your parenting made me avoid begetting a child
so fierce unforgiving wicked stern easy to anger
belittling scolding "don't speak did i ask you to
your gifts childish poorly constructed garbage
why would you do this god you wretched rag
to be thrown in the fire weeping gnashing teeth
i'll beat god into you yet spare the fucking rod
on your bare bottom get the belt hit him again
i didn't ask to be a mother why are you so needy
get away from me begging to suck my dry nipple
heal yourself go out and play until called to sleep"
I hear your voice still haunting daytime convictions
the specter of your genes tainting my thin blood
made me know I could never do to any poor child
what was done to me by you in the name of love
dead rose petals strewn clog
the hard arteries of my heart
your requested favorite
expensive frail fleeting
a dozen for a benjamin
thornless stems hand plucked
least you bled while arranging
them in that crystal vase kept
above the fridge for especially
expecting my deposit ransom
for an exchange kiss hug fuck
too soon dead rotting scummy
stinking water dried dead petals
shriveled crimson mouse ears
brief transitory cursory fading
your fragrance suffocates me
Left for dead without you
I used to think my love for you was like a flower;
constantly growing,
being fed by your light shining on me,
the roots going deeper and deeper
until you're rooted in my soul-
stuck there inside of me forever.
Turns out,
my love for you is more like a weed.
It's not beautiful anymore;
sometimes it seems like it is,
but then it turns grey again,
and when I pick it,
try to get rid of it,
it keeps returning.
My love for you never goes away;
the roots are too deep to ever leave me
without taking too much of my soil,
and leaving me for dead.
Ghostly Flower
Amidst the murky swamp, where danger lurks
There blooms a flower, a ghostly perk
A rare treasure, so beautiful and rare
A Ghost orchid, with an ethereal flair
Its petals, a ghostly white
Glowing in the darkness of the night
Majestic and otherworldly, it sways in the breeze
Entrancing all those who dare to appease
It's said to be haunted, by a spirit so old
Once a human, now a flower to behold
A tragic story, a love gone awry
But in its beauty, her spirit will never die
She dances among the trees, in a ghostly ballet
Her presence felt, in a haunting way
Her love for the orchid, forever bound
Her essence lingers, with every petal found
But as the moon rises high in the sky
A plot twist, catches every eye
For the Ghost orchid, is not just a flower
It's a guardian, of a mystical power
As spirits of the swamp, try to cause harm
The Ghost orchid, raises its magical arm
With a burst of light, and a whispering spell
It banishes the darkness, and all is well
So let us not fear, this ghostly sight
For the Ghost orchid, is a protector of the night
A symbol of love, and a symbol of might
A flower so divine, in its ghostly light.
Making Bread is Poetry (inspired by SaraF’s A recipe for me)
Making bread is easy, some say.
Add water to flour and don't forget the yeast,
unless pita bread is what you eat,
stir, knead and let rise before you bake.
That's all it takes!
Some say the same about poetry.
Put a word here, a metaphor there,
add a rhyming couplet,
and you're home free!
Poets would certainly disagree.
Like poetry, making bread is artistry.
Make sour dough bread
and you will see
that it takes time like poetry,
to get there mouth-watery.
Preparing a starter with wild yeast
is definitely the way to go,
for aroma, texture and flavour,
I'm sure you know.
After a week of fermenting and refreshing,
the starter is ready to make dough.
Knead it gently and lovingly,
for good gluten elasticity.
Leavening, shaping and proofing
affect its structure and texture,
and every loaf's personality:
Round, oblong, puffy or bubbly.
When that golden-brown poem,
has become a crusty reality,
the result is sumptuous music,
a divine delicacy!
Smell its fresh-baked aroma,
feel its crustiness and suppleness,
taste its spirit and soul!
Like manna from heaven,
inspiring and sustaining
after a soulless day.
The Christmas He Came Home.
Nine years old, lost on a mountain.
All alone.
Thought to be dead.
They searched and searched, never to be found.
Through the snow and rain and snow and snow.
Helicopters and dogs.
Grief fills the air.
His poor little brother is sitting with Grandma, waiting. Poor little brother,
only four years old.
Never to be found.
They thought he was dead.
Several years later,
a knock on the door
A mother reunited.
A little brother's story with a new ending.
Only a story.
Hope turned into reality.
A wish comes true.
A prayer. Finally answered.
A gift is given.
Medusa
me and my body
do not get along.
we squabble
like snakes biting
at the scalp they emerge from.
when i was nine,
the boys on the bus called me
medusa,
because i was
"the ugliest creature
in the world."
i used to wish
they were right
so i could look them in the eyes
and turn them to stone.
when i was sixteen
i learned
medusa's story all over again,
a survivor, rebelling against
the men who tried to control her
and the women who tried to blame her.
and i found solace
in knowing
that i could survive, too,
even if it twisted me
into a monster.
like medusa,
me and the mirror
are enemies,
its surface threatening
to freeze me in place.
it is wielded like a weapon
waiting for the right moment
to sever my head,
my brain leaving my body
and taking refuge somewhere far away.
i have been told
i am ugly
i have been told
i am broken
i have been told
who i am supposed to be:
a monster,
deformed, misshapen.
but it is up to me
to decide
how i use their words.
i can treat it like a mortal wound,
nurse my grievances
in the darkness of isolation.
or i can turn it around
and fight back,
turning their expectations
to stone
so they can't hurt me anymore.
Get lost
You speak of being offended by toxic positivity as you sit there in your Carhartt beanie choking down a chai latte.
As if you knew the impact of a “you should smile more.” Or “it can’t be that bad, cheer up!”
when you’ve just had your lip split open by a baseball bat. You never had blood gushing from your brow on the wet pavement or the world reject you. You have never known the courage it takes to stand up and start again with nothing but your integrity.
The worst thing that has ever happened to you was not getting exactly what you wanted from a phone call to mommy.
So yeah, fuck you and your entire facade. Trying to coin sympathy from a phrase that you could never possibly understand.