Originally posted on AllPoetry.com
my marrow is filching
sulking towards the exit waiting to get
out. it cannot be contained. a hazard
that refuses to drain out. the color of blackness
and a fervor of grey. neither can find their way.
Originally posted here on my AllPoetry.com account
I know, I know. I wrote about not seeking publication this year and instead focusing on the craft.
But you know what I discovered? It’s okay to work on your craft and publication.
Near the end of last year, I submitted some poems to my college literary magazine Savoir Faire. (I attend Bossier Parish Community College). It was so long ago I had nearly forgotten about it until last night. Now I’m not sure why, but I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe everything happens for a reason. My poems had been accepted and I had been invited to read.
I had to cancel a doctor’s appointment to attend the Gala and I didn’t end up reading my poems, but I did end winning an Honorable Mention! I have photos. Can you tell I am gloriously happy?
The other photos will be put in a gallery so as no to clutter up the post.
Is it black or blue?
This body that used to be
What am I going to do?
Here on the Earth without
Your crooked smile.
Your witch’s laugh
It’s so cliche but that saying is true. I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t always the best granddaughter, but I now see that I loved the hell out of my grandmother. I didn’t see it back then, but I was taking the steps to resolve my issues a long time before she died because of my fears of hurting her. I told someone I don’t know why it took her getting sick to see that. But I guess you can’t see the forest for the trees.
Summer is the worse for exposing foes
like spring exposing the seeds
summer brings in the weeds of doom
the cycle continues
I never thought of myself as a superstitious person, but I’ve always been analytic. A few years ago I started to notice that every summer something bad would happen to me or my family. I’ve got a running tally. The Cruel Summers as I call them began in 2009 about a year after we moved to the city. I’m hoping 2016 will break the cycle.
I treated it like game
And here I claim
I never loved you
like you did me
I don’t know if I can stay
for an entire eternity.
So I found a boy
that talked like you
and had your ways
So why did I feel
like I was nothing
but his waste?
laughing babies laugh insane
when they see their mother’s pain
thy father wanes
laughing babies will never be
This poem was written in response to the prompt for a family portrait poem. The picture I immediately thought of when getting to write was a picture of my mother and I. I am laughing and she is smiling, but her smile looks forced. I always find myself wondering why my father wasn’t in the picture especially in light of the recent information I gained from my mother that they were together at the time and until I was five years old. I have no memories of my father from this time.
howl at the moon child
for the Lord
your pain is not vain