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.

Poetry: Free Mom Hugs

Past

would you have trusted me more
if I’d known about fingertip sparks
and fluttering hearts?

or if I’d really looked at
tiny pencil drawings on matchboxes and
folded paper napkins?

you’d pass notes I didn’t understand—
messages scrawled on scraps of paper
palm to palm

rainbows hung around your pretty neck;
delicate lovely things refracting light into
everything you did

you left without goodbyes—fleeing rejections 
spurred by fevered religious hate disguised
as family love

you drew naked ladies in Paris
seeing worldly wonders dreaming nightly with
fingertips stained black

floating down stone steps in tailored 
suits you charmed everyone with your
soft blue eyes

returning home sick, thick sketchbook under
heavy arms we talked about everything
but the truth

you left without me seeing you
kiss your lovers, pink-skinned blushing
on ornate bridges

or watching you dance under moonlit
skies with flowers tucked into your
fluffy blonde hair

Present

driving nowhere we sing with windows
down, wind blowing tangles into your
fluffy red hair

I sense something brewing behind quiet
lips, fingers fidget with your many
bright silver rings

with a trembling voice, you say
you like girls—scared of rejection
bare legs shake

you’ve known since kindergarten, but it
wasn’t something you wanted to explore
or talk about

honored, I listen to your deeply
held sacred truths; as you discover 
who you are

my old friend breathes words of 
comfort through me helping me ease
your coming out

grabbing soft hands tightly, I squeeze
three times letting you know my
love remains unchanged

balancing stone words we build together
walls to fight against those who
would seek destruction

inked drawings, musical explorations, the Heartstopper
you share everything with me, showing
me the way

crying at pride, past present swirl
promising to do better armed with
free mom hugs

Street Art in Sacramento, CA

In honor of Pride Month, I dedicate this poem to a dear high school friend who died of AIDS and my beautiful daughter who trusts me with her truth. I reference the show “Heartstopper” on Netflix and can’t recommend it enough for its sweet portrayal of love. Happy Pride Month!

Poetry: The Midnight Grater

unable to move I gasp, turning
tumbling down rabbit holes meant
to not be remembered at dawn

Pulling up behind my darkened house in their 
shiny black El Camino, bass booming—a thunderous
storm descends upon my unconscious fragile form. I
don’t hear their footsteps as they scribble scramble 
through the muddy murky darkness toward sleeping me.

wondrous whispering willows lean in to 
reveal secret truths, sacred words 
hidden behind the cloudy half-lit moon

Steadfast friends, The Sand Man and The Grater
share midnight missions of messy madness. Sneaking in
at night’s exact middle, they come silently ruffling
my soft, warm blankets. Unknowing, I am fully
helpless to the whims of these nighttime lurkers.

when did missing sunshine turn my
insides colors, making a mockery 
melody moment within my comfy covers

They simply divide and conquer, each moving around
my room to deliver their own precise brands 
of nightly justice. The Sand Man sprinkling dream 
dust into closed eyes, invoking silky soft dreams 
of rest, while his counterpart sharpens his claws.

don’t be afraid little ones they 
say as monsters lurk under 
billowing bed sheets with cutting wits

I’ve never seen The Grater’s form, but I’ve 
felt his silver touch as he comes to 
dance with my worries. It seems rather unfair 
he’s allowed access when the doors and windows 
are so carefully locked with shiny brass deadbolts.

nothing blends into something, twist the 
knob, turn the handle, flip 
switch after switch without the keys

He presses his shiny sharp grates into whatever
skin he can reach, slipping under the quilted comforter
held tight by my sweaty fists. The words
come with him—frightening little whispery repetitions singing
songs of my insecurities/fears with feverish unrelenting cruelty.

he’s never coming back to you
you’ll be left alone with
dark silent shadows under creaking floorboards

The Tooth Fairy has seen his lumbering shape
peeking out from the sheets—flashing silver eyes
and sharpened talons. She folds her transparent wings 
tightly together, snatching at long ago lost baby
teeth—forever forgetting her pouch of golden coins.

shivering, shaking, my body fights back
but movements do nothing to
protect openings—internal portals of pain

Heaviness, his tell-tale calling card, will linger 
around me when I finally fully wake from 
the night. Throwing off blankets, I yawn as 
the echoes of his work stick tight on
red, raw skin. Failure feels immediate and imminent.

tomorrow always comes without command or 
permission, blasting hazy new thoughts
refracted backward, inward, outward toward light

Breath deeply. Stretch. I mustn’t stay still for 
the poison will set and I’ll stay in 
bed. Fight to the shower to scrub the 
sticky words off with fragrant suds, washing his 
work down silver drains back to the darkness.

shake awake fingers, dance to life 
toes, and say farewell to 
nightmares until fractured, the moonlight returns

Poetry: Saying Goodbye

The Waldorf school my daughter graduated from last week names each class after a tree. That tree becomes the class name, a symbol to rally the class together and form them into a cohesive unit. I wrote this poem to honor her teacher and the Linden tree class. The image was drawn on the chalkboard by her lovely teacher on their very first day together. I hope you enjoy it.


Under the Linden Tree

I. Branches and Leaves

Swept forth into the strong branches 
of the Linden tree, you call out “look at me”
and “it’s not fair” straining to be heard among 
the others. Within your fellow heart-shaped
leaves you found symmetry, serrated edges—your
pointed tips sharpened by your proximity to 
magic.

Noisy bees circled, drawn by your
sweetness, your softness transformed by 
storms into hardened beauty carved into 
any form you like. Tilia, basswood, lime—
your names ring out like justice and peace
dancing around the base of graceful towering
magic.

Seasons danced happily through your 
green leaves, braced together and held firm
by the juggling trunk’s deep roots far deeper
than any tempest could shake. Tiny creamy 
yellow flowers burst forth in bundles, hanging 
tight to the tree with ambrosial scented, delicate
magic.

Youth green fullness, brash and vividly bold,
gave way to golden autumn’s crisp firmness
curled tight together clinging on for one more
precious moment. Yet, breezes come to transform
one into many, flying on fitted spiraling wings from
your fertile orchard, singing the forever song of Linden
magic.

II. Trunk

Blown into an orchard, banded cord thick with
butterflies, steady roots plant deep in slippery soil 
ripe with crawling, noisy seekers crying out with
“whys” and “how comes.” Beneath the Linden
branches the red-winged cardinal’s two-part whistle 
sings of beginnings, suns, moons—ancient woody 
magic.

Gathered together under loosely woven branches
communing and feasting wildness transforms into 
dancing movement. Light streaks through limbs to
cover crowns as Jack Frost frolics with snowflakes as
hands, melting hardness into puddles of kindred
kindness. Leafy bunches become conical, balanced
magic.

Ridged, furrowed scaly bark grows and smooths  
until shining with etched runes it reaches across
fast-moving water to capture sacred geometric
truths within bright colored folds. Bears prowl 
near, scratching fears, stretching up toward 
cascading waters, ravens, dragons, stones–Earth
magic.

Winds blow birds nests nestled into grooves worn 
smooth by patient hands. Across distances the song
remains strong, drawing the Linden into itself, singing
melodies deeply woven through delicate leafy veins
forever connected, forever entwined, forever part of 
sunlight’s loving embrace, warmth wrapped in bonded
magic.

Poetry: Summer Fruit

moist from chlorine-dipped playing
I cut watermelon into tiny squares
popping bites into my mouth
savoring summer’s near sweetness

the news finds me, wriggles into my
consciousness with painful realness
sucking the wind from my gut—
my Elaine teaches in Texas

she answers right away, but the 
relief lasts two seconds, two breaths
more than those babies have left
in their tiny 10-year-old bodies

awards ceremony in the morning
death in the afternoon, these mothers
had to identify their child’s bodies made
unrecognizable by AR-15’s brutality

“thoughts and prayers” elicit mother
bear anger, growls growing deeper
can’t protect, can’t stop the broken
not again, not again, not again

one tourniquet in “stop the bleed” kits
kindergarten active shooter drills
more guns less guns battle rages 
while kids remain “sitting ducks”

mental health month means colored
ribbons tied on campus trees as a boy
almost my son’s age finds his only 
hope in the power of a too-lethal gun

four classmates of my daughter 
are hospitalized for mental health 
while we double down on upping 
test scores and blocking abortion

I shook the hands of a Parkland teen
begging Washington D.C. to take action
four years ago, today I wish I could hug 
him and tell him all his work still mattered

evil, corrupt, greedy, selfish, blind—hope feels
minuscule scrolling long list of mass shootings
while saying the same things over and over
wondering what words can even do

sullied by fear I can’t ignore, I considered
keeping my kids close today, locked within 
my arms to sob into their perfect shoulders
keenly aware of America’s vast brokenness

it’s spirit day at my daughter’s school
water fights, popsicles, last-minute gleeful 
moments before goodbyes leak into 
summer sunshine, summer fruit

I don’t know what else to do but sob
and bare witness as mothers mourn
and greedy splintered politics remain
–sour watermelon promises

Author’s note: If you’ve come here to debate me, I will delete your comment.


Related posts

Wednesdays are for Poetry

This week I had a clear poetry dream. I woke with the words floating around me and I managed to capture a few of them in my journal. The entire concept of the poem, however, isn’t complete. I’m hoping when the school year is over and we get through graduations and parties, I’ll have time to sit and fully complete my strange little cheese grater poem. Stay tuned.

I want to thank the WordPress poetry community. You have created such a positive and safe space. I’m honored and humbled so many have read and commented on my poems. Thank you. You sure do know how to make a gal feel welcome and encouraged. I haven’t had as much time to read and comment lately, but this summer I’ll be deep-diving into all your wonderful words. There is an abundance of talent and inspiration here. Thank you for making me feel so welcome.

My offerings this week:

  • Free-verse poem processing my feelings after dropping my daughter off in the woods (pictured above) for her 8th-grade trip. She’ll be fine. I mean, right? Right??
  • Erasure poem created from a page of “A Court of Wings and Ruin” by Sarah J. Maas
  • Erasure poem created from page one of “The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue” by V.E. Schwab

Both of the Erasure poems were a gift for a dear friend’s birthday. I didn’t get a great photo before handing them off, but still wanted to include the process and the words.


Erosion

tiny increments of sand
tiny toes and hands
barely perceptible
yet unbreakable
changes everything
changes nothing

wind, water, waves

latched together we begin
as not two
but one plus one 
merging all moments
hearts beating, meeting 
together in time

wind, water, waves

tempest tantrums force
skinned feelings as
two become two
linked by still fused
hearts beating, meeting 
together in time

wind, water, waves

finger by finger hands
pry free, move toward
monkey bars and swings
pushing, pulling as still
hearts beat, meeting
together in time

wind, water, waves

warring words rage
as torrential tears
fall between two who
don’t see how to keep
hearts beating, meeting 
together in time

wind, water, waves

standing taller than 
mother, biting hard 
at tethers outgrown, words
sting eyes, burn places where
hearts beat, meeting
together in time

wind, water, waves

spring becomes winter
winter becomes spring 
old-growth gives way to
loves eternal connection
hearts beat, meeting
together in time

wind, water, waves

acres and acres of sand
brushes between same-sized hands
barely perceptible
yet unbreakable
changes everything
changes nothing

*Thank you Chris for inspiring me to record myself reading my poetry


The Artist

Painting a lie 
bright pale, blooms 
fat sunshine, idle 
rose lurking, open
thorns, satiny hills 
distance—unrelenting.

Painted flesh-shredding
flowers, chocked off
sunlight, smaller stained 
brushstroke, wide calculated 
dab—swirlcolors. 

Portray not idyllic 
disposition, not too
happy, finally healing 
horrors, divulged past 
crafted—demeanor.

I chose.


Don’t Look Back

Running air burns back 
angry mobs. Lanterns glow 
breaks horizon, spills tangling 
woods to beat dying wind.

Shadow blurring flowers from 
ground. Stars wake like freckles.

One love.
One life.
One god.

Mock promises.

Doesn’t slow.
Doesn’t look.
Doesn’t want.
Stands static.

She runs.

Poetry: Am I Still Doing This?

Last week, I heard Neil Gaiman and Michael Gallowglass read poetry in person. Both experiences were vastly different and I learned quite a bit about why I’m so drawn to this form of writing. It’s like a powerful treasure hunt of meaning, and when it’s done well, it lingers with you and leaves its mark.

My poetry class ended, but I think I’ll continue to share poems each Wednesday. Most likely it will be something related to my weekly short story, but I’m not going to limit myself. I hope to experiment with different poetic forms and find my own voice.

This week I’m sharing six poems. The first two are ekphrastic poems written as class assignments, the second two are free-verse poems written to accompany my short story The Red-Haired Beauty, and the final two are a nonet and triolet written as an afterthought for my latest short story Playing Games.

Thank you to everyone who continues to read my blog and give me feedback. It means the world to me.


The Blue Woods

Ancient woody arms
with hunched-back shadows,
press through darkness
to where children
walk alone.

Harsh hallowed wind 
rips, tears flowing
nightclothes, while feverish
famished bears slowly
grumble nearby.

Follow the moon
with cold bare-toes
pressed firm. Ignore 
whipping sounds clawing
at innocence.

Into blinking dark
night’s warm bosom,
shaking-unsteady, my
dearests—for nightmares 
aren’t real.

*This was based on looking at the cover art of “The Ocean at the End of the Lane”


To Be Them

Mother says keep moving,
the waters can 
rise up again
in an instant,
but I want
to see twisting
wires, and climb
to the top
like kids without
parents do.

Mother says don’t question
our lot, our
struggling, fumbling life
but the faded
colors of towers
built for them,
mock me—joy
not meant for
those who look
like me.

Mother says be kind,
but they come
to hallowed ground,
our sacred birthplace.
Blood mixed soil
infused with ancient
seawater—ancestral fragments
of us, but
they do not
see us.

Mother says don’t hate,
like brother does
when we find
pictures of smiling
pink cheeks, white
hats on colorful
cars. They eat
fluffed candy without
thinking of who
lives here.

Mother says don’t wonder
what cream smothered
on white skin
smells like. Or
how they keep
clothes sparkling while
screaming through steep
dips. We know
the real danger
is us.

Mother says find things
to sell them
on return, but
the waters might
never stop coming.
She still believes
we need them
to survive. She
doesn’t see hope
in me.

Mother makes more jewelry
for thin necks
and tiny wrists,
but if they
don’t return maybe
they can drape
my thick dark
ones, and she’ll
call little me
beautiful too.

Mother cries for lost
toys crushed by
the sea. Not
me. I hope
they stay away,
in their honey-
colored love boats.
So we don’t
disappear back into
shadows again.

*This was based on an art image of carnival-type rides fallen into disrepair


Bubbles I

Saliva pools inside puffed pink cheeks as the 
squishy bubble bursts between molars, exploding 
juices down my scratchy throat. Burning it fizzles
inside; soda pop madness, sweet as jars of candy 
swiped from dark corner shops while peers sit
behind rows of school desks. Her face, the one
swallowed by the slinky shadow creature while I walked 
unknowing into the wrong silent place, comes 
now with painful throbbing to sing words I’d heard
long ago but forgotten, and to brush the stray hairs off 
my sticky cheek with soft fingertips. The thoughts of love 
once mine, unasked for but given anyway, are pinpricks
of pain, nerves awakening after pinched off so long, messages
to tell my body to really feel. I stuff more into my mouth, craving
sensations of the forgotten, much too much, but oh
how my true name echoes and changes everything.

Bubbles II

Plucked from our icy home deep within 
the salty brine of life’s starting place, we 
slumber in grains of sand tinier than eyes can 
perceive. Minute flecks of light, rays of sun
mixed with moonlight, we live far below 
scuttling claws and slippery flippers. You called us 
forth in an instant, brought by proximity
to the shadow of The Shadow’s mark upon
your soft imperfect body. We saw you weeping 
into our waters and felt compelled to stir 
and rise. We exist, persist, to seek balance 
between all things. Shifting, we move matter within 
moments with forces older than time, faster than 
light and sound. You can’t see until we let you 
the realness of your truth. The faces and moments 
feasted upon and stolen from you within the sacred 
silence it lurks behind. Teasing, we form 
into physical shapes, tempting you to taste of your 
life, plopped into waiting warm mouths, sliding
into the depths of bone and muscle, wiggling
and writhing—alive. We unleash captured memories
to dance on the surface of your consciousness, tangos 
of truth you knew but which it hid within the folds of time.

*Read The Red-Haired Beauty


After School | A Triolet

she’s waiting for me when the bell rings
faded yellow sweater smelling of home
unknown to me except in dreams, no wings
she’s waiting for me when the bell rings
my name upon her lips she does sing
with bluest eyes framed by glasses of chrome
she’s waiting for me when the bell rings
faded yellow sweater smelling of home

Mother’s Love | A Nonet

my mother knows every inch of me
her child from any time or place
we fold into each other
her arms a warm blanket
of protection from
the bad dreams of
shadowy
death
my mother heals every inch of me

*Read Playing Games


More Poems

Poetry: Am I Cool Enough to Play in the Poet’s Sandbox?

Poetry has wriggled itself inside me, leaving me pondering words and feelings for hours. I wish I’d not stopped writing so I’d be further along and far more skilled at expressing myself and seeing metaphors and abstractions. My poetry class has been a rough back and forth. Sometimes I feel excited and joyful, and other times I’m filled with crippling self-doubt.

I have a lot of work to do.

This week we did our own version of two poems, which play off of each other.

The first is “We Real Cool” by Gwendolyn Brooks. We were to write a version of this poem as a writer at Comic-Con. I’m fairly certain I’m the only person in my class who has never been, but I imagined myself there. The first thing that came to mind was feeling like I don’t belong—a sense I’m not creative or real enough. I followed the exact format of the poem and found when others shared their interpretations they were far less rigid in their thinking—something for me to ponder moving forward.

For our second poem, we looked at “The Golden Shovel” by Terrance Hayes. He uses all the words of “We Real Cool” to create two more poems with different meanings. I found this exercise the most fun I’ve had so far. I loved breaking the words up and playing with how they sounded reading them out loud. This was also the most personal for me, exploring my feelings of being not worthy of being part of the creative world.

I hope you enjoy this third week of poetry. As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.


Wordy Ones
Lost at Comic-Con

Too much I see
This bunch. See

The fake. See
Me take. See

Words real. See
Me feel. See

It all. See
Me fall.


Lost in Wordy World

Part I

Audaciously ungraciously stumbling too
drunk with unresolved dreams much
too much to be with, play with, cool kids. I
pretend, extend, and reach with all to see

if real me is enough. Naive and candied, honeyed this
world of wordy geniuses, the authentic bunch
eludes timeworn plain-Jane me, blinking un see

n. Hidden within shadows, turning, twisting off the
path traveled, into deep waters where fabulous fake
ery lives within the pulsing, pushing. Arms paddle to see/

sea creatures within writhing, writing to unearth a me.
Screeching too late, too late, haunted—take
deeper voyage under, over, pen on paper to see

k truths with excavated shoveled sand. Words uncover wily words
writhing words, piled upward and upright toward some real
ness. Will I, won’t I, the dance of solitary solidarity see

ing where words take, two pigeon-toed left feet, lead/lean on me.
Bounded, tethered by urgent hoping, desperation—finally feel
and reel and real, to uncover the sea and seethe and see.

Kindness, ambition married with martyr me, it
wars, bloodied knives out, within my curving all-rounded
frame. It’s mothering outward me versus internal me see

ing vast emptiness hidden in wordy distant worlds. The me
to be, to stumble, slipping on words with care, for I may fatally fall.

Part II

Writers write words too
big inside to ignore, much
ruckus, boisterous blabbering. But I
hear the calling whippoorwills, see

the creaking willows in this
hollow by the sea. I fond a bunch
of cryptic messages, bottles see

n bobbing up and down the
waves to me, for me. Not fake
pain, no, far too real. See

the version, vision of me
you see, isn’t to take,
no, it isn’t for you to see

at all. With my words/
weapons I become more real
ly me. Each breath, see

words flow, float from me
—pen on paper, the feel
of all or nothing, see

me give and give, it
feels like not enough. All
I am and all I see—

collections of words in me.
Don’t look away or I’ll fall.

Poetry: Stumbling Forth

I’ve fallen in love with poetry and have been reading a lot more of it. I’m inspired by the variety, depth, and beauty of the distinct voices poets bring to their works. While I’m still quite clumsy, I’m enjoying exploring different types of poetry and playing with line breaks, punctuation, and repetition.

Last week, I was blown away by the thoughtful comments of encouragement and support. My anxiety tells me those poems were a fluke and everyone will hate this week’s offerings, but I know that’s resistance taking the lead. Creativity takes a lot of courage, and I’m summoning all I got to keep moving forward. One word at a time.

This week’s classwork was to write poems inspired by our favorite books. I’m sharing three poems:

  1. Erasure poem from the first page of “The Name of the Wind” by Patrick Rothfuss
  2. Erasure poem from a random page “The Slow Regard of Silent Things” by Patrick Rothfuss
  3. Acrostic poem using “The Name of the Wind”

I hope you enjoy these latest attempts. As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.


Night

Silence;
hollow lacking,
wind creaking,
brushed autumn laughter.

House;
music huddled,
quiet news,
sullen sorts underfoot.

Splintering;
black heat,
white hands, 
polishing lamplight flame.

Subtle;
wrapping deep,
wide stone,
patient flower waiting.


Surely

slow down, fingers touch
brushed sweetness
curled edges
realizing proper treasure

surely
surely

the moment eyes want
furious things
shame burning
greedy wanting twisting 
world of pushing desire 

she closed 
around herself
obviously

in
need 


Into the Wilds Within

Tired, weary I bring myself forth to press into
hallowed places, for I dare not travel alone into the
ethereal nest of words I can’t say out loud.

Nothingness, thick about me, caped and hooded,
aloof with boots of thick mud, trapped between
me and me and me, the versions of which I can’t
erase, write again and again for all time.

Oh, worldly wordsmiths of grace and mire
forgive me my shortcomings, for I’m not worthy.

Tis the smoke in my eye blinding me to the
hero, the pain of which I can’t find no matter how
earnestly I go into the woods and the wilds to

wrestle the places deep within to seek diverse
images. Words fail me, they don’t capture the
nothingness and everything of the beautiful
dreams of what could be, what I could be.

Poetry: New Adventures

While I’ve always admired and enjoyed poetry, the skills it takes to craft such beautiful imagery within the framework of a poem have eluded me. In an attempt to improve my writing all around, I enrolled in a poetry class specifically designed for fiction writers. We meet once a week and have assignments that I find both challenging and enjoyable.

I’ve decided to be transparent about my journey, as a way to chronicle my exploration and perhaps inspire others. Here’s the culmination of my first week’s work. There are three free-verse poems.

  1. A poem borrowing heavily from Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky”
  2. A poem critiquing something we dislike in genre fiction
  3. A combination of the two poems

I hope you enjoy my first, clumsy attempts. As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.


Part I: My gimble love

we were to meet near the Tumtum grove
sweetest Mimsy and I
in the wabe of the bright callay moon

vorpal drunk on too much gyre and honey-wine
myriad dreams rollicking, frolicking
singing multitudes, manxomes, moments

yet snicker-snack, quicker-quack and outgrabe
you caught me instead
slithy and slimy-the ultimate uffish trickster

tying my hands with rough tulgey strands
behind my burbled back
whispering wicked words under frumious breath

wound and wound, like ugly bandersnatches
to silence whiffling cries
hands and heart knotted, cold as beamish bears

you couldn’t let violet joy breathe between
sweetest Mimsy and me
no, not with such a frabjous, frivolous hallow heart

oh, what will become of me, dearest mome
without my gimble love
stuck within the fettered borgogoves for all eternity

Part II: Too sweet for me

Super sweet taffy names
sticky, pointless, giant cones of
toothaches
you feed them to me relentless
as if more is more is more
confused I throw you down
and you smile and tell yourself
it’s me
who doesn’t
get
you

wheels of definitions, connections
turn in place while
story gets lost under
sideways leanings
cleverness loses characters
messes mess with me
wondering
where
did the
story
go

where is the truth behind
the many, many words
names, places, movement
half-light and half-truth
half right
don’t tell me a lot of nothing
tell me all of one thing
I can
believe
is
real

where is the soul of the sweet
the ingredients of the truth
the messy darkness
cloudy with connections and conversations
the door within the door
the dream within the dream
truth 
I can
truly
feel

don’t just tell of deeds done
action, reaction, repeat
but the why and the why and the way
curiouser and curiouser
deeper and deeper
secret journals
in watery caves
monsters within who
fight
with 
gospelly
fingers

give me contradictions wrapped in truth
make me feel something I know
make me know it again
with the kind of 
unexpected gasp
I won’t, can’t forget 
so when I close the book
your words live
inside
me
forever

Part III: Lover, tell me more 

in the wabe of the bright callay moon
you feed them to me relentless
as if more is more is more
confused I throw down
singing multitudes, manxome, moments
you smile and tell yourself
it’s me
who doesn’t
get
you

slithy and slimy—the ultimate uffish trickster
turning wheels of definitions, connections
sideways leanings behind burbled backs
messes mess with me
whispering wicked words under frumious breath
to silence whiffling cries while I’m left
wondering
where did
you
go

untruths hidden behind many, many words
wound and wound, like an ugly bandersnatch
messy darkness stuck in action, reaction, repeat
half-light and half-truth—half right
vorpal drunk on too much gyre and honey-wine
don’t tell me a lot of messy nothing
tell me
the thing
I
seek

unwonted discovery, hidden verity
knotted, cold as beamish bears
door within a door—dream within a dream
secret journals in watery caves
frabjous, frivolous hallow hearts
monsters who fight with gospelly fingers
everyone, anyone
stripped
naked
real

let violet joy breathe between 
contradictions wrapped in truth
lost and found within the pulsing borogoves
make me feel something I know
but make me know it again
with unexpected gasps I won’t, can’t forget 
your words 
alive inside
me

my love