Posts under ‘poeTRY’

The whole, the nothing but the

When do you tell
the truth that turns
words to uncontrollable
watering in a
puckered mouth?

The whole, the nothing but the

Remember

I ought to write
something about
today before my
feet betray the
desire to remember,
hot water washing
away the caked,
discolored
soreness that comes
of laughter and
adventure and walking
step after step
through neighborhoods
that change like
seasons.

Remember

Spring begins with you

She’s the box on the calendar with “Spring begins” in italics. And she’s a favorite song played over and over until every beat is the irregular heartbeat she was born with. She’s a creaky voice late at night, the bed smelling like dirty dog and clean laundry.

Spring begins with you

“Forgetfulness” – Billy Collins Animated Poetry

“Forgetfulness” – Billy Collins Animated Poetry

Angry love poems by my winter clothes

At parties, I’m thrown
across a stranger’s bed,
left dangling as
you make the rounds,
tucked into an uncomfortable
space beside you,
unnoticed, unattended.
You’ll miss me someday
when I’m gone,
but for now I am
yours to use
when you see fit.
- Coat

Angry love poems by my winter clothes

Grandma in heels

“This is a candid photo,” my mom said when she handed me this photograph. As if I couldn’t tell with all the men not looking at the camera, while the women do. “Look at those heels!” she laughed and pointed at the stilettoes on my great-grandmother, her grandmother.

Grandma in heels

My parents’ wedding

Under it, in the album of the plastic sucking noise whenever opened, she wrote, “Second thoughts?”

My parents’ wedding

The giraffe-colored cabinets


Saturday mornings, Megan woke up first. She claimed Daddy’s chair directly across from the tv; I settled for the couch. We’d yet to reupholster its brown ribbed and pilled surface. It was comfortable and always had throw pillows that made do, made it presentable enough until it could be replaced with something better and more expensive.

The giraffe-colored cabinets

Forgetfulness

*I often find myself trying to paraphrase this poem when I can’t remember something. The paraphrasing is completely convoluted due to my forgetfulness, which is exactly what Billy Collins was writing about.

Forgetfulness

Crackle

Home is where the heart is and the dog and the embarrassing naked baby pictures, not to mention that familiar bellow of “WHO’S ON THE PHONE?!” as soon as the phone rings, minutes before it is possible to know who exactly has called. (This was actually true before caller id, now most of the time I actually can identify who has called, even if just by reading off a mysterious phone number).

Crackle