Joy of Poetry

Nearly Empty for the Editors of Discretionary Love Send us your love. We are nearly empty. We must postpone our balloon release of hearts and flowers until our queue is filled. Help us patch the hole that drained the sky of color. Help us fill the bowl with Hershey’s kisses. We are nearly empty. Send us your love. published in Discretionary Love

Self-Portrait I know I’m in your way, a coat rack that you blame for bruises, a lampshade that you bump at night. I know that you don’t find me useful, I know and yet I wait. I wait and spill cream on your sweater, If you won’t love me, I’ll take hate. I wait for you to take my key, and shove me out the door. Instead, you treat me like a portrait hanging on the wall. Something barely noticed, something you acquired. published in Duck Head Journal

Lady of the Lake Your face peeks out between lily pads, deathly drifter through murky depths. Faerie or savior or guardian, rearing or raising man and sword, tresses tangled in tubers and timelessness, your song stirs and summons to legend and lore. Were you some magic or merely an offering, some tragic end resurfaced and remade? published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal

Gods In the beginning was chaos. People noticed chaos. People invented gods. Gods demanded people pray to them for order. People carved statues of gods to worship. The statues were more beautiful than the gods. People wanted to be beautiful like statues. People put on makeup. People wore jewelry. People went on diets. People had cosmetic surgery. People looked better than the gods. And now, people worship themselves. published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal

Flight School Icarus had dreams of grandeur, He wanted to reach the heights. He fashioned wings of wax and feathers. The birds were irked. They pecked out plumage, Chased him off the cliff. He hadn’t attended their flight school, and so he was dropped. published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal

A Tidy Life You strangle what you can’t control. No living thing survives your grip. Your life is draped in plastic. No dust, no germs, no guests, allowed to linger. No sloppy feelings interfere with your well-oiled plans. So remote, you won’t be missed. Your death will not be noticed. published in Dark Entries and Entropy

Don’t Let Me Forget You You are the celestial lights, sun, moon, stars. Without you, I am lost, no compass, in a grave, choked in dirt. You are wind, rain, snow, a force of nature. Without you, I am barren wasteland, deserted, restless roamer. You are with me in pain, in the joy after pain. Without you, ceaseless sadness, endless ache, no relief. Don’t let me forget you in bliss. Don’t let me forget you when I can’t find my way. Without you, I am nothing. You made me what I am. published in Agape Review

Seeing Angels Everywhere Sally swears and crosses her heart, she sees angels in unlikely places. She doesn’t see them in church, although she prays for them to appear to Father Frank so he doesn’t chuckle during confession. Sally says one sat with her in the waiting room, held her hand, when her mother died. When she dried her eyes, he was gone. Last week one helped her pick up boxes she knocked down in the cereal-and-coffee aisle. When she turned around to thank him, he was gone. Yesterday Sally said one stopped her from tripping over the curb while thinking about cheesecake instead of her feet. When she caught her breath, he was gone. Please grant me the grace to believe in angels, to see angels everywhere, to see angels in people I meet. published in Spit Fire Review

At Her Bedside I sit beside her, monitor beeps smother the hush. My tears raindrops run cold between intertwined fingers. Her eyes draw me closer. I drown in the sweet sour breeze of her breath, ragged, then halted, then sputtering again. “Do you see him, the angel?” she squeezes my hand. “He’s bringing me home.” It’s the blur of my weeping that turns the walls blue, the ache of my body that tingles me warm. It’s the voice in my ear “She’s gone, let her go.” My sleeve wipes my eyes, a smile on her face. A doctor is beaming, he hands me a feather, “I think this is yours.” I blink, and he’s gone. published in Agape Review

The Darkness The darkness follows me home. The darkness makes peanut brittle in my microwave. The darkness makes a nest in my hair. The darkness weeds my garden. The darkness sits next to me at the bar, drinking wine. The darkness is the wine. published in Dark Entries and Entropy

What a Shame I saved shame as pebbles. I hide them in my shoes. Tiny, but irritating. I saved shame as arrowheads. I hide them in my shoulder hunch. Otherwise, they pierce. I saved shame as daggers. I hide them in my tongue. Talking is deadly. published in Dark Entries

Of Course Of course I believe everything you tell me. Of course my parents never lied about Santa. Or sex. Of course love never peeled off my skin and turned me inside out. Of course no one will notice if I wear my clothes backwards. Of course no one will laugh if I slip in the mud. Of course the doctor told me that I would live forever, and not to worry about that lump. published in Dark Entries and Entropy

Dig Deeper A marriage is like this: The first year, peel off the skin. The next year, dig deeper. remove the bones one by one. Brush them off thoroughly. Stick the small ones in your bra. Throw the rest to the dogs. The third year, yank the heart out, feel it warm, feel it pulsate in your hand. Put it in a glass jar and show your friends. Prove that he’s heartless. If he still loves you the next year, dig deeper. Pull out each nerve one by one. When you pluck the final one, call this archeology of the last nerve. Don’t be too proud of the job. Don’t brag to your friends. He’s been doing the same thing to you. published in Dark Entries and Entropy

Is This What It’s Like in Heaven? Grandpa holds a log of hard salami he smuggled in from Russia, cuts a chunk off with his knife, pops it in my mouth. Fat and salt melt on my tongue. Grandma makes that funny face when he hugs her. Their fingers wrap. She looks into his eyes and smiles, the droop of her eyelids a twin to mine. Thank you for not forgetting us, she presses a plate of burnt toast into my hands. You know we love you, since before you were born. Before I can say goodbye, they fade into my lost childhood, but my heart still wings out of my chest towards a love that never dies. published in Levatio’s Serenity first issue

What Does Silence Sound Like? Silence is the breath of my lungs, an accordion that can’t sing, nose seeping fog, dissolving into sunlight. Silence is a glowing orb growing thick and sweet to the taste, melting my senses. Silence is the empty space between two pillows, the dent in the mattress where you used to be. Silence is my fingers reaching for yours, fingers you can’t see, can’t hear, can’t touch. published in Gone Lawn 43

My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats My father’s ghost hates cats on kitchen counters, I think because they make him sneeze. My father’s ghost hates cabinet doors left open in distraction, and things not in their place. My father’s ghost hates children. He whispers “Velcro them to the ceiling.” My mother wonders why I never had my own, but maybe not. My father’s ghost loves lists of many colors. I toss them in the trash before I become my father’s ghost. published in Issue 4 of The Red Lemon Review, and Gone Lawn 43 (prose version)

So Many Chests At first you were a toy chest, full of joy and wonder. You wrenched away your secrets, a buried treasure chest. You laid your head upon my heart, to stab me in the chest. Now you’re gone, a chest of drawers, full of moth-eaten promises. published in Issue 1 of Wilder Literature

Love is a Fish With Apologies to Lyndi Love is not a bird bursting out of my body at the sound of a voice, the touch of a hand. No, love is a fish, flopping on dry land, gasping for air, killing flies with its stink. And I’m a fisherman, good only for telling tails, about the ones that got away (they were THIS big). So how did I catch you? published in Issue 1 of Wilder Literature

A Tongue that Knots Cherry Stems A tongue that knots cherry stems ties itself into a knot at the first excuse. It blocks the words I want to say, wrong words roll off its tip. It is a dagger ripping out hearts, lapping water and blood. I hold my tongue, but it lengthens beyond my grasp, unfurling through time and space, slicing skin and bone. If I could make a dollar for every word I shouldn’t have said, I’d be a billionaire. published in Issue 1 of Wilder Literature

I Was a Gypsy in a Previous Life Perhaps it’s just a pressure change that stirs my discontent with What Is and longing for a hazy What Could Be. Perhaps it’s just the roasting heat that makes me want to pack and board a ship to Somewhere Else, to Leave It All Behind. Perhaps it’s just the autumn leaves that haunt my restlessness, that call me to a gypsy life to Nowhere to Belong. Perhaps it’s just the snow and ice That chill my peace of mind. And so I cling to you, my sweet, to anchor me to Now. published in Volume 3 of Paddler Press

How Not to Cook A smoke-dark cloud obscures the kitchen corner. Whenever I think the word cook, the cloud spits sparks, and my mother emerges. Scolding. Finger wagging. Not the right way to make it. Too much salt. Let me do that for you. Shaking her head. The kitchen is my panic room. Still, I have to eat. Defiantly I buy slow cookers, air fryers, electric skillets. Things she never used. Until the kitchen is a tangled jungle of electric cords wrapped in user manuals. My mother sits in the cloud and grumbles. And I go out to eat. published in the 2022 WyoPoets chapbook, "Emergence"

Freeze Frame freeze frame (frēz′frām′) n. 1. A still image in a cinematic work made by showing a series of identical frames or by stopping a film or video at one desired frame, usually representing the suspension of action or time. I want to make you a freeze frame, keep you in a cannister, replay you. But the reel unwinds Around my ankles, rolls out the door, tangles in the shrubs. I can’t freeze you any more than I can freeze time. I discard you on the cutting-room floor. published in the the January 2022 WyoPoets News

All That You Can Eat You want to eat my heart out of a crystal bowl. But I will give you all of me, all that you can eat. Drink moonlit whispers from my shoe. Feast on fading footprints in the sand. Cut into shooting stars dripping with wonder. Pour raindrops over summer sun. Let first kiss love drool down your chin. Eat watermelon sunsets for dessert. Take my hand and eat me, all that you can eat. published in the January 2022 WyoPoets News

Last Lover You leave me gifts at my front door: leaves dancing in the wind, sudden snow storms, lightning flashes. You watch me when I watch the dogs scrambling out the door. You smell the coffee brewing, trickling in my cup. You laugh at me for locking doors and windows. There is no way to keep you out. Someday you’ll come to get me no matter if I run and hide. You are my final lover, you are the kiss of death. published in Dark Entries and Entropy

The Thing Under the Bed It started small, a ball of dust and string. I fed it crackers, fairy tales, and lightning storms. I washed it with my tears. It breathed out red hot fire, it basked in fights, the screams, the punches. It drank the liquor in the house and grinned when Daddy hit my brother. I finally saw the thing that hid and saw that it was me. published in Dark Entries and Entropy

Freeloader In this tiny, empty-of-you room, I watch the clock tick backwards. Street-light only on the block, all the windows dark. My eyes search the gloom for the wet halo of your hair in sun, my nose longs for the mint of your laugh, my body moves to the sag where you once slept beside me. All of me reaches to where you are not. Your goneness fills me. I should charge you rent. published in Storyteller’s Refrain

Luminous The rain, each droplet luminous, reflects the pathway lights. Each light transfigured to a star, reflects the occasional luminous star in cloud breaks. Water transfigured to wine to blood to luminous sunrise. Whispering wind changes me to light, makes me luminous, too. published in Bullshit Literary Magazine

Trails Sleep slips through a rip in reality, leaves popcorn kernel trails through disaster movies and out the door. Sleep kisses moonlight on raspberry leaves, dances on the lawn, leaves dew-prints that vanish into sunlight. Sleep slips between the lines of old love letters, leaves tear trails that cry to the stars. published in Bullshit Literary Magazine

Searching for a Poem in My Garden My garden is a confusion of profusion, much like my jumbled words. Not like next door, plants standing at attention in orderly rows. My words can’t stand still that long. No, columbines carpet my garden, choking coral bells and lilies. Rhyme pokes through thick foliage, brave flowers crying for coffee. Proud hollyhocks, shouting colors, rise high. But hide the bindweed of their demise. As within soaring sound my words are strangled by doubt and fear. Iris leaves cluster, pierce sunlight. A meter my words long to be. published in Bullshit Literary Magazine

Advent Prayer Keep me looking up to You, not down at myself, for I am Your child. You are my beloved Father. Keep me from frustration at what I can’t control. Don’t let my gravestone read “She Died Angry.” Let me always thank you for life, its joys and troubles, This world is not my final home. My final home is You. Holy Spirit, fill my life with joy. May my only whine be what I drink with cheese. published in Agape Review

Such a Sweet Child What is that sweet child doing, always digging in the sandbox? Well, two hours ago I buried the cat. If I can’t find the body, I’ll dig a tunnel out of town, before you find out. published in Dark Entries and Entropy

Worry Worry walks in with two carry-ons and a bad attitude. It’s going to be a long weekend. Worry chain-smokes in the smoke-free area. He tosses his ciggie into my worst nightmare. It bursts into flames. Before I can pour cabernet on the fire, Worry cannonballs into the wine, drenching the judges. They give him a 10 for staining the carpet. Worry moves into the basement, to live amid the dark things that fester below – family migraines, bad hearts. He laughs and lights a match. I burst into flames. published in the October 2021 WyoPoets News

The Voice in His Head Can’t you see from the window? Step onto the ledge. Look down. Where are the swings that tossed you into the air? Where is the tree with your carved initials, marking your first kiss of slobber and sweat? All flattened, all gone. See how they pour concrete over your childhood. For a blink, that dirty desolation will be virgin white, until it loses its innocence to yellow parking stall stripes. The streets prowl its perimeter, buildings spy and gossip of its shame. Such an allegory of your wasted life. You, a shadow, a reflection of others’ needs. You gave them what they wanted. What’s left of you now? All flattened, all gone. Be brave! Let others see you for who you really are! For once, make a lasting impression. Jump. published in Dark Entries

Happy Anniversary His back twisted and bent from the weight of her on his shoulders. Belligerent blubber ball, her words ice picks to his heart. Step stab (you aren’t good enough) Step stab (I didn’t want you) Step stab (such a failure) Step stab (what will I tell my friends?) He shuffles through soggy grass. As he stoops to read the inscription, she rolls off hollering. In loving memory of…. satisfied she’s still dead, he puts her back on his shoulders for another year. published in October 2021 WyoPoets News

The Skins I’m in First thing I wrap my bones in skin, three layers since I’m cold. The outer skin is wrapped in chains, doing the expected, planning calls and tasks. The second layer loves to play, crayons on the wall, slaps stickers in the planner. The inner skin, she drifts and dreams, pours flowers in my ears. When I’m alone (except for dogs), they giggle and conspire. Sometimes my skins switch places And no one is the wiser. published in the second Issue of The Red Lemon Review

Because I Followed You Because your storm-tossed hair and cloudburst eyes were a crumpled love letter tossed in the fire, a faded photo of a forgotten face Because you saw me see you and you rocketed out the café door, an unguided missile Because I followed you only to trace the scar on your chin, only to hear your voice Because you looked back at me when you stepped off the curb and that big truck couldn’t stop in time Because the preacher said some nice things about you even though you were a stranger and he didn’t know you, all Because I followed you. published in Dark Entries and Entropy