Tag Archives: short poetry

Poems from My Day (7-4)

it’s all too loud

I miss my family.
It’s not something I thought I would ever say.
But, today, oddly enough,
I’m sitting here imagining what life would be like,
What today would look like if I were back home.
It wouldn’t look like this. I would be stronger. I wouldn’t have let myself stay in bed all day. I would have actually done something.
I would be drinking a lemon shake-up,
Sitting on the prairie, sweating, playing cards, trying to keep the blanket flat.
I’d be miserable, I’d have been worried about it on the 3rd. Did we pack, will we run out of things to do, who’s going to get angry?
And worried about how we would all handle it. Would we have enough lawn chairs, would someone embarrass me, how often would I have to dodge the crowds, how bored would I be?
We’d eat sandwiches, or if Mom managed to manage her money correctly that month, we’d have fried chicken in a bucket that was a little soggy from being in the cooler. And it’d be mad at myself for being fat. And hot.
And the symphony would take forever to start, but I’d never be able to get lost in the music.
Because there would be something I would want to change, to make it better. Someway I could be less uncomfortable. I’d still be holding a grudge for something someone said in the car that I didn’t say anything about at the time.
But, I’d take the pictures that I’d file away with all the other fourth of july pictures that I’ve taken for years. And they would look the same.
I’d know what was going on.

I told myself last Christmas that I couldn’t go to my father’s again without a buffer.
I needed someone to come with me, stand with me. Be the in between.
Because I couldn’t take it otherwise.
But now.
Now, I don’t know.
Maybe I could go again, just me.
I have a little more understanding, I think, after this year.

I’m glad that happened.
It was terrible, but in a terrible way, I’m glad his wife died, because I got to read this beautiful piece of poetry. I got to feel something I wouldn’t have otherwise felt. So, I’m glad.
Maybe it’s a bit Kantian to say,
Like thanking God for the fall of Rome because all those cats have a place to live,
But, something beautiful is sometimes worth a sacrifice?
Or does that make me a bad person?

It’s such a gift to be raised in a city.
You don’t even know.
I know how to walk down a block and have the look that makes homeless people not bother me.
I don’t get scared in crowds.
I can figure it out.
I know what street signs looks like.
I’ll be fine, if I decide to move back to a place with a stoplight.

I got mad at my mother for posting my picture on Facebook.
I had asked her not to, she did it anyway.
She thought, well just one, because it was graduation.
I said, this is why I didn’t let take my photo. Because she would do whatever she wanted without asking permission.
She didn’t ask me.
It was the right kind of mad. I don’t get that often. Totally in my square, right to be mad, no later repercussions for doing it wrong or anything. God I was so mad. It was beautiful.

Why do people always not see me as a person?
It’s not fair.
Can’t you tell I’m scared?
I like to be invited to things.
I’m not good enough.


10 Poems in 20 Minutes (3-19)

4:03 p.m.

I prided myself today.
On me.
On the fact that, as of now,
I haven’t killed myself yet.
I survived me.
I’ve survived me for years,
I’ll be ok, I’ll keep being ok,
Ok here in my head,
With just me,
If I’ve lasted this long.

We’re going to have to crate her.
The red fawn beautiful runner,
Beautiful dog, who they rescued
With pride-filled rescuing hearts.
She can’t keep doing this much damage.
Or at least we’re going to have to lock her in the room.
We can’t give her back, you know, it’s not like you can give a child back,
They’re not a bad cup of soup.
So we’re going to trade her old box for a new, shiny new, cage.
That way she’ll fit in here.
She’ll fit in with her beautiful hair.

She speaks now with a lisp
From her fake tooth
To stop the infection that was under the gum,
That she was convinced was killing her.
She has to talk on the phone with that voice.
I have a laughing pity.
My favorite kind of emotion,
For the woman I’m not sure I grudgingly hate.

Woman of wisdom, believer in spirits.
She tells me she thinks the human auras parted the red sea,
After she briefs me on her latest case brought to trial.
She’s the mother who always had to do it the hard way.
Wouldn’t let her kids define her, control her, or let herself resent them.
So she put her first, for better and worse,
She lives with the guilt, of missing what she missed of me.

I’ve planned what I’ll say when he dies.
Not because I can’t wait for him to die, but because sometimes I use him,
To find a way to cry.
And he always loved a good speech.

Tell me I’m pretty.
That’s all I need to hear today.
Don’t say: you’re gorgeous,
My girl, my honey, mine.
Don’t tell me what you love me more than;
Tell me how your feelings look today.

You’re in such a beautiful box.
I know what you’re going to say next,
I know for sure how this story I’ve heard before will end.
You’ve told me before.
I’ve heard already,
And I have safe love for what will happen later.

I met her for coffee.
Just outside this great little place she found.
I took her as she was,
As I saw her,
As she showed herself to me.
I remembered I’m good with people,
If I try, I’m so very good,
It’s a switch I flip,
I know.
To be charming, and lovely, and not quite me, in the light.
But that one has good friends, and people who love her,
And she cares to try.

Good people.
Good as in solid, strong, and right.
Righteous goodness.
They have solid bones, and solid minds,
And like good people, they keep their twists to themselves.

I don’t want to let this grudge go.
I want to keep it,
And feed it spitfires, so it keeps burning, to keep me angry.
Because when I’m angry I can’t be mad at myself.
It’s lovely there, with righteous anger. It’s so great.
And I can think of all these reasons to hate, all these reasons they’re wrong,
These reasons I won’t share. That make me feel better.
And what am I going to do without my martyred, middle child self?
What will be left of me?
Happiness for fools. Give me my sinners cynicism and dark giggles.
I’ll know where I stand, and I’ll know where my lines are,
And I’ll understand where they come from unsympathetic, unloving, happy.

10 Poems in 20 Minutes (Feb. 8th)

I Wrote 10 Poems in 20 Minutes
Day February 8th

Poem 1:
What is this thing over there?
I didn’t not want it there.
It should not be.
This won’t end well.
This new dog that follows me.
I like her. I shouldn’t.
I do not want to like her.
She is not the kind of dog I like,
Not fuzzy, or warm.
She’s skiddish and jumpy and fast.
I’ll do something wrong,
I’ll hurt her on accident.
She won’t like me best,
She’ll like the people that feed her.
I’m not getting attached.

Poem 2:
I hadn’t realized I’d heard it all before.
I’ll get better,
He says.
It’ll just be like this for a little while.
Just wait.
I don’t believe him.
I don’t want to believe him.
Because I told myself,
Stop changing people.
So I take them as they are,
I only sigh,
And try and decide to be calm.

Poem 3:
He makes a joke.
He waits for the laugh.
He says it again,
Maybe you didn’t hear him.
If they laugh this time,
He’ll save it,
He’ll use it later,
Because he made them laugh.
They look at him,
If he makes them laugh.

Poem 4:
I don’t want a child.
I don’t want what’s inside my head passed on.
The suicidal nature running along my family branches,
Maybe those can stop with me.
But I’ll wait for someone to change my mind,
I’ll wait for the swaying argument,
I can’t defend.
Because I think,
My brain will have nothing to do with the matter.

Poem 5:
Find me somewhere to go,
Where I can just sit.
I can wrap my arms around my knees,
And be given my coffee in peace.
They’ll know my name.

Poem 6:
Talk to me please.
I want to tell you everything,
But you,
You won’t listen,
And you’ll shrug me off,
And not hear.
I need the next person I tell me to,
To remember,
Like the rest forgot to.

Poem 7:
No matter who I’m talking to,
I imagine it’s you.
And I feel safer.

Poem 8:
He’s going to be telling me
For the rest of my life,
The same things he says now,
Every week,
He’ll tell me how to improve.
And I can’t stop it.
I’ll always need to be fixed.

Poem 9:
They want their ashes –
Comingled –
After they die.
I couldn’t stop laughing.
What if someone’s femur is in there on accident too?

Poem 10:
I loved it when it rained.
Now it makes me sad.
When I don’t have a home,
I’ll get wet and cold,
And have nowhere to go.

10 Poems in 20 Minutes (November 23rd)

Ok, I’m just gonna go ahead and say it. I miss having a structure and a deadline to write poems. I really do. It’s like part of my day is missing. So I wrote more poems, off the top of my head. And I feel better about life.

I Wrote 10 Poems in 20 Minutes (7:09)
Day 11-23

Poem 1:
I’d like to think I’m good
A good person
Who does good
Well, I mean, I’m not sure anymore
I can’t find a good judge
Someone who’ll fair judge me
And say,
Yes you do good.

Poem 2:
I spoke to my sister today
In a way I haven’t in a while
We talked of all we’d loved
All we’ve had
All she’s loved.
Because she has that in her
To love, this man
She loves him.
I’ve never had that in me,
I’m not sure, it’s even there.

Poem 3:
And I couldn’t speak
Everything I said got dissected
Or told that wasn’t right.
So I held my tongue
In the grip of polite.

Poem 4:
She says to us
You could have said it this way
And it wouldn’t have been mean.
So I write that down
In my playbook, my list
Of the proper phrases I can say to my mother
But she keeps editing
To say
I’m angry with what you’ve said
So I’ll keep picking at you
Cross that out and only ask for my love this way.

Poem 5:
Find me sunlight and
I’ll show you shadow.
I will.
Find me good
I’ll turn it wrong
Just by titling my head
And saying look how the sun shining on us
Misses all those over there.

Poem 6:
What do I say?
To my father when he asks where my job is.
How do I bargain with peace for stillness
So I don’t have to explain myself.

Poem 7:
I haven’t seen it
You know
I never have.
My face from your eyes.

Poem 8:
He said, let me get a job
And we can flirt with the idea
Of buying you a plane ticket out to see me
He priced them out for me.
I’ll probably hold grudges against him in time.
Just give me time
And I’ll find fault in the hundred percent.

Poem 9:
I sold something back
For less than I paid for it
So in effect
I spent forty dollars on my birthday and
Got hassle.

Poem 10:
I want to know what I’d look like skinny
If I was thin
How beautiful I would be
I can almost see my bones now
Without the added weight.
Beautiful in mirrors with pinched skin
And drawn on lines
With perfect shades,
We’re artists of our faces.

The Poem I Wrote Today (#2)

Grandma’s Copper Bottom Pan

I’m standing over my connection
Stirring melted marshmallows and butter
Making food for someone else.
The one thing of mine that’s a connection to the past
Of horse-theives and tangled branches.
We both stood over this pan, I’m sure.
Stirring up truths, looking for our base, past what’s there,
Watching it get covered again.
Me and Grandma,
I’ve got her thoughts because I use her stuff.