Thursday, February 28, 2013

Polaroid Picture

I wrote this during an evaluating writing class. It just seemed to flow.

So I Can Remember

Please take a Polaroid picture,
and tack it to my bedroom wall.
So I can remember the blurry faces of us, happy,
in our white lace dresses
ripped nude stockings
and daisy made tiaras.

We left our blue canvas shoes over by the lake,
even though Momma told us not to.
She was afraid we would lose them,
which we did.

We forgot all about the shoes
as we laid in the grass,
looking for luck, dandelions and ladybugs.
We ruined our dresses in the dirt,
Momma would hate that too.
But we were just having fun.
Fun I wanted to remember from that Polaroid.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Time to shed some light...maybe.

Something new tonight. Something about new beginnings, but leaving a piece of yourself behind.


The shed skin of a snake
laying in the grass
leaves behind a heavy presence
of two bodies.
One gone, one no longer whole.

All that's left is fragile.
A layer of scales, veiny ridges
and absent pieces of lost flesh.
Soon it will break down into flakes,
then into dust that will combine with the wind.

The skin will no longer linger,
the missing body growing a new,
but the presence of a wispy slither,
imprints a path of existence.


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Positive vs Negative

Maybe I should write more pleasant phrases, string together more positive ideas. But both positive and negative strings are beautiful. So I think I will create whatever comes to mind, not what people think I should write. This one is somewhat dark. Maybe positive ones will come from my thoughts tomorrow, but today these are my thoughts.


Drinking cheap merlot,
getting lost in a velvety mask of thoughts.
Filling each crevice behind the eyes
and the holes of the cork that lay on the cold metal dinner table
as they flow through the air and onto the paper.

Think about the pen, the ink, the words,
the permanent words,
the poisonous words,
the cancerous words.
The deadly phrases slowly take over your white blood cells,
your red blood cells,
your tissue, your bones, your soul.
They come from your mind and flow through the blood in your veins
to the tips of your fingers,
to the shaft of the pen,
to the strokes of the ink.

You write them.
You believe them.
You see them to be true.
They cannot be erased.


Monday, February 25, 2013

Oh Tinsley...

Last september I met the new love of my life. My crazy, fifty-pound, pitbull/boxer, Tinsley. However since she came from a shelter and a life without love, she is so happy to feel love and be around people that she sometimes forgets her manners. But I love her anyway.
Here's and old one edited a bit. Enjoy.


It rained.
The uncut grass is knee high now.
Within the field, I lose her for awhile.
I watch her tracks as she explores
the slender green blades that wave back.

She leaves a trail as I follow far behind.
The weeds sway as she passes,
innocent worms stamped into the damp ground.

A chance to explore on her own,
to feel free in the wind.
A chance to make friends with the grass, the weeds, the worms.
But she is my friend too, so
when I put my fingers between my teeth,
she'll always come running back.


Sunday, February 24, 2013

Inspired by a bottle of cheap red wine

I've been working on this for a few days now. Maybe it's a little too dark or maybe its too melodramatic for some people. But I like it anyway. It's still a work in progress so I'll post a later version after I've worked on it a little more. 


Enclosed within her own mind
when the panic hits
her skull caves in,
and the pressure within the back of her head
becomes unbearable. 

Look at me she said. 
Look at me she screamed!
While spit and vile bits of bile
fly off the tip of her tongue and crooked front teeth,
staining the shattered mirror in front of her.

Pieces of glass and her sanity lay at her feet,
dispersed into hundreds of minuscule, beautiful shards.
She will always be cracked, and when she tries to put herself back together
she is left with pricked, bleeding finger tips
and red smears covering her reflection.


Saturday, February 23, 2013

A little less dreary

I have a bunch of new poems and writing in progress that I am not ready to post. When I do post it, I think its dark and intense so tonight I've decided post something a little lighter. This poem is from my writing poetry class last semester. Enjoy!

A Mantis Praying Above

Barely did I see the mantis
resting upon the maple.
His wise eyes staring directly up at the morning star,
praying to Artemis
for another hour, another day, another month,
that the little blue jays beaks will continue to nibble the seeds
from the highest of branches.

He is praying that the birds stay perched up top,
instead of spreading their new feathers,
and venturing down to the territory
of tiny, helpless, nonwinged creatures.


Friday, February 22, 2013

Thanks Frank

Today in my senior year seminar for my communication studies major we watched The Bride of Frankenstein. This class is all about gender rolls in horror movies. Well I was inspired by the black and white film, some of the dialog and the first scene of the film. This is a work in progress.

"I grew my creatures like nature does, with seed."

As the Mill Burns

The torches were grasped by forceful grips
as the men march off your tongue, burning the roof of your mouth.
You beg for them to surrender,
to cause no more harm to those innocent, even guilty.

But the words rolled off the tip too late,
for the men have already marched over your shoulders
down the ridges of your spine and off your toes.

They move toward the mill
that housed evil, their worse fear.
The flames touch the walls
and the once standing building unleashed hell.

"It was a matter of grave importance" he said.
Important enough for the men to lie in the graves
they dug for themselves with broken knuckles and chard nails,

There in the wreckage
bones and blackened hands
grip charred wooden beams, boards and blades
stripped of all their strength.

They lay dead with the men
waiting to sink down to the inferno,
with the torches still lit, lighting their way.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

The first of many

Occasionally I feel like a writer. I love it. Defining the words on a page as they define me. But then I remember how small I am.
I've been writing for my entire life. We've had our ups and downs, pauses and new beginnings, not to sound cliché. But here I am an 'almost' college graduate not knowing what to do with any of my degrees. But poetry helps me breathe. So its time for another new beginning. I'll post some poems from the past, some in progress, some new, or whatever else I want. And even if no one is reading I'll be really just posting for me.

By the Sea

When the sun is masked by mist in Florence Italy
the lady bugs come to commit suicide by the sea.
They migrate away from the aphids
wanting to be in their own company.
Hoping the fish will save them
when a wing breaks, a leg breaks
maybe both, maybe all.
But the jellyfish sting the black spots
while the crayfish and the sunnies and the bass swallow them underneath,
only vomiting them up
when they jump out of the water
not wanting the wingless, the legless, the spotless
or anyone to breathe.