when night burns too bright
the moon tells me her secrets
whispering fullness
submitted to
and
Tag Archives: Monday poetry potluck
R is for Rhyme
Don’t
Don’t tell me to listen
When I don’t want to hear.
Don’t say I don’t understand
When the meaning is clear
Don’t tell me to hold on
When you’re the one letting go
Don’t tell me I’m naïve.
I’m choosing not to know.
Don’t tell me bad times are coming
When they are already here.
Don’t tell me your frightened
When I am facing my own fear.
Don’t tell me your problems
when I’m dealing with mine
Don’t tell me I’m not okay
When I said I feel fine.
Don’t tell me of pain,
As if I didn’t know.
Don’t tell me you are staying
As you prepare to go.
Don’t Tell me how I should feel
When I am angry and sad.
Don’t tell me things might get worse
When it’s already that bad.
Don’t tell me you’ll always be here,
As you are walking out the door.
Don’t tell me I don’t know half of it,
When I don’t want to know anymore.
*this poem was written in 1995. I am submitting it to Jingle Poetry Monday Potluck as an offering to raw emotions. This poem is raw emotion…throw poetic skill, style, form out the window…I remember suffering so much at age 15. No idea what to do with the emotions that I felt…This poem ripped out of me, and violently tumbled to paper one night when I was in high school. I found it last week…Emotional. It fits. I feel the need to reach out and protect, caress or hug this 15-year-old girl…but the warnings are clear…she needs the space to feel, and bringing this poem out today is my offering to that part of myself. I am offering to be her witness and nothing more.
Check out the emotional state of Jingle Poetry Potluck here!
Like this:
T is for Tower
T is for Tower
Image found here.
poem inspiration found here.
This poem is linked to Jingle Poetry Potluck
and Z to A in 26 Days…T is for
The Dark Tower
Is there any way to go forward…
when you turn back,
trying with scratching, hooked nails
to live saturated in the same
redundant realm.
You climb that dark tower
on the wheel that spins endlessly;
erasing the truth as
you crack the same door
only to once again find
your dead expectations.
Like this:
We Dream On
Halloween at Jingle Poetry: It's Wicked Cool!
We talk about dreams
Is that your nightmare or mine?
I’m sure that one’s mine.
There are rotting walls
in a secret room, hidden,
this is my psyche
We talk about dreams
Is that your nightmare or mine?
the cracked walls crumble.
There are feral cats
that bleed beneath the spiders
that hang far too low.
We talk about dreams
being the same as nightmares
between thinning walls
We dream on.
Like this:
Songwriter
I can’t write a song, she says
I’m just a writer; nothing more, nothing less
placing my pen to paper blindly.
You can write a song, he whispers kindly.
She begins with one eye shut
and scrawls words she has thought
in the present and in the past.
As she writes, she writes fast.
Her blurred vision twists the tone.
Each word seems to stand alone
tall and round; making no sense
at that moment she feels tense.
I can’t write a song, she says.
Not now. Not ever. Not yesterday
for music is boundless
and words just leave me speechless.
Like this:
Heroine’s Journey*
*based on one of my dreams
Stomach scrapes stone.
Jagged earth against my flesh
I feel the cave crawl around me
wrapping me in a cold embrace.
There are women within
this cavernous womb.
Singing in a low-frequency
they call to one another.
Ivory hands gently hold my head
as a steel sphere surrounds.
Darkness unleashes unseen secrets
Scratching, picking, eating my flesh.
Light severs as flashing blades
slice my body in to two.
Awake, naked and whole;
I emerge from crystalline waters
dripping with secret shadows
offerings to the people
who will wait for me.
Like this:
Lovely Visitors
