Tuesday, February 7, 2012

A Few New Poems...

Royal Ladies at Tea

And I remember
tea parties with my mother,
sitting together,
legs crossed,
nibbling on our shortbread biscuits
and talking of lighter things.
I felt like royalty then;
a fair, red-topped princess,
Elizabeth in repose,
with my queen of a mother
like a gentle statue at my side
always reading, always being read.

Here we sat --
one lost in words, in loneliness,
in a constant stutter of marital doubt;
one lost in life, just lost
in a fervent search for the luck
of a private clover.
A tenderness was shared between us then
as mother and daughter.
But when the daughter was grown,
once 'woman' was applied to her title,
a common ground was absent
and precious memories
of royal ladies at tea
became petty and awkward.

~
Today we search for comfort in others
that should be found in one another.
A kind, healthy peace is unlikely
but still we struggle, struggle, and struggle for it
all the same.

February 6, 2012

- This next one is stupid, but still pretty funny...well, at least I thought so.

Friend in the Head

I have a little friend in the head.
He isn't alive but he certainly isn't dead.
He entertains me day and night
and comforts me when I'm a fright.

He's made of righteous DNA
and somewhat feminine; a little gay.
The fun we have is almost too much
and hand in hand comes trouble and such;
for every time we get called out,
and every time they scream and shout,
I always come out losing in the end
because I can't blame anything on my imaginary friend!

The ruckus he causes; the pain inflicted
is absolutely nothing to be predicted.
And just when you think you have control,
he turns you crazy like rock and roll.

He likes my habits; my bad ones at most,
and has a fetish for green eggs, ham, and toast.
I made him up completely but to me he is no lie;
he gives me what I always need and more than enough to get by.
He never leaves me, never cheats,
never mocks at what I eat.
Never leaves me hanging in the wind.
Never keeps me down and pinned.

The greatest addiction. The perfect drug.
What I dig he's already dug.
And together we be sinful, see.
My silly friend in the head and me.

January 24, 2012

- And this one is pretty much my life right now.


Stuck

I lie awake in a moan,
a fickle sigh;
the prisoner of the undead coffin.
A mask of fear
of the optimism of change.
The protagonist now the antagonist
and nothing more;
an empty blip in the sky,
an unwanted crayon in the variety box.
Pea green.

Lairs of animosity toward the self
breed like wild fires
in the depths of my mind.
They give me guilt,
sell me anger,
barter my strength for barren courage.
It develops in the mind
but feeds on the physical,
forcing its retreat into aging
and weakness
and foolishness.

A sad, morose, detestable prison,
inescapable yet inevitable
if one gets lost within the echoes of a pitiful moan
or swallowed by the cocoon
of an unaltered existence;
a stagnant evolution.

January 23, 2012

- More to come...I've been writing like crazy lately so I might as well share it, right?

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

First New Poem of 2012

The Curse: A Lovely Fairytale

When I was hatched
from the depths of mother's womb,
I was but a weak babe,
a light, little thing,
wrinkled and fair but quite silent.
I was born of many fathers, no doubt.
But my mother, with reasons unknown,
fled from that earthen sperm,
the one that filled my eyes
with an amber brown
likely similar to his own.

I was a helpless child
with bones not yet strong,
with a wit not yet formed,
with a beauty not yet desired.
My mother kept me latched to her breast
with a weight of fear
making her step heavy.
It must have been fear, yes?
Why else run from your husband
with his red-faced seed
tucked tightly under your wing?

With eight and twenty years on my hands,
I now know that my welcome to this world
was nothing more than a curse;
a foul disease; a dark witch's poison
that slowly erodes my mother,
lining her face,
plaguing her mind,
and removing all of her senses.

And what of that father I once had?
That glorious knight
from whom I prayed for a rescue
every night and every day
throughout my mother's unintended imprisonment?
Does he still survive?
Does he still house a beating heart
behind his armored chest,
and if so, does a snippet of that heart
beat for me?
Such answers remain hidden from me.
The wonder eats me away
as maggots to a dead carcass.
I fear time will never reveal this mystery
but instead will bury it further
until it becomes nothing more than myth.
Only then will I be forced to conclude
that I indeed was never born to a father.
I must accept my bastard status...
either that or my 'pure' mother
is the 'Virgin' Mother reincarnate
and thus I am the savior
come to forgive all sin.

A lovely fairytale, yes,
but even I couldn't fall for that nonsense again.

January 2, 2012

Monday, December 12, 2011

The Fury of Sin

The Fury of Sin

I have seen, in the mist of reflection,
the depth of unknown possibilities.
The earth toned orbs with which I view the world
reveal a swift, patient beauty
that fears the detachment of memory and regret.
Such a sin breathes a sullied life
into this stretched and torn body;
a sin that defiles and wounds,
pushing forward pain
and allowing it to foam and cascade
out through these glossy marbles
as a waterfall over a mossy cliff.

An unkind word once bruised me,
forcing me into a deafening submission.
A wicked strike once raped me,
shaming my good name
and killing the hope that once flourished within;
a bold, full flower now wilted and corrupt.
With such sad anguish,
life has become a mere stain,
a blot of existence moving
neither forward nor back.
Time continues to erode the physical
but the mind remains untouched,
unfiltered by youthful experience
and the mercy of forgiveness.
This limbo claims my withered spirit
and makes me prisoner
in her damp cell of uncertainty.
To be a soldier and escape internal war
would make a ravished soul
worthy of redemption.
But with no weapons to fight
and no armor to soften the blow,
how can these eyes survive
the fury of sin?

December 11, 2011

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Sylvia

I've written a poem about one of my greatest inspirations: Sylvia Plath. She was such an amazing poet and strong, troubled woman. Sometimes I think we suffer from the same inner demons and insecurities. I know I may never be as good of a poet as she was but I will still continue to try to express my feelings through pen and paper. Maybe one day I will inspire someone as much as she's inspired me. Here's to you, Sylvia.

Sylvia

Sylvia, you were there
right in the thick of life,
straining for an answer
and begging for a reason
as to the cruelty inflicted
by inhaling hope and
exhaling constant pain.
The talent was evident,
hidden deep below regret
of a career wasted; a dream covered
by the excrement of deceit.

With ample passion and a voice thick with truth,
you were destined for greatness, Sylvia.
The pride is clear in the cherub faces
of your orphaned children.
You hid your fearful secrets
underneath that yew tree,
carefully planting a massive seed
of doubt into the roots,
allowing the poison to seep through your psyche
and foul your waking dreams.
The risk of sanity blew against you once
but you knew better than to succumb.
That foreseeable, colorless road
would have enslaved you
and drowned you sooner than before.

I envy your descent, Sylvia.
You, a pioneer for bravery,
have made us all unworthy -
sad miscreants full of emptiness,
afraid to push down the blade
and sever the weakness coursing
through the traffic jam of veins
that keep the soul afloat.
The fear, hurt, and betrayal
are what defile and rape us
leaving nothing behind but
the stench of undue decay.

But Sylvia, you have inspired me.
Your power over the pen
and command of the poetic voice
have enraptured me,
seized my heart,
and fulfilled a manic need in me -
a need to express that same affliction
that haunted you for so long.
And perhaps my defeat
will be similarly death with
when it hollows out my essence
and leaves me reeking of exhaust,
molding with the leftover crumbs
littered on the kitchen floor.

December 1, 2011

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

The Disease of Memory; Cripple

I haven't written in over 6th months - scratch that. I haven't BLOGGED in over 6th months. I haven't really written anything GOOD in the past, well, year...but I did just recently write this and thought I would share. The message is basically that I'm getting old...and I can feel it. And now as I try to get my act together, I simply can't get this harrowing thought from my mind: What exactly happened to my life?


The Disease of Memory

The winds of change are upon me,
thrusting me forward
against a stiff, unforgiving will.
My bones are hollow
with age and useless knowledge;
they crack and whither
as I struggle with a predictable future
that haunts my waking dreams
and abuses my fear of failure.
This calamity of aging has fouled me.
It's unkind without patience
and violates me,
the rape of a fatigued life.
And I am helpless
as I fight for the past,
for an unmolested childhood,
for freedom from vivid, ruthless pain.
My epic journey is halted
as I allow the plague of boredom
to overcome my cantankerous soul
and cloud me with powerless grief
and a plethora of guilt from a life wasted
on the disease of memory.

- November 25, 2011


I also wrote this next one recently and I kinda like it. The repetition is pretty interesting. I kinda like it...and that's pretty rare of me to say!


Cripple

Today I saw a cripple
with a cripple walk,
dragging his crippled feet
and I thought a crippling thought:
I would like to be that cripple,
that cripple right there,
as he receives his cripple checks
from the crippling government.
I suppose I already am that cripple
with my crippled disposition
and the crippling obsession
with my crippled death.
I guess I share his cripple name,
drowning in the glow of crippling glances
from those crippling non-cripples
as they use their cripple polite voices
while passing me in the street,
me and my crippleness.
Some are anti-cripple; they deny
my presence with opposed looks.
No waves. No assistance.
Not even a crippled glance.
They must be the hidden cripples
with their crippling jobs,
over abundance of crippling children,
crippled spouses with crippling lies,
forcing each other into a crippling divorce.
The love, it cripples right before them
until their crippled hearts lose movement,
spirit, and that last bit of crippled hope.
And when the crippling overcomes them
and seeps into the slowly crippling mind,
I'll make sure to deny their crippled eyes
as they search for uncrippled guidance
in this crippled world where they once ignored
the crippling smile of their crippled savior.

- November 8, 2011

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

A Poem for My Favorite Person

Exactly 6 months ago, an extremely wonderful man asked me to marry him by hiding a ring in the second Harry Potter book on the night of the midnight premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1. I opened it the book and as a beautiful diamond ring fell out onto my lap, I immediately yelled, "YES!", before he could even ask me the question that I had been waiting 3 and a half years to hear. I have lived/survived through many very difficult events throughout my life and long ago I came to the naive conclusion that I was doomed to be the unluckiest woman for the rest of my pitiful, depressing life. But when I met Jay Brandon Budzon, my life changed drastically, and I finally started feeling as though I actually had a purpose and that I might be blessed with happiness and endless love.

I am most definitely blessed.

Brandon is the greatest, most amazing and wonderful thing to happen to me. I am so happy that I get to spend my life with the kindest, smartest, goofiest, most handsome 'geek' who still makes me blush when I see him in his Geek Squad uniform. Not only is he a passionate lover but he's also my very best friend.

I have written a poem fully dedicated to my future husband who treats me like a queen. I love him more than anything and can't wait to grow old in his arms.

I love you, Brandon!!

Benevolent Brandon

Singing softly
of your tender heart
entices envy
in the sweetest of birds.
They look to me
with eyes of jealousy
for your endless love
breathes furiously
through every delicate note
as I praise you
and all that becomes you.
You carry kindness
with full, gentle hands,
each finger grasping my soul
and enveloping it with safety.
Passionate eyes
adorning your porcelain face
swim through mine
and penetrate my secrets,
freeing me from guilt,
from pitiful pain,
from the echoed voices
of past deceptions
and vicious criminals
who raped me of my innocence
and the ability to trust.
Your plump, merciful lips
feed me all the nourishment necessary
to believe in effortless generosity.
They give me reassurance
and confidence in the magic
that radiates between us.
I am forever bound
to you and the affection
that continues to grow
and build us together
as two lives entwine
into one sacred voyage
that fuels our passion
and makes eternity seem
far too short.

May 18, 2011

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Even A Beautiful Day Can't Suffice

Stepping into this Hallmark day,
my senses are invaded
by the natural blood of nature.
Sounds are overwhelming,
birds unseen spouting sonnets
to the brilliant, rising sun;
the fluttering of leaves
being gently tossed by the wind
as a smooth current of the sea
sways a sailboat;
the vibrant greens reaching desperately
for their neighbors in adjacent trees;
simple cries of faraway children
enveloped in outside play.
My nose makes a familiar twitch
as a furious inhale invites
the fresh flavor of morning dew
infused with soft lilies.
The bark of the mountainous oaks
breathes of strength and unavoidable power;
light brown dirt beneath my feet
sifting up my nostrils,
reeking of peppered earth
and the pungent scent of fresh-cut grass.
The quiet breeze kindles my back
and demands the obedience of my hair
which wisps and floats to its will.
My gooseflesh is called to the surface
as the wind attaches itself to a swift gust,
pilfering my warmth only briefly
before moving on to another heated soul.

The morning is kind and welcoming,
but my poor mood is not improved
as my mind remains poisoned
by a weighty depression too heavy
for my meek, debilitated shoulders.
This murderous disease consumes me
and extracts any thought of happiness
from my worried, exhausted conscience.
I pity every nerve belonging
to my lame, feeble leg.
My broken back, unable to carry
any weight cruel enough to cripple me,
begs to overcome every thought and each feeling
perpetrated by my careful heart.

My entire being wishes to become the fruitful day
and desist shying from her rays,
locking myself underground
in a dark, ominous oblivion.
The birds call to me,
yet their cries I cannot hear.
Leaves reach to me with green fingers
made tan by the summer sun's golden sauce.
But they are incapable of touching
my milky, translucent skin,
dulled by the smoke of darkness.
And the wind begs to play,
twisting the red curls of my hair
with his invisible fingers,
inviting himself to surround me completely.
Yet my nerves are jaded
by the slight potency of man-made remedies,
and I shy away from his coquetry
with sullen eyes and a stale hide.

I seal myself into a black prison
with little light and even less joy.
I am trapped by that invisible warden
who plagues my mind, denies me sleep,
steals away all comfort,
and withholds the satisfying taste of food.
How to overcome such a poison,
such a determined disease?
My mind offers no solution
while my will is completely fatigued,
beaten, broken by wicked sadness.
I struggle with the desire to live,
knowing death would be a swift ending
to my fatal misery.
But I could never again
be able to hear those hidden birds
whispering kind nothings
to all the world; never again
would I watch the leaves wrestle
with each other, their armies
great in number; never again
could I tempt the wind to tease me
with invisible gusts that crash
against my faint skin and lush hair.
And the earth once beneath my feet
will never again feel as light
when I'm entombed below
its heavy, smothering weight.
All things would be lost
in the final scene of death.
And yet I still keep the idea fresh,
available in my ill mind.

My patience is tested
as this illness festers boldly.
And the question begs once again
to be answered quickly and thoroughly:
how to overcome such sickness?
Will it eat my brain
like ants to a plump apple core?
And how shall I die?
Alone?
Still hungry for knowledge and life?
With the devil's hair wrapped tightly
around my neck as my limp body dangles
from lost life and a farewell note
crumpled up on the floor?
Perhaps these questions have no answers,
only possibilities that haunt thoughts
and foul dreams.

This foggy cell becomes home
and my soul becomes polluted
by the haze and stench
of my rotting psyche.
I'm not alive but my heart beats,
a pulse that allows the sadness to spread.
My death would be courageous
yet confidence was consumed and digested
by this fearless beast
years and years ago.

May 1, 2011
Edited May 7, 2011