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.

Fake love, true love, red love, blue love,
***** love with cherries on top.

Love is a four letter word - like a curse.
"****, ****, ****, ****, love."
Go put your wishing-well penny in the swear jar.

Love is like pasta,
A flavor-holder for tomato gravy adjectives:
"unconditional", "passionate", and "infinite".
I'll take mine al dente.

You're not "in love", you're "on love",
Because cloud nine gets you higher than *******,
But you fall harder when you come down.

Why write about love?
Why not write about socks?
I'm sure they're almost as universal.

They sure hurt less.

Except when one gets lost in the dryer
And you are left wondering
What you did to make your left sock hate you.

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.

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.

Mounds of sheets and piles of pillows
(It's slightly hot in here!)
Sitting up, I brush my head against
The drooping blanket roof;
Silver light and sounds of rain and wind
Add to the cozy cheer
Of curling in a blanket fort, completely
Weatherproof.
Our classes have been cancelled, we're
Advised to stay inside:
We'll don our robes and steep our tea
Against the stormy cold,
And take advantage of this unexpected
Break to go and hide
In blanket forts and make believe
That we are five years old.

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.

Rock step, trip-le, trip-le*
              Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

Judah bids us "Good morning!" at nine at night,
He's like Fred Astaire,
Big moves and big ears.

Dylan is late coming in,
Sliding out of his leather jacket with a sour expression -
He's too cool for this game.

Lindsey drags in the speaker system,
All goofy grins and ugly sweaters,
And she's so happy to see us.

Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

Andy with his slick moves
and slicker hair.

Matt who always smelled strange
but lost to Kevin.

Susan with her tight, swinging hips
and constant critiques.

Pete thinks he can do this,
and then breaks your arm.

Caleb concentrates too hard,
and tries not to look you in the eyes.

Josh gets bored with the basics,
deciding to breakdance instead.

Rock step, trip-le, trip-le
                Rock step, trip-le, trip-le

And after an hour of being passed from one lead to the next
Like a hot potato,
And then standing with your back against the basement wall
During the free-for-all,
You decide you rather be studying algebra
and leave.

Lindsey waves goodbye.

My knees quake violently with the urge to run so far so fast no one will even see me pass
My chest constricts so that I can feel the shape of my heart and I realize it's in two pieces
My breath hitches in my choking throat because the sobs won't fit because they are too big . . .

I've finally come to the conclusion that the human body is simply too small to hold the soul
And that's why we die.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death
I will tremble and quake and hide behind couches.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
My face is in the carpet, scratched by the wiry pile, and I can't breathe . . .

He leadeth me beside still waters
My tears roll down my face and I can't stop them or stifle the sound.

I will fear no evil, for thou art with me*
But ******* it I fear just about everything else, and most of all, losing you.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
And what good is that when I don't know if I will live through today?

Ty must have a poem written about him.
Preferably in small sentences.
With lots of exclamation points!
It should make people smile,
And introduce itself to everyone.
"Hello! My name is Poem!
What is yours?"
It will be short, like his stay,
So it should probably stop soon -
Too soon, like Ty.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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.

. . . 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

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.

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.

The preacher man is up there hollerin':
Spittin' hellfire don't fall here, only grace,
But ****, such a hot, fiery grace it is,
People screamin' all over like they was burnin' in it --
Maybe they are,
Burnin' up with thirst, cryin' out about
Walkin' through a desert, tryin' to get to that livin' water . . .
But not me.
I don't see no desert, and I ain't thirsty
'Cause I got me the biggest old lake o' water,
And it's just jumpin' and dancin' there under the sun:
It's all mine and I can drink it, or swim in it,
Or just lay on the bank on my back and soak in the smell of it.
So no, I ain't screamin',
I ain't hoppin' up and down like my feet was on coals.
I'm quiet, quiet, cool and quiet,
And I'm the most alive out of all o' them,
Livin' and just so **** happy
'Cause you are my livin' water
And I love you.

Poor little puppy,
short scrawny thing with
tiny black eyes that are
sad even while smiling.
He was a present,
cherished and played with,
but now he is often
banished to the corner
while his young owner dreams
of riding golden horses
instead.

That rather awkward moment
When you try to find a rhyme
So you bend over backward
Trying to keep time
And it ends up sounding forced
Even slightly trite
Like you literally sat there
All frigging night
And sweated and banged
Your head on a wall
Trying to come up with
Anything at all
That would sound like a rhyme
Because you are a poet
And you've written before
Though no one would know it . . .
There is such a thing
As a poem with no rhyme
It's called free-verse, ******* -  
You should try it sometime.

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.

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

                  But I tried.

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.

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

i always go to the bridge.
always the bridge.
                                                 i'm not sure why.
but every
               single
                      time
i find my feet inevitably leading me
out the door,
         across campus,
                   through the woods,
                                                          ­            and to the bridge.
i can only pray that
on the day it all falls to pieces
my feet won't lead me
                             off it . . .

I'm jumpy, sick. It's one in the morning:
two cups of coffee and your eyes
are keeping me awake.

You were watching me and
I was watching you tonight,
but then you left in silence.

I wish I could read you.
There are so many things to wish for,
like better grades and smaller noses,
money, fame, and peace on earth.

I wish that somewhere out there,
beneath the pale moonlight,
sunshine on my shoulders made me happy,
and I could fly, I could fly, I could fly . . .
                              

                            Sleep? No thanks, I'll sit here,
under blinking fluorescent lights
and type bad poetry into this box.

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 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 . . .

alone, and cold, and wanting
nothing more than to wrap my arms around you
and feel your little body against mine
open and trusting, soft and hot
with your loud rasping breathing in my ear
moving the hair on my neck
and your chubby arms squeezing my shoulders
as your tiny clammy hands play with the back of my shirt
and you listen impassively
and think about birds, or lunch, or that you need to go *****
while I tell you in the softest tones I can
that everything will be alright
and that I love you very much
and that I cried when I wrote this.