New & Still Untitled!

I was (am??) having a crappy, self-confidence void, night.  Which made me think of this one particularly bad relationship I had in college.  So I wrote a poem about it!  ...'Cuz that's what writers do!  It's fresh, raw, & pretty unedited!! 

It didn’t take long

for you to fall for my

charm, and my sweetness

with an edge.

All I had to do was mention

my affinity for smoking pot

before writing class.

You soon figured out that

I’m a ‘Fuck You, I Listen To Harcore

and Eat Nails for Lunch’

kind of girl,

who will compliment you

when you’re feeling down

and hug you when you that doesn’t work.

I love hockey & soccer,

and think football players

can be pansies some days.

I workout as much as my body allows,

but this damn baby face and belly

just won’t go the hell away!!

My demeanor and face say, “Fuck You, I don’t care!”

But my inside says the opposite.

I’d love to step away

and forget our talks and texts,

and our car rides into the nights,

Before you met her.

She was duller than I am,

a little sweeter and a little less tough.

But, “Her body is rockin’.”

(Seriously, flashing the “rock on” symbol

right now??  Lame.)

You warned me that we were nothing

serious, not meant to last.

I’m good in bed, you assured.

But outside...outside just wasn’t a place

where you liked to hold my hand,

my waist, or rub my shoulder.

I should have known it would end like this.

Our pillow-talk was silenced.

You walked hand-in-hand with her,

nodded enthusiastically

when she spoke of Good Charlotte.

I stopped coming over

and you never even tried

to catch my eye again.

I've Been on a Pro-Union Kick today...

So here is my pro-union poem!!

First Generation

I’ve never stood in a picket line

with a homemade sign clutched in my hand

shouting, demanding

fair treatment for all of us laborers.

I drive a daddy-bought Infinity,

and people who see me think I’m spoiled.

But I am the first generation of my family

since arriving in America

not to have worked long, hard hours in a plant or a mill

to barely support those that I love.

I’ve heard the stories of my family’s struggles,

of the cuts and bruises

gained while fighting for fairness,

for the union that was never knocked out;

and of the rally cries that kept them going.

I can picture my great-grandfather

standing before his troops,

their eyes on him alone,

awaiting his always ready

words of encouragement

that never failed to rouse

a march to triumph over their oppressors.

I always stand a bit taller

when I hear of a Union victory,

and I sing along with rally-call songs:

Which Side Are You On?

I will forever stand with the workers.

Because of my forefathers

I was born with a blue-collar mark

that will never be washed away.

Sometimes I just want to read my favorite poem!

Riprap

By Gary Snyder

 

Lay down these words

Before your mind like rocks.

             placed solid, by hands   

In choice of place, set

Before the body of the mind

             in space and time:

Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall

             riprap of things:

Cobble of milky way,

             straying planets,

These poems, people,

             lost ponies with

Dragging saddles—

             and rocky sure-foot trails.   

The worlds like an endless   

             four-dimensional

Game of Go.

             ants and pebbles

In the thin loam, each rock a word   

             a creek-washed stone

Granite: ingrained

             with torment of fire and weight   

Crystal and sediment linked hot

             all change, in thoughts,   

As well as things.

Poem for my Dad

It's my dad's birthday!  Here's a poem that I wouldn't have written had he not be in my life! It was my attempt to write about why I love music so much.  Turned into a poem about how I grew up. 

-->

Celtic Punk

My lullabies were sung from steel strings,

as I was rocked asleep by a pulsating Fender amp.

Bar booths were as comfortable to sleep on

as a soft bed, or the grass

during a Steppenwolf concert—I was five.

Musicians’ guitar stringed melodies

played from the living room,

from the basement into my

second-story bedroom.  These were

the sounds that led me to sleep.

In a house full of musicians,

loud noises comforted me.

In my car, stuck in traffic

loud music:  guitars, drums,

bass, and bagpipes calm my energy.

New musicians lull me to sleep now

in my one bedroom apartment.

Pulsating speakers still help me sleep,

but they are pumping out Dropkick Murphys,

not my daddy on his rusty-orange Fender. 

Character Layout!

Sometimes, when I get bored, I write out the innner-workings of a character.  ...I think she miiiiiight have rage issues.  Ahahaha!!

I don’t like pretty things.  I don’t really know why.  I don’t listen to “pretty” music; I don’t care for the “pretty” boys.  Who the fuck thinks that clean-shaven is sexy? 

I like real music, not made from mixing a bunch of unnatural sounds together.  I want to hear songs that say something, that mean something; not songs about “getting that nasty”...whatever in the universe that means.  Or how about this, “meeting some new homeboys/up in the club.”  What does “up in the (Wait, sorry “da” [What!?!  REALLY?!?!?]) club” mean anyways?  Is the club upstairs in some building...that doesn’t sound right.

I like shiny things, they don’t have to be pretty, just shiny.

True Story

I’m not religious.

But the image of a mother

singing in church at the same time

as the SUV carrying her two grown kids

is smashed into head-on,

killing sister and brother instantly

gets to the center of my being every time.

I picture it like it was a movie.

(It’s the only way I can handle it.)

Fade-in to the mother singing in the choir,

in the center of the front row.

Switch to the kids on a two-way highway,

traveling home silent and exhausted

from their weekend at the lake.

Cut to the choir, the hymn getting higher.

Back to the SUV, silence, Leigh swerves, hard,

to avoid the car going the wrong way.

The choir’s hymn plays as the crash is shown.

The SUV tumbles, metal twists, windows smash,

Leigh and Matt are rag dolls, eyes wide and scared.

The car comes to a stop, silence.

In the church, the hymn is ending,

close-up on the mother’s face.

Silence.  Screen goes black.