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?

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

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

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

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

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

Lucky Lady in My Bed

Hold me

like I held her,

that lucky lady in my bed.

With the bellies of the sheets

exposed

and littered with sex

and dirt and dead skin,

she crawls to me

like a hungry fire ant

with speed and determination;

a thieving leprechaun

anticipating a plump bounty.

I could want you

just this way,

if I had the need

to be a focused red ant.

Order me

to be your queen

and I will surrender

unto you

such secret hiding places

that you will become the green pirate

to plunder what is hidden

and protect

what remains too revealing

and misunderstood

by parasites reading the bible

to their children

and by disappointing men

pulling wives with leashes

glued to ivory necks

and young girls with reins,

whipping fragile souls

with unnecessary discipline.

Don't be afraid

to be the Other.

In a world shaped daily

by copied perfection,

it's nice to be aroused

by erotic flaws

and the orgasmic release of difference.

March 22, 2011

Tessa Bear

I am such a bad mother.

I have written poems about all of my children (my pets are my children, duh) EXCEPT for Contessa, my sweet little calico cat. She's been a part of my family for almost 6 years (5 years longer than both Ellie and Avalon!) and I can't believe I have just recently finished a poem about her.

I'm not going to lie, it was tough. She's a tough gal to write about. But I think I succeeded...especially since the title is 'Tessa Bear' and she is, after all, my little bear. (Don't ask...we don't really know how it started. She's just always reminded me more of a little bear cub than a cat!)

Tessa Bear

Once I stumbled upon a bear,

a tiny cub of only four pounds,

with eyes that wilt

as dew droplets clinging

to the end of daisy petals

in warm morning air,

straining for the earth

as gravity applies his greedy pull.

This bear grew curious to me

as I found her to have long white whiskers

on either side of her blush button nose.

These whiskers fanned out

and fluttered a light breeze to her fur

where she twitched that nose

towards an unknown smell.

As the bear stretched towards me

with white gloved paws,

I saw her needle thin piercing nails

as they flexed out from each nub of a finger

and magically retreated

back into hibernation under the fur.

Such a bear was this!

This brown, black, and white blotted babe

became a miniature, harmless beast

with the love of play

and a need for cuddle.

In moments of grand excitement,

she roars with a voice

like soft raindrops against a black window.

And when comfort covers her,

the full vibrations humming out

through her chest provide a precious purr

to lull one to sleep.

She carries the feline silhouette

whilst dancing on fences in the moonlight.

Yet with a constant hunger

for the bitter sweetness of honey,

she remains my runt of a bear

whose purrs match my own in slumber

and whose sandpaper tongue

suckles my milk dipped fingers

like a cub to a mother's teat.

March 21, 2011

DA BEAR!!!

Taking a bite outta crime...

My Make Me High Guy

My Make Me High Guy

Listening to Dig,

the light illuminates on just his eyes,

creating the vigilante's mask

behind which he can hide.

But not from me.

The guy makes me high,

giving me wings with which I float

in and out of the willow's fingers,

under and over a castle's bridge,

the wake of the water from my speed

sprinkling my cheeks fresh with moldy moat.

He looks at me as a scientist

conducting an experiment,

the ingredients all stirred together;

the product applied through my lungs,

skin, teeth, hair, eyes, nose, and freckles;

the results spewing like a child's laughter

up from my stomach, rolling down my tongue,

and releasing with my lips

as my sounds and words make melodic poetry

that a cat purrs after the lights have all gone out.

Then RATM jumps

out through the speakers and suddenly

I'm an invincible renegade,

unafraid of everything.

I, too, can tell stories in the dark.

I, too, can knock down the walls

that keep others out and protect me

from shrouded souls who try to control

the raging spirit within me.

I, too, can be free.

And with his hands on the wheel

and a smile temporarily attached to my face,

I become liberated and born again

through my own newfound strength

and a little of his inspiration.

September 4, 2010

Long Time, No Blog...(And a poem for my Miga!)

Ok, ok...so, it's been forever since I last posted something worth reading here. Tonight shall be no exception!!! However, since I have recently relocated to South Bend, a town I'm not too fond of, into a house I'm not too fond of, I feel it's only necessary to start blogging again in order to keep myself SANE.

I begin my first day of work at Borders tomorrow and I am ecstatic!! I have been applying to the Borders in Bloomington for about 8 years with no success and the second I get HERE, I get the job I've always wanted to have. WHAT THE HELL?! Thanks fate, but really?? HERE?!?! While I'm not very fond of being here, I'm looking forward to the job (not only because I'll be surrounded by books but because I won't have to spend my days surrounded by...well, this 'spacious closet' of a room). Perhaps, I'll make some friends. I don't have any of those here yet, and that's pretty upsetting. Sure, I hang out with BRANDON'S friend but in the end, I'm just there because I'm 'Budzon's girlfriend'. Some of them have been very kind and nice; others, not so much. Hopefully, that will change soon.

Anyways, since I just got a new job (and because we're EXTREMELY poor), I won't be able to go to New York to see my grandmother for her surprise 70th birthday party. I mean, I should be there...we call her Miga. (Mee-gah) I GAVE HER THIS NAME...I should be there!!! Right?! Right. (And seriously, I did give her that name when I was just a young lass because I couldn't say 'grandmother' so I somehow came up with Miga and being her Angel Face, she let it stick. For years I fought with anyone who attempted to call her 'Janet' because what the fuck is that?! Her name couldn't be 'Janet'!! It's Miga!!) In her honor, my aunt wants me to write a poem that she can print off and have sitting at each table setting for everyone to see. I came up with the following poem, but I don't like it. It needs major editing, so that's my goal for this week. So, Miga...Happy Birthday!!! I love you more than anything...you're my number one and I hope your birthday rocks!!! : )

Our Miga: An Ode of Thanks

*dedicated to Janet "MIGA!!!" Balbo

When your mind

grazes over her,

the thoughts are filled

to the brim

with grins and comfort.

She holds the beauty

that radiates within us.

Her strength is what

keeps us going,

moving us forward

like a steady stream

bouncing over fish caves

and climbing over

rocks and pebbles

as the pearly white stratus

skipping across treetops,

watching over us

with constant, evergreen eyes.

My mother came from her.

So did yours, remember?

She birthed roses; princesses.

Her brilliance was reborn

in us.

We carry all that she is

and everything she has been.

Her sacrifices have been many

but she has prevailed

and made the Gods

rethink themselves,

for how could such divinity

be left on this earth?

She holds a plethora

of titles, but her soul

is Miga.

She knows this.

We have known

only this.

And will it ever desist?

Never.

Her faults are few

but they show us

how perfect she is

by being imperfect.

And her legacy will

live on...through you,

through me,

and through all of the mere mortals

whose lives have been

so graciously touched

by the hands of

our Miga.

A. Lynne June 21, 2010

More Poetry

I'm trying to write more because it's very therapeutic to me and helps me deal with all of the SHIT. I submitted some poems to Canvas and Fiore magazines in hopes that someone will publish me and not just SAY they will and then back out unexpectedly! Here's another one I recently wrote.

A Fool's Moon

You come to me,

Verona's true prince,

from Mantua to restore in me

my succulent soul that so left my flesh

long ago. My body,

weighted down and heavy with dispair,

has claimed its grave.

Your sweet respirations against my pale cheek

stir my heart; a bumble to a wilted daisy.

I am summer,

filled with long, lazy days.

The heat in me bleeds a stench

and stirs through my veins

and into my corroded mind.

My memories, charred remnants of those

I chose to surround myself with;

those evil minions in clever disguises.

You are the moon's child,

cool and calm with the stars as your soldiers.

The gleam of your face

against my belly, your tight grip

of the ocean pulling out the toxins and litter in me;

the sorrow and the fear.

You are love,

frozen and solid.

I carry your heaviness with me,

a jagged rock weighing down my creamy hand.

You come from dreams

as a fresh morning dew,

crisp and thirst quenching.

I bask in the light of you,

the shine from your forehead blinding me.

The fire of my hair reaching

for your kind tentacles,

the icy fingertips removing the sting

and numbing the evil parts in me

that threaten a perfect existence.

I shudder at your voice,

the force of your tongue

against your Chicklet teeth as a constant

nostalgic staccato,

bringing me back to a dirty childhood

compressed with depression

and Barbie dolls with stubs for hands,

the masticated plastic buried deep in King's old stomach

along with my first pair of eyeglasses

and the grass that garnishes the far left corner

of our porch.

I can be young with you;

kind and soft after the cool-down,

with a shy, damp brow and heavy charcoal lids.

October 19, 2009