“Mansplanations” –A slam poem

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Hey everyone. Just making a quick post to link my newest slam poem to my blog.

Trigger Warning: the following poem might anger insecure men.

Enjoy!!

 

 

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Window Thoughts

WindowBlog

 

Mom stopped smiling

last week. I don’t ask why,

the tea kettle blows steam. Music

from the top of a glass bottle of Coca Cola. Sometimes,

I gotta lick my chapped lips

before playing the tune. My tongue

scrapes the dry spot

I bite off with teeth, it bleeds. Once,

she asks how school’s going. I answer,

good. Lying between curtains

from a mail-order catalogue of laughter

because,

face it– hand-me-downs don’t fly. Well,

her lips don’t curl upwards with smoke

slinking from a cigarette. Hiding

in my hair. I pull it, twist thin paper

between my thumb and index finger– around

and back. On the other side of the glass, two

kids pass

by, the one on the bike

rings a bell. The other,

laughs.

He Said if I Spoke Up No One Would Listen and Other Bedtime Stories

Lately, I’ve become a bit obsessed with listening to slam poetry. So… I thought I’d try my own.

Linked to the post is a video I uploaded onto Facebook. I was trying to use poetry to contribute to the dialogue surrounding domestic violence. I will add that I placed a trigger warning on this. Please watch at your own discretion.

If this moves you, feel free to share, or leave a comment.

Tongue-Tied

APPLE

 

If I could love in words

I’d write a sestina

As long as her legs,

filter it in sepia

silk sheets shrouded in a vignette.

She is a maze

I need to understand,

again,

before I breathe.  

Her body,

lines of iambic pentameter

rhyming in my head.

I gasp

in complete stanzas.

 I want

her hair,

tangled metaphors lost in

ornate vines,

splayed on my pillow.

Her eyes,

drops of moonlight

painted by angels,

encased in gold.

Her body’s a sonnet

I want to wrap around me

while I spew pathetic

poetry,

                                                unfit

to

                                              touch

her.

Pieces

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Consider an allegory

about a world

where women cannot speak.

No. I mean

they are unable to talk,

their vocal chords severed

like slow-cooked

pot roast. Or a guy

and a girl who fall in love. She

becomes his

what?

An object. I write

what I see,

or how I’m seen in sweats

versus jeans

versus a mini-skirt

because what a woman wears speaks volumes

and we wonder why.

Our clothing communicates

what

we are unable.  Where’s

our voice?

I would give an answer

 

that wouldn’t be understood.

I’ll go back to the kitchen,

now.

In Memory Of

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It’s that moment of teetering

before ground meets head,

shards fly,

an internal air raid,

sirens. Silent seconds

before tornado.

No looking back to what was

hidden in dirt,

or painted grass raking jagged nails

through hair,

eyes closed

through breezes,

they open. Wide fields

of corn and cows

eating corn. Was it

soybeans?

Yes, it

matters. Skittled roadside

graveled memories

dust the wind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Afternoon on a Lake

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We wrote poems in cigarette smoke,

or sex

as it ran down the side of a boat

intertwined in water

from a dammed-up lake,

forced to exist.

 

Ash singed the pages,

humid moonlight

that burned our hands

until we could not touch.

drops hit the glass surface,

coerced water rippled.

 

Debris floated in wet air,

forth and back

and back

we reached for pieces

as they dissolved

into rain.