Monthly Archives: March 2013

spring: a short poem en route to AWP

new london, ct.

the sea looks like crumpled gray silk

kicked at carelessly by mother nature

tangled in sheets

one more round of tumult and then

we will have our spring

clapboard houses perched on bluffs

dusty rusty rock and sand

surrounded by history

rain spatters like

morse code on the windows

[sic]

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Springtime like a new word for “hope” and “joy”

Spring in Massachusetts is muddy and wet. It’s colder than we want it to be and frustrating. Some springs bring massive floods. Others bring even more snow. Then there are those days the smell like perfection.

You know the ones.

I start a countdown until spring every January first. For some reason, year after year, I always forget how many days until Spring (I think it might be 77) and what day Spring is on. The 20? 21? 22? It’s the 20th. At least this year it is. Does it change? I can’t be bothered to really, truly know.

I just know that I long for it to come, as soon as the clock hits midnight and the kidding brigade begins and people are popping open champagne and throwing up streamers and making noise. I am usually quietly watching television or maybe already asleep. That first kiss of the new year meant nothing to be, maybe because it never exist.

But on January first, what I have to look forward to is Spring.

I love the smell of wet earth, the slight scent of burning wood and leaves. I love watching the earth change from barren and cold to wet, warm and alive. I love the green the flowers. I always want to start a garden. Some years I manage to begin by planting tiny $1 seeds from Target into tiny $1 pots from Target. They grow, and eventually I forget or lose interest or something. 

And yet I keep trying. Or keep wanting to try. (Today I bought a tiny bucket from CVS with lavender seeds inside).

(I always forget about the bugs)

It’s almost here. It’s almost here. I can smell it. I can hear the birds starting.  I feel the warmth of sun on my cheeks. I ache for sunkissed freckles (I missed that gene) and lemonade. Fresh fresh fresh. Ladybugs, bare feet, showing off tattoos in flip flops, iced coffee, hand holding, bracelet making, daisies, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, flowly skirts, a want to wear white (And yet, that never ends well), hope. 

Hope for the flowers.

Spring come faster. I’ll photograph you and you’ll infuse me with honey lavender scented inspiration.

xo

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Puppet Show

Someday we’ll all be
dancing on bones and dust
marionettes on strings
of the departed
slipping between worlds
painting faces with fresh blood

reaching aching yawning
outstretching fingers
with hollow eye sockets.
we are all a dream
of a deceased soldier
fighting
      lovelifeself
in search of
      peacecalmquiet
      moneyeasepain

 

should we stop dancing
barefoot with muddy souls
and let go of the strings
say goodbye to the red faced puppeteer’

enter a thrill ride
because the end result
remains the same
ashes, dust, buried, scattered
beneath the earth
of the air
on the lips of lovers
who can sever rope
and just let go.

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Death Drains

Death Drains

When death strikes, we often feel as if the life of the deceased simply washes down the drain.

Death is just as important as life. We live every day, but die only once…yet we greet it with fear. We mourn death’s very existence with ceremony, in place of celebration.

Here is my ode to such emotion.

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by | March 12, 2013 · 6:41 pm

From Dead Poets Society by Walt Whitman – Macabre week

‘ I close my eyes and this image floats beside me, a sweaty toothed madman with a stare that pounds my brain.

His hands reach out and choke me and all the while he’s mumbling, mubling truth. Truth is like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold.

No matter how much you push it, shove it, stretch it, it’ll never be Enough

You kick at it, beat it – It’ll never cover any of us.

From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, It’ll only cover your face as you wail and cry and scream for help!’

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Number 13

deathcard

I felt like my deck might need some Death. And, for the hell of it, here are all the Death cards from my tarot collection:

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Cut and Paste Poetry: A Macabre Project

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1.  Lunch Hour Macabre

Death.  Hold on.  Come back.
Clutch at my young throat
This is a game we used to play
But I was so afraid
Carve away the stone
How do they
Climb the stairs
Break down the wall
Retreat to the sparkling darkness holding hands
Until I faint 
Press close enough
And it is quiet.
Kiss felt like
I was trapped in memories
Against the cold stone
I like the way it feels
But for now lungs breathe
At the end of the hall she passed a note.
Not the end.

2.  Setting Sun Macabre

When I think of how
They lowered me down
In reality
We set each other free
How real then kissing was
And now take take the reality away
We found our first escape
And then take your hands away
I wanted to know
To feel this kind of release
Fuck a boy
Until darkness rises
Like a fog off dead meadow
Let me fall
Peaceful edge
Cutting soft light of the living

3.  Macabre Cross the Line

You’ve now seen the other side, far away.
It wasn’t all that.
Insane laughter
Back of the bus
All that
Rain
Once again you are you, in love
These aching lungs
Wasting the present day
Caverns of lonely 
Aching veins
I don’t know this is the end
Deafening call
I don’t know but let the pure love kill

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