Poem of the Week: 1

the man sits on the wheelchair

like only he knows it is really a throne


it screams from the back

two bronze doe eyed girls sit

cackling like cockatoos/giggling

they cater to him

they speak of flavored coffees

and twirling straws

twirling their hair impulsively

and the complexities of summer

and frivolous things

they laugh easy and complete

but he doesnt laugh at all

he sits stony and quiet

though i think he must be happy

perhaps i am just happy for him

having a bit of insight into myself

perhaps he is their father

perhaps he is just an old poet

a thief of contradictions

some others some

where considered forgotten

or not

Bad Days for Brain Tumors – Not Even

Because it is one of her bad days
my mother tears her bedroom apart in search
of her fork,
She tells me
She just wants to brush her hair
into the same thick, silver
ponytail that I played with
When I was little in her arms

That damn fork has disappeared again
And because it’s one of her bad days
I don’t correct her
I smile wanting to avoid her sadness
Her defensive disgust with herself

Over a word
A word…

So I walk into the bathroom where
in the drawer
right-side of the sink, my hairbrush sits
I wear my smile when I offer it to her
Promise I’ll help her find her own
when errands are done

I know because it’s one of her bad days that
while I drive us to the store
and she tells me a story about her
trip to New York
That I don’t need to remind her
How she’s told me this story exactly the same way,
six times since Tuesday
Or that it is Thursday
And will still be Thursday when she repeats events
for the seventh time
As if it were the first

Or that when she moves on
at last to another replay
Of a different memory
I can’t stop or help my wonder:
Questions about which parts actually happened
Or who was there,
What of their real names
If there are real any


within tales

If truth is based on objective facts
then why is my mother the most honest person I know?
Why is her truth based on what she knows is true?
Why do we go look at the sky and say
it’s blue
Why did he once claim to love me and then one day
tell me
It wasn’t real?

Neither of us hold love
Like mothers do

The broken heart wears the exception
of all evidence to support the truth

Did you know?

Because it is one of my better days
When my mother calls me
by her sister’s name
I won’t correct her
I’ll hear myself reason against
the future
Try with everything I am
not to dwell too long
upon a time when she will forget
I am her daughter
Try to erase the definition of soon
For now, and for today
It’s only a word

A word…

I tell my dear silence that should I
suddenly become the fork
I will mention it gently
And perhaps many years later
laugh at that time when for a little while
We ate our steak with a hair brush
and a dull knife

and P.S.

Words were less than king



Heavy is the Light-Weight

Our confession heats like
Six shots of tequila rising
Over the

How small does break free become
When compared
With these limbs

What’s better than those sapid
Fire breathes or
That ignite
Even the birds

Up for loves sake
Insist the sky harder than
fuck this
Than meteor showers on the back

The universe failed to return
Your body
Frozen in that space
Where they say the past

Into galactic spin
And If I dare it
If I knew strong enough
Free would look like small

Particles of whatever fog
Yesterday bates
That it cover me for one solitary
Moment of
Those fingers

Makes the cut
Seem meaningless or to
Trace the perimeter
Of this quake of
Something real

Stiff and endured like
Those nights in the alley
With your hands
Sweating the bar

Like reality thumbs the kitchen knives
As if she could
You burn that deep
Without me
More abandoned than a scar

NET ©2014

The above poem was inspired by a monthly poetry prompt event called, Sidecar, hosted by Painted Bride Quarterly. While this poem didn’t quite make the deadline in-time, it was a fun prompt for August thanks to PBQ. You can participate as well by following Painted Bride Quarterly on facebook or find out more ways to contribute as well as see the words for the next Sidecar event by visiting the website. Painted Bride Quarterly is a favorite of ours, which is why you can also find the link in our resources page: literary magazines – we love. Be sure to take a minute to read and enjoy the great selection of poetry PBQ publishes should you stop by…


Anyone Have a Life Vest??

Just a note of thanks to our readers / followers… Since we are deep at sea right now – that is, nicely floating or sinking like the Titanic in the drift of writers block, we just want to say thank you for staying on, visiting, and continuing to write (always a reader first) which is enjoyable no matter how well our ink is flowing. We may continue to post drafts we’re working on such as the one posted just today, but will delight in continuing to work it all out in this space so we do not totally dry up and cease posts completely. We will also keep updating the poem of the week and may start to re-blog other great poems we find around, if the author allows, because at least some of you are still bleeding-your-hearts-out and making us happy to visit and read your work – cheers to you – Keep it up and maybe if the current peaks enough the tide may just eventually pull us ashore. Fingers and toes and eyes crossed twice.