We Bite

Our first screams sprout
a muffled storm of shock
and loosely buried rage,

eruptions that birth a quaking
of bone and flesh and thought-
triggering warnings.

“Be thankful!” they say, force-
feeding us silence, as we bite
their filthy fingers off.

photo by Nsey Benajah, on Unsplash

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #169: Answering Writing in Writing). Inspired by the rotting madness that is the current state of affairs in the USA and the following lines from The Waste Land: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, / has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”

Holiday Furies

I will always
miss those long-ago years
when my gut was strong,
strong as my heart is wild. 

I will always
miss those long-ago years
when pain was an abstract,
not concrete in my bones. 

I will always
miss so many things, but 

I will never miss you,
hope eater. I will never
miss your bullying feasts-- 

my young fury and I
standing in our dark, hoping
for better years to come,
when you’d gorge yourself
on loneliness.

When I was very young--and not in charge of my life--I couldn’t refuse accompanying my parental unit to a “holiday celebration” at a relative’s house. The relative in question was a monster, who threw their wealth in the faces of those less fortunate. They were so subtle about it, that even a kid could see right through their bullshit. Year after year, that beast (passing for human) ruined people’s holidays. My poem was inspired by a memory: One of the younger cousins wouldn’t stop crying, after she realized that none of the gifts being opened belonged to her. Grinning, the hosting beast told the child that she was sure her mamá would have something for her at home. I saw the child’s mother’s eyes shine with unspilled shame. I glared at the beast, and thought: One day, no one will come to your shit parties. You’ll be all alone. And you’ll be sorry. Not very sweet, I suppose. But what can I say? I save my sweetness for people who don’t have a black hole where their humanity should be. 

Speaking of awesome people, I hope you have a Holiday Season full of all the good things your brain and heart have been hoping for, and a New Year that brings wonder and goodwill. Be happy. Be kind. Be loving (especially to yourself). Be hopeful.

Hope is much stronger than rage, too… such a powerful little word, hope.

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #157: Holiday Anxieties), where we are invited to write about holiday anxieties. I’ve never felt anxious about the winter holidays, so I wrote about the holiday rage my younger self simmered in for years… 

Pain Isn’t Gentle…

not-quite Journaling, 70

undear Instagram,
your updates suck rotten toes;
bring back recent posts

4/19/2024: My chronic pain group was asked to write about something that made our lives more difficult in a personal level. When I said that I was broken up over Instagram removing the recent posts filter, someone gave me a disdainful look and said some unflattering things about “[my] first world problem”. I wasn’t in the best of moods--I’d spent half the night puking, a migraine was threatening to pop my left eyeball, and my torn back muscle had rejoined the agony party--so, I might’ve told them to f*ck off. With feeling. I know, overreaction galore. But it was a crappy day quickly turning into a crappy week. My brain-to-mouth filter doesn’t work particularly well under those conditions.

 

disturbing,
climate change killing
prettily

5/5/2024: I’ve never seen these wee beauties in my bit of New York City. They are known by many names (Scilla luciliae, violet beauty), Lucile’s-glory-of-the-snow is my favorite. The combination makes me think of brightness and warmth. Also, it’s the perfect name for a flower that blooms from frosty February to still chilly March (or all the way into May… when the weather’s slightly mad).

 

in a tiny pot,
my wee orange seedling sprouts
cuteness overload

5/13/2024: I can’t look at this green baby without blooming into smiles. 🌱🥰🌱

thorns & curls
in my wee garden,
soothing green

5/15/2024: I love the twists and coils, the play of green and metal, the thorns and stones and warmth--soothe for the soul.

 

In flesh and bone, pain
wails misery’s old song;
in soil, Nature (and I)
bloom cornflowers,
spirit balm,
hope.

5/26/2024: Chronic pain and I have been fighting over my body for weeks. I haven’t landed many punches, not until last night--I slept six hours straight! and woke up to a balcony bursting with bachelor’s buttons. Small steps, right? Then, a glorious kick to the teeth. Yes, I’m talking to you, Chronic Pain Bastard.

 

Pain isn’t gentle,
so I must be
hard--grab it by the throat
and squeeze
poetry out of every scream.

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.”
~ Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

 
– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #130: About that Quote…Friday Writings #130: About that Quote…)