When the world is a Twister mat
right foot green left foot blue
and the pebbles by the bonfire pit
are soft glossy glass
a cushion for my Diana Ross hair
a black weeping willow.
Where your face is in the heavens
and I float on the driveway
I can only nod yes
I will always nod yes to any
liquor font love poem you drop
in my ear because I could follow
I mean it, I do.
When gravity shifts
dress bottoms up up and away
to that cloth I don’t mind is my Show and Tell
but I follow the sidewalk
strutting my stuff inside the sanctuary
where its batter up and I’m taking my pitch
to that porcelain bowl that I almost missed.
When the world ends
with your mouth and fireflies
are lanterns to light
the laughter smearing the night
the moon at the bottom of my plastic cup
is rising, a beautiful blurry sight.-
The inspiration for this poem, and why I’ve sworn off drinking entirely.
I see me there
flying fire friendly
around the sun’s flares
and again I see me
I am one
like unscripted flows
individual and gentle
a steady steam stream
from an ancient kettle.
Try to catch me
by my hands that peel
in the rain
or my arms that whistle
I won’t stay for long
no jar can hold me
so I’ll whisper goodnight
to the east and onward.
A short while ago, my college had the pleasure of welcoming author Amy Newman to perform for us. Having never heard of her before, I can’t say I was too excited. (For a poet-or a person still striving to be a poet-very rarely will I actually read poetry. I’m so picky about poems, sometimes I wonder how I even enjoy writing poems in the first place!) Dressed in black from head to toe, and a head of gorgeous wavy reddish-brown curls, she seemed she as she came to the podium to start the “Complete and Incomplete Dictionary of Happiness and Unhappiness” performance.
It wasn’t until she pulled out Dear Editor did my attention snap awake and scream for more. For some reason I was really drawn to that book. Each poem/prose she read from it had me on the edge of my seat, eating up every syllable and loving how every world drifted from the mic from the speakers and sailed into my ears.
Weeks later, I finally got my hands on a library copy. The book centers around Amy Newman, but not exactly the author herself. The Amy Newman in Dear Editor is completely fictional. Each poem is written like a letter to an editor, except they each drift off into mini tangents about a chess game that symbolizes the complex relationship between Amy and her grandfather. Or the relationship she had with her grandmother, or the house she lived in, or a bit on her religious upbringing. I love not knowing where the letter will lead, and how bit by bit we learn about this character.
I’m on the tenth page and I just felt inspired to write a quick little poem about her–the real Amy Newman that is– and her performance at my college:
Came to my college
in all her glory of bronze and waves
long and dancing over the face of the
book hiding at the back of the shelf
content with little recollection.
Speaking in mumbles
barely reaching the ozone layers of my ears
of her poems dealing with fascination
the poetic impulse that makes her
flutter in her peaceful oasis
the mind where snowfall rests peacefully
each snow flake a dream
smoked with desire to know all there is.
A poet that struggles with inefficient tools
the primitive language that makes us understand
is only a babies babble in an afternoon stroller.
The Complete and Incomplete Dictionary of Happiness and Unhappiness,
Dear Editor I follow, burst from my fingers.
I used to dream of silk and lilys
weaved in my hair like a Native Goddess
and tulips for lips would then define me
to even think of love.
So with plastic roses
and cotton rags I walked the soil
pretending to be who
Grime under toes with a shadow
of make up
you plucked me from fire
and kissed my weed lips.
In your vase I still stay
reaching on forever each day. –
Taken yesterday at lunch
Welcome to my Blog!
My blog is intended to share my never-ending explorations in life with anyone willing to read. A few of my interests are poetry, short fiction, photography, drawing, music and occasionally kitchen creations. Snippets of life will be added to this mixed match mix as well. Basically what comes to my mind, expect to pop up on my blog. Being a 21 year old college student who’s pinching pennies leaves me with enough time to indulge in my interests, so they only keep growing.
Since so much interests me, I can’t commit to a single subject, and I have to admit I feel like a true newbie blogger. I don’t know where this will lead me, but I’m ready to go and hopefully along the way pick up a few readers.
With that little introduction out the way, here’s the only poem I’ve ever wrote about myself:
One Two Flavored Scoop
Look at me
chocolate vanilla twilight swirl
flavored and painted with segregated brushes
long after King put them together
Look at me
blundered burnt sugar with Daddy at the store
in suburbia standards stripped of color
I’m proclaimed an adoptee of this snow man
Look at me
charged caramel carved child follow
Mommy’s Michael Jackson and Pavarotti
around the makeup case my crayon doesn’t match
But, look at me
marble caked still and downy curled
entrusted to double dutch between sun and moon
I’ve captured the verse of her, the flair of him
the extended cultures molded to
the shape of my skin