Abandoning PreciousnessThe most important thing about creating art is to create. If you want to be at ease with creativity, you have to immerse yourself in it, and do a little bit every day. Even if that little bit is only to take five minutes while waiting for the bus to come and do a gesture drawing of a man reading his book across the street from you. Or to take the moment to scribble down a thumbnail rough sketch of a concept that occurs to you. Do a little bit each day. Train your brain to think visually.Abandoning Preciousness2 years ago in Editorial More Like This
It can be difficult at first, accustoming yourself to make this small bit of time, because you’ll think:
“I don’t have enough time for it.”
“Art is hard!”
“I’m not good enough yet for that piece I’ve always wanted to do.”
“I’m stuck. Artist’ block.”
These are all excuses. Yes art IS hard. Yes, you might not be good enough yet to do that masterwork that you’ve been dreaming of, but let me le
RustThe dwelling rustRust9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
swells this hollow garden
and somewhere in the yard
a tire swing goes flat
against the skyline.
It chokes the autumn light
in the silo,
the crush of
mums and ragged berries
It bubbles in the percolator
steeping still life
in the caul
of early morning -
the red-brown crumbs
of breakfast toast and jam
growing ghosts upon
And deep inside
I still hear you waking up
the soft salute
of morning voices
stirring the wind
outside my window.
Spring CleaningThe sickening slam-dunkSpring Cleaning3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
his heart made
when it hit the floor
like a soft boiled egg -
so she scooped it up
and fed it lovingly to the bird,
wondering why the litter pan
had not been emptied
and the kitchen smelled of sweat.
Her husband took up
too much room
along with the credenza
stuffed in the closet.
She couldn't get the vacuum
round them both.
and his shadow was eating up
too much daylight.
A Dreamer BlessingMama, I met a dreamer.A Dreamer Blessing9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
All the glass I'd broken, I thought
dreamers shy from edges. But in between
the cracks - it's in between the cracks
where you break your mother's back
for how she let you become
such a dreamer - in between
the cracks I found someone, Mama,
who won't shy from ledges
I hear the heart grows callused.
You wear it on your palm and heave
against the ground, you and your novel
ways to fly. So what comes from you
has passport, but what goes in breaks skin -
guerrila love, no trust,
ash to dust, blood lust,
in which to recover
let's never go home.
Let's never go home.
This dance lives in the aether,
let's breathe what we can't
swallow, let's swim when we
can't fly - let's spin ourselves
what casing God allows
for now, and try not to break.
Let's promise to leave
when we can't stand.
Mama, I met a dreamer.
I glued up all the glass and built
these ledges. But I have no wings to fly.
Another Road Songfor ashAnother Road Song9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
For a given value of love, this
is your song –
Let's run away.
I have bags, a ticket,
sex on my tongue, 8
new ways to say
I don't mind I can't
ever go home.
I don't mind, for a given value
of love, I can't ever go home.
Let's walk on the sun.
Heard a song once, said
it can be done and I don't
trust those stoners but I'd
walk across coals for God,
God makes the sun flowers, so
for a given value of hot,
I'd say you're the one.
Lady With Cellohow like an organLady With Cello2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a cello is
to hear the
garble and to
inward— pluck it out
cellist on a bench
in curls, stiff
she is scared
knee feels the back
is a lift
in Rhode Island
a log with
shakes his head
does he dream
does she flood him
in all the dawning
places I can’t breach?
our heartsyour heartour hearts1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
is a tiny wild grey-brown bird
and my love is a pair of cupped hands.
is a tinny flitting silver fish
and your love is a pool, dark and deep.
the moral is,
some things are worth holding still for.
Of leaving pieces.Understand this: that love is a religionOf leaving pieces.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of birds, of restlessness, of flight.
Of moving somewhere warmer when the cold sets in,
of longing, of leaving, of being
the one left behind, of feathers,
of an empty nest in the heart of winter,
nestled in some firm elbow of brittle branches
that stopped reaching for the sky when the last
leaf fell, bleak against a landscape of
blacks and whites and greys save for one
little piece of red string,
tucked lovingly among the twigs,
so dutifully gathered, piece by piece,
by a creature who had seen winters before,
but made a home for himself here anyway.
You Old Bastardto me he was the opposite of love,You Old Bastard3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but that was okay. i was seventeen
and loud-mouthed, he was older,
drove his car like a bully,
made my skin cry -- you, the stoic father
that hated me, my nervous laugh, my lipstick
wrapped around too many cigarettes,
the body unapologetic.
i don't miss your son
or his face or his cruelty
but today a woman stared
at the bites on my neck and
i thought of you,
you old bastard.
so i hope there is a new girl now
wearing leopard-print on your Sundays
who sits in my chair, tells dirty jokes and takes
a drag, exhales --
blowing smoke, all over your lasagna
and all over your
PromiseOne day darling,Promise3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'll paint you a picture
of the house you'll grow old
in, with flowers that grow
from its ears, a bright warrior
brave arriving at the front
door beating her chest.
We'll pour the sad
away, fill the space with
baby-songs and pot roasts, thoughts
of old loves in Cuba,
sleepy hands that smoothe away
the cracks in Paradise. Angel,
let me paint in your life,
the hazel stretch between
today and tomorrow
and the colours will run together
madly, make you swallow your cries
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning stormaubrey1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
that leaves only plastic bags and stray dogs
flitting through the river runway streets.
You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,
searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,
and seams bursting from blistering electricity—
I am not afraid of you.
My father has whirling weatherveins too,
but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;
typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.
She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshine
clenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, and
more importantly, she will make you feel okay.
You deserve okay.
manufacturethere's such reassurancemanufacture1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the squeak creak
of old parts,
wooden wheels leather belts
brittle rubber rain wet glass
there's such horror
in the silence
the song of a roamerAnd darling, I've been gone for a long, long time. Your eyesthe song of a roamer3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are still that steely gunpowder blue, but your hair has grown long,
and there's a softer curve to your waist
and freckles on your shoulder I don't remember,
and I think,
What have I missed?
You tell me about the weddings
the divorces. You tell me
about the babies
and the losses, and how last year
your dog died--easy, in his sleep--
and there is a hollow lack in you,
a space reserved for things that won't come back.
Long ago, was there a space like that
When did it collapse--when did it
fold in on itself
under the weight of things that matter more?
I tell you about Cambodia. I paint
the jungles for you, breathe the crushing wet heat
of it into your lungs. I tell you
about the kids in Africa
and how the heat is different there--
belligerent and fierce.
I tell you how much you would have liked Barbados,
and how much you would have hated Rome.
And I remember all the things I
can't tell you--all the things I don't hav
RetreatRetreat8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Since there's nothing I can do about love, I've written it
all to exhaustion, I'd better go to the river
and pound this paper on the rocks to wash it clean.
The words come now only to say these things.
I've learnt the art of folding and set armadas
on the water, I've dug holes in the sand with my heel,
buried poems like some dog, like some baby looking for water
who knows that God will come eventually to her aid. I put pen
to driftwood once, I have a photograph.
These are the things, these are the only things,
anything else is filigree and distraction, a women's magazine
in the waiting room before the white coat comes
with guarded smile and pulls me in. These
are the only things I know of, my only blocks, so if
I don't build other things, if there are only seas, only boats,
only boats, I am sorry. Should there be revolution
and not lovers, should there be other pain, should
the ground beneath my feet not make me tremble, not even
be a phrase anymore - I don't know. There is nothing
Rapunzel in the TowerRapunzel in the tower;Rapunzel in the Tower4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Sleeping Beauty at the loom;
Snow White slumbers in a casket;
Girls spin gold in locked up rooms.
Cinderella in the ashes
O! These stories oft they tell:
How Eurydice's at the mercy
Of a man singing in hell.
Addicted to HeroinesHe was addicted to heroines:Addicted to Heroines3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
those golden queens from screens of silver
that lined his shelves in plastic boxes
showcasing their greatest deeds;
and painted whores,
those sirens and saviors,
who stood half naked on shady streets.
They were steel wrapped in petals,
and petals draped in lace,
in their arms lay warmth,
in their hearts lay escape.
He prayed for strong women
that were not so far,
devastatingly far out of reach.
Though still small,
he would shun the sun
and bask in their blessed shadows.
He prayed for someone to stay
whom he could not,
He vowed not to use angels,
those sweet Nightingales,
who flew away from him in the end – –
to be high on their bravery!
He was addicted to heroines,
to the ichor in their veins,
and the lift of their wings.
He was a frightened boy
hiding in the hollows
of the shell of a man,
fearful of fractures
from his weakness.
On the verge of breaking:
terrified the w
chloeyou will never get to see me.chloe1 month ago in Free Verse More Like This
when i used to be pretty,
my hair shone like meek gold,
and i had thoughtful eyes -
light glowed within,
and i was a child who
loved to read and write.
i will never get to see you.
you will always be pretty,
your hair bouncy brown, eyes blithe and whimsy
and from me, you inherit one thing.
night time, in the quiet of your room,
absorbed in a book,
you will scribble a few words.
i am not mommy.
someone else will introduce
those chewy gummy worms,
the three-wheel mini-bike,
the joy of pink,
and a bitty brown puppy.
i am not grandma.
someone else will tell you
not to squish flowers,
not to startle her
when she's making you soup,
not to let rain
or uncouth people get you down.
you are faraway from me.
i let go, sweetheart.
by now, i should get by with moments
that never took place
like hearing you call me Nanay1
and you dreaming in the car seat.
i have hugged you
so many times.
© May 23, 2015
sirensAudio version here.sirens2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sometimes the mermaids will watch the sailorboys, and green ocean eyes will take in the powerful shoulders and the instinctive sense of balance, and sometimes one will fall in love. and sometimes this love will fill up her chest so much it hurts, and sometimes it will make her reckless--make her swim silently up to the sides of the boats and reach up (carefully, with just the barest sound of water droplets tumbling back into the depths) and rest her arms on the wood that's long since been worn smooth from salt and sun. and sometimes the sailorboy will turn, but he'll see nothing--but when he hauls in his net it will be brimming, straining at the seams, and he will look out over the ocean for a moment, all the way to the blank horizon, and sometimes he will wonder.
and it's easy to love the girls that swim up from the bottom of the ocean with nets knotted up in their
let go, little bird--hope is the tired little bird at the bottom of your heart, the one whose tiny wings are broken and bleeding, the one that won't stop flapping uselessly at the sky, like it's going to take off, take off dammit, even when it's fading by the second and dying in a heap of feathers, and it breaks your heart to see the optimistic flame still sparkling in such innocent eyes.let go, little bird--5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i'm writing this to tell you that i don't know what i need. i'm writing this because i can't pull any fancy metaphors from the back of my throat to save my pride this time. i'm writing this to see the look on your face when you wake up and wonder why i keep running away.
hope is the thing with feathers, my broken baby bird. hope is the trust in those newborn eyes that makes you burst out sobbing although you never know why. it's the razor-sharp edge between happiness and pain, the line you try to fly on crippled wings, my little bird, just to save someone stronger from having to walk it for themselves.
seven hours of who you might have beeni.seven hours of who you might have been2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the breath you took
the moment you fell
lies in the dirt somewhere
between the garden
and the dip of empty earth
where rain pools.
all the lost things of your life
keep gathering in cottony patches overhead
that only the flowers
you have touched
years vine out.
between thumb and forefinger,
the clumsiness of
more than just one
on Judgment Day
your tomato plants
will come out of the earth
carrying your bravery
like beads of water,
they will gesture
with their leaves
magnificent and half-drunk
you left the house
to stand in the historic thunderstorm
the neighborhood dogs,
the ants of
the trees lining the water
and the green in the air,
and the distance
between syllables of river-water
replace the vanishing point
in all your
with the divine.
how many words
you could form
out of your name,
and how often
your hour in the sun
was all that mattered
i don't believe in jesusno one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth.i don't believe in jesus2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i don't get a dollar under my pillow for having sex with my boyfriend.
there are no doctors smiling at me when i tell them my cherry has been popped.
i am a whore for having premarital sex.
i am a tramp for loving someone enough to open my body to them.
no one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth -
but i slip mine under my pillow anyway, and in the morning when i wake,
there is a quarter and a tiny folded note:
"you are not a slut."
The Memoir of a CosplayerThe Memoir of a CosplayerThe Memoir of a Cosplayer4 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Growing up as a teen who harbored a passion for the Japanese culture, it's animations, music and art, I found a great liking towards cosplay and I struggled to make my parents realize my dreams of becoming a cosplayer. It was difficult explaining to my parents for the first time that I had wanted to attend an Anime Convention, to go to the different events held within it, it's panels and shops in the dealers room, but I finally convinced them that this is what I wanted to do, that this is something I wanted to experience and if I didn't enjoy it, then I didn't, but if I did, I did.
I may not be a widely recognized cosplayer, though I hope to one day make a name for myself in this community, and I thought that I could start by sharing my story. Not only sharing my struggles of becoming a cosplayer, but by sharing my experiences of becoming who I am today.
A good place to start would be at the very b
PoisonAfter the thrill of the huntPoison7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are still here -
churning me up inside,
making me into something
like a river
or a catastrophe.
I can almost see you
standing there on the porch
in the half-light
of naked wood and nails,
smoking your cigarette -
dressed up like a riddle.
What did you call me again?
Something that rhymed
with Brian or David
that you could only pronounce
with your mouth full.
I let you wear your boots
I let you lie
about your age
and your husband,
and the fact that the library
wanted you for murder.
But you just moved
through my room
wearing my shirt and sweater
like you knew
someone was missing -
like the socks and sheets
in the laundry basket
would follow you home.
You said I made you understand
That poetry did not have to hurt.
And you let me believe
could cure anything.