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

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