Tag Archives: poems



Black words on the page

Are black memories

Of broken nightmares

But the colorful words

Are ribbons of sunrise

After the darkest night

In moments of quiet

I see the sun slowly rise

On my tearstained pages

And now it’s the dawn

And I can’t look down

For the sun in my eyes





you will write a love song

and your voice will be free to sing it

and the decibels will rise and rise until they

shatter the glass encasing the wildly beating thing

whose fractured wings have bruised themselves against

the walls you have built around it and those walls crash down

like a cascade of broken ice when spring has come and

the river at last is free to flow again and you are

free to feel again the murmurs of the love

song you have written and I know

that you will sing again


Who knows


Who knows what it is–

maybe the smell of perfume or flowers (or

maybe the smell of everyone else’s

perfume and flowers);

maybe it’s the resin dust and

the sound of bellyaching tuning

strings or the experimental

twitterings of clarinets (sounding oh

so very modern); maybe it’s the stars

(oh so very old) or us

(oh so very young) and the dance

that musicless sways us.

Who knows what it is.

Summer Sunset


Soft summer sunrise, I’ll sing you a song,

Now that I stand where my feet belong:

Alongside the ocean,

The breeze at my back,

Where everything’s right and nothing is wrong.


Sun in the heavens, you light my way.

Take both my hands, lead me to the day

Down the wild roads

Abreast of the hills.

Your gaze steals my words and my breath away.


Star of the twilight, your dancing eyes

Turn my head more than you realize.

I walk in peace,

For the shine of your smile

Gives me new hope as the daylight dies.


Soft summer sunset, I’ll sing you a song,

Now that I stand where my feet belong.

Safe in your light

In the magic of night

Where everything’s right—not a thing is wrong.



I can write poems.

Perhaps this shouldn’t have been so big of a surprise. After all, I’d been writing poems on and off since I was nine. Bad poems with forced rhymes and overly emotional language, but poems none the less. A baby’s first steps are hardly those of a ballerina, but they’re still steps.

Words are always bouncing around in my head. They’re the screensaver when my brain shuts down for the night. I’m always trying to think of the cleverest way of putting things. I like to rhyme. I also like not to rhyme. I like to string images together to spell a word. I like to string words together to make a thought. Glue the thoughts together to make an image, and start the cycle over again.

I love making poems. I haven’t made on in a very long time. Not one I’m proud of, anyway.

Things happened last year that made me want to poem. I poemed a lot. They’re all over the blog—nonsense poems, ballads, sonnets, free verse, villanelles, sestinas, a whole poem zoo. I took a poetry writing class—the only one the university offers—and I was hooked. I couldn’t stop. I wrote barrels of them, many of which didn’t end up online or anywhere, just in little notebooks that traveled with me everywhere.

I’ll say nothing about their quality because I’m not a very good judge. Enthusiasts don’t always make the best judges of their own creations. But I will say that there are several poems that I’m proud of. They give me a sense of personal satisfaction. Now, personal satisfaction does not a paycheck make, so I will have to improve if I’m going to make this poeming thing a source of turkey bacon.

Still. Anywhere is a start. 



You who knows her

ineffable name—


who made her black

and white and small—


who granted her

terpsichorean powers—


her unashamed felinity—

you looked at her and called her good


so why, when it was man

who fell, did they fall, too


put them in our broken hands

and they fall through


roses wither—so do we—

and therefore they


dominion is as much a curse

as thorny ground


for there is no vivat

no everlasting cat


but we sail on to heavyside

and in mercy they remain

Remember Us?


Remember autumn?

Remember lockers and sneakers

Before they became hope chests

And high heels?


Remember birthdays?

Remember the party nights of October,

November, sprawled in an attic

With Scheherazade and her thousand tales?


Remember dancing?

Remember hardly knowing how,

But never caring, only knowing

The freedom of a wild twirl?


Remember stories?

Remember laughing over midnights

At who would marry who,

And who’d be first, second, last, or never?


Remember princes?

Remember schooldays, drawing our daydreams

Of blonde curls, sea storm eyes,

Wishing they’d walk off the pages.


Remember summer?

Scheming impossible schemes

Until dawn, sleeping when the moon slept,

Forgetting today was tomorrow?


Remember us?

Us five, princesses, ladies in waiting,

Writing our tomorrows, never believing

They’d really arrive?

Spring Sprang


The dawn rose cleaner this morning.

The bird washed their faces in the morning light

And sang hello to a new day,

And the daffodils trumpeted a silent salutation to the sun.


What a day for spring.

The breeze decided I should wear my hair differently

And the blossoms liked the arrangement so well

They stuck to it for a moment

Before flitting on.


What a day for spring.


There were roses in my hands and in my head,

So much the fountain laughed at me,

Chuckling to itself, slapping hands with the sky,

Shooting off sparks.


What a day for spring.


And when the sun got tired of tumbling,

He settled himself in a rocking chair,

Kicking his yellow feet in the grass and glowing it

While it hummed to itself.


And I thought, thought I,

What a day for spring.


Stuck Wheels


There was a poem in my head all day.

It was half formed and sketchy around the edges. It was as dreamy and fanciful as my poems tend to be (my thoughts are so very dreamy these days), but much cleverer than usual. There were allusions and clever rhymes and double-meanings. I was proud of this little half-formed thing floating in my brain, floating above the to-do lists and balls of stress and facts about American Romanticism and DNA.

I wrote down two lines. Two little lines in my little flip notebook I keep handy to catch the drippings as the melt from my mind. Two. They are the last two lines. They are important lines, and beautiful ones.

But the rest of the poem isn’t here. Not yet.

I reminded myself that Eliot wrote the last three sections of “The Waste Land” before he wrote the rest of it. Perhaps beginning at the end won’t hurt me. It’ll only bother me until I can see the rest.

Weekend Splurge



I didn’t bat a single eye

When I was passed the chicken pie. 


I merely licked my nether lip

When handed rolls and spicy dip.


And when they handed me the starch,

My eyebrows didn’t even arch.


Then they offered me the salad–

My face remained quite far from pallid.


But then they served the chocolate cake

And now I have a belly ache. 




Some things are easier written down than said,

Which is perhaps the reasoning for bills—

Perhaps the dentist isn’t really cruel,

He simply lacks some basic social skills.


The pink slips of the world can testify

That spoken words cannot cut to the chase

Efficiently as curt, dismissive type

That says what bosses won’t say to your face.


The letter is the champion of the lover

Who, tongue-tied, fears that he will speak amiss

If he should verbalize his heart’s devotion—

So, instead of speaking, writes it to his miss.


It’s easier to pen the words on paper

Than to let them wander free-range in the air

Grazing on the ears of those we cherish—

Especially those with whom we make a pair.


We know full well the power of spoken words

That ring with prophecies we hope are true.

We fear that we will complicate what’s simple

By whispering “I love you” or “I do.”


We fear the words—but words are still our friends.

For, after all, what’s needful will be said.

All in good time—and not a moment sooner—

Will written words by spoken ones be led.