
folding me into his warm embrace as it always 
has been and always will be—his sultry soft lips
brush my ear whispering “what do you wish?”

  • Inspired by my grandma Kate and the film “Three Thousand Years of Longing”
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Poetry: About Time

pulling out a cool, thin sundress
from a closet filled with things
that don’t fit anymore, the pain
stabs my shoulder out of nowhere

what happened to me I silently
scream while holding back thick tears
trying to get dressed while the
searing sun radiates down my back

heaviness sits tightly about my middle
pulling me down into spiraling muddy
waters heavy with replayed trauma set
forever stuck on rewind and repeat

from across the room, I see her—
Lizzo twirls from the TV screen 
changing from dull grey to sparkling
blue while singing “about damn time”

drawn to the glamorous dancing goddess
my body sways through the discomfort
as acceptance flows with loving grace
toward my one and only body

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Poetry: Apple Carrot Muffins

The same old silver grater, clear
glass bowl, dented wooden spoon used
to make round applesauce cake for
first birthdays 
today 
made muffins for freshman and senior 
year. Instead of watching from your 
wooden high chair, bass boomed behind 
closed bedroom 
doors 
while green granny smith apples, bright 
orange carrots joined honey, oats, almond
flour for you. Another day of
beautiful childhood
fleeting
before lovesick eyes not done soaking 
up all the wondrous firsts, seconds
of motherhood’s dance. Don’t blink they
tell you;
blink
blink
blink

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Poetry: Candy in a Dish

I.

hot thighs, stomach rolls
sweaty armor, sweetly eaten
protect hard, hide soft

weary smiles, turn away
deep water, baggy clothes
dream free, life restored

II.

touched without my permission in hot
places where thumping music makes thighs 
jump and sway, alcohol-filled stomach
churns truth until it tumbles, rolls

shadowed memories turn into wispy sweaty
kisses pressed against tightly layered armor
shattering fragile identity, fat words sweetly
whispered with fragrant wolfy breath—eaten

tumbling out dirty doors, stars protect
while Mother Moon watches with hard
kind eyes, stealthily struggling to hide
tears under swelling flesh made soft

fistfuls of candy devoured in weary
attempt to lock in realistic smiles
while broken-hearted I pirouette turn
carefully from danger; take me away

keep marching through tunnels down deep
sacred places boogeymen can’t go; water
too filled with sugary goodies baggy
after baggy blooming like puffy clothes

shaking nightmare voices off, golden dreams
swirl unfocused almost saying I’m free;
running even-breathed penning new life 
while courageous sun promises hope restored

This poem is for others like me still processing old trauma and heartbreak anyway we can. May you find your way toward the healing sun. I hope to meet you there someday.

The format of this poem is one I did before, where each word in the first poem becomes the last line of each stanza in the second. Thank you for reading and supporting my poetry adventures.