City lights make me forget
Your window’s yellow glow
And the face that I miss most is drowned
In faces I don’t know

They all seem so happy here
I can be happy too

Please don’t send me letters, sir
They remind me of my pain
It tells me that through all the changes
I remained the same

The footsteps of a million people
Hide the missing sound
Of your uneven amble next to
Mine, upon the ground

No one round here gives a ****
Seems I’m still giving two

So please don’t send me letters, sir
They’re full of ghosts, you see
That taunt me with the cold hard truth
That you have gone
And the city moves on
And I’m still stuck as me.

A velvet curtain call concluded,
A cheering audience cried,
The critics published long reviews
Predicting Broadway's newest pride.
The cast was given high acclaim
While, standing to the side,
The playwright could not understand
Why it seemed a friend had died.

I stood by the river today
And wondered what it was saying
In its cool, babbling whisper
And I wondered also
If the river was listening to me
And wondering what I was saying
In my harsh, cobbled tones
When I asked it what it meant

In her cartoon world in shades of pastel browns and reds,
Little orphaned Ann Marie skips through twisted nightmare scenes
On corroded tape on VHS or a flimsy plastic five buck DVD.
Come home, come home to my heart
Kneeling on pale, cartoon knees and singing sweetly of secret dreams,
A haunted melody forgotten by all but a few jaded '90s college kids,
Ann Marie wishes on stars in dingy cellars on days she cannot go outside.
When you come home, we'll never be apart
Trapped in her B-quality version of immortality, Ann Marie repeats her lines
While the girl behind the microphone drops dead in a puddle of blood.

On the days that I see you,
The poetry flows,
And on days that I don't,
Words won't even rhyme.
So you see, it's important
To the future of prose
That I see you as often
As you have the time.

Dear sir,

Please find enclosed one heart,
as per ordered one week ago.
If damaged on arrival, please
Feel free to send it back to us
For a replacement, free of charge.
But if the packaging is torn,
We will assume you broke it,
And we will not reimburse you.

Sincerely,
God & Co.

You sit across from me and
spit up garbled words like an infant,
you and your gassy smiles.

So I sit here, up late again,
and regurgitate them all on paper,
to get them out of my system.

Nothing but static.

        Twist and turn the ****
              to get a better signal.
Something?

                             I thought I heard---
Ear against the speaker.
Never mind.
                                                                      I was mistaken.
                Whatever it was,
. . . . it's gone now.

In my name
Hear the scream of thousands
Of ancient warriors,
Naked, painted green like the
Forest they fight for,
The crash of crude weapons
Crafted by delicate fingers
Glimmering like water
In the hard, cold sun,
And the shudder of trees
In sudden, silent anguish
As the last elfin warrior
Falls dead among their roots.

He says we're the two loneliest people
He's ever known.

Climbing through barbed wire
Fence and into the
Trees and through the
Bogs and across the
Ice and over the
Swamp on my hands and
Knees in the frozen mud
With my nose near the
Paw prints of squirrels and the
Sound of the river rushing in my
Ears and then over my body -
Freezing and sharp to wake me
Up - then onto the
Rocks and past the sign which
Read "no trespassers" a little
Too late, then on up the
Road and over the
Guardrail
Onto the trail
Past the fields
Over the wheel ruts
And under the chain
Back home again,
Soaking wet
And very much
Happier
To be alive.

You come across as confident.
I thought you had it all together.
With your huge infectious smile
You can charm a person whether

They are just some stranger or
Someone you've never met before.

But being with you for so long
Has shown to me another side,
One that second guesses every
Action, one you try to hide

Because in truth you're insecure,
Self-conscious, timid, and unsure.

Oh, darling, how I long to tell you
Your agonies are so unfounded.
You are amazing, really truly,
All you are leaves me astounded!

And, for the record, it is your
Flaws that make me love you more.

If armageddon were to suddenly rain
down on the world in flaming reality,
I would take you somewhere with me -
we'd hijack a car or hitch a ride in a truck
until our wheels broke down and then
we'd start walking, just us, fingers loosely entwined,
into a nuclear red distance where we'd
find some railway tunnel or bridge to hide under.
Both of us would curl up under your army jacket
against the lashing acid rain and freezing ash
and I'd hold your beautiful hands
as we would sing love songs we'd heard
during happier days.
If you got sick, I would dig you a cave in
the side of a ***** or build you a hovel
in some forgotten junkyard and wrap you
in everything I owned before going out
to steal food, disgusting rations that I would
wash down with deep kisses and draughts of
acrid oily water, until you were healed.
It would be the two of us, standing together
in the midst of a crazy swirling hell and
you would carry me if I got too tired and I
would lay your head in my lap at night and
run my fingers through your thinning hair
and talk about the moon and stars that we
remember but could no longer see . . .
and believe me, darling, I would be
the happiest person in my anathema version of heaven.

If I were ever so fortunate as to acquire a magic lamp
And have it be the kind that holds a genie trapped inside,
I swear upon the grave to which the loss of you will drive me,
That all three wishes offered me would only be for you.

I'd faithfully promised
Myself and my friends
That all this was over
And I'd reached the end
Of my fawning and sighing
And tripping cloud nine -
I'd said I was finished
I'd said I was fine.

But I wasn't, you see,
And it all became clear
When I saw you again
For the first time this year:
You stood so **** near me
And smiled so wide
And shouted my name
And I melted inside . . .

I can't turn away now:
You stare so intensely,
You promise tomorrow,
And I love you immensely.
Thus, after the heartache,
The fear and the pain,
I'm back with a vengeance.
I'm back in the game.

Hello, Hello Poetry!
My name is ORLA, as you can see:
There's my little name, up there.
It's funny, see, 'cause I don't care
If my poems stink or ****
As much as does my ****** luck,
Because you'd never tell me true,
You'll trend my poems, like you do,
And make pretend it's a big deal
When - Hello Poetry, get real -
I don't deserve this great fanfare,
Me or my little name up there,
Which isn't actually my name.
I go by ORLA just the same
Because I pour my heart out here,
And don't want snooping friends to hear
How much my heart is hurt by HIM
Or how I can't stand HER or THEM . . .
I actually hate ME, to boot!
You see? Now, if I gave a hoot
About what anybody thought,
What they believed, or what they bought,
Do you think I'd let this poem get
This long and tiresome? You can bet,
I wouldn't. I'd have never written
Something when I was this smitten
With fatigue, grief, guilt, depression -
But I must end this griping session:
Goodbye, Hello Poetry!
My name is ORLA - This is me.

I send notes in bottles
to imaginary friends
on distant beaches
while combing my fingers
through the cold, white sand
looking for the sea glass
that will cut my hands
and throwing out seashells
because they aren't
nearly shiny enough.

I couldn't hide,
So I denied
That I had spied,
Cried,
Sighed,
and died
Inside,
In short
. . . I lied.

                  But I tried.

Not talking to you for so long
Is a sad thing to endure
But now I know of something else
That pains me even more:

That moment when I speak to you
And realize then and there
That if we never talked again,
I wouldn't really care.

If feelings were colors,
Right now mine would be
The empty black vacuum of space
The panicky bright red of unexpected blood
And the greenish gray of an oncoming storm.

If feelings were temperatures,
Right now mine would be
The cold of slimy, shivering fever sweat
And the phantom heat of a third degree burn

If feelings were expressions,
Right now mine would be
The long and horrified scream of Edvard Munch
And the agonized tears of Rachel weeping for her children

If feelings were weather,
Right now mine would be
A shrieking hurricane of acid rain
A night choked with fog so thick you can't see
And the hopeless burning nothingness of a desert afternoon

If feelings were words,
Right now mine would be
Probably very close to the ones you just read . . .

This poem was only written to
Create a meter and a rhyme
There is no deeper meaning here,
So if you don't like wasting time
On mindless drivel, here's your hat
Because this poem is just that!

No wellsprings of emotion flow
Nor subtle allegories preach
Within these empty, patterned words -
I have no wish to moan or teach
Go somewhere else for love or fear
Because you will not find it here.

Now to apply some filler words
Like catnip, ice cream, roller rink,
Because I have no words to speak
And do not wish to feel or think.
I told you you were wasting time
Upon tetrameter and rhyme.

Everyone takes the blue pill*
What was it you said once?
Security before morality and
The necessity of self-delusions.
But here's the thing:
How do you know that the red pill
Isn't just some wild acid trip
And the blue pill is the one
That keeps you in reality?

Two once-bittens circling the elephant in the room:
you blunder around in my china cabinet
and I hide in your church, timid as a mouse.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll find a love
That buys me roses every Monday
Even after fifty years,
Or walks across a thousand miles
To deliver a snowbound love letter,
Or drives six hours as a surprise
To attend a Sadie Hawkins dance --
And then I think I'll be content
With someone who calls every once in a while.

Once upon a time, there was me:
A simpleton of no account,
A dunderhead by word of mouth,
An addle-pate, a cracking crock,
A crazy who deserved a lock.
Not pretty, brainy, or well-bred,
Bespectacled, a short redhead
With hands too small and far too pink
Who’d trip or fall as soon as think.
Not many prospects, they declared
With such conviction I was scared.
But the cast was short one role,
The one who’d make the halfwit whole . . .

Once upon a time, there was you:
A lord of state, of high esteem,
The answer to each maiden’s dream,
A strong man, raven-haired, and tall?
No, not this person, not at all.
You had glasses just like me,
And freckles where your skin should be.
Your clothes were rumpled, torn and tattered
Not as though that even mattered:
You walked on set and came to me
You got down on one gawky knee
You took my pink hand in your red
And, as you fixed your glasses, said:
“I love your hands, your height, your hair,
I love you up, down, everywhere.
And I hesitate to ask you this . . .
But could I maybe have a kiss?”
And, for once, my tactless lips
Did not resort to stumbling slips;
I gave you one, I gave you two,
I gave every kiss I had to you.

Once upon a time, there was us:*
Two simpletons of no repute
Two dunderheads whose names were moot:
Prince Not-So-Charming and his *****.
And much as cynics tried to drench
The flames of addle-pated glee
I found in you and you in me,
As much as they enjoyed pretending,
They could not harm our happy ending.

The father stares, bloodshot, egg-yolk eyes glistening
As he waits for his baby woman daughter to quiver
And melt into the **** of the bedroom carpet
Under the heat of his betrayed and angry gaze.
And he waits.
And he waits.

I know that I’m not what you want,
But here’s my shoulder now
To lean on. Break it with your weight –  
I’ll steady you somehow.

I know that I’m not what you need,
My arms can’t bear your load;
They’re weak, but look – my legs are strong!
I’ll walk you down this road.

And if we come across your monsters,
Though I can’t fight, I’ll be your shield.
And if you trip on past emotions,
I will hold you ‘til you’re healed.

Because I’m shallow, weak, and useless,
I cannot understand –
But I can listen to your stories
And I can hold your hand.

I pray God sends the person who
Will save you from your fear.
But, until you find your savior,
Know that I am here.

I am a deep green 'L' with traces of gold and red.
I sound like a babbling brook or, better, a book
Because books sound like smiles and tears,
Which taste like snowshowers and chocolate kisses.
Chocolate reminds me of the number eight,
Which feels warm and spicy and rather yellow,
Like the song "Somewhere Over The Rainbow".
Rainbows feel misty like the edge of the universe,
Which definitely is a hue of blue, much like you,
Because blue sounds cheerful and solemn
Like a bagpipe or the Mona Lisa,
But with a smidgen of whistling in the rain mixed in,
Just to make you smell even better.

Mincing words and little smiles
Not too much teeth
A delicate flutter of the fingers
And a calculated toss of the hair
Over a craftily twitched shoulder
Take small steps
And be sure to swing your hips -
But not too much

Dear God, the claustrophobic prison
Of tiny, perfect words and
Tiny, perfect movements
You've created for yourself!
Let me scare away every man I meet
Before I put myself in such a little box,
Easily picked up, easily toted,
. . . easily discarded.

I will be me, loud and obnoxious,
I will dance in the middle of the street,
I will wave to random passersby,
I will wear funny hats and bright red boots,
I will carry plates of food on my head,
I will laugh as loudly as I want,
And I will be loved for who I am,
Or not at all.

. . . a glass of cold milk after eating a warm chocolate chip cookie
. . . a long hot shower after an hour long run around the indoor track
. . . a piece of blank paper after buying new ballpoint pen
. . . cracking open the thick, juicy sequel to my favorite novel
. . . a cup of black coffee after a long night and a late morning
. . . a stretch after two hours of bending over a computer screen
. . . a catnap between classes after an allnighter spent cramming
. . . a jumbo bucket of movie theater popcorn with extra butter
. . . my warm fur-lined coat when it's below thirty and snowing
. . . Christmas presents wrapped in shiny paper and foamy ribbons
. . . a good grade on the research paper I spent a week writing
. . . just one more potato chip
. . . fame and fortune
. . . she does

hello,
it's been really long.
i hope you remember me.
i miss you a lot.
i think about you all the time.
i stayed on the shelf where you put me,
to make sure that you could find me again
if you ever wanted to look.
it's dusty up here, and dark -
i don't think you remember
but i've always been scared of the dark -
and the others are all slowly dying.
i hear them at night,
falling over,
as their button eyes stop shining,
and they stare deadly at me
through the blackness.
they still look sad.
i guess that's what happens when
toys get forgotten.
it's kind of cold up here, too,
but i can remember
your warm, soft bed
that always smelled like sweat
and soap
and the lavendar oatmeal shampoo
that mommy always put in your hair.
i think i might be dying too.
i haven't been feeling well.
have i been forgotten?
have you forgotten me?
i don't blame you,
every child must grow up
and leave.
but i was wondering something -
if it's not too much to ask,
do you think that maybe
you could come find me
take me off the shelf
and bring me to bed with you
just one more time?
use me as a pillow
and wrap me in your arms
and let me be scared of the dark
with you
one last time . . .

My dearest friend, what have you done tonight?
I fear you may have ****** up once again.
You only had one chance to get it right,
And now I think you might have lost a friend.
You ran away as soon as she declined . . .
Affections are a ***** if not returned,
And many who assert themselves will find
The hearts they wear upon their sleeves are spurned.
But don't give up completely. There's a reason
This love-will-find-a-way **** is so toted.
Some day, somehow, within the perfect season
You will find Her. And I'd like it noted
                That though you walked into a trial today,
                It was a stronger man that walked away.

Writer, Writer, finding stories
in every twitch of every eye ---
there are no chance encounters here!
Coincidence is banned from us,
for it does not make good books.

Cause-and-effect makes the world go round,
thus questions by millions unanswered:
why thatword, why that look,
and what crucial subtext
was inferred by that three-second pause?

Does the world work like this,
like a well-crafted novel?
Are we characters moving
to preprescribed endings?

In short, I suppose, my question is this:
            are we Writers so cursed to live in this illusion,
            or cursed to see how the world actually works?

He always sits alone at lunch,
The Roundheaded Kid.
(That's what they call him.)

He never talks to me,
But I wouldn't mind if he tried sometime.
I think I like him,
But I'd never tell him so.

Yesterday he looked at me,
Sitting by myself on this bench,
Eating peanut butter and feeling lonely
Especially when it stuck to the roof of my mouth . . .

I thought I saw something
Sparkle in his eyes.
(The Roundheaded Kid has nice eyes.)

But he saw me looking back,
And put his lunch bag over his head.

Do you have to be less than whole
To be wholly in love?
All this talk about completion -
"You make me complete" -
Sickens me to no end.
"If you left, I would be nothing."
And you wonder why they leave?

I would be just as complete
With as without you.
You don't make me,
And I wouldn't want to have to
Make you.
You are whole and perfect,
As I am whole and perfect,
And together we will
Overwhelm the world
With our perfect wholeness
Squared.