I usually write term-based pieces for Inspired Mag, but I’ll admit: I was too embarrassed to submit this one for their readership. However, I think this poem exemplifies taking an
Claw Machine
I want to take my week
throw it in a ball
and rocket it, expert aim
into the trash, lined with a bag
from CVS
because buying the bags that fit
tiny trash cans
is
ridiculous,
like death too young
19, 26, 60
(60 is the new 35)
or forgetting moments
that should have mattered,
goldfish memory peeking
through a fish tank brain,
moments popping in rapid-fire bubbles,
dances, crushes, firsts,
pop pop goose
a broken sphere and the memories float
unmemorized
into the air.
And I,
still living the past in photographs,
old letters,
long due conversations,
watch this week in awe:
life, a claw machine
so weak, its grasp,
that you can never quite catch
that stuffed T. Rex,
you’re stuck with second best:
nada,
the rainbow unicorn giggling
in spectrum glow
knowing what you don’t know…
how to beat it — this arcade game called life,
the tears, a token,
and I,
more interested in ski ball
than claw machine,
know real survival
is in the center cup,
because even if you don’t hit it,
you’ll still win tickets,
the currency of gods
and your tear tokens
your memory bubbles
your life lived—
a gift to the odds,
the claw machine
a false practice in disappointment,
the life,
not fully lived.
I much prefer ski ball.
Young Love, a Poem
I was told very recently that I should not stop writing poetry, despite life’s tendency to make me procrastinate. But I haven’t procrastinated, not really. I started working at a job I really enjoy. Still doing Zumba (getting certified on Sunday!). And still making changes to myself I didn’t think were possible. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, and I have my friends, my boyfriend, my employers (both current and previous not counting my internship), and my family to thank for it. So here’s a poem about young love, because love should always remain youthful—butterflies and all.
Young Love, A Poem
I fell in love for the first time,
when I was seven
because at seven
Disney princes
were easier to come by
than Followers and #hashtags,
walls you couldn’t climb
and photos unfiltered.
I used a typewriter then,
to finish science projects and school essays
taking paper to the back of paper,
to get rid of a mistake;
and
if all else failed
used White Out
before White Out
was cool.
I fell in love again
at ten
when young love kissed me on the forehead
without me knowing,
one year older
but not wiser
that one day
he would break my little heart
like cracking open a piñata
with a bat.
BAM!
And from there the candy flowed,
pieces of piñata heart fluttering—
playing with the air like twirling curls
around fingers
(much like I did at sixteen,
because I’d seen it in a movie once).
And if he saw me now,
another piñata heart later,
he’d see me whole again,
plastered together with little bits
of super glue
and glitter,
sun glinting differently with every
life turn or “I love you”
whispered in older ears,
against the faint jingle of mnemonic bells:
a dream a heart had wished it made,
a kiss to wake from sleeping,
the dragons finally slain.
Ch Ch Ch Changes
Internet, it’s been too long…I think more than two months. But oh, it’s been good.
So I won’t make promises. I won’t say I’ll write tomorrow or a month from now. My only promise: I will write. An occasional postcard in the form of a poem. Like today, sent from the 90s.
8 7 95
I picked up a photograph—
the already ancient kind—
processed when sharing
meant showing you an album
in the form of a book.
Time stamp: 8 7 95.
One look: amazingly content.
And I stood,
hand up to ear, elbows bent
like teapot handles.
No fear of the future,
only upside down roller coasters
at Disney World.
I was 7.
My arm cocked, model-style
like the older girls in my mom’s magazines
yet to be a teen
or even 8 (there were still 3 months til then).
But I knew more then
than I know now.
I knew I’d be older
I knew I was happy
I knew how to erase words
on a typewriter.
(“What the hell’s a typewriter?”)
And now I’m decked with unsure:
family,
job,
car,
bills,
future.
Forced mature,
and several years
past seven.
But when I turned eleven,
then fifteen
then twenty…
I did learn plenty.
A picture worth more than a thousand words.
More like a zillion minutes
since August 7, 1995.
The Blog Post, a Poem
I have been writing so often for work, I have neglected my own site. A terrible thing, but a wonderful one. Because it means I have a job. And that means I’ve stopped twiddling my thumbs and that I could finally afford a new phone on which I play Candy Crush Saga all too often.
So at this job, one of my responsibilities is blogging. So here’s a poem about that.
The Blog Post, a Poem
I left you unattended, untitled
and waited
for click or clack
of computer keys,
the virtual “Hey, I found you,”
the Internet’s validation
that you just might be good enough
to warrant analytics.
But my first mistake
involved misspells
and a sentence,
too long for any eyes to breathe
properly without blinking
for at least three gulps of air,
the second—
oh, the second mistake
was believing quantity over quality could attract
lovers of your words,
our words,
without keyword or caption,
image or infographic.
But the world is different now.
Content—good content—is lord commander.
Your facts, limited.
Your entertainment value,
perhaps slightly humorous
with a hint of,
“I feel like I’ve heard this before.”
And that’s what you get
when you put rank above substance.
You get cookie-cutter and repetition.
And I wasn’t proud.
So I left you unattended, untitled,
so no one would find you,
so Search Engines would be Lost and Never Found Engines.
S-E-No.
The Newsletter
I feel like I’m always apologizing for taking forever between posts, but I’m proud to say the reason it’s been taking me so long is because I got a job. Yes, me. No more screwy internships or time spent at Starbucks doing nothing but submitting resumes. And believe me, I am super happy about it. Plus, today marks my one month with SEO Brand and I’ve been feeling awesome all day. Cheers to cool things happening.
And to emphasize the dorkiness that is my life, and to stick with what I’ve been doing ever so recently, here is a poem about designing a newsletter—sort of.
The Newsletter
I wanted to tell you
that something good has happened,
but you ignore me
like you do
to all my emails
even though I tried
to spice it up
added color
added content
like I added makeup
and something more comfortable
a few nights prior
for the other you
the one who still
will not read my face
because the idea of it
goes directly to your spam folder
as do all faces
that show you love
as do all emails
that show you opportunity
my body,
textually uninviting
when sent with a subject
“For You”
and when I made
modifications,
filled my email with imagery
and a better way
to connect
you glimpsed it briefly
and unsubscribed
delete
delete
delete
and I could not reach you again.
Miami Vices, a poem
Miami Vices, a poem
I wasn’t innocent
like I tell them in my stories,
hiding behind crushes and blushes,
little words like,
“It’s all his fault”
and
“I didn’t do anything”
and
“He was such an ass.”
No.
Not all him.
Some me.
I hurt
him and others
like I hurt
just to feel the Miami-style drama
that goes along
with Miami-style love.
Like, oh my god
the man is such a boy.
You feel me?
You’ll say this to friends,
who live vicariously
through your crazy
and you, complaining about the stress
of affection;
the complication
of trying love out for a second time,
you tell the world you want calm
on Facebook, beside a photo of a cat,
on Twitter, #singleandnotlovingit
on Instagram, duckfaced for all;
but it’s obvious, linda
you want the drama
because when it comes to relationships,
commitment is boring,
the stories too innocent,
the city somewhere outside Miami,
with less than 305 ways to say,
“I need you.”
Lucky in Love, a poem
Have you ever had a bowl of Lucky Charms? This is a poem about Lucky, the leprechaun on the front of the box. Yes, I’m serious.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
Lucky in Love
The marshmallows may have changed over the years,
but I have not:
my love for you still filled to the bowl brim
with helium,
red balloons floating in the air,
being picked from milk-colored skies
because the cereal itself
is just not so good
to warrant floating.
You clamp your feet down,
purple shoes neighing for attention,
under blue moons curved like a smile.
Stay a while,
and I’ll let you have me,
lucky charms
blinding like the light
from a thousand orange shooting stars.
Envy, all will envy.
Faces clover green and
pink hearts racing,
and facing each other,
we’ll exchange words like bits
of potted gold,
whether young or old,
I’ll keep you through rain and rainbow.
Despite claims too much affection is malnutritious,
despite kids beyond vicious…
Our love remains:
magically delicious.
The Caffeinated
I’ve spent a lot of time at Starbucks these days: job hunting, caffeine consuming, wishfully thinking. So this is me, writing a poem about it.
The Coffee Shop, a poem
Barista,
I like the way you mispronounce
the word espresso to sound like
that word we use
when we’re on the go, go, go
your words so quick,
I feel slow
reading Italian names
like I was supposed to know them all my life.
The caffeinated unite
to greet you,
your java tricks slick
on the upsell;
medium roasted,
like a lady in the sun,
for maybe three hours.
When you ask me what I want,
I’ll stutter,
embarrassed in front of barista and bean
for ordering a cup of iced tea mixed with lemonade;
the scoff of coffee drinkers
strong like their liquid,
three shots to no sleep.
Writer’s Challenge: Oh, Brother
So, I had T-minus 20 minutes until I had to leave for Zumba class, so I said, hey, I’ll write a poem. When I ask my little, not-so-little brother what I should write about, he responds, ME.
Here is a poem about me—I mean, him.
My Brother, a poem
My brother dear, is often close,
so close I hear him snore;
and when he sleeps,
sometimes I’ll creep
quite ghost-like by his door.
And when he screams,
he’ll think it dreams,
but rest no longer well
because my goal, as sister old
is to give my brother hell.
NOTE: I do not really try to scare him. We’ve just been watching a lot of Supernatural.
The Casper Complex, a poem
I was reading a piece about the process of “ghosting.” Basically, when you’re dating someone and you think “Woo! Awesome!” and then they disappear. No calls. No messages. As if they literally died. Or changed their phone number. This is a poem about how much that sucks.
Note: I also tried to play with a refrain. Experimentation can breed greatness, or some other really weird shiz.
The Casper Complex, a poem
She didn’t expect it.
She didn’t know.
But that’s the way that ghosting goes.
He’ll tell you pretty things to make you stay,
yet when another set of spirits comes his way
he’s gone.
They say when a boy goes ghost,
it’s because he has unfinished business,
but honestly (as honest as he can be)
his heart’s not in this,
not even a little,
her feelings stuck outside the middle, monkey-like,
his ego the gravestone that sinks her down.
But this is not the first boy to haunt her, nor the last,
relationships burned out so fast,
it’s hard to slow the breathing.
Death, more than a feeling—
a reality,
heartbreak the fatality,
the victim unaware,
until she realizes he’s no longer there
on the other end of a phone call.
She didn’t expect it.
She didn’t know.
But that’s the way that ghosting goes.
He’ll tell you pretty things to make you stay,
yet when another set of spirits comes his way
he’s gone.
He dissipates, anticipating lacked reaction,
more satisfaction that the relationship is all bones,
the grave dug,
the body laid to rest,
while the girl, she’ll clutch her chest
where her heart once beat,
accepting defeat
after a few desperate messages,
tears,
and pride shed,
her thinking it’s all in her head;
him,
believing she thinks he’s dead
and moving on to his next life,
the after-strife,
his funeral, the knife
that stabbed her.
If he only knew the way he’d grabbed her,
the disappointment now lurking in her eyes,
so bloodshot her friends can see the surprise
that came with vanishing.
She didn’t expect it.
She didn’t know.
But that’s the way that ghosting goes.
He’ll tell you pretty things to make you stay,
yet when another set of spirits comes his way
he’s gone.
And when he realizes what he’s lost,
that his future plans could never match the cost;
he’ll learn that even fake death has a price,
for he became a ghost,
and she, his life.
