Welcome to my site! And hooray for April, the very best month, poetry month! On this page you'll see my responses to the NaPoWriMo Challenge, 30 poems in 30 days.
I have several theories.
Theory 1:
Teachers never leave
the school building.
Even on Saturdays.
They sleep on cots
beneath their desks.
Theory 1
was disproven
at the age of seven
when I saw my teacher
walking to her car.
Theory 1
was additionally disproven
at the age of fourteen
when I saw my teacher
in the lingerie aisle
of a department store.
Theory 2:
Once a week
teachers are taken
to the secret lair
in the basement
where they are
plugged into
the wall
and charged
like electric cars.
Additionally they are given
IV drips of caffeine
every other day
for regular maintenance.
Theory 2
has not yet been disproven.
Theory 3:
Teachers are
benevolent aliens
from a far away galaxy.
Teachers wear
sophisticated skin-suits
to disguise themselves as human.
They settled on planet Earth
to learn our ways.
Largely unimpressed
with our ways,
they teach in the human disguises
with a humble sort of pride,
bettering the human race quietly
so as not to scare us
into sending them back
to their home planet.
Theory 3
has not yet been disproven.
A sweet glass
of cherry wine
from Trader Joe’s.
A cheap box of pasta.
Olives. A block of cheese.
The most me things
ever, my brothers tease,
when I place them
on the counter.
Family banter.
The pleasure of sitting
cross-legged
on the living room couch
under a soft blanket
as my food cooks.
Blurry vision.
Aching belly.
Aching feet.
Burning throbbing feet.
The pleasure of release.
The pleasure of relief.
These fleeting moments
I dream of
when I place
the last clean bread plates
on the last tables.
Clink. Clink.
The poetry prompt
I have yet to write.
Reading the Moxley poem,
I am reminded
of Rilke and Wright
and their cutting last lines.
You must change your life.
and I have wasted my life.
The poem has me
thinking back
to a day in Oxford
when I take my bike out
from Summertown
to University Parks
in the late afternoon.
Kids play soccer/football.
My back fits perfectly
against a large tree.
I lean into it
with a novel
and stay
until nightfall.
I am happy.
Reading for as long as I want.
Reading all day.
Physical exercise, then leisure.
Intellectual ardor. Intellectual
pleasure. All day.
I bike home
on flat terrain, satisfied.
Today I biked home
uphill and tired
in the rain
after a day of wishing
I had time to read.
To write. To think.
Sipping my cherry wine
I think
I must write
an ending like
I must change my life.
It is like a zoo in here
and I am a fly on the wall.
Why does he tell me to smile
when I am invisible?
I am not being watched;
I am the one who watches.
Name five representations of you in popular media
that make you feel seen.
Name four beating hearts
you can sense nearby with supernatural ears.
Name three small animals
you’d like to have later for a snack.
Name two blood types.
Include flowery metaphors for their respective scents.
Name one mortal
whose touch is better than blood.
Because you caught me rainbathing
and sunbathing and cloudbathing and
bathing in nothing but my imagination.
Because I wanted to show you
what I am finding–– what I have found––
in all the white fields I have plowed.
But I don’t think about you, really,
I mostly only think about me.
Because that's how I make it good.
Because without all this I’d be lying.
My future is a piranha.
Piranha, from the Portuguese,
literally “biting-fish.”
We are what we do.
My future is a mushroom
I do not know how to identify.
Poisonous? Edible? Hallucinogenic?
My future is a painting
everyone interprets differently,
a painting that the artist keeps changing.
My future is a shadowy figure
in the corner I have learned to ignore.
We piss each other off occasionally
and exchange words and blows.
My future usually wins and pins me to the floor.
Sometimes I can defeat it with my secret weapon:
poor life choices.
My future is a pyrotechnics show
that is somehow both
super exciting and super boring.
My future is an ice sculpture
I am chiseling away at slowly.
It takes a great deal of exertion
to shape it only a little.
(It doesn’t help that I am not a trained sculptor.)
One day my future will be perfect
and then it will melt into water
filled with piranhas.
(The only certainty is piranhas.)
And you are
walking in the suburbs
as the last
of the the light leaks out
of the sky falling
like the last grain of sand
in an hourglass
to make fresh black night
clean as a field of snow
and a little sliver
of moon smiles
crookedly and sadly
at you.
A heady lilac perfume
douses you in childhood
and you feel the sort of
melancholy you never feel
but know you have
always carried and when
you feel it like this
you remember
with a fond sadness
all those times you have felt it.
Night tossed it to you like a bouquet
and you caught it in your arms.
And as you walk faster and easier
you understand a great number of things
you had forgotten
and forget a great number of things
you had understood.
It helps to confide what you must confide.
It is only a part of being alive.
There is no use in crying over spilled pride.
There is no use in attempting to hide
your blanketed truths, whether fifty or five.
It helps to confide what you must confide.
And most, most will take your secret in stride.
For example, I do not know how to drive!
What use is there in crying over spilled pride?
Work to turn the tide if you already lied.
Knock over your pride, and so much will arrive.
It helps to confide what you must confide.
Did you find me red, trembling, shiny-eyed?
Sometimes the truth can be hard to revive.
Once more I was crying over spilled pride,
my eyes wet again as soon as they’d dried.
They made a wider pool in which you might dive.
Must I confide what I must confide?
Is there no use in crying over spilled pride?
Inside me is a little mountain lion.
She whispers bad things to me.
The whispers come in dreams
I forget upon waking.
She whispers to me
in moments of weakness,
when my rational mind
has gone out for a smoke break,
like that time when I was high
after wisdom tooth surgery.
She is always there clawing and pacing.
She tries to snarl and scream
but it doesn’t come out
louder than a whisper.
She whispers her litany of wants:
I want to run and climb and roar!
Let me out of this horrid cage.
Let me be the predator that I am!
Let me use my canines,
let me sink them into something,
let me use my pretty claws to tear.
I’m so hungry.
I shall break the necks
of the vegetable-eaters.
I want to eat their fear.
I want blood. I want flesh. I want meat.
More than anything
my little lion wants
a juicy steak.
I am ten years vegetarian,
and there is no way I’m breaking that, I scoff.
You’re obsessed with control, she gripes.
And you’re obsessed with meat!
Your nose is always in a book, she complains.
And yours can’t stop sniffing out prey.
You’re a crunchy granola hippie!
Yeah so, what’s wrong with that?
Humph, she mutters. Stubborn human.
Why are you going against your nature,
keeping me locked in a cage! Ignoring me!
I know how to hunt, I can help you survive,
I can help you do what you were made for––
Lion, you’re so tiny, you’re adorable, I interrupt.
She hisses, and hushes, and curls up
to sleep, and from time to time plagues me
with thoughts of juicy steaks.
My parents gave me one name
and then called me by another
until the nickname became
my name. At the beginning
of the schoolyear, I’d inform
my teacher that I went by
a slightly different moniker
than the one on their list.
It is a dreadfully common one too.
I had to be distinguished by my last initial.
There were many other girls in class
with the exact same name and nickname.
My “real” name
is my “professional” name,
the one I use on my resume,
the one I use at work,
although some people at work
like the nickname.
When they ask me
which one I prefer,
I say I don’t mind,
so people pick their own.
Their choices generally align
with how they see me,
how long we’ve known each other,
and how we are with each other.
I answer to both.
Those who have known me
since childhood
will always call me
by the nickname.
A couple years ago,
I met a very proper Englishman
who called me by the nickname
until he found out
my “real” name, my “Christian” name,
and insisted on calling me that
and it stuck.
This unprecedented return
to my “real” name
made me feel unpeeled,
like I’d rediscovered my “real” self,
as though I had abandoned her somewhere,
this long-forgotten version of me.
It felt like he was seeing me,
really seeing me, for who I was
beneath all of the layers
I had accumulated
every passing year.
Such that when he,
the one I love, calls me
by my “real” name,
it is more intimate
than any pet name or nickname.
So now I am known by both names,
thanks in part to the proper Englishman.
My “real” name will also be my author name;
I have wanted that since childhood.
My nickname is a family name.
I answer to both.
My double names embody the many me’s.
Call me whatever you want.
Call me whichever you prefer.
Call me however you see me.
Each one has a different sort of intimacy.
And besides, why should I be the one to choose?
“My” name is not really “mine.” It is for you.
I like to be called by what you like to call me by.
The names we use are a system of care.
The names we use say much more about the namer
than the named.
I can see the bones from here,
but this place is beautiful.
If I live for music,
I can die for it too.
They say, do something useful,
something that will feed you,
but they talk only of the body,
and the sirens feed the soul.
But they’ll feed on your body,
they’ll claw you to shreds,
they’ll eat you alive, they say to me.
No they won’t, they’ll sing me to sleep.
They say, watch out for them, son,
they’re worse than you think,
they’re beautiful creatures,
but they have sharp teeth.
They advise me to numb my senses.
They claim this will protect me.
Stuff your ears full of wax
so you can’t hear anything.
I’m swimming and swimming
on blue waves of love.
I’m swimming to the sirens
and I don’t regret a thing.
I’ve jumped from the boat,
let the wise ones sail past.
They can go on without me,
I’m not tied to the mast.
Cycling beside
the swaying vernal grass,
duct tape on my handlebars.
The scent of dog roses
on these lanes,
equal parts crisp and sweet.
I am made of eglantine,
and I am with you
in your pitch pines.
And do you know
you are
an Austrian rose?
After wading with you
in the Spanish jasmine,
I feel the ache of lichen.
But I find you quickly
in the southernwood,
despite the Carolina jasmine
in bloom too often.
You feed me
a honeysuckle flower,
drop nectar
on my tongue.
You laugh
when I give you
a pineapple,
but it is true.
I'd like to give you
a tulip of many colors too
for the mischief in your eyes.
I fear I'm a nightblooming
cereus, but you
call me a hibiscus.
You're my flower
of an hour, my fleur de lis,
my damask rose,
my everlasting pea.
I gave you yellow acacias
and to my delight
you gave me ambrosia.
Intoxicating purple lilacs
became sweet peas
and honeysuckles.
I love to walk with you
through the cowslips.
There once was a dude called McFiggin.
Piracy was how he made a livin’.
That thar ship he sailed far,
He loved it better than a car,
And his crimes needed no forgivin’.
Our man was a real Don Juan.
In that he had no clue what he was doin’.
Stumbling old,
Fumbling gold,
This would one day bring on his ruin.
Our dude had his heart set on romance.
Though he didn’t own any clean pants.
But his crew had such style
As they sailed round the isle,
Our man desperately wanted a chance.
So he asked his good friend McMipps
If he had for him any tips.
McMipps put down his rum,
slapped McFiggins on the bum,
and planted him one on the lips.
Yes: but what if
the cry of the peacocks
was not a cry against the twilight,
or a cry against the hemlocks,
or a cry against the leaves?
What if the cry of the peacocks
was a cry against the peacocks?
Full tails so like the leaves
falling from the loud boughs,
swept to the bushes,
flying on the wind,
striding to the window,
turning like the planets,
like the twilight ground,
coming to the room.
They saw the loud colors
flying in the fire,
repeating in the flames.
They saw the heavy colors
striding in the twilight
night and were afraid.
And they remembered
the cry of the peacocks.
Also inspired by Hemlock by Joan Mitchell: A painting responding to "Domination of Black" by Wallace Stevens
You don't have to do anything.
Just be.
You don’t have to be anyone.
Just breathe.
You don’t have to breathe
perfectly–– just do it naturally.
You don’t have to be perfect.
Just look at me,
covered in dead skin and hair,
littered in forgotten objects,
that pen you dropped,
your dirty laundry,
that pile of clutter
you’ve been saving
for tomorrow
for days. I know.
Just look at me,
unabashed and unashamed.
Anything you lay on me
is safe with me
and I’ve always
got your back.
Love as a wordtouching anotherword
closetogetherascanbe
Love as words bro ken into let ters
Friend ly letters
Fli rtacious letters
Letters at play
Loveasclose
Love as space
Love as everything in between
Love as punctuated, hesitated,
precise, pristine, correct,
care, in, every, comma,
(Love as messy!)
Love as I loving I
and q loving u
and e loving e
and i loving n and g
Love as words
speaking
across
gaps
in
space
Love as no love as yes
Love as doing love as being love as listening
Love as I love as you love as we love as all of us
Love as a grand flowing masterpiece love as rivers that never dry up love as clouds that never stop
floating love as boulders that never stop throbbing with potential love as lava that never stops
erupting love as breezes that never stop breezing love as earth that never stops turning love as love
as love as
Cell phone,
what the hell
are you doing to me?
How the hell
did you happen to me?
Used to use you
as a pill
for social anxiety.
Used to use you
as a prop,
pretend to be on you
so I didn’t have to talk.
Sometimes I still do.
Cell phone,
who the hell
do you think you are,
evil evil rectangle.
Cell phone,
why the hell
are you
the last thing I touch
before sleeping
and the first thing I touch
in the morning.
Why are you always
on my body
like some ghastly appendage
like some robot prosthetic.
You disgust me,
foul germ-breeding block,
greedy petri dish
ringing and dinging
for attention.
Cell phone,
why the hell
do I let you
see the world
with better eyes
than me.
Why do I make
you a priority
before the world
before me.
When I was twelve
I wrote a letter
begging my parents
for you
so that I could
compare myself
to every other mentally ill,
selfie-frenzied,
identity-obsessed
teenager on social media.
So that a toxic circle of girls
could add me
to their group chat.
So that I could fit in.
So that I could crash out
and feel bad about myself.
Complicit rectangle.
Evil evil.
Used to run
around the house
like a chicken
with its head cut off
whenever I lost you
in a couch cushion.
Cell phone,
what the hell.
You keep me going,
writing, messaging,
texting, connected.
You’re my scratch paper,
drawing board,
map, inspiration,
telephone, camera,
book of answers,
addiction, bad habit,
thesaurus, dictionary,
and encyclopedia.
You are a child,
parent, lover, and friend
all rolled into one.
I hate you.
You make me sick.
I love you.
Cell phone,
what the hell.
I have written too often
of the woods in Wisconsin
freckled with fireflies
in the perishing light.
Grandpa building campfires,
Heraclitan campfires,
and I can’t look away from the flames,
and I can’t look away from the flames.
I have written too often
of the woods in Wisconsin
and the fireflies danced away,
and the fireflies danced away.
Pregnant. words.
were said to me baby.
something about publicity.
wishy-washy?
Maybe
hurt
I let myself doubt
the benefit
of a sick set of values
Slowly stepping
with my boyfriend
out of the restaurant
she says,
to no one in particular,
well it's not
every day
I'm on the arm
of such a handsome
young man!
My dear I am afraid
I am leading a posthumous existence.
I am so weak
I cannot bear you.
I ride puns in desperation,
I feel light and shade,
necessary enemies to recovery
how should I live?
my lungs, my stomach,
it runs in my head we shall all die young.
If I recover, I will do all in my power
I shall write I will write
Remember me friends,
awkward bow.
Ebony edge.
A twisting, a breaking.
A tearing across
a field of white nothing,
looking for a something,
for a drop of color.
Seethe, writhe,
press your cheek
into nothing.
For the someone is gone
who has colored
your somethings.
Isn’t there a something?
No there is nothing
but white nothing.
Look again, feel deeply,
press your cheek
into a something.
Isn’t there a something?
Yes there is a something,
a tiny drop of color,
a small patch of earth.
And are there not more somethings?
There are more somethings.
You notice the sunset
as never before,
gloriously orange and yellow
against the white.
Each morning when you wake
to the field of white nothing
you notice more somethings
Grasses growing. A little snail.
A little tree. Blues and greens.
The someone is gone
who has colored
your somethings.
But there is always
a something
returning to color.
CAW
CAW
dedededadoladododododo dododododo
CAW
CAW
dedededadetalelalelale CAW
CAW
dedede dododo dododo dododododo
tatalalatalala tatululullullullulllll
tutullullullllulllull
dedededaduladodododadulalu
tweetweetwetalelale
tutullullullulul
CAWWA WCAWWA CAWWA AW
CAW CAWaw
tutulllullullu AWA AWA
tutullullullul AWA
bebebebe twillawillawil
bebebetwwwww bebebetwww
dededulade AW AWAW twwh A
will tututuluh twewehcwawe
It was no big deal,
only slightly akin
to what one might feel
as a pig being sold.
It was no big deal,
only slightly akin
to what one might feel
as a piece of wood
being chipped.
It was no big deal,
only slightly akin
to what one might feel
as a bee in peril
stinging your only sting
then lonely laying dying
It was no big deal,
only slightly akin
to what one might feel
as a hen
laying egg
after egg,
then barren,
rounded up,
caught,
severed
at the neck,
defeathered, dead.
It was no big deal,
only slightly akin
to what one might feel
as a four leaf clover,
plucked, preserved.
It was no big deal,
only slightly akin
to what one might feel
as a patch of daisies
stamped on,
torn to shreds,
crushed,
obliterated,
picked at
petal by petal.
It was no big deal,
it was nothing.
Sigma had a root beer
And a lot of rizz
He shook up all the root beer
To see if it would fizz
He drank up all the root beer
To see if he would float
Chat he cooked that root beer
But he was not the goat
He burped for six straight hours
He burped for seven days
He burped until he had no rizz
And then he stopped getting glazed
Hey I just wanted to write and catch up with you!
Some of my old friends have been penning me letters,
some in beautiful calligraphy, and I thought I might want to try that.
You remember A and F from school? They moved onto my street
and gave me this really nice Christmas letter.
I have lots of pets now–– cats and dogs and even a wolf.
I’m learning how to feed them.
You remember S from school? Well the other day
she took me to see this old dystopian movie.
Then we went out for dinner, and T, my manager, was our waiter.
What else have I been up to? I wrote a plotty lesbian novel
and I went back to college for their MFA program.
Oh, and this new guy started at work, you remember C from school?
That first night he didn’t really work––
he had a romantic dinner with his partner at table 48.
You remember B from school? He started there too.
He gets on really well with J but doesn’t talk to me much.
I’ve been travelling a lot too, so let me catch you up on that.
I went to a big lecture in the UK.
I went to Greece for a few days with some friends.
I tried to eat all the best food but I also had a budget.
I wanted to go to the beach on the sunniest days.
I read Henry VIII at some point.
Oh and you know how we never had a prom because of covid?
This year I decided to go.
I borrowed a prom dress I really liked from Marie Howe
but I had no one to go to prom with and no way of getting there.
Eventually B and C dropped me off.
Also when I was travelling
there was a big competition/
game type thing and I stayed in a room with a lot of people.
We had to go down a hill in a wagon with champagne bottles.
At first we messed it up and went the wrong way,
but then we got back on track.
You remember R from school? She was there.
And my brothers were there and also a cat.
Also zombies, but like in a good way.
Also my partner L and I went to Germany.
L was afraid of the bees and I swatted them away for him.
There was friendship drama and another big competition/
game type thing at the grocery store. Some people wanted
L to cheat on me with sexy men and I guess I was all for it.
I biked to the pool today but had to leave quickly to buy cat food.
I had to be fast because I also had class.
I have a cute black kitten. I hadn’t fed her for a few days.
I spent a very long time looking at all the cat food possibilities.
Finally I decided on one and also picked out a book for my cat to read.
Oh and some interesting things have been happening architecturally.
You remember G from school? I was in her dad’s basement
and it was so big I became little and played it like a video game.
Tiny apartments unfolded and you could fold them up in different ways
to make different designs.
There was a tunnel that connected to my work and the grocery store.
I work at this bar where some guy performs songs and takes requests
and you can give him little things that have to do with the songs.
You remember that time you and I went
to that amusement-park-adjacent place?
We had fun but I was too scared to go up the big ladders
and down the big slides and you got mad at me.
You went down a slide while I backtracked down the ladders
because I didn’t want to slide.
Eventually I did go down a purple slide.
Also there were cats by the ladders and that made me happy.
I need to get better about feeding my cats.
Write soon, I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to.
1. Small Talk
Small talk? More like BIG LIES!!!!
If you ask me how I am, expecting a one word happy answer, you might as well not even talk to me.
2. Job Interviews
My greatest weakness? Hmm. I’d have to say
my greatest weakness is that I have no tolerance for bullshit.
3. Writing
Trying to write is like trying to get a toddler to put on their pajamas––
it just doesn’t happen, or if it does, it happens inside out and backwards.
4. Going Outside
The world is so smug when I force myself to go outside.
The sun’s like, see? Leaves titter. Squirrels smirk. The sky pats my shoulder. We knew this would help.
5. Everything
Why am I so depraved? What’s wrong with me? You’re asking the wrong questions.
Ask what’s wrong with the systems that shaped me.
Spring, baby, there is no such thing
as forever, stop your chatter.
Spring, baby, what is there to sing
about now, stop your laughter.
I still hear you in a chickadee, a rain-
drop pounding the pavement, faster and faster,
and now you're insisting there is no such thing as pain
as flowerbuds fatten and lambs roam in pastures.
I think we all envy your happiness, spring.
Cummings slobbers all over you, your thighs.
Millay says you're like an idiot strewing flowers.
Spring, baby, just be you. Chirp and rain and sing.
We need you, your mud, your clearing skies.
We like your pink and blue and sun and showers.
Spring, do your thing––just keep on being you.
Spring, I think I get you––I'm an April baby too.
As is the pitfall of many professions, I hold myself up to an impossibly high standard that I will never be able to achieve because I just don’t have it in me. Whether I lack the talent, the work ethic, or the motivation is up for debate. Perhaps it’s my attitude. It’s probably because I’m a woman.
There are so many I envy. They are the crème de la crème, so much better suited to greatness. I wish I had it. But some people just don’t. And those people need to make a living too.
Maybe I do have it. But I’m not good enough, not brave enough. I can’t ignore you, scoff at you, smirk at you, glower at you, or look at you with anything less than a smile. I can’t say what I mean or make you feel stupid. I can’t spit in your food, spit in your face, charge you extra, forget to bring your check, or refuse you anything. I wish I could be like those French waiters, but I can’t.
I’ll be perfectly polite and pleasant. I’ll take a measurement
of you and tailor my behavior to your preferences.
If you’d like a magic fairy to make food appear,
I’ll be your magic fairy and make food appear.
If you’d like me to laugh at your jokes, I’ll laugh,
I’ll banter. I’ll cater to your every wish and amusement.
I’ll never make you feel like you’re wrong.
I’ll say stock phrases with varying degrees of sincerity.
I’ll be your American girl, your 50’s waitress
on rollerskates, serving you sweet food and smiles.
As I walk to the kitchen with your dirty dishes,
I’ll overhear you singing my praises,
and I’ll sigh with disappointment in myself.
Maybe someday I’ll have it in me to succeed.
But for now, I need to be content in being
everything I rage against.
I remember the first day of school
as my first day of life.
I saw the days of play
of yesterday as hazy dreamwaves,
iridescent like the rainbow soapbubbles
I had blown and popped. They'd popped.
Even when I was very young
I felt very old.
Going to school made me feel self-conscious.
I stepped out from the backseat of the blue
CRV and onto the gray gravelly sidewalk.
I faced the car and saw my reflection
distorted by the curve of the car window.
I looked flat and short, small and wide.
My blonde hair was restless
above my shoulders.
I liked my sundress.
I did not like my glasses.
My backpack was larger than I was
but I liked its weight.
My mother walked down the green hill with me.
I did not like the sight of all the people talking
and lined up on the blacktop like ants.
I did not like the ease
with which they were talking.
Did they already know one another?
I felt like I'd missed out on something.
I did not look forward to being swallowed
by the whale jaws of my peers,
waiting for their mercy to befall me.
I glanced at my mom.
She stood on the green hill a few feet away
from me (I was in line on the blacktop)
and spoke soft words.
It was then that I recognized my mother
as my mother.
She was not the other mothers. She was mine.
And she would not be staying at school with me.
Instead of my mother there would be a teacher.
We had talked to my teacher and she was nice.
I liked her but I did not like
saying goodbye to my mother.
She waved at me as our class began its march inside,
walked back up the green hill to the blue CRV.
The classroom was a rainbow
of numbers and letters and crayons and markers.
A boy shared a crayon with me
and became my first friend.
We practiced writing our letters.
I loved the classroom. I never left.
I’m crawling in the
basement like a spider and
you’re flapping in the
attic like a bat. One day
we’ll escape and land like cats.
I remember finding it poetic when my high school French teacher explained that "pommes de terre," the French phrase for potatoes, literally translates to "apples of the earth". It's such a gorgeous phrase for such a simple and even silly noun in English. My site name is a play on words with that phrase, although I am certainly not the first to think of it.
You already know I am a poet, and for our purposes on this page I'm not sure what else there is to know. If you know me: hi! Thanks for reading me!! And if you don't know me, you're reading my poems, so you're getting to know me too. Also, hi!! It's so nice to meet you and thank you for reading me. It's a beautiful thing to be known in this way, and I truly appreciate you spending some time here on this site with me.