I have become stone. I used to be soft, open, passionate. But somewhere I looked up to find I am made of tortoise shell, a million years old. I am full of emotions, they're just buried too deep to find- maybe I never had them in the first place or maybe they have just fossilized. I am a mother, without my child. I am not a daughter, though my mother is still alive (define alive). I am spiritual, but I have lost religion, Buddha, Jesus, and Allah are not contradictory to me. I am selfish, and self-serving, but I love - just in my own way - flawed.
My Mom's plates
given to me weeks ago,
remain in the trunk of my car.
Rattling chains of Marley
at every bump and turn,
reminding me of dinners long ago
when we were still a family,
when those plates still mattered.
There is a place in Colombia
where kids have proven
they can educate themselves better than you can.
In the midst of a world we have labelled
children of farmers who don't know English
(but are better citizens anyway)
are kicking our superior *****.
There's talk of bringing the method here
where, no doubt, it will be standardized
(all the better to fit into a single test)
and forced down our children's throats
while we coo
God Bless America!
Retreat into the palms
my dearest red-haired siren.
(It's always red hair isn't it, Ross?)
away from steamboat thoughts.
Play your lovely instrument
(is it a guitar? a violin?)
its soft tones lifting up
with the birds of Paradise.
cannot see you
or sees you better.
Yes, you are more aware
of yourself away from civilization
that heavy burden
we beg for.
You could forever be my lovely here.
Blazing in the sun.
A Goddess hiding in the Garden.
If you were me, or I you
were we each other
could I turn away from
I could lure Ulysses
I could sound dangerous music.
Don't call them back,
tired of your island,
your handmaids of Paradise.
I don't want to have been wrong
to trust your image
if you are not a Goddess at all.
I might hate you
or I might love you
now that we've been ****** together.
Maybe I should have studied Elvis or Frieda
but I retreated into the palms
My poetry is like a sneeze it pops into my head and I write it down and its a relief its purpose changes to express millions of things I don't have much control and I don't ant to the main underlying purpose is selfish my poetry is for me i don't care if you read it or understand it my fingers itch and words keep pummeling my brain so I write to shut them up and every so often it comes out well I never sit down to write a poem and i hate writing it more than once it punches me in the middle of the grocery store leaving me panicking for paper and pen
My little dove has never been good to me.
It halts and stops
at the best parts.
I am too lazy to whip it into shape.
Instead, I indulge and abandon my writing pen.
No wonder I can't write **** anymore.
I ***** onto the page
and it is poetry