the Stone

The stone on the shore
knows that the tides rise.
Welcome, raging waves.

the Tear

I am a little fissure
at the tip of the tear.
And I
        I am happy there.
Lots of people come
to push at the end -
to make it wider
to make it disappear
some for the bad
some for the better
-but they all come
to the same end
        the end
              that's still there
I've lived at the edge
of the tear all my life.
None can move it.
It will move
without our hands to push.
The tear is its own
as I am my own.
We won't move till we're ready
perhaps never
but you can push
if that's what you want
go ahead push
attack the waves
we'll still be here.

Whenever I kiss her, I always hear

Hey girl,

kiss her again.

At night when the cups

are being passed around to tongues

already wet, we are called to perform

like monkeys bashing symbols.

I had my first

kiss at summer camp

not in a giggle gang game

of truth or dare, dare you to zip

up and shut up and stuff your

dick sick where the sun don’t shine

It was her black hair wreathed

by gentle glimmering green hands

Reaching low to brush her blushed

cheeks of gold. I moved to her

and she to still and I tasted the wind.

I will kiss her

I will taste a new wind and the green

hands from above will applaud

and I - 
I will not hear you.

XOXO Darcy

XOXO Darcy

Hey, Lilly, it’s me,

your old friend, Darcy,

who hung herself from the crab

apple tree at dusk last August. Sorry
you took it so hard, I wasn’t really

thinking of you when I climbed

that tree, crab apples breaking

under my grasp, painting

my hands in fresh juice. Pink

hand prints all along the branch I choose

as the last thing I would ever touch. Hey,

so the dreams are true,

there is something after death.

It’s not really life or heaven,

but the complete understanding

that we are star dust. I became

one with the dark matter, I fly

by on shooting stars, I do rings

around Venus and loop-de-loop

on Mars, I visited the horsehead

nebula, and toured the gamma quadrant.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you:

you can stop putting flowers on my grave,

I have four hundred billion stellar ones

that never wilt.

XOXO

Darcy

Lara's Song

Lara’s Song

We met in-between the lines of a craigslist rooms/shared add:

“Female seeks female roommate for summer sublet. No thugs, no drugs.”

Upon meeting her, she looked me up and down,

convinced I was no thug,she asked me if I did any drugs. I told her I’ve smoked

a lot of marijuana. She laughed and said, that’s no drug, that’s a way of life. She laughed

and drank cherry kool-aid spiked with vodka on a Wednesday morning.

She had a cat named See-Saw, who was never completely awake,

his head always tilting from side to side and walking in diagonals across the floor,

little paws criss-crossing over each other to head butt the wall by the furnance.

She liked to sing to him on Sunday nights when the church bells rang for evening mass

and his head would move along with her tune, drifting in harmony.

Her most sung song was “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”

and her name was Lara B. Sanders.

During that two months we lived together, I never saw any sadness

that weighed on her mind. Sure, we were not that close, we co-

existed in our shared space, waiting for the leaves to change and take us home.

But, when she danced to the Queer as Folk theme song

or dusted her giant fake pink hydrangea flowers that she always kept on the kitchen counter

I never would have guessed that on July 23, 2012, I would find her

hanging from the exposed pipe in her bedroom,

swinging side to side like See-Saw’s head,

mouth open wide to belt out the chorus of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,”

lips as read as vodka spiked kool-aid,

dark brown eyes looking right above me

as if she was seeing something new, something beautiful, something I could never see.

Her name was Lara B. Sanders.

I was the one who found her, the one who screamed when I could breath again, the one

who untied the extension cord from the ceiling, the one who held

her body and touched the red, purple lines on her neck, the one who called 911

panicked and crying, shaking and stumbling across the words I had to spit

from my mouth to make them clear. The one who ran to the door and back to the room and back

to the door, waiting for the ambulance to come and I was the one would let them into the house that was not mine and I was the one the EMT touched lightly on the shoulder and told me

it was too late and I was the one who heard the medic pronounce her dead and

I was the one who was gently pulled aside when they passed with the body bag and I

was the one who sat on the porch stairs as ambulance pulled away with the body

that had once been Lara. I was the one who sat there and tried to remember

what it was to breath without gasping. I was the one who stood up, shaking like a sapling

in the breese, who pulled the door open with shaking hands, sat on the couch that was not mine

and held the cat that was not mine and sitting there,

knowing nothing of the Sanders or how to contact them, I was the one

who sat in the room alone, slowly head tilting from side to side,

waiting for a song that would never be sung.

To Walk in Sleep

To Walk in Sleep

I want to swim through the ocean of your mind,

wade though the musings and fancies

to find the file marked with my name.

I want to open it and ruffle

through its pages, to feel its weight in my hands, but never

read, never to completely understand,

but only feel the weight of what I am to you.

For, if we were to take a roadtrip into the valley of my mind

every exit would be marked with you.

For ever since the first day I met you,

your file overflowed and settled homesteads over every inch of my conscious memory.

For, I now use you to mark time.

Hours and minutes have faded back to convention

and all I see is you. You are the sun

that lights my daytime and your absence

is the night that keeps me slumbering

until we meet again. I will walk

through the kingdom of my consciousness and visit landmarks you gave to me

and rest in their shadows until your presence warms my face

to wake me from sleepwalking.

Worlds Will Collide

Worlds will collide
Will collide
And who will be left
to see the rubble
And who will be left
to hold you while you cry
over those who are not
Or will there be
no one left
at all

Cones around the manhole

A reaction poem.


Cones around the manhole


I saw a square of orange cones today
Yellow caution circling around
a manhole cover.
You know what I thought of?
The teenage mutant ninja turtles.
Futurama and the mutants in the sewers.
The Dark Knight Rises and Bane's underground.
As I passed the display I had to look back
and wonder
what they were keeping
down there
trapped.

Don't Ask Me

Don't ask me to tell you the truth
because all I can feel are the lies.
Pretty fiction jumping off the page
through a mouth swallowing
the juicy syllables.
Don't ask me to look you in the eye
because my gaze is glued
to the ground.
Deep brown eyes meet the dirt
and get buried while
weeping.
Don't ask me to open up
because my soul has been trapped
behind a big, silver door
and someone forgot
the key.
Forgive me, believe me,
but please,
don't
don't ask me.

A Joust With Death

I'm taking an Environmental Geology class this semester and of course we begin by talking about all the terrible natural disasters and human-caused decay. It was rather depressing and brought this little musing on. 

A Joust With Death

I’ve had my head split

by an earthquake. Walls

tumble down freely when

the earth calls the minerals

home. What are men

when the earth moves?

I’ve had my lungs swallowed up

by floods and typhoons.

I’ve drowned beneath

the darken sea when the moon

rises high and pulls

the ocean’s hearts strings

to its wake. That last intake of water

choked my core and snuffed

me out. Had my mind escape

me and lose myself all together

while my body remained and took

vegetation. And I’ve had my back

broken in an avalanche.

Crushing stones on broken

bones. Lost my head

in trail by swift justice. Silver blades

shine so brightly when hurtling

to exposed body parts.

I had my belly swell, while ribs

revealed and skin hung. Felt the saving

cold sleep as I melted into

the snow. Took the last walk

myself once with a barrel

to the lips, again with a pretty

little blade and dainty wrists. Death

is a quick and ready thing. Always

coming back to reek

a reward. Is there any greater

opponent than one

that can never be

vanquished?

Introvert

I am accepting my true introvert and also accepting that I may be living alone for a year, which I have never done before. This poem, I hope reminds me I do not always need company to be happy.

Introvert


I find my home
deep within the pages
of a well kept book.
Each word is a
conversation
with a long lost friend.

There is no better
place in the world than
on my lumpy couch
with my lumpy cat
upon my lap.
We mutually enjoy
the quiet.

I can watch TV
alone in a little house
with a modest dinner
I cooked for myself
and laugh or cry
without needing anyone
to hear.

Therefore, there is no cause
to worry or fret
for me. I live
alone in peace
and will seek out
company
when I so wish.

False Fairies

This is a dark poem about the reality vs. the fairy tales. I've been reading the Game of Thrones saga and it inspired this poem.

False Fairies


Fairy tales

were meant to warn.

We’ve forgotten

where the true dark

lies.

The princess is in the tower

in the tower,

hiding away.

The prince is a monster

in disguise.

Beneath his jewels

is a hunger

a dark hunger

that must be fulfilled.

The princess is in the tower

in the tower

hiding away.

She built that tower

high and mighty

trying to escape,

but there can be none.

The prince is coming,

is coming

to feast.

The hero of the story

will have his rewards.

And they will sing his name

through the history books

while the princess’ smile

on the page

fades.

The princess is in the tower

in the tower,

hiding away.

The witch is

just mothering magic

trying to save

the maiden

from the raid.

The prince is coming,

is coming

to feast.

The dragon is her

last hope,

but her fire

is slain.

The princess is cowering

in the tower,

hiding away.

We all know nothing

can stop the prince.

We have read the tales

we know the story.

We know he wins.

The princess in is the tower

weeping

cowering

as the prince

takes his

reward.

Little Girls

I have always been defined as a little girl. Even as I age people still look down at me. This is a poem about the dangers and expectations for little girls.

Little Girls


Little girls should stay at home
There’s danger on the street
Man move to walk beside them
Protect them from shadowy figures
with dark thoughts haunting
their wandering hands

Little girls should work
behind high, impressive desks
The real fighting’s for the men
who can shoulder hard words
While pretty hands can type busywork
and keep their smiles clean

Little girls should stay at home
and tend to little ones new
telling soft stories of simple pleasures
and avoiding all trouble
For trouble can grow terror
that will come for you in the night

Little girls with eyes like yours
must always keep your face down low
You wouldn’t want to catch the eye
of some strange passerby
The grasping of a hungry soul
Little bones so easily crushed

Little girls like you
are backed up in a corner
Too weak to move about
Too pitiful to speak
Little girls like you
have no way out

Coming Soon

This is a poem from the point of view of my father the night before I was born.

Coming Soon


Patti lies upstairs on our bed,
a moat of pillows surrounding the castle
that is her growing belly.
The cats sit on either side, as knights
guarding the hidden treasure
that lies beneath the walls of flesh.
She thinks it’s coming soon.
She’s been more irritable than usual.
More irritable.
She lashes out like the waves
on the lake in a tremendous storm,
while I stand by, the immovable shore,
helplessly soaked.

Little Catey is excited.
I wonder how she understands it.
What she sees when she looks
at her mommy’s wide belly.
She puts her little hands on either side
and lays her head gently against her mother,
closing her eyes,
she breaths.
Can she see it? Does she know?

It will come soon.
Daniel. Carolyn.
Danny. Carrie.
I’d be happy with either.
Either, or. A little boy or girl.
A sister for Catey to play with
or a little boy who I could teach to play
golf with me and carry on my name.

I’m nervous.
I’m not afraid to admit it.
I remember when Little Catey
was on her way.
When we entered the car my hands
shook with such force
that Patti almost demanded to drive.

I’m happy.
I look into Little Catey’s room
and see the little crib and imagin
it full again
with laughter and new smiles.
Little Catey waits at its sides
waiting for her new sibling to appear.
Another child.
Two cats. Two children.
Seems right.

Patti wants another little girl.
She always gets what she wants.
She holds reality in the palm of her hand
much as she holds the baby
in her womb. I suppose
this time will be no different.
A little girl.

Waves Upon My Head

As women, hair defines us. It is our beauty and our blanket. It hides us from the world or it can make us stand out. This is a poem about my journey with mine.

Waves Upon My Head


When I was young my mother
didn’t know how to tame my wild curls.
She would brush and brush,
while my hair would frizz and frizz
and I grit my teeth and dug
my nails into the wooden chair.
The marks are still there
if you would look for them.

And when I grew a little bit older my hair
grew too. And it fell near my waist
with rippling waves that my mother’s
colleagues called “Princess hair.”
My mother would stroke them as the light
danced and turned my brown locks to gold.

And when I was at the height
of my silly adolescence,
I cut it.
And my mother cried
as they carried my ponytail away.
I thought it would be invigorating, but
when I looked in the mirror I felt
my beauty had gone.
So I never let a sissorces near my hanging treasures
till two years would pass.
I measured them every day,
waiting for them to lengthen and grow
the smile back on my mother’s face.

And now, my hair falls somewhere
in-between, not knowing which way
to grow as I step out into the world
half held back by my mother's grasping hand.
As I pull away and her arm stretches,
fingers holding tight, I wonder if
I even know how to stand.