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Sep 16 · 158
Oh! Sylvia!
it was
     a dastardly decision
         deeming fated
         to deny a future

filled with dismay
     furtive deeds     designed to forget

the futility of dark days
i have, it seems, always loved Sylvia Plath.  This is  a reflection on losing her far too soon.

if you know someone whom you worry about losing in the same way do all you can to get them help. stay w them. let them know how their demise would affect you and those they’ve touched.  call the hotline, call an ambulance.  pray, do that voodoo you do.  intercede.  their life may depend on it.
Jun 13 · 127
licking boots
I bear my soul to U

U slam the doors of your heart

I come to U                In my finery

                    The alter is empty

I weep a river

Plagiarize  the Hoover dam

I search 4 U         In the shadows

       But U are silent       to my call of Marco...

i ride a moonbeam  in the hope i’ll see Ur          
                         U             steal her luminosity

                         leaving me in pitch black

i reach out hungry for
                                 Ur reassuring touch

                  but the sheets are smooth oand cold

i crumble in a sobbing heap
                                         my spirit lost without U
May 1 · 224
granddad’s arms
her grandmother        stood at the window in the kitchen

             the corners of her mouth turned up into
                  an unconscious slight smile
                  at the sight
                             of a spinning yellow blur  
                              under the big oak
                              in the middle of the pasture
                              surrounded by green grasses
                                                       wonderous hues of wildflowers

she quietly called out to grandad
                             come see this

                the lanky cowboy sauntered in
                             from the breezeway
                             with his umpteenth cup of coffee
                              peered at the blur of yellow
                              opened the side door
                              stepped out on the deck beside the metal glider and
                                   called out in his smooth baritone voice

                                      sheeeeeelllllliiii  lllllloooooooooo...

she might have
                             been 4
                                   or perhaps five

              precious in the way
                  innocent girls that age are

               dressed in smocked yellow lawn
                                                white lace
                                                patent leather

                                                  up to her shins in spring grasses
      slowing her spin
      she turned toward her name

       her face radiant she took a wobbly step or two
      then broke into an off kilter run
                                                 arms stretched out before her

      he took a few long strides
bent his tall body low
offering a bent knee
                 wide open arms

she flew into them with all her might
                   knowing she would be caught
                   rough housed with
                   and given a wickereye


                   from the window her grandmother took it all in
                                said to herself
                                         hold this dear
                                         hold this snapshot of the soul

                                         for.                           ever.
my granddad and i had a love-love-andmore-love based relationship.  he’s my greatest hero and the man John Wayne wished he was in real life.  we worshiped each other and i will forever and all ways n always hold him close in my heart.  what a lucky girl i’ve been!
Apr 14 · 152
she set   off
                              big dreams.   new adventures.

           not realizing

                             her limits of subconscious
                             her limitless spirit
                 that at war with each other
                  the subconscious could
                 without warning
                 paralyze her

                                   with overwhelm and unfounded fears


consume and ******* her

just when she thot  she had       her world      in order

                           © rochelle foles 2019.      napowrimo
Apr 7 · 127
first worm
it was still pitch black when she slid out from under the princess and pea
sized stack of her mother's quilts

her feet slapped the chilly
wooden floorboards
of her grandmother's screened sleeping porch
as she scurried into the main house

made her way into the kitchen
snatched several day old biscuits
stashed them in the pockets of her flowered flannel robe

silently, assuredly she swept a mason jar from the pantry shelf
carefully crept to the icebox
poured herself a fridgid, frothy jar of cow juice

slid silently

out the side door into the crisp predawn air
of the country morning

on winged feet

made her way to her favorite meadow
plopped unpretenciously under the
welcoming branches of grandfather oak
snuggled into the ruff bark of his trunk

a bite of biscuit
a sip of cold cow juice

a smile

what better way to begin a day
than welcoming
the bird's songs?

patiently she waited
the sun began to rise
the field flowers turned  their faces toward the light
as her feathered friends songs began

smiling, self satisfied she said outloud, to no one in particular,

it is good to greet the day
it is better to catch the first worm
napowrimo day 7, fooling around with poetic narrative, something i don’t feel very comfortable with
Apr 6 · 143
reign bows
he had
        never               experienced the glow before

her love
        reigned on him
        showered         him with    sunlight kisses

and he
        he held the reign bow in his hands

napowrmo day 4
april 4, 2019
(c) rochellefoles
interesting to use homonyms now and again.  this is, i think rather obvious, but if not reign, rather than rain alludes to who wears the pants, tiara and sits on the throne with the septor!
Apr 5 · 138
tanka 1
longing 4 my mother
her embrace so warm, gentle
her lap comforting
will i ever again have this
sweet unconditional love...

tanka 1
napowrimo day 5
© rochelle foles 2019
napowrimo day 5: “tanka 1”
tanka is an ancient japanese poetic form, popular long before haiku, that mimics the first three lines of tanka.
it’s structure is syllabic: 5,7,5,7,7, and doesn’t rhyme.  traditionally it was written as one unbroken line, however americans prefer to write in 5 lines.
the first three lines traditionally pose a question or conflict that the last two lines answer.  in this poem i’ve inverted that structure.
there, now you know more about tanka then you ever conceived you might!


bound         by brilliant beauty

a lit ter a shun: bababaB

(c) rochelle foles 2019
i love to play with words and sounds.  this just jumped so carefreely onto the page this morning. it’s as silly as can be, babababut that’s ok by me!
Apr 3 · 215
napowrmo April 3, 2019

                         she stood              on the edge
                                of the  p




                       pebble in hand
                                   blanketed in fog

                      staring intently
                      quietude engulfing all

                      she lay on her belly
                                    arm stretched     o.      u.        t.
                                               over the abyss

                      closing her eyes
                      tipping her ear toward the           unfathomable depths
                                    she loosened her grip
                                               and began counting  

                                              takes forever
                                              one number at a time

                         © rochellefoles 2019
NAPOWRMO day 3,  pondering the depth of loss i’m feeling over my mother’s death
Apr 2 · 220
the marquis

he told his partners

unwitting souls
commanded by his

self assured

unwillingness 2 accept
anything but compliance

in his self assurance
many were led into his lair

some to escape
never the being they’d been

to flee
flogged into further submission
and eternal darkness

pleasure as pain
he told them

the once innocents

© 2017
Mar 28 · 188
once a princess...
her crystal pedestal shattered

             her tiara
                     bent and covered in filth
                        lying in a river of her tears

who she was now in soul searching question

                   the true test of a princess
                           is not how she holds herself              when waving to the crowds

but rather
                           how well she cleans
                           the hearth
                           when finery becomes tattered
where'd u put the dust bin?

a frost bitten toe

as an unsuspected death

an accosted atheist

as Columbus
upon finding the world's horizon
other than he believed it to be.



p. I


with nary

in site.
As children
We who wore tights to school
   were taught
to wok in high heels
with a book on our heads

to never wear mascara
on our bottom lashes

                        red lipstick = harlot
            red nails = *****
            wearing jewelry = sinful

                       to be proper
                       to mind our manners

           the three monkeys mantra


So we still
Go downtown in our good clothes            
Wearing high heels carrying a matching bag

We have expensive taste
Reputations to uphold

fast cars
          faster boys
           red lipstick
red nails
bodies bejeweled

We learned
All of that                                      Indoctrination
was nonsense

Oh! The high heels of heartache!
How those cruel shoes constrained us
the worship of deities can uplift ones soul or contaminate and desolate it.
Mar 19 · 1.2k
                     in the quagmire of her self contempt
                     a flame ignites beneath
                     the blackened caldron

                      a frog
                      set to cook in a *** of tepid water

                      was clueless
                      she was being devoured
                      from the inside out
the things we do to ourselves...
Mar 16 · 357
skipping stones
         on a
     still pond


do we ever see the end from the beginning?
Mar 12 · 265
Sahara of the Soul
water, shade, reprieve
he could no longer
find shelter in
this is from a poetry prompt on @RelisticPoetry on Twitter.  the pic for the prompt was huge dry sand dunes in the midday heat of the sun.
Mar 10 · 204
parapets of the heart
          she let go oooooooo

the grand canyon
                                   would overflow

so she painstakingly

        an impenetrable fortress
        to guard what once was
                                           an open
                                           freely loving heart

parapets and towers abounded
        higher ground
        first sight
                                          smoke billowed
                                          in warning

                                          gates barred
                                          archers flaming lethal weapons
                                          poised and ready

                                          catapults silently loaded
                                          and aimed

intuition hyper vigilant

                                         as she isolates herself

                                         prepared to ward off


                                        perceived enemies
                                        whose intent
                                        evidenced by ropes and picks

is to

                                       stealth fully cross the moat
                                       scale the tower

                                       and unloose the chaos she so vigilantly protects


look a little deeper, ask the hard questions.  you can never tell from the outside what is taking it’s toll on the squishy parts of a person.
Mar 5 · 230
run infantwoman, run
run infantwoman
run as fast as you can in any direction that seems


run till you threaten to drop dead


just drop

   skinned needs, skinned knees,
                    runs inyournewtights
                    heels of your palmsbleeding
fromwhere you      
s             k             i                     d                 along the unforgiving asphalt
that had been lying in wait for your stumble
hungry for your blood
hungry for your self

effacement to bring you
back to this place
               so well known

– when you – smart actualized near woman you –
and stumble

the asphalt only wins
you continue to wear               that same pair of tights

(no matter how many times you stumble the thing that matters most is that you land softer)

                 run infantwoman
                © 2017 rochellefoles
we often are blind to our patterns.  when we tune in we may just find rerouting our path can be as simple as changing our tights if we do it consciously.
Mar 1 · 124
ebb and flow
Black as coal
        Darker than a moonless night sans stars
           As blind to sight as a blizzard to a      

   is this mystery

      Yet with sooooooooooooooo many black       holes one has to wonder

How ever does this universe exist?

Einstein would have thot it child's play

      "Simple you bafoons,
                  One creates the chaotic world they exist in
the other is throughly  entrenched in the theory of a chaotic universe —

so no matter the
                                                head banging

there is a  river running thru
and   rivers   of  l  o  v  e  

are rare


And when found

than imagining.

                Flowing strong
                           from time immemorial till time ceases to exist.

            But  rivers

                   Be they crashing as white water over hidden boulders
                    or pooled
                   black as night
                                   masquerading as swimming holes

never,never,never run clear and bubbling
                                                    Like brooks strayed from streams.

rivers  are     a. L. I.                V.   E
           In constant f, l, u,x

Always flowing

Ever moving.

So why are you surprised to witness this miracle?  E=MC2  "

                [Silly,  expecting constancy when change is the only constant to be true]
relationships are ever so much more than they appear to the outside world
Feb 25 · 206
sotto voce
alluring astute astounding
        born of
moonlightraysandkissesofoshun           wavesonbaretoesatmidnight

sotto voce

as the hiss of gaslights hush

& darkness

          l           o           p           e           s           t           h         e                                                                              
       e                                                                                               r                                                                                                        
      v                                                                                                    o
   n                                                                                                          o

e                                                                                                                  m                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

like death taking a young child innocently playing

         despite her   des  pair it cry

she could not be heard
for they did not see

trapped there

         the fall and the rise

              a ray of the full moon for ever trapped in her own eclipse


born under a dead star

sun extinguished

nothing rising stillhopeagainhopeagainhopeagainhopeonhopealways as
                                    whispers f
   muteondea f earsaretruerthanboogiemenunderthebed

moon aglo behind her with no mirror to reflect
             her luminosity

                  into the endless night

                                       she & her

                                       solitaryexistance              vanish

infin i..........
so many children are unseen, unheard and they have so much to give.  what happens when we put ourselves in their shoes?
Feb 20 · 256
Fate D?
there on the scaffold
          colorful cacophonous screams emanating from workman’s coveralls  
           captivated her
           rebel in real life

engaged by her lack of hero worship    dedication to her art     the common cause
            her fire drew him to her

and so they began to weave their tapestry

it tells a story

brilliant hues
as art
public pride
personal degradation

back on the scaffold
             cacophony revisited

back on bedrest
              resilient resisting unceasing unaccepting

scaffold and ego deemed titanic-like         demand artistic license  uncompromising
                     crushed   crumble  disintegrate  
               lose face    credibility

turn tale
and run to the one deemed feeble
spirit knows no bonds                        
      as body knows no freedom

is Hercules for them both

the day her plaits were drawn crisscross on her forehead
decorated with huge glorious blossoms
      plucked from the patio

lips kissed

last breath

a pair destined for the history books

a love



Frida & Diego: FateD?    

© 2017 rochelle foles
did you recognize this couple?
it’s my most influential ****** (yes, i meant to spell it that way) in life and art- the ever introspective woman, artist and tough as nails survivor, Frida Kahlo and her brilliant but wandering husband, Diego Rivera.
Now does it make more sense?
i challenge you to now read it again with thei. relationship in mind.  i’d love to hear your take on this!
Feb 17 · 235
she walks in rain clouds
she walks in rain clouds

she walks in rain clouds
on bright crisp winter days

the night
                         and it’s terrors            still haunting

                                    the infantwomanchild

innocence          a foreign term
ravaged by.                               that which cannot be.
                  u .   t.   t.  e.    r.   e.   d.  


held captive

     in the horrors of darkness that plague her

      despite the rays that warm her face      her hands are icicles
                                                         ­                   protruding from appendages
                                                      ­                      blue and veiny

                                                ­                               nearly necro
                             in both body and soul

               as neither dawn nor day
                 hold solace       their strength sapped by the all too real battering

                    of the loathsome black hours that trap them



        in the hangover
              of fear and remembrance
       she looses her way                 on a path she has trodden many many times
             but never left a crumb trail


solitude frightens her
        as does silence            the demons that lie in wait there
        terrify her
                        to her core         she restlessly seeks out companionship

                                                    busies herself with distractions

           futile attempts to vanquish
                     the memories that plague the stillness


she walks in rain clouds
      on bright crisp winter days
            tenaciously holding on to her umbrella
rochelle foles

— The End —