Since April is NaPoWriMo, I thought I'd write 30 poems. Here's to hoping.
Spring Is Not Here (1/30)
the peonies are early this year
pink petals clasped tightly
around the morning dew
ladies parade about in skirts,
twirling loosely, pink fabric
splaying circles around bare legs
I look down in my lap, see
pants - black fabric clasped
tight to my skin and think
I am no lady
I am no flower
4/15/2010
Of Ladybugs and Growing Up (2/30)
My son held a ladybug
in his fingers once and
asked me: “What is dead?”
I didn’t have an answer.
I asked myself the same
once, as I sat and watched
a ladybug drown in my coffee.
She tried to swim and I
imagined her mouth -
gaping and gasping for air.
I didn’t move to help her
as she thrashed for the last time;
her body slowly dragging in spirals.
The ladybug was so
small and red I thought it
looked a little like blood.
I never wept.
Back in his room on the floor,
my son sat looking at me in
all his three year old innocence.
On the carpet her body had
been pulled apart - legs crumpled,
red wings held gingerly in his hands.
I looked at him with all my adult
wisdom, but he only ever asked the
one question: “Mama, is she dead?”
And we both wept.
4/15/2010
JazFusion's Poetry
Moderators: deer of the dawn, Furls Fire
The Girl With Poetry On Her Arms (3/30)
I knew her. She was the kid who
would write poetry on her arms
in black sharpie because she liked
the way they smelled.
Her mother kissed her every morning
and made sure each lunch sack had
a note with a little heart on it and
the words: “love” and “hope” and “faith”.
At the lunch table the kids would tease her
and draw penises for her arms, scribbled with
words like: “poop” and “stupid” and “hate”.
At home, she’d stab her arms over the
l’s and o’s until they bled and she would
always wear a jacket at dinner.
It was on a summer day I saw her
thirteen year old body being dragged
from the house on Elm Street.
She had hung herself in her room,
wrote a note with a little heart on it
in black sharpie on her arms.
A few years later, I saw her mother
at a store and saw the tattoo
on her arm as black as sharpie,
with only one word: “despair”.
4/16/2010
I knew her. She was the kid who
would write poetry on her arms
in black sharpie because she liked
the way they smelled.
Her mother kissed her every morning
and made sure each lunch sack had
a note with a little heart on it and
the words: “love” and “hope” and “faith”.
At the lunch table the kids would tease her
and draw penises for her arms, scribbled with
words like: “poop” and “stupid” and “hate”.
At home, she’d stab her arms over the
l’s and o’s until they bled and she would
always wear a jacket at dinner.
It was on a summer day I saw her
thirteen year old body being dragged
from the house on Elm Street.
She had hung herself in her room,
wrote a note with a little heart on it
in black sharpie on her arms.
A few years later, I saw her mother
at a store and saw the tattoo
on her arm as black as sharpie,
with only one word: “despair”.
4/16/2010
Ah, no. But thanks! I'll try to remember to submit something.
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
Death Has No Name (4/30)
I can’t remember the ocean
the way I used to - the way sand
felt beneath bare feet, how gulls
circled lazily overhead, picking at
the carcass of a washed up
Portugese man-o-war.
Bronze bodies stretched across
the sand. Tight ribs thrust up like
some great Naga; emaciated and
trying to slither free of a three
thousand dollar prison.
Near the shore, sand castles would
rise and fall, as if every child were
a politician and every wave were God;
the tide leaving fish to rot in the sun.
4/25/10
Blue Is For Sale (5/30)
I am creating art.
My eyes paint you as
you undress, trying to fit
which part goes where.
I imagine my hands touching
you in tones of cerulean
or perhaps viridian.
You speak of love, but
charity is a fickle mistress
and we are both for sale.
Abed, we won’t speak as
you press your hips to mine;
and I will wait for you
like stretched canvas.
4/25/10
The Hero Always Gets The Girl (6/30)
Marriage is not about you and I.
We were rich before we were poor -
before the stigma of a white picket fence,
a squalling babe at my breast and a 401K.
We were free.
You would act the Robin Hood and
I the Maid Marian, laughing through
Sherwood Forest; the gold slipping
between our fingers as we made love
carelessly beneath the trees.
But you are no hero, and I am no maid.
The mornings hold no stories as we rise
from our bed to start the coffee, make the
breakfast, pack the children off to school
and let Nottingham sleep.
4/25/10
I can’t remember the ocean
the way I used to - the way sand
felt beneath bare feet, how gulls
circled lazily overhead, picking at
the carcass of a washed up
Portugese man-o-war.
Bronze bodies stretched across
the sand. Tight ribs thrust up like
some great Naga; emaciated and
trying to slither free of a three
thousand dollar prison.
Near the shore, sand castles would
rise and fall, as if every child were
a politician and every wave were God;
the tide leaving fish to rot in the sun.
4/25/10
Blue Is For Sale (5/30)
I am creating art.
My eyes paint you as
you undress, trying to fit
which part goes where.
I imagine my hands touching
you in tones of cerulean
or perhaps viridian.
You speak of love, but
charity is a fickle mistress
and we are both for sale.
Abed, we won’t speak as
you press your hips to mine;
and I will wait for you
like stretched canvas.
4/25/10
The Hero Always Gets The Girl (6/30)
Marriage is not about you and I.
We were rich before we were poor -
before the stigma of a white picket fence,
a squalling babe at my breast and a 401K.
We were free.
You would act the Robin Hood and
I the Maid Marian, laughing through
Sherwood Forest; the gold slipping
between our fingers as we made love
carelessly beneath the trees.
But you are no hero, and I am no maid.
The mornings hold no stories as we rise
from our bed to start the coffee, make the
breakfast, pack the children off to school
and let Nottingham sleep.
4/25/10
25399 Vonnegut (7/30)
our time is borrowed in fragments
here on earth we have fooled
ourselves into believing we are
the pendulum of the universe; the
great axe that departs head from
shoulders in a steaming spray of
red fireworks.
we wage wars for fun, slaughter
innocence and lamb alike with
a cool monochrome demeanor
and let old die too soon.
5/13/10
our time is borrowed in fragments
here on earth we have fooled
ourselves into believing we are
the pendulum of the universe; the
great axe that departs head from
shoulders in a steaming spray of
red fireworks.
we wage wars for fun, slaughter
innocence and lamb alike with
a cool monochrome demeanor
and let old die too soon.
5/13/10
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
Woman of Sin
Icarus dreamed to fly
on feathers and wax,
the brave fool.
And braver still, his
pagan voodoo and
amber prison;
Fingertips spread wide
as the flames burned.
I've dreamed of the quiet
before the fall. Of icy depths
and emerald fire.
Fingertips spread wide
as the waves drown.
Temptation, I know you.
The sea has swallowed my
wings and I am the straw
that lashed the beast's back -
a whore, a sin,
a
woman.
6/29/10
Icarus dreamed to fly
on feathers and wax,
the brave fool.
And braver still, his
pagan voodoo and
amber prison;
Fingertips spread wide
as the flames burned.
I've dreamed of the quiet
before the fall. Of icy depths
and emerald fire.
Fingertips spread wide
as the waves drown.
Temptation, I know you.
The sea has swallowed my
wings and I am the straw
that lashed the beast's back -
a whore, a sin,
a
woman.
6/29/10
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
Nice Jaz!
War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself. John Stuart Mill
Granite and Silk
I.
There is a memory ingrained in
every fiber of this flesh,
of this granite.
It is silent in this breeze
on this clear day and I
still hear your whispers
through earth and silk.
II.
And taking my hand I carve
a place beneath my skin to
remember you by when
I start to bleed, when I
start to remember you
and I are the same -
immovable and
no less as stoic.
III.
I've become lost,
but eventually I
will find my way
back home.
IV.
Years will pass and I
will find you with
shaking hands;
trace words into the
fibers of this earth, of
your silk.
7/31/10
A revision of a revision of a revision. Maybe it's done. Maybe I'm done.
I.
There is a memory ingrained in
every fiber of this flesh,
of this granite.
It is silent in this breeze
on this clear day and I
still hear your whispers
through earth and silk.
II.
And taking my hand I carve
a place beneath my skin to
remember you by when
I start to bleed, when I
start to remember you
and I are the same -
immovable and
no less as stoic.
III.
I've become lost,
but eventually I
will find my way
back home.
IV.
Years will pass and I
will find you with
shaking hands;
trace words into the
fibers of this earth, of
your silk.
7/31/10
A revision of a revision of a revision. Maybe it's done. Maybe I'm done.
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
Odin's Song (Postpartum)
I.
Nine days I hung from the
boughs of great Yggdrasil;
limbs wrapped tightly 'round
my neck - a choked and dry
tongue scraping across lips
as I tried to speak with the taste
of ash and leaves in my mouth, as
I prayed to Odin, as the branches
clawed at taut skin and a swollen belly.
But the runes were silent.
II.
It was there from the depths of
my womb he was ripped - bloody
and screaming, as my arms reached
for him, as the branches silenced
my tongue with ashes and leaves,
as Odin swallowed the last of my voice.
And still the runes were silent.
III.
I do not know the husk of
this body anymore. I do not
knows its skin nor its hips nor
its breasts nor its curves.
I only know of blood and placenta,
stretched skin and an empty belly,
my body a broken Ragnarok.
IV.
He speaks to me in runes,
and I know him; I know his
skin as his tiny limbs wrap
tightly 'round my neck, as
my arms swallow his body
in a close embrace.
8/24/10
I.
Nine days I hung from the
boughs of great Yggdrasil;
limbs wrapped tightly 'round
my neck - a choked and dry
tongue scraping across lips
as I tried to speak with the taste
of ash and leaves in my mouth, as
I prayed to Odin, as the branches
clawed at taut skin and a swollen belly.
But the runes were silent.
II.
It was there from the depths of
my womb he was ripped - bloody
and screaming, as my arms reached
for him, as the branches silenced
my tongue with ashes and leaves,
as Odin swallowed the last of my voice.
And still the runes were silent.
III.
I do not know the husk of
this body anymore. I do not
knows its skin nor its hips nor
its breasts nor its curves.
I only know of blood and placenta,
stretched skin and an empty belly,
my body a broken Ragnarok.
IV.
He speaks to me in runes,
and I know him; I know his
skin as his tiny limbs wrap
tightly 'round my neck, as
my arms swallow his body
in a close embrace.
8/24/10
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
It's amazing how things, important things slip by you on this site. Well at least they slip by me. Jaz, your poetry is riveting. A lot of it brought tears to my eyes. I don't even know where to begin. Each piece was wonderful in itself but as a collection it is evolving into a 'story' of a woman. You are an incredible talent and I'm sorry it took me this long to read your works.
The loudest truth I ever heard was the softest sound.
Oh jeez, thanks so much!lorin wrote:It's amazing how things, important things slip by you on this site. Well at least they slip by me. Jaz, your poetry is riveting. A lot of it brought tears to my eyes. I don't even know where to begin. Each piece was wonderful in itself but as a collection it is evolving into a 'story' of a woman. You are an incredible talent and I'm sorry it took me this long to read your works.
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
I've Never Known Snow
November was the death of us.
It would come with the mist of rain,
gray mottled skies and the chill of
winter digging into old bones. We
never wore mittens back then.
Never learned to throw a snowball,
never made a snow angel, nor
gave birth to a snowman.
We only knew of ice; the world
outside our glass house.
At night we would be ushered into the cold.
Play, she would tell us. Dinner will be ready soon.
But we both knew what that meant.
The window would close with a lengthy sigh,
the drapes as wide and deep as the night.
But you could still hear the yelling, the slaps,
the sound of a heavy fist making contact with bone.
And all the while no snowflakes fell, no icicles
chimed in the moaning November wind,
and the cat would sit at the door
meowing for his dinner.
11/18/10
I always said when I grew up I'd move somewhere it snowed. I did.
November was the death of us.
It would come with the mist of rain,
gray mottled skies and the chill of
winter digging into old bones. We
never wore mittens back then.
Never learned to throw a snowball,
never made a snow angel, nor
gave birth to a snowman.
We only knew of ice; the world
outside our glass house.
At night we would be ushered into the cold.
Play, she would tell us. Dinner will be ready soon.
But we both knew what that meant.
The window would close with a lengthy sigh,
the drapes as wide and deep as the night.
But you could still hear the yelling, the slaps,
the sound of a heavy fist making contact with bone.
And all the while no snowflakes fell, no icicles
chimed in the moaning November wind,
and the cat would sit at the door
meowing for his dinner.
11/18/10
I always said when I grew up I'd move somewhere it snowed. I did.
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
Nice! Love this stuff Jaz!
War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself. John Stuart Mill
*********** Just a warning, this particular poem is NSFW. I have yet to post my more graphic poetry, but I figure you guys know me well enough to know...well, me.*************
As The Night
I am not afraid of dying.
It is the living I fear for, as the
nights endure in slow, lacunal
embalmment.
I am drained; my anxieties all
that is left in the fleshy frame of
this body I call a woman - a
veritable Pandora.
I am not afraid of dying.
No - I am afraid your hands will
tire of the weight of my
breasts pressed against you.
I am afraid my lips will no longer
be welcome to wrap themselves
around your hard shaft,
taking you in deeper as
I suffer your moans, as
the night lingers in apathy.
I am afraid the sheets will stay too
clean and crisp when you are
not there, when I part my
thighs to touch the quivering
wetness that lays between them.
I am afraid of never giving myself
fully in the throes of marriage
and sex and orgasm. I am afraid
one day I will lose the strength
of character to tell you I am done
I am done I am done I am
done.
11/29/10
As The Night
I am not afraid of dying.
It is the living I fear for, as the
nights endure in slow, lacunal
embalmment.
I am drained; my anxieties all
that is left in the fleshy frame of
this body I call a woman - a
veritable Pandora.
I am not afraid of dying.
No - I am afraid your hands will
tire of the weight of my
breasts pressed against you.
I am afraid my lips will no longer
be welcome to wrap themselves
around your hard shaft,
taking you in deeper as
I suffer your moans, as
the night lingers in apathy.
I am afraid the sheets will stay too
clean and crisp when you are
not there, when I part my
thighs to touch the quivering
wetness that lays between them.
I am afraid of never giving myself
fully in the throes of marriage
and sex and orgasm. I am afraid
one day I will lose the strength
of character to tell you I am done
I am done I am done I am
done.
11/29/10
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut
Memento Mori
I.
the ants have found fresh kill.
they march mechanically in and
out of their holes they have
tunneled through the earth.
i wonder how they do this i
wonder if one of their six legs
they use as tiny hands to gently
move each grain of dirt, smaller than
a pebble, smaller than a crumb
i wonder
if they think of cells and
how they orchestrate these
tiny grains with their tiny hands
into their home,
into nothing
II.
she was buried on a school day.
it was cold and it rained and i wore
my tights with that green dress
my mother would make me wear to church.
i walked under the tin rooves to
the resounding thundering of my thoughts,
like a million tiny ant feet
skittering and pattering and
running
through my mind until i
wanted to scream like lightning
until i wanted to run to run to run
to run
to
run
III.
her skin was not black. it was
the color of cold coffee my mother
drank in the mornings after she fixed
my breakfast after she fixed my hair after
she fixed my tears when she told me
ashley was gone
i looked for her on the bus
but her seat was empty and cold and
the color of coffee my mother
drank
IV.
the rain continued to fall
as we stood under the eaves
as she lay surrounded by white
ashley was not white,
i wanted to scream
she was my best friend
and the dress she wore
was not her dress,
the doll she clutched
was not her doll,
her fingers were too stiff
and her eyes
oh god her eyes
they buried her without her eyes
V.
somewhere in Texas there is a grave
in pink granite and the ants
march tirelessly, tunneling,
ever tunneling
through the earth like great roots
spreading around a casket,
cradling a seven year old's
petite, white
bones
12/01/10
Years later I would finally realize it was her doll that had no eyes.
I.
the ants have found fresh kill.
they march mechanically in and
out of their holes they have
tunneled through the earth.
i wonder how they do this i
wonder if one of their six legs
they use as tiny hands to gently
move each grain of dirt, smaller than
a pebble, smaller than a crumb
i wonder
if they think of cells and
how they orchestrate these
tiny grains with their tiny hands
into their home,
into nothing
II.
she was buried on a school day.
it was cold and it rained and i wore
my tights with that green dress
my mother would make me wear to church.
i walked under the tin rooves to
the resounding thundering of my thoughts,
like a million tiny ant feet
skittering and pattering and
running
through my mind until i
wanted to scream like lightning
until i wanted to run to run to run
to run
to
run
III.
her skin was not black. it was
the color of cold coffee my mother
drank in the mornings after she fixed
my breakfast after she fixed my hair after
she fixed my tears when she told me
ashley was gone
i looked for her on the bus
but her seat was empty and cold and
the color of coffee my mother
drank
IV.
the rain continued to fall
as we stood under the eaves
as she lay surrounded by white
ashley was not white,
i wanted to scream
she was my best friend
and the dress she wore
was not her dress,
the doll she clutched
was not her doll,
her fingers were too stiff
and her eyes
oh god her eyes
they buried her without her eyes
V.
somewhere in Texas there is a grave
in pink granite and the ants
march tirelessly, tunneling,
ever tunneling
through the earth like great roots
spreading around a casket,
cradling a seven year old's
petite, white
bones
12/01/10
Years later I would finally realize it was her doll that had no eyes.
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt." - Kurt Vonnegut