Bad Blood

Everything looked rosy, I was tickled

pink, laughing with my charming hosts

yet before I could blink, you called

me to the wilderness, you checked

my boldest boasts, insisting that I factor

in these ancient bleeding ghosts.

I’ll stand here while you shout

and scream your anger to the skies.

I’ll feel your pain and I’ll rejoice

you’re not like other guys.  You ask

me to claim a guilt for triggering

your pain, and once I would have done so,

but look, that is insane.  Next door

a child is loud at play, pow, pow, pow

pow, pow!  Then Mommy, look–she’s indistinct

–there are three children now, young, filling

the morning calm and my small unread book.

We want a map, a model, blind to all

that is around, insisting that our pain

right now engulf our heart and take our mind.

Summoning the mother, we try to break her ice

with furious mad tantrums, we refuse to be nice.

Inspired by: Factor, Pink, Wilderness, Charming and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt “rhymes with rosy”  — the rules for the SoCS is it must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. (And frankly, y’all, that no-editing thing is hard.)

Street Cred

By three-and-a-half, he had perfected

a sneer (divorce will do that to a kid).

My credibility crashed and he curled

his lip, watching as only a child can.

At night when regrets parade with blaring

horns and pounding drums, I see his frown

turned upside down today, leaving crowds

in stitches.  I tell my own harsh critic

it’s time to forgive myself, to shelve that perfect

mommy and her happy home in the fantasy

section, the place I still gravitate

after noisy nights like these.

 

Written for the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt – Lip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inspired by Stream of Consciousness Saturday: Lip

Sow The Seeds

 

Today I’m playing with a new challenge!  A stream of consciousness poem written for the SOCS (stream of consciousness Saturday) prompt critic.

My inner critic has always joined in

any perceived slight

insult

and the inner defender is silent

watching as I squirm

then bend in defeat

at the pressure

of all this displeasure.

Judgment.

My mother tells me she is so grateful

for my brother without whom

she would never have known

about the kitchen utensil I have

used for years in front of her.

I sigh.

My best friend tells me that my tune-in

doesn’t land, and what once

would have stung,

I simply see what’s true

right now.

I have this packet of seeds

and I spread them

thoughtlessly,

not asking for recompense,

as if the world is my garden

and every soul I connect

is a part of me.

Sometimes I can’t hear

these songs of celebration.

The pearls are mudcaked,

perceptions are puckered.

We are galaxies

writhing in incomprehensible

beauty, shielding our eyes

and turning away

from the mystery.

I offer myself because

I must, not with any hope

that you will receive me,

opening the package

for myself,

weeping in joy

at the surprise.