time isn’t linear at all. broken hearts know this truth. concentric circles might be closer. i drive into the rice fields to see myself riding bareback, kicking up dirt into the water. cranes take flight scared by hoofbeats and hollering— ‘your eyes can be so cruel, just as i can be so cruel.’ vultures watch me traveltime, hissing ‘you don’t belong here anymore.’ i know. circling, i turn back.
warm sunlight trapped in golden stalks sits so pretty within pottered glass. bright cinnamon dances honeyed by walnuts. it smells like sprinkled brown sugar tiny silver spoons chubby neck rolls wooden high chairs. bring me wholeness— blue sky comfort thick sweet memory.
sadness takes residence inside my bones sometimes. it drives tiny sharp stakes deep into marrow before releasing its large grey tent. i don’t notice until the fires start and thick smoke takes my breath away. no. not again.
reaction isn’t quick—no flashing lights or loud sirens. instead, i silently wait for dancing girl to wake. press needle onto vinyl. stretch. sing. call. dreamily she’ll arrive amid bubbles, swirls, golden light. sadness doesn’t stand a chance.
Note: I don’t always remember the power of movement, but once the music starts my body does. This poem and photos were created as part of the “What Moves You?” challenge. Thank you Michele Lee of My Inspired Life for your continued support of my healing journey. I can’t wait to read all the moving posts.
wandering quietly into morning sun fluffy-puffed tail held high he jumps, greeting my hand— dear old stranger/neighbor cat
friends, I suppose, two strays looking simply for some comfort purring for a brief moment before saying goodbye once more
Note: I’m accepting a challenge to write thirty short poems (not in a row, just as they come). I’m defining short as no more than two stanzas. I was inspired by the beautiful work of my friend Neil—check out his incredible 30 poems. I’m also inspired by sceadugenga who always amazes me with his genius brevity. Feel free to join the challenge if you like.
Edited:A brilliant poet, David, mentioned to me that stanzas can be very long and he’s correct. I’ve changed the guidelines to be under 60 words instead of two stanzas. I think word count is an excellent way to measure these tiny/short/micro/baby poems. Thanks!
you get stoned say you’re proud say you’re sorry say I’m beautiful
I believe you motherhood cuts deep your scars shine
you’ve inherited broken glass jagged-edged shattered dreams that are not yours
I tried smoothing them with cold ocean waves deep muddy lake dives but they still cut
you don’t believe me because fresh wounds sting lines etched into softness but I see you
I’m proud of you I’m sorry you are beautiful
Mother’s Day isn’t an easy day for many, but I hope today you find solace in knowing motherhood binds us more than separates us. We all come from birth. We all are broken. We are all doing our best. May you find a piece of love to hold today and every day.
if I am storm clouds rolling across the horizon fluffy and pregnant you are a hungry plant waiting to grow from my gentle release
if I am driftwood carried through the moving waves slimy and hallowed out you are a small child building a fairytale castle from my bones
if I am a weed dying in the sun drained and tired you are a wild bird pulling me free to line your nest
if I am muddy water pooling near the shore unclear and ugly you are a vast undercurrent diluting my darkness until I can see
if I am a rock on the lake bottom lost and afraid you are a sea monster pocketing me as your good luck charm
if I am teardrops falling down soft freckled cheeks hurting and remembering you are a golden light reflecting your beauty into my broken heart
NOTE: This poem was inspired by reading fellow poet and friend Neil Reid’s poem “if I Am.” Both our poems are influenced by Derek DelGaudio’s “In & Of Itself.” You can watch it on Hulu if you’re interested. It’s magic.
With callooh quickness sidestepping his blade I cry out “nobody outgrabe’s me”— Gimble circles me.
Eyes locked together two lost-raths in the night frabjous moon laughs— Gimble sees me.
Beamishly he stares eyes dripping tears remembering our love gyre kisses lost— Gimble flees me.
Trailing behind him whiffling white fluff swirls softly around my tulgey toes— Gimble forsakes me.
Note: This poem uses neologisms found in Lewis Carroll’s famous Jabberwocky poem and was started as an assignment for a poetry class I took from M. Todd Gallowglas last weekend. It’s got a bit of a different tone than I usually write and I’d love to know what you think. Thank you!
Bradbury calls upon writers to “go panther-pawed where all the mined truths sleep.” Lately, I’ve been rather horse-like; clip-clopping through knee-high weeds which itch, burning my skin toward a fake sunset. “Wake up, dummy,” I say each morning, but somehow my eyes don’t hear. Instead, I close them tighter; stumble, trip across briar patches again and again. “Wake up,” the bluejay mock calls while diving beak first at my lips. I kiss away pain by pressing my palms hard across thin eyelids so I can’t see even a tiny speck of light. If I don’t look maybe they will go away. But then the doves sing from their nest. Tiny white eggs might be under them now; new life waiting for a chance to dive and fall from branches into an uncertain world of cats and clovers. “What if I do open my eyes when I sleep?” I ask rabbit jumping across my yard. His ears twitch which means he hears me. He knows plenty truths, I think. Maybe I can hop wildly like him.
Note: The poem I’m referring to appears in “Zen in the Art of Writing,” by Ray Bradbury. It’s called “Truths Sleep.” The photo is of our pet rabbit named Bun-Bun.
what if the calling crows think you are a makeshift scarecrow built for chasing them away from their dreams? will they peck at you with sharp beaks so far from my grasp? will I be able to run fast enough to save you? the shifting rice tells me to take a deep breath. this isn’t a cornfield and the cranes won’t hurt you. but grey skies mean trouble so run to me anyway my boy. mother needs you in her arms.
Shoebox Poetry: This is the fourth poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. The back of this photo reads “Gary in rice field Nov ’53.” It’s a photo of my dad, but it made me think of my own boy. He turned 18 in December and is finishing high school in a few months. This poem poured out instantly along with some tears. I guess I have some feelings.
Here are the other poems in the series if you missed them: