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Posts Tagged ‘cliche’

One Feeding

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on May 30, 2021| Leave a Comment »

and if I dare dream

let it include the facts—

the bite, the open hand

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Carrying On

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on May 19, 2021| 2 Comments »

Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
I thought of all the things I try to carry—
thanked her. Then surprised, I disagreed.

Why carry troubles, haul a life’s debris
as if I were a barge, a human ferry?
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.

I took her words as blessing, certainly—
a benediction, kind and customary,
but thinking more about it, disagreed.

I felt the lifelong weight of all I cleave to—
convictions, hopes, and moods both blithe and scary
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.

Imagine if I dropped the weight, was freed
from the heroic self that makes me weary.
Her words were kind, but should I disagree?

Part of me clings to that belief—
that I must carry on, though spent, though teary.
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
But must I? Part of me does not agree.

*

Hi friends, for kicks, this poem is written in an old French form, the villanelle. You can read all about its history and how to write one here. 

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One Approach

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on July 31, 2019| Leave a Comment »

 

 

the elephant in the room—

giving him

the finest seat

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I’ve Got $1.41

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on October 20, 2015| 3 Comments »

A penny for your dreams—

they’re as curious as thoughts.

A nickel for your laughter

if it comes out of the box.

A dime for your happiness

if you’ll share it with me.

A quarter for your apple

if it falls far from the tree.

A dollar for your love,

but only time will whisper

if it’s money down the drain

or a happy ever after.

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And I Can’t Find My Way Back In

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on February 6, 2014| 2 Comments »

All these years
I thought I might be
the one who had opened
the can. Such surprise
to find I am one
of the worms.

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It Spills

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on June 6, 2012| 4 Comments »

The spilled milk?
I am not crying.

This is me kneeling
on the gray stone tile

to lap up the puddle
the way a grown woman

should never do.
It may be a mess,

but it’s not spoiled yet
and I’m thirsty enough

to lower myself,
and look, how the cup

is still half full.

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