STOP IT! BREATHE! Pull yourself together!
So what if… well, never mind. Wait…
No matter, though, through it you’ll weather!
STOP IT! BREATHE! Pull yourself together!
Screw ‘em! Don’t let your mind tether
To the fact that they decide your fate.
STOP IT! BREATHE! Pull yourself together!
So what if… well, never mind. Wait.
Category: poetry
jim husson
(Based on Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters)
Not consumed by a dragon,
Nor saving a maiden from an enchanted tower,
Nor saving a kitten amidst a fiery house,
Nor bitten by a shark, nor snake, nor dog.
Not parachuting, nor motor biking,
Nor choking on the words “I love you too.”
Instead I was lying in a lousy old bed,
Wrinkled and senile,
Surrounded by family
Who care more for the contents of my will
Than the contents of my heart.
Not triumphant,
Nor striking,
My exit will be remembered by none but you.
absolutely
Uh huh, that looks great on you!
Nope, nothing’s wrong!
Of course, I cleaned my room!
Yeah, I listened to the song!
Yes, I went to sleep before twelve!
Nuh uh, I don’t have work!
No, I’m not judging when I stare!
Nope, you didn’t smirk!
No, I don’t want to be more!
Yes, I’ll be your friend!
Yeah, I’m really totally fine!
Sure, I’m on the mend!
Wow, I’m really happy for you!
Absolutely, I’ll do it later!
No, I really don’t care anymore!
No, you’re not a traitor!
Of course, I mean it! What? No!
Of course, I don’t mean to pry!
Come on, how well do you know me?
Would I ever tell a lie?
the 18
Real Hebrew in this one… again, lemme know if you need a translation.
’מזמור שיר,’
Aryeh Kunstler sings out of my small black speakers
And my mom calls from downstairs
18 minutes to go
The fan hits my sopping hair
And chills the water down my back
Sharp inhale
Taking in salty and sweet aromas of the chicken soup downstairs
“Ahhhhh”
I feel my body warming up
’ליום’
My mom calls from downstairs
10 minutes to go
My watch is tick tick ticking
Reverberating in my ear
So I grab the cool slippery perfume,
The tall bottle fitting perfectly in my hand,
And spritz the liquid on my wrist
The scent reaches my nose and I’m hit by sweet citrus
5 more minutes, calls my mom
I lean over to my bed desk and with my thumb
Turn the plastic click on the Kelly green Shabbos lamp
The time shines on the digital clock,
White bright boxy letters
And just in time I remember to turn off my alarm
’השבת,’
Croons Kunstler.
Click. Alarm is off.
Click. Music quieted.
Click. Light is off.
I smile, grab my miniature leather Siddur, and go downstairs
Time’s up.
’מזמור שיר ליום השבת.’
writers’ block
…
The tree’s leaves… willow in the soft wind and
Willow’s not a verb, is it?
…
Why the hell am I writing about a tree? I don’t care about some boring made-up tree.
No one wants to read about trees anyway…
Looking for inspiration.
Preferably the kind that sparks a brilliant idea that unravels into my first bestselling novel.
Will pay. Actually, won’t pay. Still, though.
She turned her head and shouted… to the heavens…
Really, Tova? To the heavens?
Do you think you’re Dickens or something?
…
Well, I’ve never read Dickens. I’m assuming he was a good writer because everyone still knows his name
And he’s been dead for a really long time,
Like Beethoven, but I don’t even listen to classical music, and
…
Will they remember my name?
And will I want to be remembered for what I’m being remembered for
and will I want…
Will I want
…
I can’t post about a tree or the heavens or anything too emotional
and I keep getting sidetracked by monotonous rants in my mind
and I guess I should be funny but sometimes it just doesn’t work
because funny is only funny when funny isn’t forced
and I’m staring at my fingers and my mind is still
[my fingers on the white-and-grey keyboard (duh)],
and I can’t write about my fingers either
because uninspired inspiration makes for uninspired writing and
…
…
So what?
flow of words (pantoum form revision)
pantoum poem definition (except without the rhyming in this case)
I sit and I spaz.
I stare blankly at my bright green wall.
I tighten my ponytail and return my twitching fingers to the keyboard.
Sigh.
I stare blankly at my bright green wall,
Looking for some kind of revelation,
Sigh.
I sit.
Looking for some kind of revelation,
And then a burst
I sit,
Ideas flowing through my fingertips
And then a burst.
My hands dash as my brain directs
Ideas flowing through my fingertips,
Painting onto a computer screen
My hands dash as my brain directs
I sit, I edit, I smile
Painting onto a computer screen
To feel myself breathe
I sit, I edit, I smile
I write for my readers,
To feel myself breathe,
To share my thoughts, crazy or deep
I write for my readers,
For people to sit, to edit, maybe to smile
To share my thoughts, crazy or deep
I write.
flow of words
I sit.
I spaz.
I tighten my ponytail and return my twitching fingers to the keyboard.
I type.
I delete.
Sigh.
Just then, a burst.
Ideas flow through fingertips.
My hands dash as my brain directs,
painting onto a computer screen.
I sit, I edit.
I smile.
To feel myself breathe.
For my readers.
For people to see,
To sit, to edit, maybe to smile.
To share my thoughts, crazy or deep,
I write.
tempted
I want to hear it
Really, I do
But wait, no, don’t,
I shouldn’t
There’s just no way!
That can’t be true!
No way, she won’t!
He wouldn’t!
I once had this…
Friend. Friend? Well,
I suppose he
Can’t be blamed
Misguided and weak,
Swiftly I fell,
For his hissing
Couldn’t be tamed
He once slithered by
Offering wares:
A red apple,
Shiny and grand
I take a bite, and
Suddenly there’s
Too much, that I
Now understand
Why can’t I accept
Without a doubt
The faces that
I once found dear?
Take it back! I cry
To him, I shout,
My sight blurred
Now that it’s clear
An apple is pure,
Just as the truth
Supposedly
Frees you from fraught
But truth only hurt,
Aching my tooth,
From tasting what
I should have not.
Critical looks
That shoot their way,
I never meant
To depict
Conclusion is,
Secrets should stay,
Because truths always
Tend to restrict.
milk?
Writer’s note: This poem is based on an old Russian proverb, literally meaning “I’d like to drink honey with your lips,” which technically means, “it’s too good to be true.”
Her intentions seem pure.
Look at her:
Her smile so sweet. Almost too sweet.
You debate: cringe or smile back?
You’re blinded, looking at her,
By her bright white summer dress
And her bright white teeth,
White as the milk
On boxes of cereal
Then it hits you:
That’s not milk,
It’s glue.
And that grin plastered on her face?
It might be fake too.
So you cringe,
Whispering, to no one in particular,
“I’d like to drink honey with your lips.”