Bubbles Demise

My rubber ducky cute and small,

His soft and yellow painted skin,

I keep him next to my tub wall

Until the day we bathe again.

 

He floats along across the waves,

A pirate sailing bubbly shores

To explore uncharted lands for days,

And begin little ducky wars.

 

He bombs the bubbles with his beak,

The aftermath of a soapy blast,

He leaves behind a seamless streak

Remembrance of his enemies past

 

And to this day he will recall,

The day of the bubbles downfall

 

 

 

L’esperienza de questa dolce vita

Stitch one: Nobody Saw it Coming.

Little hands gripped around the wooden bench

I used my legs to push my tiny body against the table.

My eyes glistened with anticipation for the next big leap,

if my arms could just reach a bit farther –

my Venus, my moon shaped scar that lies comfortably

below the protruding bone at the base of my skull.

You were the foreshadow to my future,

the start of my stitches.

Stitch two: I Didn’t Know She Had a Cyster

You were the radical riddle that rocked my third grade year,

getting bigger every time I got sick.

I could feel you even when I didn’t want to,

not only did I get Adam’s rib, but I got his apple as well;

a solid lump in my throat growing with sickness.

You caused the most frustration, mocking me every morning

with a multitude of mucus filling up inside you.

When you were finally removed I could not eat for a week,

every swallow swelled up my esophagus,

soon I was spitting up stomach acid.

Even now you are my most noticeable scar,

securing your spot in my memory,

Stitch three: Trampoline of Terror

My sister broke her arm on it once,

that should have been my first clue.

Fewer springs makes the bounce more intense,

just a few, nothing that could be considered dangerous –

Jubilant jumpers make their way in a circle around the tar colored screen,

eagerness rises within each child as their eyes

focus on the middle, who can jump the highest?

Without warning, my squiggly little body

fell thru the springs and created you.

Blood dripping down my face I didn’t even realize you were there,

waiting to become my next badge of honor.

Stitch four: Lips are Not Always Luscious

As if being fifteen wasn’t awkward enough,

I found myself frantically failing to fit in to high school

and you had to come along.

They called you a mucus membrane,

I called you a pain in the ass.

Making your way through my lower lip

you must have felt some sort of satisfaction in my suffering,

knowing that by the time I realized what you were, it would be too late.

When I smiled you stuck out like a marble nesting behind my bottom lip,

stretching the skin so tight my lips would bleed.

After your removal I looked like frankenlip,

humiliating humor haunted me for years.

Stitch five: Stainless Steel Circle of Pain

I forced the 14 gauge bar through my ear,

it was not meant to house something of that size.

I heard the skin tear closely to my eardrum,

a noise worsened by the immediate pain.

I borrowed them from a friend, two stainless steel rings

shaped in a half circle, missing the balls that connected the two ends.

Summer after my senior year,

exhausted from snorkeling

the decision to head back was made.

I didn’t even know it was a threat. all those years next to me,

protecting me, servant to my every whim.

I grabbed the handle to get in

that was when I got caught off guard.

snatching the stainless steel ring from my ear my fifth scar was made.

I heard the ‘cling’ of the ring hitting the pavement

and I knew right away that something was wrong.

My sister screamed in terror as my earlobe

hung two inches below its intended location.

You managed to take the cake when it came to scars,

four separate stitches behind the lobe,

three separate stitches on the front.

My flushed face dripping with snot

I asked the nurse for a tissue and she said no.

In agonizing pain, the numbing wears off

and now even my mom can’t look me in the eye.

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Whither (published)

We stood frozen
under the full October moon.
Our only movement
was the inhale of a Marlboro cigarette.
He walked up and asked for a light.
He looked like James Dean, if James Dean was a tattoo
artist. His eyes looked black under the dim
porch light, he studied the people’s faces
around him. In my little red riding hood costume
his eyes focused in on me. My lungs
grasped for air and I had to catch
my breath. With my eyes fixed
on his face I watched the smoke slide
its way between his lips; chills replaced
chills, I quickly looked away. His right arm
a tattooed skeleton some symbolic meaning
or respected artist gracing his easel.
He reached out to shake my hand I responded
with hesitation. His hands were icy like late fall
by now they would be numb
to the palm. We turned to make our way inside
James Dean stayed behind.
Getting close, he whispered calmly in my ear
‘Whither away so early, Little Red Riding Hood?

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This poem was directly written from an experience I had in college during a get together I had with my friends during Halloween. Like many ladies around my age at the time, slutty costumes were all the rage. I chose Little Red Riding Hood mainly because the costume was the least revealing out of the costumes at the time and plus, I always did enjoy her tale. Little did I know I was going to meet a random stranger that night who would seep into my brain and never quite make his way out. While my friends and I were outside smoking cigarettes a mysterious stranger walked up to the stair case and asked for a light. He was a tattoo artist from Reno visiting his brother in Ellensburg and was looking for a party and he happened upon us.

I wrote this poem as an exercise in college but I later submitted it to my University’s literary journal, Manastash, and enough of my peers enjoyed and voted upon it that it would make its way to being published. I am no longer in touch with this Wolf, but I am very glad he entered my life when he did.

Apartment Pantoum

I love to live alone,
My apartment is my sanctuary.
Only my friends know,
I dance around my apartment naked.

My apartment is my sanctuary,
hand painted art plastered across the walls.
I dance around my apartment naked,
Feeling free is the ultimate high.

Hand painted art plastered across the walls,
every nothing means a little something.
Feeling free is the ultimate high,
I can be anyone I want.

Every nothing means a little something,
Only my friends know.
I can be anyone I want,
I love – to live alone.

This poem was actually an exercise in one of my college classes and I would later learn that it is very indicative of my life right now. A Pantoum is a structured poem that has specific rules to be followed. While there are plenty of examples that reflect a better understanding of this form than mine, I certainly hope people who read it are able to recognize it’s pattern.

Dandelion

 

You left me alone that day,

I never understood why.

 

My many delicate hands reached out

but you never saw me.

 

I sat silently in your breath;

why were you never taken?

 

I count my wishes in days

till the weather starts to change.

 

I have watched limbs loosely

float through the air around me.

 

Friends are fleeting,

maybe you know what I mean.

 

You kiss my hands,

I float away.

 

I freckle the sky;

watch you walk away.

 

I have never known such

a breath to fill the life in me.

 

Still feeling the sweet residue of your kiss

on my iridescent fingers

This poem came about from an acquaintance who left my life as quickly as he entered it. But from that encounter came a photo that he took and a subsequent poem that I wrote based upon it. This is the only photo I have posted that has not been taken by me.

 

Little bird (in progress)

 

 The last noise to reverberate off her ear drum

Was the snap, crackle, and pop

Of her neck bone

As it broke against the pristine glass window

 

This is the beginning of a poem inspired by the Iowa Bird of Mouth project. The concept is to write either about the bird of the month or just birds in general. I’m writing about one of my more depressing experiences with birds. Growing up I experienced many bird deaths due to four large windows in my parents living room windows. I intend to expand on this poem once the right words come to me.

Dream catcher 

 

I’m your dream catcher

With the insurmountable weight of your thoughts
Crushing every fiber of my being

You hold me in such high regard
Your solution to everything

But deprivation causes misassociation
Of thoughts and feelings

Awaiting in the depth of your thoughts
Anxiety that has yet to be materialized

Some form of sickness crawls through
Your expanding and contracting veins

I can feel your heartbeat in my body
Pressure that pushes and pulls

Twists and turns
Throughout your hyperbolic vessels

In the clouds

During the summer of 2016 I was fortunate enough to get in touch with a wonderful poet by the name of Jennifer L. Knox. She taught a poetry workshop where I work and this is the result of an assignment  (of sorts) that she gave us. We were to write a persona poem and I wrote from the perspective of my pillow.