Monday, June 30, 2014

Day 29- Slumber, RIP Slate.


It does not matter if you are prepared,
no times enough to stop the choke, the tears. 
I guess the streaks just prove you really cared,
and loved your cat through seventeen great years. 

There never was a headbutt of such love
than those that we received from our gray cat. 
I never tired of Dad's texts theirof
and to this day I'm glad that Mom went back:

Once we had brought his brothers to our home
Mom looked at us and got back in the car,
and spead right back so he could not far roam,
to claim the slate-gray kitten from afar. 

The years to come will never recreate
another friend as wonderful as Slate. 

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Day 28- Animated


The love is in the fish guts, so I'm told,
my friend for life explained as coffee spills.
The fortuneteller's lines are in the fold.

The light grows dim, we sit and sip till cold.
Her story's unbelievable; the thrills!
The love is in the fish guts, so I'm told.

We count our graying hairs but don't grow old;
at least the end was never drowened in pills.
The fortuneteller's lines are in the fold.

Our tiny room we share is full of mold-
with every word another wish fufills.
The love is in the fish guts, so I'm told.

In this strange world our lot are bought and sold.
Sulking alone will never pay the bills;
the fortuneteller's lines are in the folds.

So let us see how this will all unfold,
we stand together and look at the hills.
The love is in the fish guts, so I'm told;
the fortuneteller's lines are in the fold.

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Day 27- Rooftops


small toes will graze the grit that's never seen
touch down for just a moment then their gone
skip lightly with the weightlessness of dust
their voices fill the drawn-pink clouds with hope
alight together on this giant clock
(it's for the best that there's no time to sleep)
their leader grins and points at fading stars
they count two to the right- hold my hand tight
and spead away till morning's light is bright
chased only by big ben's resounding toll

Friday, June 27, 2014

Day 26- Wordsmith


She's born with all her fingers and her toes,
with parents full of love and always kind.
Her life, she's told, will be the one she's chose,
and yet there was a wall within her mind.

This girl, she loved her school with all her heart,
but learning did not come to her like breath.
So she began to think she was not smart;
the yellow-brick school walls were cold as death.

She cried behind closed doors, sometimes in front,
until the world told her to get a grip.
Her parents dry her tears: she starts to hunt,
to find a way to make this wall a blip.

So now she thinks that smarts are like a myth,
and she endeavors to be a Wordsmith.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Day 25- Gold


She points, eyes light up.
"Now, who wears gold anyway?"
She pouts, turns around.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Day 24- Reverie


The time goes by without any record;
the day is not worth putting into words.
The doodle on my page forms a border
where in it's place I should be making news.
The thing I must produce I cannot force
and out my window is a clear blue sky.

And as I gaze outside into the sky
the clouds begin to break a world record
for swirling aesthetically with great force.
I put my pen away: abandon words:
and leave the office to tell friends the news.
I stop right on the edge of works border.

Beyond I see green fields with no border,
so while the clouds go whirling through the sky
I take a step and make the front page news
as the first goon ever in all record
to leave their job when to express in words
their unfulfillment had taken their force.

I push against the ground with mighty force
and then push off, fly over the border.
With me I take every kindness in words
that has ever reacted in my sky
in bursts of fireworks: public record:
and nothing in this world becomes old news.

By now my old colleagues have heard the news;
they whisper all day long about the force,
like breaking a collaborative record.
They each in turn look out at the border
and me; as free as birds are in the sky.
When all they have are their elaborate words.

But I begin to sink; I've lost my words;
my brain struggles to comprehend this news
as I begin to fall out of the sky
with an incredible amount of force
and just as I had jumped the old border
my desk remains the same, and my record.

So now I know that I cannot force words
and news will never border on my dream.
The sky holds the only record of time. 

This was another product of Laura's end words and Maria's filler words.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Day 23- Torture


It's not a wound that you can rectify.
Not cut nor break; no band aid covers all.
No visible complaint to justify:
stand still and bang your head against the wall.

Day 22- Serendipity


These moments will not
happen when far too much time
is spent on the road.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Day 21- Breath


The treasure on her wrist glitters like gold
as she stares out across the still water
imagining how to go back in time,
to be more than a wanting paramour
to write the pages and not just buy the book
she breaths; it's just another day in June.

Her lover is a strong warm wind in June.
Upon her head her hair is made of gold
like maidens fair from her long lover's book:
the Elder's words flow fast like sweet water.
Nothing that she says helps her paramour
who breaths, and thinks again of unfair time.

The younger has been here for a long time
and every year they pause a day in June;
the Elder reassures her paramour
with gifts of silk and bracelets cold and gold.
The Elder promises- ripples, water;
the Younger breaths and goes back to her book.

But then one day she finds another book
and in it she begins to see what time
really is. Not promises and water,
not wanting for that one warm day in June,
not all her love, unrequited in gold.
She breaths and still remains a paramour.

She sits and thinks and is a paramour,
but this time she decides to write her book
and if her love wants to give her gold
she'd gaze into her face and see the time,
all of these days, those promises in June.
They breath: sunsets fall over water.

The Elder loves her eyes, deep like water.
She leaves her husband- seeks her paramour.
Their day has come, their one strong day in June.
But all she finds is one old tattered book
written about the Younger's twisted time
and in it's pages falls a chain of gold.

Into the water Elder throws the book,
the Paramour hunts for her wasted time,
and June will never glitter quite like gold.

I spent the day with my aunt and two cousins, and as evening fell I remembered that I still had to write a poem. So I told my one cousin my word for the day, and since she is the one who introduced sestinas to me, I said I wanted to write another one. So I asked her to give me 6 words and I'd just go to town, and this is what happened. Paramour? Thanks a lot. But it was really fun (despite my complaints mid creation). So this is really a collaborative effort, this depressing little thing. So if this does depress you, it's not my fault! Not totally anyway.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Day 20- Wherefore


Wherefore does wherefore
mean wherefore, when it sounds like
it means where not why?

Day 19- late yet again- Desire


So here we are again, the same old thing
check yes or no and I won't waste your time.
I think I'd rather go play on the swing.

Desire sits on high just like a king,
but still unclear, he gestures like a mime.
So here we go again, the same old thing.

You'd think by now we'd know we should not cling-
this seems to be the highest of all crimes.
I think I'd rather go play on the swing.

It doesn't even matter what you bring;
Desire likes to watch you flail and climb.
So here we go again, the same old thing.

Then what are we to do if not to sing?
For Time is slowly stealing our sweet prime.
So here we go again, the same old thing;
I think I'd rather go play on the swing.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Day 18- Panties


I know a woman who has been married for 16 years, and in that length of time she has never spent a single weekend alone. She told me this in the entirely too quiet office space we shared, as the nearby construction noises outside created a dull soundtrack for what I suspect should have been a romantic statement. This cringe-worthy remark (in my opinion) was brought up because the following weekend, she said, her husband was going to be out of town and for the fist time in 16 years she was going to have a whole weekend to think only of herself. I asked her what she was going to do, and she said 'nothing!' with the smile of someone who truly deserved to do nothing but sit alone in her house, in nothing but her panties, drinking a fishbowl sized glass of red wine, reading whatever smutty magazine her heart desires without judgement, time restrictions or obligations crashing through her fortress of simple solitude. I was about to say this to her, in case she had not thought of this blissful scenario as she packed up her things and got ready to go. However when I looked up from my current mindless task, I noticed her staring into space. So I said nothing. "I might just sit on the front pouch," she said- not to me or anyone else in the office, but to someone she had not given any time or thought in 16 years- "and stare up at the sky."

This is my cousin, NOT the woman in the story, who is in fact fictional.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Day 17- Impeccable


In all the ways that everything can be
Meticulous, or all that we can see.
Penultimate; this page holds all there is,
Exactly like the answers to the quiz.
Creating and abating all around,
'Courageous' slowly turns into a noun.
Abysmal is as dismal as it looks;
Bewildering cartoons just found in books.
Laborious assignments in your teens-
End: I don't know what impeccable means.

Day 16- Ergo


Ergo is my dad's
favorite word, ergo it's one
of my favorites too. 

I'll stop with the haikus soon, promise.

Monday, June 16, 2014

Day 15- Dinosaur


Neck loved almost off;
small green friend sits to the end
next to his boy's bed. 


Day 14, super late- Gargantuan


He had a little life with little plans and little room for wanting.
He lived in a tiny house with a tiny yard with a tiny pouch and awning.
The world's concerns were not concerns he found himself concerned with
but more the past; history's past and stories that have passed into myth. 
and so the days would go until the moon hung low and glowing.

But this man had a gift his friends found quiet swift, that could lift any dark soul-
he could find that which was enschrined and oftentimes resigned as a whole
to being unseen, hidden between the bitter routine of any old day.
Deep in the glen between the old hard men who are once again in the way-
in short he could support and cavort over the gargantuan in small things.

The splendor on rooftops- the fear of the drop does not stop his climb-
the thrill of a walk, even just down the block, free from the clock, on no one's dime-
holding tight to a hand, the hum of the band as you cross the sand together-
a very green leaf, conversations kept brief, the warmth of relief in any kind of weather.
And all of these things often grew wings with no tough, harsh strings,
and his small life was not so small after all.

I know this is super late, I've got to catch up!

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Day 13- Gentlemen


Humphrey Bogart was
married four times, but only
one was the real thing. 

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Day 12- Galumphing


What's a word got to do to lose its meaning?
Or is this the direction it always was leaning?
Can a word as silly as goofy galumphing
really retain it's triumphant galloping?*
It never stood a chance
with it's poor portmanteau stance.
For words, there's nothing more demeaning. 


I think I now love this maltreated word
like I love the ugly, broken and absurd.**
For what a wonderful word Mr. Carroll created!  
To triumphantly gallop would make most quite elated. 
I don't care if it's graceless,
or more or less baseless; 
it will stay in my heart; this galumphing nerd.

*Which is not even an actual rhyme, but a near rhyme. Just to add insult to injury, nothing actually rhymes with galumphing.
**Except for YOU, dear reader, who are beautiful in every way. 

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Day 11- Hilarious


As a rule I try not to be funny,
and for limericks I'm just far too sunny. 
So no matter how keen,
I cannot be obscene,
so my limericks are never quite money.  

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Day 10- Skeletons!


is all of
this we come
to see, come to
be, come to
want and
can flee?
it’s all quite swell,
the diving bell, this place in
which we dwell and are compelled to
wonder:    is  there  not  more   to it all
here?    yes! just guess. this is   the spot,
right       inside HERE where     we can
   plot.       and  so  the  story     goes on:
fierce     hug- a first funeral,    a harp
plays;      rooftop serenade;     ‘smalls’
and      their calls; could my     arms
BE     any more curvy; could    all of
this     be any more complex?    I do
hope   so. I hope it never ends,  but
I see    that it already is. rapid,   vapid,
seemingly spirited  but at times
none  of          the above;
a shove of        love (kind
of) in the        right light
just might         bring life
    to these         curvy limbs.
but in the       meantime
i’ll stay         here and
play with      words till
they             mean
what I            want
them to         mean.
till my          will is
billed         & filled
and I          find a
better      hobby.
It is all       just a
part        of my
skeleton. as       are you, too. 


Day 9- Supine


The rest is rest but do not linger here:
in this abyss of ease there is no end.
The line holding all up will disappear
in space; disgrace, impossible to bend.
Long spine alines; the ground is softer there.
But on the lawn of thoughts there is not one
that was not placed without a single care.
I'll tell you now, you must escape. Please run.
The separation will be hard at first:
the way, it may be shrouded in deep dusk.
The curtain's heavy dust-filled drapes are cursed:
outside the air is free of all that musk.
But truly this may not be what you seek,
for happiness for everyone's unique. 

I actually didn't know this word before today, so thanks, Rebecca, for teaching me a new word! Be sure to click on her name there and see her Supine poem as well.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Day 8 (a day late)- Meatspace

an ad campaign

noun. a term, originating from cyberpunk fiction and culture, referring to the real (that is, not virtual) world, the world of flesh and blood. somewhat tongue-in-cheek. the opposite of cyberspace

The only space that really matters, the space with all the senses, 
where the positive mixes with the negative and becomes our reality.

 There is nothing like it!

 Street noises mix with the taste of a sweet, 
cheap happy hour beer. 

The city is loud and unsafe, but at least the 
asphalt drives the bugs away. 

Meatspace: the place you go where hardly
 anyone knows your name, unless you tell them- you surly have more
 privacy in this glorious, meaty space where we are all made of soft 
fleshy limbs and not pixels, where things like happiness happen with 
the touch of a hand or the sticky-warm air on your face, not just with 
words in the world of your mind's own creation. 

Glorious Meatspace;
once a thing that needed no explanation, once the only space we had, 
one that humans loved and where we found wonder in creation and 
innovation and discovery; once the place where love was found and 
cultivated and cherished; but back then everything was different.
It was much easier and desirable to stay in one place, exploration 
in the every-day happened in a much smaller sense. 

Now that the world is so much bigger, it seems we
 think we need even more space than our own earth can provide. 

Our backyards are so much bigger, 
even the ones that flood. 

This space, this space on which you read
 right now, this incredible self publishing superhighway of ideas 
and information and people and expression threatens our wonder-filled

 It is slowly becoming the more desired life form, life, 
communication repository, world. 

Proceed with caution. 

You must have street smarts in both spaces-
 book-smarts can mean next to nothing.

 But at least in Meatspace, you were born well equipped. 

Meatspace, marvelous Meatspace: 
an emoticon kiss is just not the same.


A few things: thing one- I realize I'm really taking liberties with what I perceive to be a poem, but then again I never pretended I was a poet to begin with. Just a fun-seeker here in Cyberspace. Which leads to thing two- of course I love internet and see all the good that it brings to the world. Duh, I'm writing a blog, I'm an avid Facebook user, I have a twitter account (not that I really use it much); I obviously don't hate the internet. It is a pretty amazing thing that allows all sorts of other amazing things to happen in Meatspace. Just take the Green brothers for example, who are slowly taking over the world with their awesomeness. But that being said, if I see one more story about Cyberbullying or preteens stabbing their friends because of something they saw on the internet, or any such awful thing, I might just scream. But if I scream in Meatspace, no one will hear me but the neighbors, so I guess I might as well just write a crappy poem about it instead.

Speaking of John Green, do yourself a favor and see this movie. You will cry, but you will also laugh.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Day 7- Rise

I rise but never
shine- mornings are not shining
for me. Back to bed.

Day 6- Glass


The feeling started with a sharp, deep jab,
so seldom that it's easy to forget.
But ignorance is bliss until the stab-
you touch your breast and feel the cold regrets.
Your heart is slowly turning into glass-
and not in any metaphoric way-
the muscles mutate into a hard mass.
Glass tissue filled with red like wine in clay.
It doesn't matter why this is your fate,
as every breath is heavyhearted hurt.
But all the protection has come too late;
if only you'd of played a different flirt.
Your mother warned you not to make that face,
or one day it would stick- she's made her case. 

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Day 5- Justice


Hey, Justice.


Read my Snapple fact. 



What? You don’t think that’s true?

Oh come on, that can’t be true.
Why not?

We better start kissing now then, if that’s true. 

I think we kiss a healthy amount; it’s the rest of the world that I think would bring down the average. You don’t believe that the average person will spend 2 weeks of their lifetime kissing?

No way. Think of all the lonely people out there. Think of all the impoverished people out there who have better things to be doing than kissing, like, you know, not dying. 

Yeah, sure, but I mean, is two weeks of kissing really that long?

How many hours in a week? 


So double that…


So 336 hours in a lifetime spent kissing. That is a hell of a lot of kissing, if you figure that a normal, solid kiss only takes a few seconds. I mean, say one kiss equaled like two seconds- like, two Mississippi, kiss over. So that would be like around 30 kisses a minute, which would be 1,800 kisses an hour, so times 336 hours you get 604,800 kisses total. In a lifetime. I mean sure in the courtship phase...


...courtship probably racks up a good amount of kisses, but then there are other things instead of kisses too, so that cuts you back. Then honeymoon phase, lots of kisses. But in the normal married life, you get what, like a kiss in the morning, off to work, kiss when you get home, maybe a kiss goodnight? Something like that? And that is not even counting all the people who don't get married. 

You don't have to be married to kiss someone. 

Exactly my point, there is an awful lot of non-marital kissing going on out there. That's just where it gets increasingly complicated. How long do you even think we have kissed for, in one go? 

I don’t know, I haven’t really been timing our make out sessions. 

So, on top of that, how long do you think the average lifetime is?

I don’t know, these days they are pretty long. 

See, those are other things to take into account. Life spans are probably longer even since that Snapple fact was created and put out into circulation. The advances in technology move so fast that that ‘fact’ is probably already obsolete. It says here on the bottle that Snapple was conceived in 1972, so that's 42 years of facts and technological advances. Your iphone is already out of date and you got it like a week ago, so imagine the authenticity of these Snapple facts. There is not even any way of knowing when this particular Snapple fact came into circulation. Well, I'm sure there is a way, but not one I'm even interested in pursuing. 

God, you're cynical. 

Just practical. 

And so you mean Google? You're not interested in Googling when that fact first appeared on a lid?

Not really. Not really worth my time. 

But talking about it now is? 

You bought it up.

Yeah, silly me.

Also, we haven't even taken into account what age you start kissing. Wow, can't believe I almost skipped that one completely.  How much of an average lifetime is even spent kissing? I mean, you are probably not doing any major snogging from the age of 0 through say 14, but some kids are. I don’t really want to think about that. And also, what sort of kisses are we talking here? Kisses on the cheek from parents? Or just normal mouth to mouth make outs? Reciprocal romantic kissing or everyday encounters with loved ones? And furthermore, what country is this data being restricted to? Because if we’re talking about the world, which I think we are due to the use of the word ‘humans’ instead of ‘Americans’ or any other sort of nationality indicator, then you’d have to take into account how many countries in Europe use the cheek-kiss everyday greeting. You get a lot of cross-over in that regard, even some people in America do that. AND some of those countries kiss like double on each cheek, depending on the familiarity of the people involved. I’m just saying, it’s possible that the fact is true, in the way that anything is really possible just about, but it’s highly unlikely that someone had the access to the sheer amount of data it would take to make that Snapple fact truly fact. 

You know what, Justice? 


I don’t really want to kiss you anymore. 


So there’s another skew in your statistics. 

Hey, now, let’s be reasonable here…

This seems pretty reasonable to me. See you around. 



Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Day 4- Panache (my favorite word)

There once lived a woman much braver than me,
who lived on her own in a house by the sea. 
At times the blue waves would reach ten feet tall,
and she would just laugh: she feared nothing at all.
She had lived a long life in that very place-
little brought her more joy than the sun on her face.
But she'd always lived alone. 
On top of a hill overlooking the sea,
there lived a man whose dreams ran free.
From his high vantage point he gazed at the beach
to the one that he loved, just out of reach. 
From the deck of his home, he flew a white plume
in the hope that she'd see it and cut through his gloom. 
There he watched from the safety of shadows.
Now the woman was known all throughout the town-
her daring deeds were admired and renowned. 
She lead expeditions down on her beach over rocks;
the neighborhood children would attend in flocks. 
She was the guardian angel for all the towns folk,
for as long as she'd lived there, not one life had broke.
She could cut the waves like a mermaid. 
The man saw all of this and admired her zeal;
to him she seemed mystical, a being unreal.
A drawer of his desk was filled to the brim
with letters of love, written on a whim. 
Every word weighted him down like a pile of stones
and the longing he felt cut straight to his bones. 
And one day, his shy heart had enough. 
But there was one thing the man did not know,
that the woman he loved, who projected such glow-
she saw him! She did, and admired him too;
his quite intelligence, the pictures he drew.
She had always wished she knew him better
but although her bravery she wore like a sweater
it unraveled whenever he was near. 
Above on the hill, the man stared down at the quarry. 
He was sick to death of this silly love story.
Waves smashed at the rocks as he walked onto the beach;
his brain was a buzz with his unprepared speech.
And there she stood, looking out at the ocean;
the man's fear disappeared, replaced with devotion. 
And he said, 'you look lovely tonight.'
And at that very moment, the tables had turned
as the woman smiled and her rosy cheeks burned. 
Just as quickly as his solitude came to an end
the shyest man in town made a new friend. 
And as the moon rose high up in the sky
the man almost broke down to cry.
And the sea glittered for them. 
All of the ways she thought herself flawed
he disagreed: they left him eternally awed.
And as they slept side by side all through the night
she would sometimes wake and hold him tight.
Not wanting to rouse him, she'd smile and wait,
thinking of all they'd talk of, what things they'd create. 
And she laughed at her sappy ideas. 
Together they formed two halves to behold:
him quite and thoughtful, her outlandish and bold.
They swept through the town, hand in hand-
their deeds full of kindness, hair full of sand. 
And when his old self resurfaced, scared and spewing,
she'd remind him: all that they had was his own doing.
And that to her, he was the one with panache.