A dead, green leaf drifting
Through sunshine waterfalls
Falling
From the brazen branch
[This is a quickie imagist poem I wrote a long time ago, hope you’ve enjoyed it! I primarily just wanted to make a quick post to say I’ve re-categorized all my poetry to fit the theme of my blog and there’s now a dedicated section called Leaves to differentiate it from my Roots & Branches series. Updates for all are coming very soon!]
We know the pen is mightier than the sword, but is the voice mightier than the gun? For what it’s worth, I hope so.
A boy and his gun
Were having some fun
When his dad got home from the army
He took him out back
They shot at his shack
And his dad went back in the morning
They repeated like that
Every year
Every time
A new piece of gear
His father was his hero of course
Three tours in Iraq
But more than that
A fourth one he feared
A fourth one to take his dad from his years
But he taught him how to respect his guns
And how to shoot and how to have fun
He taught him how to shoot at that shack
Just like his dad had shot in Iraq
And then when his parents divorced
And his dad left them
Alone for the course
He had to support his mom
And he said, “I’ll get a gun to protect you mom.”
“I swear.”
He struggled as he worked
From store to store
Longing for a weapon
To fight his own wars
But he never got one
He couldn’t afford
Because his mom needed surgery
And there was this girl, who worked at the store…
He wanted to provide for them
To control his own ward
Where he’d keep and protect them
And guard from the porch
When they came
He’d pull out his gun
And ward off his ward
To protect his sons
But he couldn’t afford one
And so he lost his girl at the store
And a few years later
His mother died too poor
His family gone
He now lived alone
Money problems over
He could finally afford
A gun like his father
Had taught him to sport
He’d finally be able
To fight his own wars
He got his gun
And he took it back
To where he’d learned to shoot
To shoot like in Iraq
He learned to fire
To care for and clean
His brand new, fully featured AR-15
Collapsible stock and quick magazine release
So he could shoot and protect his streets
And keep on shooting..
Modified to repeat repeat repeat
He shot that old shack ’til nothing was left but concrete
finally after the deed was done
on that same foundation
where he was cleaning his gun
he thought of his father
and remembered the fun
but his father was gone now
sixteen years weighed a ton
he wanted to cry then
but he held back his tears
his father had taught him
“real men don’t cry”
“their fire dries tears”
“they never give up:
they set fire to the world
and enchant the girls with
diamonds and pearls”
it was a valuable lesson
he held to its truth
though try
though he might
he cried like a fool
“my father was wrong..”
he thought
“…or might I not be a man?”
he stood up and shouldered his tool
to prove
his own truth in this war
to make things like they were before
he’d lost his father
and family to (((SJWs)))
who’d taken over his pews
and kept him their tool
he knew what to do
he’d strike at the source
he’d take his country back
and he’d take it by force
he’d stop all the marxists
their ideology
he’d take it all back
with his AR-15
and so he marched
with it strapped to his back
ready to shoot it
like he’d been taught by the shack
he took it over to district 67
and marched in the school at 11
he shot 7 teachers there dead
and fired 16 more shots
all of which missed
12 ricocheted and tore through the door
where a group of kids hid
twenty and
four
who were shot in cold blood
no way to escape
when he saw them lying there he felt
the tears come again
and the lies overcame him
like a bullet to the head
go about your business–
there’s nothing to see here–
just a girl in a corner
looking for words–
words to teach of a new way
to see– and define things for
what they truly may be–
she’s so close to
meaning
but so far away–
maybe she’ll find it
some sane day
when she takes the time
to find the right rhyme
and the rest of the song
falls into place
but the rhyme doesn’t
matter– it only gets in the way
of the rest of the message
she’s grasping to say– to you–
you who she already told
to just go away–
watch some television
or some other thing–
get on Facebook–
look up some porn–
whatever you do
when you find yourself bored–
that’s what life’s about
for you– nothing greater–
nothing more
what have you done
to learn how to know
what’s happening– here and now–
what do you know about
the girl in the corner–
who’s writing these lies
about you down– nothing–
nothing, nothing she’d say–
there’s nothing to see here–
just go away
[Originally written, 2008]
In honor of Valentine’s Day, here’s a poem I wrote with a broken heart.
you were the paint
in my blue, blue sky
the green of my trees
that green from my eyes
a brush stroke passed
and washed away
the blue, blue blends
and turned into gray
you were the paint
that made my world blend
the mix and the hue
that made my blood red
a dead dry brush
hardened by the paint
put to rest in water
soaked up the cup
you were the paint
yellow and scraped
across intangible lines
drawn around and draped
a drip drop dripped
tears down the canvas face
ruining the rhythm
purposing the pace
building down to nothing
the paint devoured all
and rolled up the color
into fat violet balls
you were the paint
that covered my world in fire
the all consuming orange
that blazed my desire
a dancing flame flickered
caught concocted copse
flirted with flesh
and licked the last drop
[Originally written, 2012]
A mix of prose and poetry describing psychological abuse and sexual assault. Not for the faint of heart.
The Bible is not meant to be read literally.
Nor is the title of this article.
This isn’t an article about the big red-horned fallen angel who supposedly hates God and rules over Hell.
Well, that’s a lie, it is.
But not literally.
This is an article about my own personal Satan.
In biblical sources, the Hebrew term satan describes an adversarial role. It is not the name of a particular character. Although Hebrew storytellers as early as he sixth century B.C.E. occasionally introduced a supernatural character whom they called the satan, what they meant was any one of the angels sent by God for the specific purpose of blocking or obstructing human activity.
– Elaine Pagels, “The Origin of Satan,” 1995
It was then,
As I was a woman
All drawn out of shape,
That the Devil appeared
With his devlish smirk.
He took me up by the mind
And told me his name
I’ve since forgotten it.
But I’ll never forget what it means.
The Devil came up from Kentucky.
I drove him here myself.
We met online.
We’d spent the several weeks previous texting and calling one another every day.
It was going so well.
I’d gone through a divorce about a year and a half prior and I finally felt ready to date again. I’d dated one other guy briefly. He was nice, but not for me. We’ve maintained a friendship at least.
This time, it felt right.
We met for lunch and then I drove him up tour my hometown.
All throughout the day, everything was perfect. We got along every bit as well in person as we had electronically.
I decided to invite him back to my place.
He sat down, legs spread in my easy chair.
And then, his shape changed.
He became someone else.
Satan revealed himself to me.
He said he was in love
With another woman,
drawn in his shape.
No one could ever love me
But as a waif.
He brought me to
The other side of the veil.
Showed me the void,
and took me to Hell.
He wanted to be called “daddy”
and called me his whore.
If I was a good girl
Maybe I could be more
Maybe he would take me down
For a spin upon his cock
And maybe he would unravel me
From this knitted sock.
The Devil took my shape that day,
And twisted its already twisted form.
Then twisted
and twisted
and twisted it more
And that’s the last thing I can tell you about that. The rest is one big blank I have ripped out of my mind. I honestly can’t tell you what followed.
I can only remember the terror of it.
Complete subversion. Total bewilderment. Utter disorientation.
What did I do? What choice did I have?
I like to think I stood up to him and overcame my adversary right then and there and threw him out of my house.
But I know that’s not what happened.
The nearest memory I have, I was driving again, on the road back to Kentucky.
He seemed pleased.
His shape wasn’t twisted anymore.
He was the same as before.
I thought about driving my car into the Ohio River.
The world would have been a better place if I did.
He haunted me for years after.
My mind was filled with monsters. The world was on fire.
Once you meet the Devil, he’s always with you.
He’ll never stop trying to rip you from Heaven and condemn you to Hell.
But, like any adversary, he can be overcome.
Like God, and like me, I hope you have angels to help if you ever meet him.
It was a long road to calling myself a survivor, but I’m lucky in that I had a very strong social support network in my life at the time. So many wonderful wounded women who had been through similar events helped me to overcome him.
They are all like sisters to me.
Their support taught me an important lesson. The devil can’t catch you if you’re smarter than him. And so that’s what I did, I became smarter than him. I poured myself into my work. I studied and worked harder than I’d ever known I was capable of and became crafty enough that he couldn’t catch me anymore.
In a weird way, I’d like to thank him.
I’m a much better person because of what he did.
But that would require forgiveness, and that’s not mine to give…
The devil almost had me fooled.
He knew the weaknesses of my shape
And exploited every one.
His tricks twisted me
To his own twisted shape.
But I learned from his tricks
Some tricks of the trade.
I learned how to spin
To twist who I am
And I learned how to do it
Better than him
I learned how to shape
my words,
my body,
my thoughts,
my actions,
my movements,
my soul
To be impenetrable by the Devil
I’ve cast from my Throne.
Condemned,
to eternal shaplessness.
He taught me to shape
And how to forget.
He taught me survival
And the pain of it.
He taught me forgiveness…
and the truth therein:
Sometimes, it’s best left to God.
I hope he’s somewhere praying.
He can arrive at any moment
You don’t always hear his chime
He will try to change your shape
He will try it every time
And sometimes, if you let him
While you’re not watching your shape
He will take and take and take from it
And take,
and take,
and take..
The foolish thing in all this is
This twisted
twisted
twisted shape
This shape the Devil’s made of you
Is his own devilish shape
The only shape that matters is
The shape you make alone
The shape that you take with you
That pattern you follow
The shape you make is better
This shape is your own
It’s knitted
and drawn
And painted
and sewn
It’s battered
and bruised
and berated
and honed
It’s in the music you make
It’s in the sound of your voice
It tastes just like the taste of your tears
It’s woven into choice
It overcomes the worst you fear
It can bring your thoughts to cheer
It’s in the burden on your back
It’s the plan when you attack
It’s your guide
when nothing’s clear.
It’s written into the presence you have
And the way you make your way.
Next time Satan tries to twist it:
Overcome the meaning of his name.
I want to write it
I know what wonders it can do
To paint with words
That flow fresh into rainless rifts
Becoming resplendent rivers
Like before…
Before
the splits
the splits
the splits
If I could I would fill them with water
I know what wonders it can do
But erasure is a measure
For not just one but two
Water can only fill the rifts,
Beneath, they will remain
Eroded by worded beauty
Only deepening the pain
What’s left on the surface
Is prettier, it’s true
But what true beauty can be left
When the splits have become you?
[Originally written, 2011]
A poem exploring the genderization of an old man at a playground.
The Old Man sits and
ponders all
The little girls play with
little dolls
The boys play of
guns and war
The Old Man watches
chapter and verse
“Bang, bang,” a boy falls
to the ground
The girls roll their eyes and
begin playing House
The Old Man rises
and purses his lips
Children come running
and cling to his hip
[Originally written, 2009]
