Category Archives: Poetry

For Grampa


I noticed the sky this morning,

the morning you left us.

It was beautiful;

rose-colored and coral.

I thought of the old saying-

you know the one-

Red sky at morning,

sailors take warning.

And I started to cry.

It wasn’t warning sailors,

and I knew it.

It was warning us,

all of us that are left

that the world would be a little bit darker soon,

because you were going Home.

I knew;

that was why I held your hand maybe a little bit too tight

right before I had to go.

I figured it might have hurt,

but I knew you wouldn’t mind.

You would have done the same

if you’d been able to.

Now I have to figure out

how exactly my little boy is going to

grow up knowing just what a great man you were.

He’ll only see pictures of you,

the ones that prove me right-

that you were the best-dressed man that ever lived,

and so handsome.

(More handsome than all your brothers. Shhh.)

When he grows up,

he won’t get to remember what it was like

to wander through your garden with you,

admiring the stunning array of flowers

you and Gramma worked so hard on.

My son will never watch

Gramma, with the most tender of touch,

comb back the glorious strands of white and grey

from your forehead.

You know, I didn’t mind it a bit

when you missed a haircut or two.

There are far too many balding older men in the world.

It always seemed a shame to clip

the admirable abundance of hair you retained.

I’ll tell you a secret now.

Don’t be mad.

I always hated your favorite hymn.

In the Garden was never quite grandiose enough for me.

But you know I’ll play it for you anyway,

when it’s time to say goodbye.

The words, I really don’t mind, though.

And when I am digging in my own dirt,

I’ll sing them to myself

and think of you.

“I come to the garden alone,

when the dew is still on the roses…”

I maintain my opinion that

Crystal Gayle was always prettier than Loretta Lynn.

I keep saying it,

hoping you’ll come back and argue with me.

Loretta never knew what she was missing,

but all the rest of us will,

until we see you later.

 

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Freakshow


I ran away to join the circus,

thinking I might fit in better there.

But when I arrived,

the ringmaster looked at me dubiously

when I told him I wanted to be part of the Freak Show.

Clearly, he wasn’t able to see my obvious freakdom.

When I tried to explain,

he nodded, as if he understood.

He wrapped his crimson-clad arm around my shoulder and said,

“Let me show you something.”

He guided me past the bearded lady,

who sat combing her legendary whiskers into a intricate braid.

Past the snake woman,

whose glorious scales twinkled amber and teal in the sun.

I thought he would stop by the two-headed man,

whose twin faces smiled kindly at me,

but he seemed to quicken his step instead.

Past all the other human curiosities we walked,

until we were standing outside of the colossal striped tent.

Only then did he wave his white-gloved hand

toward the crowd awaiting to see such oddities.

He pointed to one man in particular;

a man who, after a first glance, not a soul would remember.

He was plain, and insignificant.

“That man beats his wife.

His second wife, now. He killed the first one.

That child there,”

The ringmaster pointed to an adorable boy about ten,

whose hair stuck out in mischievous tufts.

“He tortures small animals,

before cutting their heads off and burying them in a hole.”

He nodded toward a middle-aged woman,

her ridiculously-enhanced breasts threatening to expose themselves.

“She,” He said, almost affectionately,

“has been married four times.

All of her husbands dead from old age.

She now preys upon younger men half her age.”

My eyes had begun to open;

he continued.

“That girl there,” a young lady, very pretty,

“was raped by her cousin,

her uncle,

and her father’s friend.

She has told no one of her pain,

but will kill the next man who is unfortunate enough to try to touch her that way.”

He looked at me then,

his eyes searching mine, before he asked earnestly,

“How can you join the Freak Show when you’re already part of it, baby?”

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Smell


If you were to ask me

“What is your favorite smell?”

I would smile,

and offer you a seat.

Such business

should not be discussed

in haste.

You would look at me

in disgust, maybe,

when I begin with,

“Raw onions and horses.”

It cannot be helped.

I wish I lived in the age of the

Wild Wild West,

just so I could bury my nose in

my trusty steed’s dust-filled mane.

There’s really no explanation for the onions.

I continue,

“When you’re performing some monotonous task,

like grocery shopping,

and a man, (or a woman) walks by

smelling of sensuous perfume,

and the only thing you want to do is

trail behind them throughout the store,

just so you can get one more whiff.”

You nod, and smile,

we are on the same page now.

The words fall out of me now.

“The smell of last night’s sex

when you wake up.

The odor of lilies on a breeze

when you walk through Gramma’s garden.

Burger King, and McDonald’s, and even White Castle,

when you drive by them starving.

Puppy breath, and baby breath,

both horrible, really,

until you connect them with

innocence and everything good

left in the world.

Bleach,

because it’s clean.

Mud,

because it’s dirty.

Old people,

who were once young,

and the smell of my lover’s skin.”

You laugh,

because you never expected

such a simple question,

to have such a complicated answer.

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Drink


As I sit here drinking rum

at ten-thirty in the morning,

I begin to wonder if maybe

I might be a pirate by the time the bottle’s gone.

Wouldn’t that be ideal?

There certainly seems to be

a goodly number of drunk men

thinking they are Superman….

I can see the commercial for it now.

No need for higher learning!

Drink what you want to be!

Like, if you long to be a cowboy,

break out the Jim and Jack!

You’ll be whoring and meeting your enemy

at high noon in no time!

You aspire to be a great writer, you say?

Well, what kind of writer do you wish to be?

Do you wish to write brilliant

yet depressingly dull fiction?

Hemingway preferred absinthe.

Mind the green fairy, though.

She may put a shotgun in your hand

and bid you blow your brains out.

You have a journalistic edge?

Wild turkey was Hunter’s poison.

(I do wonder if maybe you might

just turn into a turkey if you drink that though.)

Wouldn’t it be grand?

If instead of just being called an alcoholic,

you could be called Marilyn Monroe?

What if you constantly drink vodka?

Will you turn into a Russian anarchist?

I’m not sure all Russians endorse anarchy,

but there sure seems to be

a hella lotta movies portraying them that way.

The question really is….

if you drink sea water,

are you actually a mermaid?

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You Are Beautiful


Fitting rooms are death.

As in, every time I enter a fitting room,

I die a little bit inside

when I look in the mirror.

This dress would look great!

If it wasn’t on me.

I think to myself.

It doesn’t seem to matter

that I flaunt a pair of plentiful breasts,

the sort of which many women would pay dearly for.

Or that my legs,

though considerably short,

are toned from hours and hours of

wearing heels,

or waiting on tables.

I climb out of the dress,

which is rather difficult

since I forced the zipper up

in hopes of making it fit.

I shake my head and vow

that I will not be undone by an

inanimate piece of fabric.

I dress in my own not-quite-so-fabulous attire;

I face myself once again in the mirror,

and repeat to the refection there

the words many men have proven to be true,

the words friends that only tell the truth have spoken,

the words I remind myself that I believe:

“You are beautiful.”

 

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Inspirational? More Like Perspirational


very-inspring

Thanks to Erin and her ass, I’ve been nominated for the Very Inspirational Blogger Award. As I sit here dripping with sweat, (haha, I know you all were thinking I’d be dripping something else) I cannot help but think that just maybe she meant to endow me with the Perspirational Blogger Award. I realize that 80 degrees sounds lovely, but here in Minnesota, 80 degrees is the equivilant of 120 degrees, and causes a permanent river of sweat to flow betwixt my considerable she-mountains. Anyhoo, I digress.

I’ve received enough awards in bloggerville to sufficiently have bored you all with facts concerning moi. So, instead of writing another seven things about me nobody except Art cares about, (haha) I shall list seven people who have inspired me to be… well, me.

1. Maya Angelou.

Maya is not on my list because she has just recently passed. I loved her long before she was spoken of in the past tense. As I read her six biographical books, I realized that perhaps someday, if I have as much courage and pizzazz as she, people might actually want to read my story as well. Though I will never be able to weave words together quite the way that she did.

2. Angelina Jolie.

Incidentally, Angelina’s movie Maleficent released today, after a long wait of almost FOUR years. I’m dragging my Rockstar to it tonight! (YAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!) Anyhoo, Angelina is beautiful, (I don’t care what any of you say) and she always has been to me. You all know how she is, so I will not go to great lengths to explain my reasons. Suffice to say that she is someone I would love to be friends with. (And maybe more, if she would so have me.)

3. Dolly Parton

Because she’s 127, and is still awesome. If you disagree, you suck.

4. My Auntie.

Because she does so much for everyone else, yet still finds time for herself, and will always listen to anyone who needs her to.

5. My Rockstar.

He inspires me to live up to my potential, even if it is by semi-rudely telling me to quit being lazy. I know he adores me, despite the fact that he refuses to verbally say so, which inspires me to get him to the point where he will say it aloud. Too, he inspires me to wash the dishes, which can never be a bad thing.

6. King David.

If you don’t know who that is, you should read your Bible more often. He inspires me, (even though he is really quite dead) because he wasn’t perfect, yet God still loved him immensely. He is proof that even a fuck-up is worthy of God’s fondness.

7. All the boys in the world. (And some of the girls.)

Even though I have my Rockstar, I do not deny the fact that I adore being adored. These boys (and girls) inspire me to actually shower most days, and to put a little (and sometimes a lot) of effort into how I look, as time-consuming as it is. Too, the smarties of the world who are not moved by just a pretty face inspire me to keep learning, because you just never know when you might run into an attractively-intelligent person you wish to converse with. And many of them don’t give a hoot about the Kardashians.

As for the rest of the rules concerning winning an award, I don’t do that shit. Just click on someone who has commented on my blog, because obviously they are very wise.

XOXO

 

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A Farewell to Maya Angelou


My heart is breaking.

It seems silly, to say such a thing because someone you’ve never met has passed away.

But here I sit, silent tears pouring down my face. Tears for the magnificent collection of words that will no longer be sculpted and forged by your contemplative hands.

I see them, all those syllables, lying in a heap at my feet, and think that they look just a little bit forlorn, knowing they were not the chosen ones to be plucked for your masterpieces.

Of course, now that you are gone, you will be wildly popular.

It always vexes me that so many are paid attention to so greatly in death.

People will say, “Oh! Have you read all of her memoirs? She was quite a woman. Phenomenal, in fact.”

I will shake my head, not because the answer is no, but because I have known these things far longer than they, and am sorry they have lost out on all that time they too could have known your words.

You were proud, and not afraid to say so, yet you prayed for humility.

I will feed your ego now, and not fault you if you strut around arrogantly just a little bit in Heaven.

I am afraid there will never be another like you.

Someone who is so unapologetically truthful, and unconventionally beautiful.

Someone who will say words just as they are thought, but in such a way that causes a violent reaction, one of delight, or love, or anger, or wistfulness.

I will forever be sorry I never had the honor of meeting you, and hope that one day in the future, when I pass through those Pearly Gates, I might see you nod your head at me, just so I know that you know I heard you.

XOXO

From one Phenomenal Woman to Another

 

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It Is You


 

It is no one else  I see

except you

when I feel you stir inside me.

Your heated breath on my neck

sends shivers down my spine

and the placement of your palm

on my hip

ignites the fire deep within.

Because you know that,

to me,

sex is just sex,

The way your hand

gently guides my face

to look at you

as you ease yourself into me

again and again

endears you to me,

and I love you just a little bit more

as I gaze into your eyes

and watch you come.

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A World on Its Axis


planets colliding photo: ezy colliding planets 20080925_colliding_planets-1.jpgI was just thinking..

Whether they will admit it or not,

in their own minds,

each person is the center of their own universe.

Every individual is the apex of their very own world.

So what happens when these planets collide into each other

be it intentionally or accidentally,

physically or mentally?

If two humans become aquainted

and share no common bond,

do they simply go on twirling through space

never really noticing they just entered a whole new galaxy?

Or,

when two people meet

and they have a connection,

does this alliance begin to meld their two universes together

and create a completely new solar system?

What if such a bond ends in heartbreak and grief?

Do they spin away from each other

and become exploding stars that

eventually,

no one even knows were there?

It’s something to think about.

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Boozehound


Who doesn’t need a drink

after the Big Boss shows up

at work?

Luckily,

the liquor store is located

across the street.

How many times have I

looked longingly through the finger-smeared windows

during a crapper shift and thought

how much better work would be

if flasks were mandatory?

I sit for seven long minutes

trying to cross the street in my

yellow truck;

Finally,

I’m wandering aimfully

through the wine aisle,

choosing my poison based on

how many proof the label advertises.

I’ve noticed the strongest alcohols

have ugly labels,

so I make a point to buy a

bottle of wine sporting

Norma Jean.

 

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Filed under Humor, Life, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, Work