The City Is Quiet Tonight

The city is quiet tonight.
No noise, no life.
Just starlight
And us,
Two heartbeats in a city
That calls to us,
Beckons us,
Becomes us.
Two souls wandering alone,
Fingers itching to touch,
To hold,
To map out your body,
My own city,
Always quiet, and calm,
No others but us.
The city is beautiful tonight.

I also posted this on my Instagram, and I sometimes post small poems there, too.

Thank You Cards

Thank you cards I’ve left, forgotten,
cast aside,
packed with blank stationary,
an afterthought,
because surely you know,
you’ve always known.
How your words and your gifts
become stars in the sky
that light up the path that I tread.
How the packages and ribbons
mean nothing
compared to your arm in mine along the shore.
How a fake smile and a laugh
at a terrible gift
only disguise the love and affection
and joy at being remembered.
Sure, relatives and far-away friends
who send their gifts in post-office wrapping
and cards littered with stamps,
they should get a thank you card.
But a phone call has replaced the written word,
and can convey much more
than ink on paper,
and so half-finished thank you cards
are discarded and pushed aside,
because you don’t need my words to tell you
that you are loved
by me.

Love

Love
I wish I could describe it,
the taste on my tongue,
the bitterness,
the sour,
the hurt.
The way words cut deep,
whittling away
at a soul,
at a mind,
at a heart,
until it is sharp,
stabbing,
a razor in all of its harsh edges,
one that only hurts its owner.
I wish I could describe it,
the aching,
the wanting,
the need for approval,
for belonging to someone,
something
greater than yourself,
how it sits heavy,
the taste familiar,
something long gone and faded.
I wish I could describe it,
how I need you here,
with me.

Podunk Pirate

I wanted to be a writer.
A no-holds-bar,
every word counts,
change the world writer.
I admired the greats,
the worlds they built,
the way their sentences flowed
and ended.

But now I’m a podunk pirate,
pilfering phrases and words to create
half-baked plot points
and struggling prose,
poetry falling flat,
falling deaf,
flowing wrong.
I’m stealing the English language
to twist it
and spin it
to make it mine
for now.

See Me

Can you see me?
Sometimes I can’t. The reflection
in the glass
is not the same face
I know.
The shapes are there,
the nose, the lips,
the curl in the frown of confusion.
But the eyes are different.
They’re not mine.
Can you see me?
Trapped behind an ocean
of ideas and thoughts and voices
that used to be mine,
that are now lost
in time.
I can’t remember, forget,
I’m stuck, alone, tangled
in memory and regret.
Can you see me?
Sometimes,
I can’t.

Iceberg Lettuce

Listeria hysteria,
recall in the aisles.
Grass-fed cows and porcupines
are never worth your while.
It’s terror in the pasture,
the chicken lost its head,
and cabbages and collard greens,
they’re wilted and they’re dead.
Beware all the produce,
and while you’re at it, too,
don’t dare to touch the iceberg,
for that I know you’ll rue.


Yesterday’s prompt was Iceberg Lettuce, and I had no idea what to write. But sometimes, even the most difficult ideas can be the most fun to write, and the rhyming nature of this ridiculous little poem was fun to knock out. So, it’s not the best, but it’s cute, and I hope you enjoy it.

So Many Left

I’ve decided, to start off January, that I will write once a day, every day. I found some prompts, made a list, and I’m slowly checking them off. They might be terrible, they might be nothing but pure drabble, but they are something. So here’s January 4th’s, So Many Left. It might not be good, but I liked it.

Scattered across the ground, in small piles of forgotten letters, discarded objects, baubles that once shone; these mementos of a life long past, they glitter in the haze of remembering. She sat there, staring at the items strewn across the room, a lifetime of items.
So many left, she thought, picking through the nearest pile. So many dreams, memories, tokens of a life she remembered in flickering dreams.
Behind her, three boxes. Keep, Give, Toss. A life, boiled down to three boxes.
“How’s it going, kid?”
She turned around, still crouched on the ground, a letter clutched in her hand. “It’s going.”
“There’s a lot of things.”
“So many left.” She sighed, standing and stretching, staring. “How did you do it, dad? When you left.”
“Same way you’re doing, kid. Keep. Give. Toss.”
“Does it ever get easier?”
“Does life? Dinner’s in twenty. I’ll yell.”
She waited for the footsteps to leave before turning back to the room, staring at it for all its worth. The pale walls, the faded spots where pictures hung, nail holes and tape holding the room together.
“There’s so many left!” she cried, head falling on the table.
“So many left?”
She raised her head, eyes too haunted for an eight-year-old. “So. Many. Left.”
“I don’t think that’s correct English there, kid.”
“I don’t care. There’s just so many.”
“Of what?”
“Of Everything.” She dropped her head back to the table. “So many math problems, rules, people, cookies…”
“Cookies?”
“Too many cookies means I can’t eat them all.”
The chair slid out from across from her, and her father sat down. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to fix that.”
She wiped at her eyes, expecting tears, finding dry eyes. “There’s always so many left, isn’t there.” She turned back to the room and the piles, picking through the pieces and filling boxes. “I guess I’ll just have to fix that.”