Tag Archives: sharing poetry is way more terrifying than prose

make a little bird house in your soul

In which I finally get some use out of that expensive education.

I cannot sing the body electric or write my theme for English B.
I know not what creeps in on little cats’ feet or out on leaves of grass.
I’m not sure the universe is infinite, either, though the magician’s girl doesn’t flinch.
But I do see the best minds of my generation destroyed by some sweet madness.

I was not with Childe Roland at the dark tower, nor the gunslinger himself.
And hell must be a pretty swell spot, where dips the rocky highland.
I cannot hear the call of the wild or see the far side of the mountain.
And victims, aren’t we all, for the world’s more full of weeping than I can understand.

I did lose a world the other day, while answering woe for woe.
And though a single man in possession of a good fortune
Must be in want of a wife,
I struck you first with a brazen nail and raged against the night.

Drink to me only with your eyes until the cup runs over.
This child dancing in the wind can be a lady sweet and fine.
Please take my kiss upon your brow if ever two were one.
I can carry your heart (in my heart), have we but world enough and time.

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good life choices, make a little bird house in your soul, not about my hair

In which I build the world around me, this time, again.

I have bricks of furniture and walls.
Mortar mixed of paint and fabric.

I have foundations of nostalgia and desire.
Plumbing made of photographs and journals.

I’ve got wiring strung of taut muscles and dripping sweat.
Windows paned in age and eyelashes.

I have fancy hats and rolling pins.
Acres of books and whiskey.

There are more baskets than picnics we’ll ever take.
But at least one hanger per memory.

I have pens and pencils and markers to spare.
With lightness and being to float.

I’ve got spare rooms and bedrooms and enough room for you.
But Ms. Scarlett did it in the Conservatory.

With the rope.

I have baggage and sadness and sweetness to boot.
And boots and sandals and tears.

I have light down from fixtures of crystals and love.
Skeletons in closets of papier mâche.

The blades of my fans flex in the shrug of my shoulders.
With wind made of kisses and sugar and fear.

And then there’s my bed.

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make a little bird house in your soul, not about my hair

In which I end my terribly scheduled week unearthing an old piece I’ve never shared before.

my boyfriend folds the clothes
wrong. He tries
which is Key
and his nose crinkles up as he concentrates
and tritely bites his lip

So now he only folds the pants
and leaves the tops to me.
Thank god.

He loves to watch me fold, though
which, in turn, I love
I line the tag up with
that space in the middle of my collarbone
smooth the shirt down my body,
lay one side over, and then the other
And then in half so that it fits perfectly
inside the drawer.

I have to fold them differently now,
his shirts.
We bought a new dresser.
together.
It’s no ‘love fern’
or home
or pet or kid
but it’s ours.

So now I fold them our way
to fit into our drawers
two folds, more snug.

a more complex folding ritual,
instead, now, he takes out the trash.

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hey world. here i am., not about my hair

In which I share poetry, shyly.

In the portrait of the artist you will find no young man
Unless, of course, he’s hanging on her arm
In that portrait, of that great artist,
You will find all her works:
Both the words and the swoops
Of the brush
As she sweeps and swishes the sparkles
Over her eyelids

In the portrait of the artist you should find her
Old Crayola set
Twelve different watercolors
Perfect for paint-by-numbers
And nostalgia

In the portrait of the artist you will see no cross
No silver cast of a man murdered on a stake
In its place you may find a strawberry or a tattoo
Talking to each other
Making plans to have tea

In the portrait of the artist she may be holding a martini
Stirred, not shaken
With a long cigarette holder (even if
She doesn’t smoke) and a fountain pen
Or a margarita, daddy-made
With fresh Georgia peaches, a sharp number-two pencil
And a credit card for emergencies

In the portrait of the artist you might see her laughing
Or arguing or sobbing or writing
The artist isn’t as predictable as she’d like to be
Regardless, you won’t find Stephen’s journal entries
And she won’t be in Dublin

Perhaps in that portrait, you’d find her gazing up
Up there, says she, is where she’ll find god
That is, if she’s at home and
If she wants to be found

In the portrait of the artist you will not see
The words that honk and flick one another off in the traffic
Between yesterday and shadows
There she will be busy, asking,
“Do you like my hat?”

The portrait of this artist will be set at twilight where
“A thousand fireflies wink at [her]”
The red skies are perfect for daisies
But at nightfall, the spell ends
And the fairy tale is over

You will be captured by the portrait
Nay, by the artist
Her eyes will grasp yours
And doubtfully let go
The portrait of this artist will be with you
When the fairy tale ends
And the fog on the windowpane fades away

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