Fettered

It could be in
the name…orderly…
tidy beds no
decorative pillows
drapes blinds ties
that could bind.
Every day the trays
come
at the same time.
Droning television mutes
the hum of voices real
and imagined.
There is no one
to care for but myself
so I do -
make bedbrush teethwash hair
every day, even.
What else is there
to do?
Outside
the mind must hold
tenuously
grip the edge hold up the
buttress
of Important Things.
Inside
we’re
Free.

Tags: mental illness

Bones

The wind dries our bones,
leaves hollows, marrow
sapped,
fallow no more.
Inside
in the paths,
circuits, neurons spark and
go
along sear,
synaptic lines.
What once lit and danced
now
sits shelled.
Lovers linger
under dying vines outside
cafes.
They hold no sway over us
Old Folk.
And the fair kiss
they trade
we know will fade
and pitiless winter
come again.

Tags: poem, Poetry, winter, youth

Truck Body

I helped bore holes into the body of the truck that we would later make love in, in a field by a pond with tall grasses and moonlight.
It made me feel big and important, the way a little girl might feel working beside her father, but I understand that’s not the right way to feel.
Perhaps [...]

Tags: being human, memory, poem, trucks

Of Secrets We Are Made

Years ago
in psychotic stupor
or schizo-affective nightmare
my brother dug into the clay muck
of ourstory.
He flung
the muddy
words onto the page and
into my life when
he delivered the mess to a
friend.
Hands sullied, eyes burned by
earthy secrets,
I balked,
embarrased at the lies and
fossils he unearthed
I couldn’t yet name
or remember.
Now I unwind the words that snaked
their way into my psyche.
They followed
me through the [...]

Tags: abuse, Poetry, secrets

Because It's Poetry Month

For your reading pleasure.

Wild Kingdom

I sit typing and
a giant moth flies by me, the wind of her wings
going just past my ear
like a breath
to light
on the dirty fixture above.
A cricket sings in the next room while
lady bugs amass on the streaky, smeary window.
Tendrils of ivy
poke through the 100 year old gaps in this house,
easing in to gradually steal away [...]

Tags: lady bugs on the window, Poetry, where the wild things are, Writing

Not a Poem

I don’t feel poetic tonight
I feel sweaty, sticky, raw from a loud and violent day
with my four-year-old.
Atop the china cabinet is our armory:
Golf clubs, a toy fishing pole, a plastic shovel, a piece of wood splintered from a door jamb.
A plastic sword, a paddle covered with suction cups for catching the rubber ball, a bag [...]

Tags: anger, Autism, children, family, Motherhood, Poetry