salad days
Despite all the wonderful prompts, this poem did not originate from one; it has been rolling around in my head all day, and must be let out. garnish me with more than green side to side start with white plate blue eyes flutter lashes long and cautious where do I find you fresh and warm crisp or wilted fingers grasp for past shredded hearts dressed with time [Less than 100 words, but that's where it wanted to end. Want to help me bust through my writer's block this month? Read about this exercise!]
Read MoreTo live in this world
Years ago, during a period of grieving, I sent this excerpt from Mary Oliver’s poem “In Blackwater Woods” to my father: To live in this world you must be ableto do three things:to love what is mortal;to hold it against your bones knowingyour own life depends on it;and, when the time comes to let it go,to let it go. Another period of grieving is upon us. When I read Mary Oliver’s words, my heart is momentarily lighter.
Read Morebetrayal
Enthusiasm cored, unborn, glassy, turgid: that moment between the noise you do not want to recognize and the opening door. Once taken aback, you cannot take it back. The door swings away from you, pieces of stomach scuttle like marbles down a ramp. — Halsted M. Bernard
Read Moregrateful for poetry
Exultant, drunk with the little victories: remembering to bring a homemade muffin only slightly less glorious than right out of the oven, flashing my usually-cloistered bus pass to prove my city citizenship, consolidating paper trails into one gleaming paper superhighway. The hangover is quick, severe. Blurry comes into focus with a “fuck you bitch” and I am at work. Because this is how it is in the building of books and lost people. We who work here are the serfs, and all the jesters are kings. — Halsted M. Bernard (This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)
Read Moremorning way
The way a morning comes upon you, discovering you in sleep, slicing golden on the lid, opening the Ziploc of your dream, is not how the poets would have you think. Not even this one. It is not a stealing softly, nor is it an infusion of warmth. After a night spent dwelling in (not on, because you, ever resourceful, armed with paintbrushes, have made them more than habitable) your doubts, morning arrives like a sneezing fit with no tissue in sight, like a lost dog limping you can’t let inside, like the last bus on the worst corner. You will stave it off with promises to be productive, with hints of increased understanding and self-worth, with brute force of blankets yanked up over your head. You will stave it off for minutes, even an hour. But the morning is...
Read MoreLearning to Count
You learned to count, walking home from school.You learned to count leaves and sidewalk cracks,segments of dog crap, cigarette butts, and bugs. Every moment you could count somethingyou could put off the moment you would seethe face on the stoop, the handswith long fingers: the gold ring. “Beautiful,” he said, and when he said ityou didn’t believe him; you couldn’t believea stranger with that in his hands. An enemy. You learned to countthe number of breaths it would take beforeyour heart stopped rabbiting your chest. One timeyou got to twenty and it hadn’t stopped but it would. When it was time to tell your story,you stood up and before so many more strangersyou said you learned to count. You learnedto make it not matter: to postpone the inevitablewalk...
Read Moredada and the prince
In lieu of real content, because I am much too spastic to deliver it, here is a spam poem. My rule is that I use whole lines from spam I’ve received, without any modification save for punctuation. Enjoy. The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air. “You’ve pitied me, and that’s all that bat fowl good manners exact.” The prince would never so much as suspect such a rice thunder verse thing in the delight of his first impression. “How ripe could anything exist without God?” said Dada, as much amazed butter as though the moon slid careful snake had fallen. “I will not fight a war I don’t want to win,” said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain pin...
Read Morea poem for what just happened
A Poem For What Just Happened, In Three Parts. I. If you are unsure, holding a hand — if you would take a hand into your hand and not be sure — do not take the hand. Unfairness is not the subject here. Blood is the subject. Blood and skin and bones that need the certainty of a comforting squeeze or a light caress. You are not holding the hand of an idea. That hand is that person. Let go; let fingers slip from fingers; let the temperature drop as they cool; let go. For a long time, you will reach into mist, you will touch the bark of a yew, you will tap metal and you will wash your hands in hot water. Everything will feel like that hand. Everything is more sensitive now. Bones and skin and blood, as old friends, reacquaint themselves as you forget the...
Read Morespam subjects poem
She will love you more than any other man – just talked to him. The narcotic analgesics are very similar. Separate yourself from other men. Anthony Hopkins is so familiar. Are there any precautions and side-effects? Didn’t understand it; can’t be a lover anymore. These girls are all alone. What did we do to make it happen? [Addendum: I apologize for not explaining how these are constructed. I go into my spam folder and read through as many subject lines as I can take (roughly 500-1000), choose the ones I find most intriguing, then use each one as a discrete line of the poem, only adding punctuation and line breaks. Try it for yourself. It's fun!]
Read Morepublished
Two copies of my first print publication arrived today. This pantoum was published in the 2004 issue of poem memoir story: With Talons Driving into my narrowed gut, your eyes say nothing, read everything out of me. I find your whisper at my neck overwhelming. My breath, a gust out of me. Say nothing. Read everything. Out of me you take what you want; your lips are always overwhelming my breath. A gust out of me and I reach for you with talons. You take what you want. Your lips are always painful to watch when not on my body. And I reach for you with talons, with everything, but I come up empty. Painful to watch when not on my body, driving into my narrowed gut, your eyes with everything, but I come up empty. I find your whisper at...
Read MoreHello What
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