Tagged: poem

Still – A Poem (inspired by Pablo Neruda).

from below

the clouds in the distance
are one line
tracing their 2-d tracks across the sky
from point A to point B
arbitrary distinctions that make for
a horizon in your eyes

I watch you watch them as they crawl
as lazy as we are
almost still

as if to tell the birds
to hush their white noise chatter
and join the static scene

like this we could lay for a decade
and pass the time
by making daisy chains from soft words
and pitter patter drumbeats

all around us
the wind would still
in muted respect
and in harmony
the sun would slowly fade
and let the chromatic daylight

fade to grey.


Strangers – a (crappy) poem.

The rain on my windshield is a distraction from the road
little staccato bursts of light
and I would pull over but there’s nowhere else for me to go.

I guess I didn’t pick an ideal night to leave
but the stillness in the house was slowly killing me
the lease is good for 3 more days but I’m all alone here anyways.

It doesn’t seem right
it doesnt seem polite
to stay.

And all the little things you left behind I threw away
I’m not good with souvenirs
that weren’t left for me anyways

The house is full of shadows that I tried to leave behind
and some of them follow
and most were not mine.

There’s a hourglass and a shot glass
sitting side by side
and I’m right here on the
wrong side of the divide.



I can’t hold your weight all on my own
you’re like the sand
you’re like water

and I won’t let your heaviness drag us both

I cupped my fingertips but like a sieve
you found the cracks
and slipped between
and cleverly you fell away

Where you pooled the trench was deep
when the tide came it knocked me off my feet
and so I had no choice I let myself be swept astray

If you come back with the waves
from the deepest places where the currents hide
I’ll let the water salt the earth
but I’ll stay far afield so that we don’t collide

I’ll fly above and greet the sun
for where the ocean ends another day sings
and I won’t let you pull me down
I won’t let you clip my wings

I couldn’t hold your weight all on my own
you drift away
you drift away

Ode to Apples.

My granny did not care for my Rude Review of apples this week, internet (although I believe ‘did not like’ is perhaps a mild way of putting it), and she has challenged me to write an ode to apples that, in her words, “show[s] off your creative, cerebral and imaginative skills”.

Challenge accepted, Gran-mère.



Ode to Apples.

Where I grew up, there were apples
little ones
green and snarled
that fed the neighbour’s worms
amid the craggy branches of a malformed tree,
and where they fell they stayed
and watered their own tree with their meager life’s juices.

When I was small, I plucked those apples,
and took them to my great-grandmother’s
in hopes that she would transform them
into jam
into butter
or one of her coveted pies.

And my great-grandmother smiled,
and left my apples as an offering for the birds and the raccoons,
and took me to market
and showed me the granny smiths
and the blushing galas
and the jovially striped honey crisps.

and together we bathed their flesh in butter and spice
and put them to rest
and covered them with dough.

As our creation baked, the crabapples disappeared
giving themselves up to the woodland creatures
attracted by the strong scent of cinnamon
and roasting butter
and sweet apples.

and we had tea
and pie
and were none the wiser for the loss.


Fiction Friday #30 – Ode to the bird.

I took this prompt from a contest at FanStory.com.

Write an ode poem about any subject.


Ode to the bird outside my window, who sits and sings
in the early morning
when the light in the spring is like champagne;
bubbly and golden, tickling my back wall with irreverent fingertips.

Ode to the bird who’s built his nest of found and forgotten things
high in the branches of the maple tree that was planted a long time ago
for exactly this purpose.

Ode to he who has kept me cheerful company:
this lonely sparrow, who, miserly, lives away from his fellows in the backyard
and prefers the quietude of my window
to any other scene.

To he, who, above any other, is my companion,
Among seasons warm and cold
With his unchanging and lonely cry.

Who has safeguarded my cozy space
and kept away the blackbirds and the crows
who would otherwise crowd my window
with their black eyes
and unclean feathers.

Although he is not flashy, with his modest plumage,
he sings well,
and satisfied to bask on my windowsill
as I ready myself for the day,
he and I
share the space
quite content.

Dear Boo – a poem.

I forget to write a post today, internet.

Shame on me.

So instead, enjoy, word-for-word, a slam poem I wrote Freshman year of college.

Oh god.


Dear Boo-

I got a question so I hope you’ll spare a listen
you say I’m an addiction
but there isn’t an affliction
I can tell a lover from someone who feigns condition
this prompt is here to let you know I’m searching for admission because
I don’t want to be here if you’re only falsely smitten
I deserve somebody who has love that’s truly driven

If you aren’t here for me then I suggest you start to flee
I can’t date a player when the game’s not over me

Don’t call me your shorty cuz you best believe that if I’m just a honey then I’m going to leave
feel free to mess around boo just don’t mess with me
playing rough is only good when played consistently

You’re right calling me beauty cuz you’re acting beast
and to say I deserve better is to say the least
my worth’s measured in millions don’t put in just a dime




The Words.

Can you hear me? or do I even have a voice?
When the words decide to come and go it’s like I don’t even have a choice

Can you hear me? I’ve got a thousand things to say
I tuck them here and there between the vowels the consonants and the stammering parade

My speech decides all on its own when to come and go
and when the words decide to come it’s like I can’t even ebb the flow

when I talk nobody even understands what I have said
Because when I look at you my mouth is dry and there’s nothing in my head

Can you hear me? I have the truth right on my tongue
and I’m trying to get it out but I’m shy and the night is young

Can you hear me? I keep the words inside my eyes
and although I cannot speak they let you know that I’m alive

Don’t worry I’m trying to say what’s on my mind
but the words are hot
and the words are cold
and the words are cruel
and the words are kind

They’ve been chasing themselves inside my head and the sounds go round and round
and the shapes are bend
and the consonants torn
and the vowels lost
and the meaning found


Spring Cleaning – a poem.

Today I think I’ll write a poem, because I don’t really have anything better to talk about and it’s my blog and I make the rules. So ha. If you’re lucky, maybe the poem will become a song and I’ll sing it and get really really famous and y’all can say you read it here first, internet.

And no. Before you ask, this was not inspired by any particular someones.



these are just thoughts from a troubled mind
who tried to recreate the footprint
from the dirt you left behind
but your cracking sole was misleading
and there was no guide or blueprint
so i let the wind erase any trace of your fleeting
presence here

i tried to memorize your voice
from all the messages you left me on the phone
i felt i had no other choice
but your words were blurred and misspoken
and they didn’t use a welcome tone
so others filled the silence hoping
to come home

and there were fingerprints around
from things you’d touched and shared and found
but now i think i’ve wiped away any remaining dna
and so i’ve nothing left of you
no souvenirs or mementos
and now the door is closed
the house is clean
and i believe
that i am free.