having taken inventory (terza rima)

One day, not so long ago,
I told my story.
But, there was so much I didn't know.

Now, as I take my inventory,
as you must do, now and again,
if only an exploratory

act; I wrote it all down with my quill pen
the power I was relinquishing
but just another mess and then,

I found something quite distinguishing;
a darkness inside me I had thought I'd abandoned.
All confidence of mine now extinguishing.

My wounds bandaged,
I scooped up my grief
and, well, managed

to quell disbelief
and remember to blink, just twice,
to experience some relief.

I took all the advice,
but it all fell flat.
It wasn’t worth the asking price.

I put on my hard hat,
placed my fears aside, at last,
and prepared for combat.

I almost wished I hadn't asked-
oh dear, I almost cried-
realizing that it all wouldn't be fixed so fast,

nor will it break, even if tried.
So, straight on I looked at my darkness,
"Fine, let's talk," I clarified.

Emily Dickinson

I stay up late to read Emily Dickinson's poems again and again
because nobody did when she was still here.*
I speak of her, it is the very least that she deserves;
hers was a common name in gossip for becoming a "spinster," but that
was her key to independence. Plus, it's so awkward when you are so gay.
The memory of her still burns strong.
She left an important mark before she was gone.
I'm saying all this, in this funny way,
to hold your attention, if I may.

Emily Dickinson was a woman ahead of her time,
they say that so sadly, but she knew it to be true,
and so she lived her life the way she wanted to.
She never stopped writing, even when they begged her to
"No," she said simply, and I'm paraphrasing here,
"I'm a woman and I belong here."
Because she did.
And, I bet she took up every room.

what is it about children

what is it about children
that when they’re cheery
you so want to keep them that way

that when they feel their first
painful losses,
when you know there are more to come, when
a friend ignores them,
they break a bone,
they see just a sliver of
the ugliness of our world
you want to cry for them,
to take it away

have you ever felt a moment
where a great life lesson
is yet to be said, do you wonder
if you should say it?

go off on how, don’t worry,
we’re really quite insignificant,
in the scheme of things, but still
have to try because, well,
it’s so much more fun that way

What They Tell Us

They tell us that we become women
when we learn the pain of menstruation,
never teaching about the beauty of our bodies.

They comment on our eyes and our thighs,
we soon understand that it's not a compliment;
making sure we know that our physical characteristics
are always being judged, always the first factor.

They say it's inevitable, that we will find a boyfriend,
but plan to punish us when we do.
If we refuse or dare insult the opposite sex,
we get made fun of and at times
flames of something far scarier hide behind the laughter.

They tell us to give men a chance
but also warn against contact,
using our fear as bait
to guide the preachings against sin
deep into our subconscious
so that we can't close our eyes
without being horrified at who we find
staring back.

They remind us every day that
our bodies will never be good enough
then, are surprised to discover that we hate ourselves.

They tell us what "real women" look like
but somehow do not understand
why we cry when we don't fit the bill.

We are not vain,
we are tearing out stitches from years of self-depreciation
that once bound us up, tight, and held us back,
only now learning about our own bodies.

We are taking a stand
with raised voices and raised signs
with self-love and paintbrushes
hoping to keep younger generations
from knowing our pain.

They try to tell us who we are to be,
To that, we say, "No more."

it's late

it’s late, i think
the time’s all wrong,
my body is protesting
some functions are on strike-
but i can hear my mother’s soft snore
and look around this unfamiliar room
and feel my pencil,
right here,
in my hand and
i don’t much mind that it’s late

Like I can see

Like I can see the water

and hear it gently lapping at the shore.

Like I can see the great mountain peaks,

in sharper focus than the

ancient rolls of the Blue Ridge

that I’m used to.

Like I feel the wooden deck,

peeling away underneath my

fingertips, reminding me that I still stand

even when life picks away at me.

I can see my future

stretching out ahead of me.

as writers.

This is my 200th poem on this blog since I started it 2,453 days ago (~6 years and 9 months) with my first poem, "Mother" 10/08/12 when I was 10-years-old.

as writers, we
often try to figure out
why we are
writers.
to decipher the mechanisms
in our brain that makes us
relive our pain over and over
just to get the poem right

I’ve heard that we’re seekers
mining for some truth;
others say we are looking for
explanations into our reactions to
our own traumas;
others claim downright insanity;

what about none of those
and all of them at once
what about the itch
to explain all of our truths
and explanations and insanity
to whoever will read it