Nov 23

Blackout Poetry

I recently discovered this artform on Pinterest and it's really cool! Today I decided to give it a try with one of my old books, and here's how it turned out. It certaintly did not turn out like the picture I was using as inspiration, but it's not too bad for a first try. 
 
Nov 16

Tired

Nov 05
poem challenge: Great Artists

Wind and Trees

Oct 23

A year (if personified)

I. January - i would be bitter too, if i was always forgotten. i would be closed off and cold, fix my icy gaze upon anyone who dared to spite me. i wouldn't like myself. wouldn’t like always being forgotten. always being upstaged. i would grumble and sigh, and harden my heart until it froze over. 

II. February - i think secretly, i would despise my holiday. despise the pink and red roses, the gifts and gestures, the kisses and tears. who is my lover? who do i get to have? who will love me when i am short and sad? the world only loves me one day of the year.

III. March - constantly indecisive, i switch moods too fast to ever catch up to myself. one day i’m glowing, the next day i’m gone. there is a tension in my body, in this limbo, in this tightrope teetering between winter and spring. i clench my teeth and wait for the spasm to pass. flowers rip through my collarbones, and break bones while i scream until i become beautiful. 
Oct 08

When I Felt Like Living

I felt ethereal yesterday. Not today. But yesterday 
I felt, 
ethereal. 
As I traversed down the gray highway with an ever changing sky. 
The clouds were blue lavender smoke, 
their bellies glowing with goldenwhite 
light. 
The rest of the world revolved around them. 
I revolved around them. 
Taking on tones and shapes and colors but being, 
forever, 
beautiful. 

 
Sep 25

Gradient of Gray

This is a fragile moment. 

Everything is changing colors. 
The pavement on my street is 
blackened 
The remnants of rain giving an oily sheen. 

Walls darken 
a thick static surrounding their 
spaces, hiding spots that seem almost 
real. 

And the ghost of the highway 
rumbles, chatting with the ghost of the sky, 
whose lingering sadness
clumps together
in mottled blue scars. 

Everything measured 
on a gradient of gray. 
Shading, my world, into shadow. 

 
Sep 25
nonfiction challenge: Library

My ~ Dream ~ Library

My personal library would be tucked away on the side of the house. It would take some effort to get there with many twists and turns. Up and down staircases past hallways and hidden doors and all of a sudden, you’d be there. Two glass doors with a handle on each one. You grip the handles and swing them towards you. It would be huge and cavernous but also cozy. A transparent ceiling so you can always see the sun, the sky or the stars. There would be shelves lining the walls with many cozy sitting spaces in between. In the middle of the library would be many couches, tables, desks, chairs and beanbags where you could sit down and read. My favorite books would be on a shelf closest to this area, so I could easily grab them then plop down into a seat (seats with butt warmers). The rest would follow a sort of “normal” library set up. Each group of shelves dedicated to a certain genre, in which the books would be organized by alphabetical order. Oh and of course we can’t forget the lights.
Sep 07
poem challenge: Portraits

My mother

(for Mom) 

My mother works into the night  
and rises with the sun. 
Her keyboard is a ghost 
that haunts the house 
click-clacking through the halls. 

My mother is worn out, 
stretched thin. 
Like spider webs, 
her hair frays, 
near tired eyes, 
and tired face. 

My mother does not cook. 
She cooks. 
She kneads memories into dough, 
and chops colors into chicken. 

My mother has an accent when she’s angry. 
Geri! she snaps, 
and I have no choice but to relent 
to the sharp edge of her sounds. 

My mother has a special care 
when she tucks me in 
at night. 
Her gaze becomes an outline, 
a soft view of what’s inside. 
She caresses my covers, 
kisses my cheek, 
and leaves the door open just right. 

It is impossible to talk about my mother, 
without talking about me.
Aug 21

Moonlit Avenue

Aug 13
poem challenge: Writing 2022

These Nights

Still air. Cool breeze. 

The constant cacophony of insects 
setting the scene for these summer nights. 

Nights to reflect on 
youth. 
Of the passage of time that can only be described by sprawling beams of sunlight 
morphing into stars. 

On these nights, 
my friends have passed through, 
leaving a mess of laughter and glitter bubbling in my soul. 

My mother has kissed me, 
and my father has arrived. 

On these nights, 
I can let myself unwind the spool of memory, 
and form a thread between my then and now.  

The passage of summer, 
brings the passage of me’s 
who have danced through the halls of heat 
run through the sands of time 
and laughed through the fields of light.  

My joy has left its mark on the world. 
My hopes and fears and dreams 
are forever in the hearts of my homes. 

 

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