Last Night
Does it mean anything
that a mockingbird
taunted the stars
his overtones
beading my sleep?
lines from The Carter Family’s
Their Complete Victor Recordings
Where the roses will be blooming,
deck my brow with roses.
Reap ’em in the valley–
give me the roses while I live.
Sorry that I’m coming to you with this again, I’m…
I’m really trying not to trouble you.
Feels like I become a burden so easily now.
Doing my best to be strong,
but it just doesn’t take much
to knock me down anymore.
I worry…
Am I thinking too much?
Making something out of nothing?
Am I being too dramatic?
Should I even be disturbed?
Am I looking too deeply
into the thing that he just said?
Is there even a problem?
Is there anything to see?
Am I going insane,
losing hold of my own head?
Am I right to feel blamed,
like I’m being targeted?
Am I less of a man
’cause I can’t fix my own issues?
Should I be letting this go
in a fit of forced forgiveness?
I don’t know…
I don’t mean to make you fight my war
but the days are not getting better.
Feels like I’ve blown out both my ears
trying to blow on all these whistles.
I really feel like there’s a problem here
that I can’t answer on my own.
Makes me wonder…
How does anyone get heard?
How does anyone get help?
In the workplace or in life,
where can the broken turn
when the support that surrounds us,
the people meant to love us,
comes apart like wet paper
when we need to fall in their arms?
What do I need to say
to convince you this is real
or am I doomed to daily spiral
in an invisible abuse?
What magical string of words
will make my plight appear?
How loud do I have to get
to finally turn some heads?
Should I even be worried?
Is this problem even real?
So I guess what I’m really trying to say is
a person will eventually
start running out of options.
I don’t have much faith in anything anymore.
Listen to the termite lady,
hefty technician proud and savvy
in ScherZinger’s blue uniform.
Services today performed:
All stations have been
inspected and cleaned.
Stations 7, 8, and 10 were hit,
see where the bait’s been bit?
Advice: trim forsythias back
from the house. Renewing service contract,
she advises
would be wisest.
Penny pitching’s not ideal;
splinter by splinter, home becomes meal.
The summer breeze gives me a gentle pat on the back
That’s the funny thing about the brink of summer
I ask her to keep her orange clouds from raining on my head
really.
he lay there, gasping soot,
eyes open in the black damp
seeing bright flecks, those
spots you see when lids close
or it’s dark as pitch, as now,
those careening constellations,
a dandelion tempest where
none ought to float, and
he thought it looked pretty,
the prettiest it’s ever looked
under the mountain,
then the damp took his
last breath, and then the
men hauled him out, then
filled his grave with stars
plucked from the dark,
to accompany him
in the deep earth
#TragicTuesday
What’s a life valued in breeding years and scars
where luck is dark memory, escape?
knuckles scraped against walls, heaving and begging
their rough surface to break
small feet following ancient trails find newer signs
of bondage – skeleton prayers –
and ghost hands memorialized in iron and brick
feed rhythms: Resistance, Despair.
“These shackles’ size indicates they may have
been worn by children.”
Death -scented anterooms and parlors rage
with promises, weep through our skin.
A & Q
Don’t be afraid to let your poems be smarter than you are. Heard from Naomi Sihiab Nye
One way
to learn to dance
is counting the steps,
but scaffolding doesn’t make
cinquains.
five seven five
has nothing to do with
the art of haiku
Once you have crossed
the river, do you carry
a bridge with you?
Does form follow function
or vice-versa?
Can you let the poem decide?
When you make your silent commute
On just another Tuesday, shrouded
By early morning dusk
Which ghosts ride along with you
Passenger side, when you drive
By the old middle school
Your old high school, once upon a time
From which life do the memories visit?
Do you remember the day
You clocked out early
To pick your oldest up before lunch
Turning into the drive you pass by
Now, he had sprained his ankle
How did you feel
When he clambered into the backseat and admitted
To not being hurt, except for his feelings
A bully had yanked his shorts down to the ankles
Do you remember the impetus
For uttering the phrase
“Stop crying” or “be a man” or “get over it”
Was it the nightly bickering
Or the credit card bills or
Your hours being cut again
Did your father tell you the same
For similar reasons and now
Maybe you understand him?
Do you ever wonder
If I want to understand you?
