the girl with no country

I don’t write well

in confined spaces -

tie me up,

watch how much I 

don’t write,

I pull myself,

scrambling,

into the smallest hole possible

as the eyes burn towards me,

my form twisted 

into the smallest shape

possible

until you leave 

and I can breathe 

again

the words falling, flowing

like juice from a 

just-cut pear

-————————————————————————-

Introduction

if I write for you,

do you think you could read it?

savor the words

carefully

chosen just for your eyes,

your ears

for I am personal

and I am illegible,

in all manners and parts

I am how you choose

to see me

-————————————————————————-

Jungle Red

a thousand handfuls, grasping and

angry

fall to the street beneath outstretched arms

yearning to fly- fly

crushed red velvet

in drops of tears and blood

the failed flight documented

in whispers

of bystanders

like watchers at an execution,

grim but entertained-

and the petals won’t sell now

-————————————————————————-

Complaints

she had a 

beautiful face

and those kinds of faces

are given tickets

to the shows

my plain one doesn’t

merit.

-————————————————————————-

Of a November Night

new remembrance sounded in the Bells

faint impression, hurried knowledge

he knew not rosy-cheeked company

comfortable company

before a bright fire, the fragrance of hot tea and

muffins

lingered longer while

his idle fingers spread out, as if wishing to 

gain entry, 

push open the door

hear shouts of welcome.

-

“I’m glad to think we once had muffins,”

he mutters,

“it’s a sort of night that’s meant for muffins.”

-————————————————————————-

Minute 7

frustrated 

with the part you

were given since birth,

you spend your days

lonelily

walking the 

earth

————————————————————————-

Another Untitled

Fancy yourself a 

lifeline

tether me,

you braided rope,

and if 

you snap

let’s drown together-

away, away

-————————————————————————-

Scrambling

you feel like you’re falling

behind and behinder

as kids pull out words

just as easily as pulling 

the tabs off of 

the pages in books that you tagged

 because the words speak to you

 like your mom never did,

your sister underlines phrases

that broke your small heart 

because she needs to prove she read it 

to your rambling

grey

teacher who stands in the front

lecturing about whitman

and yeats like it’s a history class

and it’s all you can do not to

scream 

“o captain my captain”

and stand on your wooden chair,

wishing for robin williams

and a class full of poets

-————————————————————————-

Linear

Lining streets with

golden threads

what long and 

luminous

golden threads

we all tread paths

down the poised

cement

cruising lengths and 

lines

-————————————————————————

Minute 6

gingerly -

like walking over

cobblestones with bare feet

your toes grip 

each brick

-————————————————————————-

Unsure

his feet pull

slippery trails along the

scorched brown earth,

a study in isolation

but never quite alone

————————————————————————-

There’s Time Yet

Dwindling,

you push ahead

the nights aren’t longer than 

the time you’ll need

to draw another chapter

for the yellow room

you pace

-————————————————————————-

Minute 4

There’s nothing so easy

as packing and leaving,

draw back from the window,

they charge you of thieving-

the night time sky pours forth

with orange-black resilience

oh, let the stars go with

their glows

and their millions

-————————————————————————-

This is England

buttering a slice

of thick wheat toast

he pulls his slippers off

and runs his feet along

the cold tile

-————————————————————————-

Coffee

the thankless barista

wipes out the blender,

pulling the off-white, 

slightly greyish towel

around and around,

crooning along with college rock

that 

tinkles from a cracked cream 

radio in the corner

as, outside, the light

falls faster.

-————————————————————————-

Proposing

Maybe I’ll see you around - 

I do the shopping

on Wednesdays

your fruit stand is 

more expensive

than his, but

your dimples are 

worth it

-————————————————————————-

And so it goes

chimney tops

dot

the purple-grey 

sky,

a sign of more

winters

to come

-————————————————————————-

Allowances

grandiose,

his words rang

false

such half-attempted apologies

we all accept

because refusing

would leave us alone.

-————————————————————————-

If you would

Persuade me to

deliver

a hand-drawn map

of tears

to a certain stranger,

and I’ll tell you the entire story,

leaving out the

names and faces - 

you’ll fill in your own

and we’ll see

how different

we aren’t.

-————————————————————————-

Minute 3

Our feet beat

rhythms on the 

quite church-like streets

granting sinners pardons

because the day is bright

and they deserve

just one more chance

-————————————————————————-

Musings

he darkest of hues,

a stretching silence, savored and stolen memories

blank pages of sound

clicks of a typewriter

punch the silence, 

lonely silence - hush.

ca-clicka-click

ding

rhythm becoming background to the scene

paper peeling precariously

off white-washed walls

as he ignores her,

smoking,

grey clouds enveloping - 

she sits at the window gazing out to the 

spring-like showers

and bunches of flowers

that reflect the sun’s

bright brazen beams

and longs to be a dewdrop

on the petal

of a rose.

-————————————————————————-

Vermillion

She was always ethereal

glowing by night,

shining by day

not quite there and transparent

she felt thin, other-worldly

like some displaced daughter of the Moon,

outshining the bland-faced stars

one-in-a-million

but she was vermillion

and jealousy, it killed her

snuck under carpets, through cracks and finally

breathed itself not her star friends

(and so they killed her)

the stars, they killed her

but when her light had finally flickered out

none of the stars shone any brighter

than they had before

and so she died for meaningless ends,

meaningless means, meaningless ways

and the vermillion Moon daughter

erased.

————————————————————————-

Soldiering

with sticky fingers

and a grin like Chesire’s,

he flies about the cramped room,

lightly smacking the floor with his free hand

as the other adjusts the soldier’s arms, the left straight at attention

the right slightly wobbling 

in and out 

of its wooden socket,

a plaything that’s seen better days.

he sucks on the right arm

the pained sleeve and buttons

gone as the wood peeks through the remains of a red jacket - 

mama stands by the pantry and sighs

“tonight will be a hungry night,” she says,

adjusting her thin sweater.

-————————————————————————-

Today

our green hats

tipped with flakes

resemble snow-covered 

clovers - 

an odd thing for March

————————————————————————-

Mired

they are slaves

though they were created

rebels

such infinities of longing,

the fast and dangerous nature of passion,

and now,

calm and passive slumber -

away with the dreamers

and sinners!

the song writer’s voice dies out with the sunshine

and darkness pervades,

evading entrapment

by working its clever way into men’s minds

their souls bare,

stripped clean and seeds planted anew

eyes dim as memories return to the book,

the source of their undoing

-————————————————————————-

Cranberries

cranberries

not often recalled

the juice tangy not sweet

enough

leaves you craving

they knew exactly what

they did,

the juicemakers

the seed bearers and the planters

- they know your taste

far better than you do

-————————————————————————-

Things we’ll do today

what dreams have you

brought

to me today, thief?

dreams of children or of lovers?

we’ll pile them 

high, (careless stacks

caress these walls)

and read them like books

a trellis we’ll make with 

imaginings

your darker wishes and my 

fiery ones

licking the tops of the pages

like flames

in the kindling

-————————————————————————-

Questions

What kind of mother tells

her children stories of

a man killing his own son?

(my ears closed hands

tugging the book from the 

shelf hands tearing pages

cleanly out hands flipping

the broken binding into a 

dark space it will join the

peels and old paper)

I won’t tell my children

of such things.

-———————————————————————

Locks

when your hair tangles

easily

your fingers catching in its

twisted ends

I’ll comb it for you

my hands as gentle as 

your lips

my heart as open as

your eyes

-———————————————————————

A Justification

If you use the word

realistic

to describe my work,

it would sound to me like

a death sentence,

(the bell tolling on my existence and I climb

heavy wooden steps towards the scaffold).

No,

I don’t try for realism,

truth,

or ordinariness.

My work is not here

to entertain you - 

it’s for me.

I will never be one of 

those girls

who have lunches paid for

by strange handsome men

in small steamy cafes

miles away from home.

But in a poem,

I could be.

I won’t fall prey to the snickers

of a scoundrel, thoughts of a thief

but I, being a character

in this poem I write for myself,

could.

You may call me romantic

or larger than life-

Yes,

I’d rather like that

words can make my life larger

than it is

and that is why

we writers write.

-———————————————————————

Pierce

I can’t explain,

make excuses

for the way I love that

silver sliver

slithering

around your lip, 

a tiny rebellion

your tongue feels its thin metallic edge

you taste my name

———————————————————————

Minute 9

think of loving someone

to distraction - 

this is no love that could

be measured in spoonfuls,

spoonfuls of love

this is the great tidal wave

of emotion,

pulling you into small,

clingy bits

that form together when 

eyes meet yours,

but fall apart while you are alone,

a glorious earful of breathless

promises

and your eyes, now open,

allow you to dream

just this 

once