I owe Poetry Month eight poems, which feels impossible because I struggle (obviously) to come up with one shitty rough draft poem a day! But, I have some things I can do to try and make up for it, so here goes:

3 Haiku Challenge (the last 2 beginning with the last line of the previous haiku)

Cold inhalations
on a hot day in summer
in front of the fridge.

In front of the fridge,
Looking for something to eat
there is no food here.

There is no food here,
because I do not buy snacks
to avoid weight gain.



It has been said that a poem
isn’t a poem if it took less than fifteen minutes to write and
hasn’t been revised to death.
I disagree.
Is a baby not a baby if it is introduced too early into the world?
Is it somehow incomplete for having not spent enough time
being edited piece by piece in the womb?
Of course not.
Something does not have to be finished
or even perfect
to be considered whole.


I call the following poems “chunks” because they were started a few years ago with an intention to expand or re-visit, but were abandoned:

I followed the arrow toward everything I told myself
I never would have wanted –
and not because I didn’t want it,
but because we are only supposed to want what we settle for.
I watched it pierce the protective layer of that exhaled breath,
and endured the sudden aspiration of everything I’d been
filtering out for years.

Everyday, I feel more and more like
one day I’ll go to speak but
nothing will come out and
people will say “I don’t know what happened.
One day, she just stopped talking.”

Everyday, I feel more and more like
my feelings are wrong and
unless they somehow serve
your best interests
it’d be best to keep them to myself.


Raw finger tips grasping the unravelling ends
of a thread bare blanket that looks
like my past,
wrapped around a few lasting memories –
trying to revive the dead with a few
gasping breaths and a moment of silence.

Two More Poems

You are as pleasant
as warm rain on a hot day,
not welcome at all.


A soccer mom in a mini-van decides not to check her blindspot
and merges into the lane with a large semi-truck; no one
can tell you what it was carrying.
Instead, they will tell you the story of the man who died
in the shadow of the General Mills corporate offices –
a public, preventable death.
A not-so-accident, because accidents occur like anomalies.
Accidents are not products of selfish decisions.
It might as well be premeditated; like the decision not
to check her blind-spot.
And all the people heard the man screaming for help,
and the EMTs and the civilians and the woman –
no one could retrieve him before the cabin of the truck went
up in
flames, and he went down –
help inhale help inhale
nothing but the whimperings of onlookers, sharing a
collective look of horror as it sinks in and they silently ask each other
are you alive?

And they are – but he is not, and everyone feels helpless.


I have taken a gluttonous bite,
of a bitter fruit called resentment,
and while some may try to fill my mouth,
and body,
with compassion for your sorry soul,
I will continue to push
fleshy anger,
through chalk white teeth.
You are not forgiven, here.


Cloaked in black,
hair slicked back,
lying near a tree.

Wondering what magic’s worth,
if there is no you and me.

Hand on heart,
an unbreakable vow,
I promised to be true.

But promises should go both ways,
was I nothing to you?