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
A special thank you to Dave. Always appreciate the push to write.
Curls was written at lunchtime, the only time I’m not as busy as I usually am…sorry for the wait.
Lately, I’m confused
like curls when they flutter back to wavy
lost in twists,
lacking bounce and cling
they once held against the strongest
because, let’s be real—
the curls could never survive confusion
that you could consider me hair-straight
and constant anxious.
Sometimes, I wrap the curl confusions ’round my finger,
circling them into pretend curls too tight
for realistic integrity.
the curls fall back into their original position,
wisps of hair unclung,
until they drop heavy and tangle.
full of knots too difficult
to brush away.
It’s been too long, for the millionth time, since my last post. And the thing I hate more than anything, is that my friends, former bosses, etc., etc., keep asking me if I still write. I’m a writer, yo, is that even a valid question? Yes. Because it’s better to finger point at laziness than to call yourself a writer when you don’t write.
It’s not logic or science or exaggeration; it’s the gosh darn truth.
I can admit, I have gotten back into reading pretty frequently. Damned by Chuck Palahniuk, The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern and now The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Real Magic by Emily Croy Barker. I’m a readin’ machine when I’m not at my desk.
And about that little detail. My current job status: still employed. Current happiness level with type of work: Ultra High. Current Creative Level: +1. And what do I do for a living? Create names. Like a boss. For companies. All types of companies. For products. Corporate IDs. Clinical trials. Things. More things.
So a poem, for my tiny, itsy bitsy audience that reads my web of work:
It hurt a little less each day
once I figured out
no matter what I did,
no matter how hard I pushed
it would not change
with lack of love.
Maybe she didn’t know
the pieces of feels and fonds
all jumbled with white pills
and liquorish drinks
she thought more appealing
than dinner dates
with peeps who missed her.
more personal than peeps,
more familial in their cut
like unclear diamonds from an old ring,
they wanted someone
to pick at the past,
a little kid
shoveling and separating sand with a giant plastic fork,
piling shell and salt and people dust into castles
that looked much more obelisk
The digging, after too long, sored the muscles,
ached the fingers,
until the digger felt no need for castles
or dinner dates.
They stopped missing her.
They stopped hurting.
they just stopped.
A pause. A memory.
Then hurt again.
Glimmers of hope
as fine as sand.
Some things haven’t changed. I haven’t posted since March, for starters. So here I go, already weeks then months, but the need to write down something is immense and necessary. I can’t contain syllables, letters, uttered grunts and sighs and inner need to yell and bang some table. It’s all downhill from here, I swear it. The uphill climb of stress and events has brought me to the peak, the apex, the precipice, and I can feel it, deep within the crevices of the joints between my bones, the need to write, write, to keep writing or unenthusiastically implode. The need to express, impress, digress, until I’m -ess’d out and relieved — like a star that’s just about to supernova, all excess and hyperbole and exaggeration that needs to be released in a cloud of light and shiny things.
How to deal with everything? Write about it. The keys listen to you like square-shaped ears, no judgment here but in the little clicks that break the silence. They tell you to go on, urging you like the pop of packing bubbles: the need to pop, then pop again, more instinct than necessity.
When it all feels like too much? Write again. There are poems for this. Lyrics for that. I don’t know how many times you can hear a song that feels custom made for your situation. You’ve been cheated on? There’s a song for that. You’ve left your heart on the doorstep of another lover? There’s a song that specific, I swear it.
And in these last few sentences I can already start to feel better. Dealing becomes a little easier.
ABOVE was written yesterday. And today…well…today I feel light.
How to Deal with Everything
Take risks, take risks,
that’s all it is:
If you love someone, tell them.
If you hate your job, quit.
If you want to be a pirate, raise your sword, your flag, and ARRRGH,
you get one shot to say how you feel
infinite days to deal
and a heart so strong, it’ll take ten swords
to do it in,
and when you feel down,
there are people there
to lift you,
not like clouds,
but cranes, metallic and loud and…
all you need to know is that they’re there:
morning, after work, the occasional lunchtime call,
and to be fair, you’re there for them, too
despite the days it’s all about you,
because drama, dear,
a Facebook stalker, when Pokes were a thing,
not murderous, but creepy as all hell.
But you know what you do well?
Those infinite days are smalling (new word, just deal with it),
your vents becoming summaries,
your feelings on your sleeve and not your Wall.
And you, my dear, you’re writing again. Feeling love between your fingers, like a violinist plucking strings. Because I love you. I love my job. I want to be a pirate:
my pencil, a sword
my feelings, the flag.
I have a type A personality. Take it or leave it, hate it for all I care, but it’s mine, and I love it, for each and every over-thought quirk, for every bit of its passion and hatred for selfish perfection, but a justified perfection, because type A-ness, this is its curse: To feel justification in decision so deeply it is made fact. To be uncompromising, relentless, and intense. To be the too much incarnate; to be hated and to hate, to be loved, and to love, but A-typically. Enter the cracks. The cracks in the glass, sand-fine and small, these cracks eat away at us, nibble and gnash till they’re either 1) Replaced or 2) Fixed with super glue (though we sure as hell know that‘ll never be the same again. Just look at it). And to be OK with these thoughts. To embrace them and dress them up real nice to disguise ourselves as put together and responsible. But the crack. We see it. We think about it. We fixate. And it may have never broken without our attention (and we realize this, but we just can’t help ourselves), but it’s because of us we crack…nay, demolish the glass with a hammer filled with every little nag, every little finger wag, every little everything. And we’re left with ourselves, the result of just too much. Type A without the WE. Until we find someone who can love us more than we love fixation.
Look, I’m not going to go into some long diatribe about how tech has altered the literal face of human interaction (I mean, I’m on the Internet to write this post, so who am I to talk?)…but I figured I’d write a little somethin’ somethin’ about my perception of the way things have become. I’m a member of the transitional generation: I remember electric typewriters and beepers, VHS players and Facebook when it was only open to college students at a select few colleges. I remember little notes in my lunch, and post cards sent from Vermont or the postal museum in DC. I remember cursive written poorly on a lined paper, reading stories alongside my grandmother at night while she turned a literal page. I remember the darkness of the room, with the only glow the small green light from our new computer. And funny to think, I’m only 26 through all this. So much has changed so fast, I’m worried I might be losing that happy darkness for the sacrifice of something so much more…meaningless. Active wastes of time. Addictions. Habits. Selfies. It’s hard to believe a sense of modesty was more present in our lives only ten or so years ago. Now we ask the world to judge us. Now we ask the world to see how happy or sad we are. Leggo’ my Ego. It’s become so big it might burst. Like, like, like. Like, like.
So here’s a poem, you know, to further the cause.
I knew you once when I was small,
a little girl of six or so
watching grandma in the kitchen make baked apples,
the smell of cinnamon so easy on a little nose.
I knew you once when I was bigger,
school a scary place then, but full of opportunities,
boys scared to call the house because my grandpa might answer,
his voice gruff with protectiveness.
I knew you, in the messages and wait times of dial up Internet,
listening to the music of connectivity
and the hope of four-hour conversations about nothing and everything,
a teenager who thought she knew the world.
I knew you when I told him no, I’m not ready for this,
and pushed his hand away like I’d swat a spider, even now.
You stood by me always, and I felt proud and shy and confident
that I was going to be someone worth something.
But like most friends, we started to grow apart.
With the social, came the need to be accepted;
with the need to be accepted came the photos of nearly everything,
the updates of nearly everywhere I went.
My Privacy, another friend, decided he couldn’t stay,
unable to adjust to change in necessity to keep private life,
And Modesty, you tried. You called me every chance you got, until one night,
I texted you,
fingers full of need to tell, tell, tell,
and you couldn’t stay.
You told me I’d changed.
You told me it wasn’t the same.
And years later, when I found how much liking had superseded love,
I called you,
begged for you to come back…
we chatted like old friends do,
as if it had only been minutes instead of days,
and laughed at the ways the world was mocking Privacy,
pretending to be friends with him,
the way friends do when they need something.
To feel like they hadn’t lost themselves
I am very much aware
there in between year 1 and year 2
there was a time when I
was sad or crying,
about my intentions or how I was really feeling
when you said that,
or just didn’t.
There was a time,
I laughed so hard the car shook
with joke-heavy drops
of happiness slowly soaking into the seats
like cigarette smoke
into even the most resistant hair.
between year 1 and 2
flying without reason,
through similar seasons,
where every day is spring or summer
to have missed the first flecks of snow,
but you cannot miss what you didn’t know,
that I could be so different,
like machinists installed me with
so automatic I forgot
to be sad or to cry
my heart pumped so high
I ignored the fact that I should pop.
And when the moments stopped—
When I breathed again.
I could feel you,
there between year 1 and year 2,
nestled down in runner’s gait,
ready for year 3 through 98,
for the auto-happy,
of which I am very much aware.
I want to take my week
throw it in a ball
and rocket it, expert aim
into the trash, lined with a bag
because buying the bags that fit
tiny trash cans
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
into the air.
still living the past in photographs,
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:
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,
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,
not fully lived.
I much prefer ski ball.
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
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;
if all else failed
used White Out
before White Out
I fell in love again
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.
And from there the candy flowed,
pieces of piñata heart fluttering—
playing with the air like twirling curls
(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
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.
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:
and several years
But when I turned eleven,
I did learn plenty.
A picture worth more than a thousand words.
More like a zillion minutes
since August 7, 1995.
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
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
and a sentence,
too long for any eyes to breathe
properly without blinking
for at least three gulps of air,
oh, the second mistake
was believing quantity over quality could attract
lovers of your 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.