Tag Archives: poetry

Season Eight, Episode Two: 305

Posted in poetry, Uncategorized by

air heavy with moisture
charcoals clouds smudged against an azure sky—

palm fronds like fingers,
reaching towards the heavens
clawing their way towards the hidden sun

technicolor grass
verde blades sprinkled with water droplets
lazy iguanas warming their bellies on the rapidly drying concrete—

thunder threatens low in the distance,
menacing grumbles carried lightly on the damp wind—

a woman in a floral kimono hurries across the lawn
trying to beat the storm,
the sage talons successful at raking into the cumulonimbus
as a torrent of rain tumbles to the earth.

—“paradiso”

Season Eight, Episode One: Robin’s Egg Blue

Posted in poetry, Uncategorized, Writing by

walking home this morning i found a robin’s egg, pale and blue in a crevice on the cracked sidewalk.

it was slightly chipped on the side and cold to the touch,

other bits of broken shell and smudges of yellow yolk were smeared across the gray concrete,

a miniature crime scene leftover from when the orange tabby nick and i saw on the way to school was slinking around the tree in question.

the tree.

i looked up into the bare branches, hoping to find a nest to put the tiny egg back into and finding nothing.

the tabby must’ve knocked it from the tree and the mother bird would never try to look for her lost babies, she would just simply lay more and incubate until they hatched, little purple and pink skinned veiny babies, life still perilous for them until they grew feathers and could fly away.

i turned my attention back to the egg that rested in my palm, now warm from my own body heat.

the part of me that will forever be nine suggested that we could incubate the egg ourselves and the baby could still be born.

the adult part of me replied that incubation would be impossible and even if the egg hatched, caring for a newborn chick would be equally impossible.

we should let it go and leave it for nature.

leave it for nature.

i look back at the egg in my hand, my fingers curled around it to protect it from falling and i marvel at how beautiful something so tiny could be and i can’t bring myself to drop it in the grass where i know it will be smashed and destroyed, yet i could find no nests on the walk back to my house.

so i sit, with a tiny kernel of possibilities in my palm, mourning for just a moment the life inside that will never be.

—“the circle of life”

Season Seven, Episode Three: Fractals

Posted in poetry, Relationships, Writing by

I give so much of me up
To those who don’t deserve it
(So much kindness to ones
Who end up selfish and shitty)
Knowing that they won’t change.
Yet I continue breaking off little bits of myself,
Handing off the smallest slivers,
Trying to fix their problems,
Agonizing over things I cannot control,
Hoping that one day
Someone will appreciate me

Instead of using me up.

–08/14/2018

Season Seven, Episode Two: Benediction

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sundays

–growing up, sundays were for family
that’s what dad always said–

mom woke us up early
took us to church, where we sat on the kneelers and listened to father mcgonegal,
his big booming voice talking about god and jesus and how we should be better human beings 
i used to sit on the padded kneelers and draw on the back of the sunday bulletin with a pen my mom had buried at the bottom of her purse
careful not to press too hard on the paper because i was afraid if i accidentally wrote on the wooden bench of the pew
god would somehow know and be disappointed in me.
(i was too young to be pissing off omnipotent deities)
not really paying attention to the broadway musical of the liturgy of the eucharist going on behind me
this is the blood of the new and everlasting covenant, do this in memory of me

–years later i would sneak away during mass to the cvs across the street, losing myself among the lip glosses and single slabs of eyeshadows that i’d sometimes fantasize about slipping in my pocket 
because dad would forget to give me my allowance and i was afraid to remind him
always making my way back to church just in time for communion–

sundays were for family

back at home
mom would make bacon and eggs and pancakes
grits for dad, he loved to put half a block of cheddar cheese in them
dad’s breakfast was first, especially if he had drank his first breakfast before we came back from mass
if mom didn’t take care of dad first, there would be screaming and yelling 
and sometimes dad’s fist would find mom’s cheekbone
then she would cry,
saltwater mixed with bacon grease, 
a brunch version of christ’s baptism

sundays were for family

if my friends called, i would have to quickly talk and then hang up the phone 
because the lord’s day wasn’t for the things i could do on saturday
and lashawn you are always on that phone a bit too much, always running your mouth about some nonsense 
why don’t you come over here so i can show you what tonight’s pick three is gonna be
i dreamed about your great uncle again, that means death, 769 is gonna come out or maybe his birthday, 214
where the fuck is your mother, i bet she’s sitting in the kitchen reading some damn book again 
when i was your age i had to sit and read the bible on sunday afternoon or else i’d get the switch 
i would sit there and half listen, watching him spend my allowance on state licensed and operated number running
i wasn’t quite sure gambling was part of the lord’s day

sundays were for family 

hop the top for twenty, horn high aces for five 
doesn’t anyone here spend time with their family, it’s sunday
hands throwing twenties into the center of the table,
dice hitting the back wall and landing on 7
that final stanza of the biblical sabbath,
off-broadway but juliet still always dies
cleaning up the cheques just to set them up again
father mcgonegal sermonizes no more,
his pastorage taken because he got high on pig tranquilizers and asked a park ranger for a quickie 
go in peace to love and serve the lord

sundays 

–07/29/2018

Season Seven, Episode One: Ghosted

Posted in poetry, Random, Relationships, Uncategorized by

I thought that I’d miss you 
once you’d inevitably leave
but here I am
and there you’ve gone

and I don’t miss you
not one bit
I’ve stopped crying over ghosts.

                             

                   –“Untitled”, 03/24/2018

Season Six, Episode One: Daddy’s Girl

Posted in Family, life, poetry, Writing by

“you’re so strong”, they say

as if I had a choice

as if there was any alternative.

you taught me to be strong,

and you were the strongest man I know.

you were my first best friend,

my truest friend

you got me when no one else did

a perk I guess of sharing some of the same DNA

you taught me how to properly dunk mini donuts into a glass of milk

tried to teach me to play the keyboard, 

but I was too impatient to learn.

you taught me to be gracious

told me that I was capable of the world and so much more

I learned to appreciate sports from you

learned to carry an intelligent conversation

how to make people laugh.

I inherited your stubbornness

the tendency to work too much.

I’m certain that my love of true crime came from you 

and I will miss watching our “murder mysteries” together 

because of you I’ve never felt short,

even though I’m the tiniest person in the family

confident in every step I take, head up because your daughter would never, could never, won’t ever walk with her head bowed down

you passed on your fierce pride,

along with your quick and ferocious temper

I think of you constantly, 

pushing my sadness aside because it does not bode well to dwell on tragedy

I hope to make you proud one day, if the human soul exists

if your human soul is somewhere out there

I hope that wherever you are, you smile and say 

“you see that strong and accomplished woman? that’s my baby girl, my Caker Boo.”
I love you, Dad.

                    –“Sunday, November 13, 2016 @ 7:28 pm”







George Chillious, 04/26/1944-11/13/2016

Season Five, Episode Four:  Un Peu de Prose Contre

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I’m that unconventional kind of pretty, I suppose
If one were to try to define one’s features and retain modesty.
Sometimes I think I’m cute, other times I hate my reflection
I constantly feel too big for such a small person
A walking contradiction
Unsteady yet confident,
The girl who doubts herself in a room full of women
Who feels most like herself in jeans and a tee shirt,
At her best with just lip balm, mascara, and a smile.
I stumble over nothing when I walk,
Clumsy but certain.
Athletic grace has not once entertained me
Just look at my ankles as proof.
I stay up all night and wake up early,
Partly because life is so damn short
But mostly because I’m afraid to miss all the things the Muses have to offer.
I wear my hair up almost at all times
Because life has to be lived and I don’t need hair in my eyes.
I say things over and over in my head,
Because I worry that I’ll trip them up once I say them aloud
And I usually do,
Words have a way of getting stuck in my teeth like caramel popcorn.
I suck at guys, and am perpetually single.
The real world Liz Lemon.
I chew on the edges of my nails when I’m worried,
I make jokes to cover up my nervousness and thin skin
Because I’m a tough girl on the outside,
Who will never let them see how deep they cut her
And who keeps her insecurities inside.
She is braver than she realizes
And stronger than she believes.
Lazy but a dreamer
I’m a mom and a person,
A badass and a debutante,
Indie but mainstream,
Naive but jaded.
I might stumble but I’m never completely down
My glass is eternally half full.

–“autobiographie”, 07/01/2016

Season Five, Episode Three: 32/26/49

Posted in poetry, Society, Uncategorized by

I will never forget

One of the most terrifying moments

In my life thus far

 

The night is forever etched in my mind

I was seventeen

I still believed I was invincible

Because when you’re that young,

You’re convinced that you will live forever

 

I was at work

We were getting ready to close up

I was in the dining room of the Burger King

Checking the garbage cans

 

And there were two of them

Two males

One in a gray hoodie, his face covered with something

I think maybe nylons, I can’t remember exactly

The other is a blur in my memory

 

They opened the door

And stepped into the vestibule

I remember seeing a glint of silver

And time both slowed down and sped up

I remember thinking “gun”

How crazy is it that I just knew

Instinctively I just knew

 

And the door flew open

Everything froze but raced forward

I wish I could say that I was brave in that moment

I wasn’t

I was so so scared

 

The one in the hoodie, whose face I couldn’t see

He pointed his gun in my face

I remember that I was shaking

And all I said was “please”

Because I was seventeen

And I didn’t want to die

 

He stood there, his face unseen

The gun pointed at me

My life did not flash before my eyes like they all said it would

Instead my heart raced in my chest

My pulse thudding in my ears

My thoughts moving slow like mud

Thinking of my mother and brother sitting across the room

In danger because they had come to take me home

 

The other jumped the counter

Ran in the back, grabbed my manager

She was crying, she was so scared

He made her open the register

Her hands shaking

Tears streaming down her face, gun pressed to her head

 

Sixty-five dollars

Our lives were in limbo over sixty-five dollars

 

Miraculously they left after that

We could have died that night

All over sixty-five fucking dollars

So many lives worth more than what was in that register

 

I’ll never forget that night as long as I live

The night I realized I was not invincible

And that is why,

All of you people who don’t understand why

Because you weren’t there

All my nightmares end with bullets

 

I don’t dream of that night

But all my nightmares end the same

Guns are not sacred or special to me

They are heavy reminders of the violence they bring

They sicken me

All of these shootings sicken me

And solidify why I could never revere firearms the way some others do

And that is why, in case you wondered

That is why I want gun control

 

You might not understand,

But I will never forget.

Season Four, Episode Three: White Zinfandel

Posted in Random, Writing by

I get drunk alone
Sometimes.

And I have empty, meaningless sex
With a boy that I may or may not like
But I’ll never admit to it
[He makes me smile but he’s toxic and all wrong in all the right (but oh so wrong) ways]
Never
Sometimes.

I write drunk poetry
And I drunk text my closest friends
And tag them in random memes
On Instagram
Hashtagging random ass shit
Sometimes.

I drink entire bottles of wine
To chase away PMS-induced migraines
And sit on the cold wooden floor
Of my dining room
Sometimes.

And I sing sad songs
At the top of my lungs
Because I’ve had my heart broken
By men I’ve truly loved
Sometimes.

I am beautiful
And I am a mess
Because I am a hurricane of a girl
But my life is amazing
And it’s too damn short for regrets
Always.

–“White Zinfandel”

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Season Two, Episode Ten: An Early Morning Interlude

I smell the faint fragrance
of honeysuckle mixed with the lingering scent of rain
it floats on the humid, yet cool
early morning breeze
birds chirp in the otherwise quiet am
occasionally punctuated by the chirp of the gentlemanly cricket
dew laden grass adds the middle note of rainsoaked earth
this is my nighttime lullaby.
–“Untitled (08/09/13.)”

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