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

wheat-175960

 

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

boats-923061

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.

 

More Updates

Pencil

OMGeeeez, I don’t pay enough attention to my website, or blogging. Recently, it’s seemed as though the plague descended upon me and no amount of antibiotics will treat it. Whining aside, I wish I had an excuse for not keeping my site updated.

If you follow my Facebook or Instagram, you’re aware that in addition to the ‘Sync’ series, I’m working on a separate novel, “Snowfall” due out next year as well. I posted a trailer here (Note: you should be able to click the word ‘here’ and it’ll take you to the video. I’m only saying because I think I’m cool now that I’ve mastered the ability to add ‘links’ to my blog) I’m excited for the challenge of publishing two polished, action-filled novels in 2017.

In other news, I entered my very first writing contest, Sudden Denouement’s divergent literature contest and won second place with a piece titled “Suburban Suicide”. More rewarding than actually winning was happening upon a site chalked full of amazing poetry. I’d recommend checking it out. You will not be disappointed– Promise! But all-in-all, what a humbling experience. Absolutely incredible and when they posted the top five, I read them. Fantastic, strong pieces of writing.

To be honest, I rarely submit pieces to anything. It’s not necessarily because I fear rejection, although I do to some extent. It’s because I question my work… a lot.

I write what I feel, how I feel and early on in life I was taught my instincts were off. It’s only now, I’m learning perhaps they were spot on that whole time and those telling me otherwise were determined to see me fail. Even as an adult, I receive passive aggressive messages on media platforms such as Facebook from voices of the past, attempting to censor me (Kinda desperate, huh?).

Everybody has a voice. Never let another person convince you otherwise, don’t ever believe it if someone scolds you because, “people will think you’re weird.” Weird is good. Different is good. Our world needs all kinds of ‘different’ and ‘weird’. So just go for it… you do you (this is my pep talk for all three people reading this).

Until Later! (And I promise it won’t be much later!! I’ll update soon!)

 

Childhood, Fragments

Rooms-full-of-old-toys-and-decay-at-abandoned-manor-house

My first memory

was my dog dragging a dead rat into my bedroom.

Mom walked in

I played with my limp toy.

Its polished eye watched,

she scolded the pup.

Showered, I sat on dusty carpet and listened;

the owl clock above the sink.

Her cracked hands washed green dishes

while the metal walls of our trailer

trickled into my veins drop after

drop,

after drop.

 

As a Child, Words Hurt Worse Than Being Hit

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I could still walk into that house and smell leather,

the sweet odor cracked into peach wall paper

that closed in on my body

until I vomited fields of soy beans.

Outside of the rows,

I’d pick wild berries.

An almanac cautioned

about Indian strawberries–

I feared that as the juice dripped

down my hollow mouth,

I’d surely die.

God didn’t want kids like

me.

Years passed.

I sat on a train in New York

where I read a columnist

who declared that just because

consumption of a wild berry is

not recommended,

that does not indicate that the

fruit

contains poison.