6/30
what if my family was big
enough to fill the movie theater?
would i grow weary of so many
arms hugging me? so many pies to eat?
or would I finally be full?
More short poems:
1/30: not my cat
2/30: comfort
3/30: ache
4/30: remember
5/30: graduation
5/30
the moon, the stars and me
watched you walk proudly
across the stage. we smiled
knowing the truth. love
doesn’t recognize such things
as endings or beginnings. only
connection and connection. love
isn’t contingent or feeble.
it doesn’t come with strings
or weights. free and full—
vast as the infinite universe.
i’m forever here for you.
More short poems:
1/30: not my cat
2/30: comfort
3/30: ache
4/30: remember
4/30
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.
More short poems:
1/30: not my cat
2/30: comfort
3/30: ache
3/30
an old ache woke today
i thought it drowned in Miami
while hard waves crashed my thighs
salt meeting salt
but here it is again
calling loudly of hidden rushing waterfalls
not dry deserts or busy cityscapes
chosen not settled
go away, i half whisper
folding myself into my rough hammock
while a tiny brown bird sings
without an answer
More short poems:
1/30: not my cat
2/30: comfort
2/30
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.
More short poems:
1/30: not my cat
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.
1/30
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!
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.
Wandering mimsy-like
through vorpal woods
gyre strapped mome-like
upon my thigh—
Gimble finds me.
Draped in white
dandelion fur cloak
brillig bright eyes
slithy black hair—
Gimble mocks me.
Uffishly pouncing forth
callay sword drawn
frumiously sweating brows
lips drawn tight—
Gimble attacks me.
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.
Again.
Coward.
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.
Bridgette Tales 