I did it again,
I didn't fight -
I took less
than was deserved.
Nobody respects that,
not even me.
Too worried to tear
out a throat
to deliver a warning
nip.
How many times
do I have to learn
this lesson?
Too little, too late,
right time
wrong place.
Don't you dare
face me now.
I am rabid,
full of venom,
and craving blood.

Start with a statement.
Something you know to be true.
See how it relates to the things you cherish -
family, nature, flying, anything.
Now write it, but also speak it!
Make sure it has a rhythm
that bounces to and fro.
Weave in the important elements
everywhere you can.
But be careful with your words!
Try not to repeat them -
this is where a thesaurus comes in handy.
A dictionary too!
Use your language correctly,
or have a **** good reason for not.
Punctuation matters too;
it affects how you read.
Listen in your head -
does that period belong there?
Grammatically it might be correct,
poetically, maybe not.
Hide things, little secrets,
between the lines
for the reader to discover.
But most of all,
and now this is the important part,
write what feels right,
nothing less
and nothing more.

That's how to write a poem.

I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.

I watch as an older woman in a red flowery
dress holding yellow flowers looks out to the sea
Searching for the young man she fell
in love with at the ripe age of twenty three
He gave his life that day on the Normandy shore
on the sixth of June the year was forty-four
Every year this woman comes to the sea to remember
For when she said her marriage vows
she meant them to last to the end of her forever
She throws the yellow flowers out to the sea
Always grateful for the love they shared
and proud that he fell in the cause for the free