Category Archives: poetry

It isn’t – 1×30


It isn’t comfortable or kind
and it doesn’t live in your chest.
or your head.
It doesn’t belong to logic

It isn’t grey or blue
and it isn’t light shades of pink
it isn’t pastel anything
it’s not a tint you know how to name.

It doesn’t sound like strings
or wind instruments
can’t be played out on keys
doesn’t belong to the bells.

It doesn’t live in the city,
or on any mountain peak.
It can’t be found on casual strolls
down side city streets.

Of course it is something, it has a title,
though, I’ve forgotten how to pronounce it.
couldn’t even sound it out,
buried  it too deep to remember.
prompt found on NaPoWriMO

Cooking Mojo



When your cooking mojo returns –
when it returns it will be sometime near midnight,
on a Thursday,
there will be vegetables that were picked by someone you know,
just a few days earlier.
They are leftover from a  dinner, where you were reminded that you feed people.
And at nearly midnight, on the day before Friday, you will have to make ratatouille.

Because it’s been six months that you’ve let other people feed you,
and it’s time that you start getting acquainted with your kitchen.
Remind yourself, how well you can move in this space,
how you yield utensils and knives
with grace some people reserve for dancing.

When you sit down to eat, you will not
be the kind of full of you were hoping for.
But, you won’t be nearly as hungry.



Poems Outloud – or I should be grading


I should be grading.  But I’m seeing essays even when I close my eyes, so I’m taking a break. I’m trying to get things organized around here — by around here, I mean on the site.  I’ve got some fun things in the works in terms of writing for this summer — so I’m trying to make things always workable — which I know they aren’t always now. Read the rest of this entry

Confession, or where I start telling the truth.


I’m trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across—not to just depict life—or criticize it—but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing. You can’t do this without putting in the bad and the ugly as well as what is beautiful. Because if it is all beautiful you can’t believe in it. Things aren’t that way. -Ernest Hemingway

The thing is — I didn’t know how to do this — I’ve written through so many things in the past — but not — Well I just haven’t known how.  Tonight — the bad and the ugly, and after that — everything else.

Dear Writer’s Block

Da Fuck?!

Look I have done ever mode of writing exercise to ensure the words would flow in some manner that assembled presentable – Not good mind you but presentable order-
But instead,
all modes of ill contrived poetic nonsense comes for from this pen.
Come on muse,
where you at?

I imagine people whispering —
Doesn’t she have anything new?
Oh sure 42 pages of absolute shit —
Not new shit
just bad shit —
that talks about absolutely nothing

Poetry I imagine happens as you peel back layers,
onion skin thin,
perhaps as stinky.
And to be almost honest,
I dear blocker of writing, have piling the layers on.

Because otherwise,
I would have to uncover more than even I have been able to let go  on stage.
Because there would be verses crafted of the
“I know you hate me,” let go from my, just four years old’s mouth — or the,
“I wish I wasn’t here any more,” the crushing angst of a six-year-old,
who after being calmed by the warm water of a five-minute shower — breathes,
“Mama, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”
Oh sweet child of mine,
that my synapses run in you, I am so, so, sorry.
And then – then if I got done with the heartbreak of being a mama,
I would need to proceed through the litany of other broken heart fractures.
The failure of a marriage that I had vowed,
under a large oak tree, that stood in for god,
to stick with forever and a day–

And there is the hurt, that is friendships changing.
Those dear ones will always occupy puzzle piece shaped soul moments

And then, when done with all that tragic verse-
I would owe stanzas to fear,
couplet after couplet of —
I am not brave enough,
I can not go on  alone,
I can not be my myself.

But writer’s block –
You have made all of that impossible.
So now, I dwell in the could-bes of the page —
the should-haves of the lines.

Sylvia I am not,
But confessional poet I am.
This mic is  what I need,
and I will beak with out poems for you.

So Dear blocker of my muse –
kindly go the fuck away.

The kinda night —


The kinda night, where the clouds roll in with a storm, just as you thought you were going to lose your mind to the heat and the sun.
The kinda night, where a poet gets on stage, and reminds you, that if you want to get better, it is about damn time you took pen to paper.
The kinda  night, where friends tell you they will cook pizza with you, and you know it is more than calories that will help build layers around  your broken heart.
The kinda night, where you drive home in downpours that wash away dust, while the Goo Goo Dolls remind you that “everything feels like the movies, and you bleed just to know you’re alive.”
The kinda of night where you get to the top of your stairs in your apt, and get down on your knees to thank a god you don’t believe in for reminding you, that if you want yo get better,
you have to write.


With more eloquence than I have been able to muster


To be honest,
I had no intention for this night to be,
What this night became.
Had no intention to hear the words I have meant to say.
Repeated back.
Except they were just eighty seven million times better than I would have ever managed to put them together. 
But then.
It happneed.