heavy hearted
heavy handed
heavy on the sauce
heavy stories on the
down low,
heavy eyes
break your soul
why’s everything have to
be so hard?
so heavy all the time?
wanta lighten up
but everything’s just so
heavy.
Peace, people.
Category: Poetry
Hovering
Hovering
somewhere
between up
and down,
uneven ground
upsetting my
equilibrium.
One moment
I’m giddy,
filled with
exuberance,
capable of
great feats;
significant.
The next turn,
my anxiety takes
over, holding
me back, bringing
me down, struggling
to stay relevant
on life’s stage.
Peace is found
where I hover
one foot in
ecstacy the other
in agony, teetering
on the brink and
trying to stay me.
Peace, people.
Hormonally Challenged
Some nights it doesn’t pay
to try and fall asleep.
I toss, turn, fume, and burn
and sometimes even weep.
My brain is heavy in its cage
too tired to engage in thought,
still round and round it plods
until every nerve is shot.
Physically I’m just a mess
of hot and sweaty limbs;
sticky breasts, and chafing thighs
turn nighttime hours grim.
Just once I’d like to fall asleep
free of worry, care, and pain,
yet I fear that won’t take place
until I’ve died or gone insane.
Peace, people!
Prince Charm-ing.
History of Language: Write a piece of fiction describing how the phrase, “third time’s a charm” came to be.
Blame it on Ella;
although, she had no intent
to implement three
as the gold standard
in fairy tale decisions.
When the shoe didn’t
fit either sister,
and the prince was at wit’s end
Ella rose from ash
placing her dainty
foot inside the glass slipper
and Cinderella
won the heart and soul
of the handsome Prince Charm-ing.
And they all rejoiced.
Ok, I know the prince’s retinue scoured the countryside for the foot that fit the glass slipper. Technically, Cinderella wasn’t the third one to try it on, but she was the third one in her household to make the attempt. So this is my story and I’m sticking to it!
Peace, people!
The Songs of Whales
humpback males sing soulfully
beautiful songs beyond belief.
who among us can listen and
doubt their deep intelligence?
we only share this earth
it is not ours alone,
yet we have pretended,
squandered, and decimated.
This poem was inspired by a story on National Public Radio. I’ve linked to it below. I must admit, the songs made me cry.
Peace, people!
Perfect
Some things don’t need fixing
they’re fine just the way they are,
like mornings in the mountains
And evenings by the fire.
We don’t get perfect lives,
or even perfect days,
but moments of perfection
to savor along the way.
The trick is to recognize
these moments when they come:
a baby’s smile, a lover’s touch,
and acknowledge their existence.
To chase perfection is to lose it,
hold on too tightly and it’s gone
just smile to yourself in acceptance
and tuck the memory away in your heart.
Imprisoned
his prison had no walls,
no guards, no bars.
no warden ever surveyed
the non-existent cells.
yet he cowered there in
a corner of society’s
design; backed up against
the lies he’d been sold.
afraid to venture out
unarmed. emasculated
by manufactured fears
he sprayed his own poison.
propaganda kept him warm,
that and the butt of his
forty-five. he could spew
the paranoia in his sleep.
in his prison he dwells
shackled and hobbled
hoping today he might
justify pulling a trigger.
I am beyond weary of being told after every mass shooting in our country that it’s not the right time to address common sense gun regulation. We’ve waited long enough. It’s time. It’s been time for decades.
Musical Walk
thanks to you, Pandora
in the space of one brief walk
my life is infused
with sugar, and bad blood,
the beating heart of rock and roll,
happy! happy! happy!
adam levine lights me up
and my walk turns into a strut.
huey lewis holds my hand and
twirls me around.
imagine dragons and pharrel
got me singing along.
too happy not to dance
too old to care that
the neighbors all think
i’m crazy, crazy, crazy!
maybe i am, but life is
too short to waste on
pretending to be sane.
http://youtu.be/M7JVlpm0eRs
Peace, people!
Billionaire
In response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: “You’re a Winner! What would you do if you won a billion dollars in the lottery?”
I’ve traveled a few miles,
been places I thought I’d
never see with my own two
eyes:
Jamaica,
Scotland,
Guatemala
I’ve more destinations on
my list, sights I need to
experience, sounds I must
hear:
Italy,
Sweden,
Germany and on and on and on.
I’ve won a billion dollars
and the first thing I’d do
is pack my bags and travel,
adieu.
Parade
She sat on the tailgate
of an old green Ford,
her narrow denim clad hips
wedged between an Igloo cooler
and a box of faded red rags.
Scuffed boots swinging.
The whoop whoop of a siren
heralded the coming display
of a starched color guard,
eliciting a respectful salute,
grandparents demonstrating
flag etiquette for the young.
Then came beauty queens smiling,
perching precariously on the
pinnacle of a tissue paper
decorated semi-trailer in gowns
of taffeta, satin, and lace.
Tiaras glittering in the sun.
She waved at those high school
princesses, pulling funny
faces to make them laugh.
That was her talent, after all.
Hardly anyone took her
seriously as the parade passed.
Marching bands from rival
schools vied for favor
as the sun heated the summer
Texas day; twirlers in spangled
shorts tossing batons inspired
ooohs and ahhs from the crowd.
Reaching inside the battered
Igloo, she dug deep, found an
icy cold Schlitz and disguised
it with a red rag. The Baptists
sitting at the curb on either
side would cluck if they knew.
A string of politicians came next,
esconced in the finest vehicles
the local car dealers could offer;
bright smiles plastered on their
faces as their well-coifed wives
wilted in the climbing heat.
Following close behind came tykes
wobbling on bikes, spokes decorated,
festooned with ribbons and crepe
paper and baskets overflowing
with flags or stuffed animals. She
called out each name as they passed.
Finishing her beer, she craned her
neck to see tractors and combines in
John Deere green compete with those of
International Harvester red in a show of
the latest in agricultural technology.
The parade’s low point, she thought.
At last she heard the clip clopping of
hooves on the WPA bricked street and the
bright clanging of a bell, as the old cowpoke,
Zeke, sang out. Smiling she popped the top
on another Schlitz, hopped down from the
rusty tailgate, and joined the parade.
Praying for Eyebrowz 