Tag Archives: funny

Poems of My Day (1-31-17)

It was my grandmother’s wedding anniversary.
My mother group texted us a photo of her in her dress.
And then a photo of her, sitting in her wheel chair,
Full of dementia instead of love and memory.
I saw it, and right there I wanted to cry,
I wanted to be the kind of person who can take a day off every year
And get all their grieving out at once,
Because she’s not really here anymore,
Except in the photos.
She looked so full of hope in the photo,
And the way she has her chin tilted, is just like the way my sister tilts her chin.
I think back on what I know of the marriage, colored through my mother’s understanding,
As terrible and straining,
But in these two photos,
She doesn’t know the tension that will come,
And in the other, grayer photo in color,
She can’t remember yet.

I told the traveling vision tester where I was going after my contract finished,
She said she would love to be that free,
That’s actually her dream,
To travel and have no destination, or place to go,
I wanted to tell her it’s my version of hell,
But she looked so happy for me.
I couldn’t tell her I’m stuck, and can’t make a decision,
I’m repeating a damn pattern,
Just like after college.

The water freezes and condenses on both sides of the glass
So when I start my car,
And it tries so hard to start,
To clear my windows,
It doesn’t know which way to go,
It doesn’t know what I’m asking for,
No one else seems to be able to give me what I need,
A machine wouldn’t be any different.

I talk to these people through my phone,
Texting, or snap chatting,
But I still don’t feel like I know them.
I spend time with people in cars,
And they talk to me,
But I still don’t feel close to them.
I’m starting to think it’s not the medium,
I’ll never be as open as the woman who can tell strangers about her tearing from her pregnancy.

I could go to Maine, and work for my room and board
And learn pottery, ceramics,
From this couple who advertise on their homewritten website.
I could stay here,
Stay for summer, the berries, and the fish.
Or I could go stay with my mother.
Or I could cry some more.

We’re doing a thirty-day workout,
Please make it stop.
I want to not follow through on my word,
I said I would do this with them though,
Everything is awful, and I’m going to die.

I can bake a cake, and a pie.
I can write, and read, and critique.
I can make people love me.
That’s what I learned this year.
I can survive.

My sister said,
If we weren’t family,
She doesn’t think I would talk to any of them,
And she’s right,
But they’re family,
And I’m Kantian here,
In that, they’ll be okay,
If I have to drag them through rocky mud every damn day.

Fill me with good things instead of
Punctually correct text messages.
Let me listen to Ian McKellen shout at me about
My mountainish inhumanity.
Tell me about what you want to leave as a legacy.
Quit talking to me with what you think you’re supposed to say.
Tell me what you feel.
What’s real.
I want to hear it.

Poems from My Month (5/4)

i’m still not writing properly. i’ll figure it out tomorrow.

Ok I think I’m ready.
To give you some of me.
I think I’m strong enough again.
Thanks Bruce Springsteen.
and matching socks.
Take what you see here.
It’s me,
Unglorified, shamed, and flawless, and perfect me in its me-ness.

I met a woman,
She’s showing what could be me. She’s Midwestern. She was here for a short trip. She stayed. She got pregnant. She got married. She lives in one of the row of houses next to the totem pole.
One of the ones next to the ones with old, beat-up boats and cars in front.
The tiles in her floor are worn through.
She married a fisherman missing teeth. She keeps getting mastitis. The only new things in the house are for the baby.
She’s not working anymore.
She doesn’t know how to accept the kindness of people giving. It’s not out of their hearts. They can, so they do.
She looks a lot like a mirror right now, of me three years ago, and vulnerable.

She said she likes the idea of being able to start over, start fresh. Because she believes it’s true.
I think we have not lived the same lives.

I want to take a hike a photograph, I have that need, inside me.
That need to write and read, and be better, and sit and stare outside,
And tell you what it means to be me right now.
Without shame.
Please, let me be without shame for just a minute more.
I want to take detailed photos of pointless bodies, and wrinkles, I want to have the courage to ask You to drive me to take photos of the sunsets. But you’re going to see your friends without me. And I can’t afford my own car, so I’m being punished.

My sister’s husband is taking a job in Switzerland.
How interesting.
Why do I feel like it’s a one up?
Oh, she tells me, I forget you’ve never lived anywhere but Indiana.
This makes me resort to the stunted, slightly abused 13 year old girl I really am,
“Well, and you’re a jerk.”

I hate being the subject of sermons again.
So I stop telling people things.
Then I think, I should share, I should depend. I have no support system.
Then they tell their whole church something private.
I feel exposed.
So I clam up.
Then I get called out for being depressed.
So I share how I’m feeling.
Then I get a call from my sister, saying mom’s worried about you.
Then I say I’m fine.
And I stop sharing.
I want to confide in a person who keeps it to themselves.
I want a magical, mystical friend, who’s a good friend, and doesn’t tell me I need a bit of work here and there.

I’m failing. I’m here. And I’m failing. I’m not properly trained, I don’t know what I’m doing, and instead of costing people money, I can hurt real people.
I’ve lost track of my wider perspective, it all gets so bogged down in a small town.
I think if I did it my way, I think if I moved to a town I wanted, and could live how I wanted, I could pull off this small town thing. Here? Not so much.

Crying Loops

Sometimes, hormones mess with my brain. There’s no other way to put it. I can qualify it if you want. I can say: it’s not my fault, it only happens to some women, it shouldn’t impede my cognitive capabilities, you shouldn’t judge me on this one thing, it’s not just me. But. It. Happens.
So I’m listening to the radio, and the woman gives a heads up message that the next song, “Creep” by Radiohead, was banned by the BBC for being too depressing. I, of course, relate to the song. I’m already a bit teary, not, oh look a baby sniffling, but sniffly. I start singing along, “I’m a creep. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here.”
The words hit. Boom. Then I’m thinking about the last time I heard the song. I remember I was sitting by myself in my dorm room back at school listening to Radiohead for the first time, looking for something that would mean something to me, feeling all alone, unheard, and understood by no one. So I’m thinking of that, driving down a pretty busy street in rush hour. And I start crying and singing. I’m wiping my eyes, singing along with wobbly gasps, and navigating traffic. We stop at a light and I look to my right. Oh look, it’s a police officer. I’m worrying he’s going to pull me over, and I’ll hit a car while I’m trying to pull over, then I’ll have to get another job to pay for my broken car, and I’ll still be crying. So I’m frantically trying to wipe my eyes and at the same time roll up the windows so he can’t hear my shrieking. But, I went right on past. No problems.
And that made me cry, because I thought maybe he needed to fill his policeman quota, but he didn’t want to pull over a crying girl after a day’s worth of work, so now he’s having a bad day because I’m having a sad day. Then Thom finished his sadness hole, and I drove back home, flicking radio stations every minute so that I didn’t get too attached to a song with too much memory.

Universal Truths I Thought of While Eating Grilled Cheese

Tomato soup is only good for grilled cheese
The only incentive to wake up early is the prospect of eating more meals
Humans are the same online or off, one just gets recorded
You’ll only ever be able to see from your eyes
If you pay men to tackle other men, it shouldn’t be surprising when they hit women too
There is no woodshop teacher with all his fingers
Everything matters
Twenty-four hour stores just mean more work for poor people
People act strange during full moons
We’re all self-righteous
You can’t be self-confident and humble
Today is not tomorrow
No one should make you feel guilty for a feeling
If you run on instincts, you’re superstitious
You do what bugs you about other people
There’s something you don’t know you don’t know