Poetry

Last year, as part of my New Year’s Resolution, I decided to add an extra post to my regular schedule—poetry. This has challenged me to write more poetry than usual, and while it’s been difficult at times, it’s also been lots of fun! For your reading pleasure, I’ve compiled my top five poems along with the list of poetry from 2016.



Published Poetry


Puddle


(originally published in Particle Magazine, Autumn2015)

Raging. Fear. Gray.
Some call it dreary or drab
despite the grab, the pull of the roots,
but it is your story,
your May Day,
your birth.

Pit-pat. Thrush. Gush.
Youth finds you growing,
stretching your arms and fingertips
to reach a new sidewalk,
a new grass line,
a new curb.

Billow. Wisp. Sigh.
Retreat your Mother Sky,
and hopes rise.
Face reflecting people walk,
buses splash,
canines trot.

Still. Sun. Heat.
Father Time cups your soul
in his hands
You’re shrinking,
he’s drinking.

The sidewalk is dry.

You are but a memory
that reflected
the way we held hands.

Once. 





Small Talk 


(originally published in Particle Magazine,Spring 2016)

Nobody wants to bare their heart—a whitewashed wall,
on which hang the faded memories of yesterday and the grand sketches of tomorrow
—not when it shows the dirty fingerprints of children,
the crumbling drywall from the fight, or the blood droplets from last Tuesday.
Even the loved are not safe from the cobwebs of time or the settling of dust on a lonely soul.
Society saunters in, sporting a suit and carrying a pail of touchup paint.
When she asks, “How are you?”, I follow protocol, dipping my brush
in the pail of cheery, yellow lies, dabble it over the latest spot of mold
and smile, saying, “I’m doing well. How are you?” 





Most Read Poem of 2016

Have you ever felt the pulse of the earth?
Like waves in the ocean, a jagged storm,
tumultuous ripples in the powdered pie crust
pulsing beat after beat after beat in the monitor.
The claws of the soil press upward,
cutting through the green-and-white glaciers like an orange peel,
cracking, ripping, groaning.
The engines howl as the pregnant mountains kick
in a frozen snapshot of miniscule grandeur.
A silver jet putters like a slug,
streaking her filth over the mist,
the smudge on Her rounded belly.
A flash in a crevice, a sidewalk crack
down, down below whispers we are mere atoms, the salt in the crust.
The moon whirls overhead, caught in time,
like an electron, positive that her silver pimples are not alone.





Readers Choice Poems


Backspace


A writer’s favorite key with a very distinctive sound;
don’t you just adore the moments you’re watching a movie
with a writer at work, and you hear the unmistakable click
of a backspace? How do you know? Is it the twisted anger
or the constant pound Pound. POUND. POUND! POUND!
all in succession that gives it away. Let me hand out
this particular key like a prankster passes out pins in
a theme park to pop children’s balloons—pop Pop. POP. POP! POP!
—first it’s startling, terrifying, the imminent destruction
of hard-earned, cheek-blown rubber destroyed in a matter
of seconds. It’s like running up the down escalator—
with each brilliant idea comes twenty regrets
tumbling one after the other all dragging you down, down, down.
Remember the time you tripped up the stairs and bruised your knee?
Yep, that’s the humiliation of the Backspace,
erasing your splendid, stupid thoughts. 



Shadows


I’m in over my head in darkness,
standing in shadows of the box-shaped buildings,
like I’m in a deep, gray ravine beneath the waters
with the seagulls gliding overhead,
their underbellies alight against the blue,
like they’re gliding on light.

I’m up to my shoulders in shadows,
the shade spilling like a waterfall,
filling my lungs with a cold breath
and sprinkling my face with a chill
that I wipe off with my scarf.

I’m up to my knees in shadows,
the sunlight taunting me now,
for my toes are still cold within my boots,
but I’ve had to peel my sweater off
as I wade across darkened cobblestones.

I’m standing in shadows,
the darkness melted at my feet, never fully gone.
Standing in a bath of sunshine isn’t quick,
like jumping into freshwater.
It’s slow, gradual, like friendship, like love,
but one shard of a cloud, then goosebumps will crawl up my arms.



***

More 2016 Poetry

Flour (Jan.)
Starlight (Feb.)
Riptide (March)
The Muse (Aug.)
Bury Me (Oct.) 

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