Wednesday, July 28, 2010 0 words I am thankful for

Every Wednesday

Every Wednesday,
Not Tuesday,
Nor Thursday,
I would see her,
Brolly in hand,
Purple dotted with pink
Sheilding her from the sun.

I always found her
And I wanted
To know more.

I asked everyone
I knew
And even those
I did not
About the woman
With the purple and pink brolly.

No one had a clue
Who I was talking about,
And even those
Whose faces showed familarity
Looked at me strangely,
Mumbling something
Then walked away.

On a Wednesday,
Not a Monday,
Nor a Friday,
I followed her.

Through the small streets
And the back alleys,
I followed her
And in the open areas
I kept my distance.

She walked to the boardwalk
And passed that to walk
To the water's edge.
There she stood and
There she looked out.

Minutes passed,
Then hours and
My curiousity grew,
My confidence grew.

I walked up to her,
Stood next to her,
Then I spoke to her.
"Who are you?"

She did not look at me
But she reponded
With a question
Draped in the clothes
Of a statement.
"You can see me?"

"I can see you
As I can see
The birds swooping
And diving above
The surf.
What are you
Looking at?"

"I am looking
At the storm
Brewing in the

I saw nothing,
I searched the horizon
And I saw nothing.
I looked beside me
And I saw nothing.
She was gone.

Every Wednesday,
Not Sunday,
Nor Saturday
I saw the woman
With the purple and pink brolly.

As years pass,
I grew older,
I would talk to her,
She would disappear,
But she never grew old.

The woman with
The Purple and pink brolly.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010 0 words I am thankful for

Fuck It!!

Fuck it!
Fuck this.
Fuck that.
And most importantly
Fuck you.

So much for
Anger management.

So much for
Trying to control
The beast
That lived within.

The beast
That wanted
To howl
Into the night's sky.

Back arched
A feral scream
Soaking the silence.
A patient moon
Blanching the twisted face.

Fuck it!
Fuck it!!
Fuck it!!!

Did I forget something?
Oh, yeah,
Fuck it!!!!

Everything is not
Under my control.
The puppet master
Has dropped a string.

Still, the play continues.
Still, the seconds tick by.
Still, this too shall pass.
But until that time comes...

Fuck it!
Fuck it!!
Fuck it!!!
Saturday, July 24, 2010 1 words I am thankful for

Dirty Words

He spat the word out
Like it was venom
He sucked out
Of his buddy's ass.
A secret they would
Take to their graves.

This was right after
I whispered in his ear
That I love him.

He jumped out of the bed,
Quickly pulling on his clothes
And grabbing his keys.

The pathetic look
On my face
Stopping him in his tracks.

I sat stark naked
On the bed.
The same bed on which
We had mad, crazy sex.

He stooped down
In front of me,
And speaking as though
I was a five year old,
Told me that
He didn't love me.

He would never love me,
I wasn't the kind
Of woman
Men like him loved.

He had a wife.
He had 2.5 kids.
He was the pillar
Of the society.
Why would he love me?

I was something to do
While his family
Was visiting his in-laws.
A little fun.

He stood up
And walked out the door
Without looking back.

I kept my head down,
In case he came back
For something he forgot.

I waited
For his car to start up,
For the roar of his V-8
Fading into the night,
Then I reached
For the tape recorder
Under the bed.

I rewound the tape
And pressed Play.
The sound of
Our mad, crazy sex
Filling the room.

I heard myself
Screaming out his name.
I heard his distinct voice
Talking dirty to me.

I listened to the pathetic speech
One more time,
But this time around
A big Cheshire cat grin
Was plastered on my face.

In a couple days,
I would pay my lover a visit,
I would play a copy
Of this tape for him.
The copy would be his to keep.

I would ask for
A few bills for the original,
And with him a little poorer
And me a little richer
I would leave
This two bit town.

I think this is
What they call justice,
Blackmail is such a dirty word
And a woman like me
Didn't use dirty words.
Friday, July 23, 2010 0 words I am thankful for


Queenie was curled up
On the sofa,
A lock of white hair
Falling across her
Closed left eye.

She appeared
On my doorstep
Looking forlorn,
Her eyes begging
For kindness.

I let her in
And shared my supper with her.
She was clearly hungry,
Practically inhaling the food.

I asked her
If she would like
To stay the night.
This time,
She didn’t say no.

Most times than not,
She would say no,
The food reinstating her pride.
I was happy she was staying.

I watched her sleep
As I sat in the armchair
Across from the sofa.
I watched my grandmother sleep.

She chose this life.
A life that has taken her to
Many cities,
Many streets,
Many soup kitchens,
Many shelters.

She refused to accept help
From my mother,
From my aunts and uncles,
From me.

And yet,
She would appear
Begging for a little kindness
And we would give it.

We were happy
That she was alive,
But we knew in the morning
She would be gone.

As I watched Queenie sleep,
I didn’t know
That this was the last time
That I would see her.

She was gone
When I woke up,
The blanket folded neatly,
A bowl and spoon
Dripping in the dishwasher,
A little less cereal in the box.

No one saw Queenie
Since I last saw her,
And yet no one cried.
It was something
We accepted a long time ago.

Just like that,
Queenie slipped from our lives.

To all the Queenies
Of the world,
We accept you,
We miss you,
We love you.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010 1 words I am thankful for

The Old Man

Simone was late
With the stash.
Of all the places
We were to meet,
Did it have to be
Outside the bright yellow building
In the alley behind
Of the main thoroughfare.

As I waited,
An old man walked
Towards me,
A black dog traipsing behind.
He reminded me
Of my uncle
Who was much older
Than my mother,
But who possessed
The same mischevious glint
In the eye, just like Mama.

Instead of stopping
In front of the yellow building
He turned towards
The building across from it.
There is where I should
Have been waiting.
A nondescript building,
Grates on the window,
A reflection of the society.
A society, I was part of.

I watched him,
Weaving a web
Of stories that would
Culminate into his life.
I questioned if
An equally charming, old lady
Lived in that building,
Or did he live alone,
His only companion
Being the black dog.
Did he have kids,
Brothers, sisters,
Nieces, nephews?
Was he happy
Or sad?
How long did he live there?

As he disappeared
Into the building,
I ached for home,
I ached for my family,
I ached for all I left
To be here.
Why was I here?

Just as I was
About to leave,
I spotted Simone,
A brown envelop
Tucked under his arm.

He walked in that lazy gait
I grew accustomed to.
Then he fell.
I ran to him,
But he was dead,
Blood flowering from his chest.

I looked around quickly,
Staying low in case
The shooter was still taking aim.
Nothing happened.

Then I saw a glint
In a window of the building
Across from the yellow building.
I walked closer
Trying to get a better look.

There in the window
Stood the old man
Putting away a sniper rifle,
Taking his time
As though he had all the time
In the world.

He looked down at me,
The mischevious glint in his eyes.
I ran back to Simone
And grabbed the envelop.
And I continued to run.
I kept running,
Not looking back.

The next morning,
Simone’s death was in the papers.
They called him a career criminal,
Associated with the drug trade,
With organized crime,
With arms running,
With the sex trade.

I later found out
That he crossed the wrong person,
Traded the wrong girl.
This was part
Of the world I lived in.

From that day forth,
I kept my eye out
For the old man
Who reminded me of my uncle.
The old man
With the black dog
And the sinister history.
Sunday, July 18, 2010 0 words I am thankful for


I'd like to take this moment to thank CaliSunshine for the beautiful poem she left as a comment to my poem Sweet Madness. I've been putting up my poems on this blog for about a year and a half and it's always great to get positive responses and this was one of the highlights. Here is CaliSunshine's poem

Kim or Lisa
The woman of mystery
Two names to describe her
The way she expresses herself
Is more than two words

It is many sounds
each rolling off the tongue
each delightfully delicious
it is not just poetry
for that is one word

It is her
her emotions
her emotions that she can show us
each as crucial as a rose petal
without one petal the rose
is not a rose

She shows us herself
for she is the rose
and this rose
is more than two words

I would also like to thank everyone who is following me. To say I truly appreciate it is an understatement in itself.

Big Hugs!!!
Saturday, July 17, 2010 0 words I am thankful for

The Park

The sunlight
Spilled across
The front of her dress,
Blanching it,
Tinting the already
Bright colour.

She was sitting
On a park bench,
Reading a novel,
Engrossed in the story,
Written on page,
Painted on the canvas
Of her imagination.

He would see
Her there everyday
At lunch time.
Like him,
She was escaping the city,
Finding refuge in the park,
Ignoring the buildings
Towering over head.

He wanted to
Meet her,
Befriend her,
Just perhaps,
Love her.

But his own thoughts,
His own fears
Kept him cemented
To his park bench,
Trying to read
His own novel,
Stealing peeks at her.

He told himself
That she had a boyfriend,
That she was married,
That she was gay,
That she would not be

He told himself
These lies.
Lies till they were
Proven to be truths.
Truths till they were
Proven to be lies.

Then one day,
He saw her looking
At him,
Then smile,
Before looking away.

It was a smile
That bade her to rise,
To walk the few steps
Between them.

With book in hand
And smile on face,
He introduced himself
To the woman who
Brought him to the park.
0 words I am thankful for

Poetry Inspired by Sator Arepo

After reading my very morbid poem, He Gave Me His, my sister left me a comment challenging me to write poems to pictures found on My Modern Met. These pictures were shot by a photographer from Barcelona, Spain, Sator Arepo. According to My Modern Met,
Sator Arepo is a photographer from Barcelona, Spain who shoots beautiful and charming scenes around European beaches and streets. With each photo, it's as if he's telling us a captivating story, asking us to fill in the missing scenes.

I found the pictures captivating and decided to take up my sister’s challenge. Every Wednesday, I will be posting a poem with one of Sator Arepo’s photos as the inspiration. There are about 15 photos on the My Modern Met post, but I found a link to the photographer’s Flickr page. If the 15 poems go well, I will continue and assign Wednesdays to poetry inspired by the photographs by Sator Arepo.
Friday, July 16, 2010 1 words I am thankful for

He Gave Me His

As I stood
In the kitchen,
I stared into his eyes
As he yelled at me
About something inconsequential.

I reached for the chef’s knife,
New, sharp, deadly.
His eyes opened wide,
Fear drained blood
From his face.

Starting from the clavicle
Ending at the belly button,
I dug deep
Ensuring to cut the bone.

Like a surgeon,
I opened the ribcage,
Moved aside the lungs
And found the heart.

My heart
Beating in my palm,
Warm, squishy,

I presented it to him.
For the first time
That evening
He was quiet,
A hush drifted around us.

No matter what,
Even though we argued,
Even though we didn’t see
Eye to eye,
He will always
Have my heart.

And that evening,
He gave me his.

Disclaimer: Please don't try this, this is all about poetic license.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010 0 words I am thankful for

Finger Licking

The juices of the mango
Dripped down my hand
Creating little rivers
Coursing along the topography
Of my fingers.
A sweet, tropical river
That reminds me of home,
Of summers devouring
The fruit morning,
Afternoon and night.

He took each finger
And inserted them
In his mouth,
His tongue bathing them,
Wiping them clean
Of the now sticky substance.

He licked and sucked
Each finger as though
They were his own,
And yet it didn’t appear
As though it was a job
He had to do, instead
It was a job
He wanted to do.

It was a job
I would pay him
Well to do,
Paying him in kind
With lick and nips,
Pulling oohs and aahs
From the depths
Of his being.

I would be paying him
In a currency as old
As man, and maybe older.
But now I will enjoy
This little treat
And anticipate the bigger one
Yet to come.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010 1 words I am thankful for

Sweet Madness

Sweet Madness,
Like a potent drug,
Engulfing my mind,
Devouring my spirit.
Monday, July 12, 2010 0 words I am thankful for

Jackie In The Box

Veg out

Soon the days
Faded into each other.
I knew time was passing
As the seasons changed
From freezing winters
To scorching summers.

I would lose days,
Not remembering
What I did on those days
As the activities
Were so forgetable.
But I remember
The day we met,
And every day that followed.

I remember
The days we escaped
From our lives,
Playing hooky from work
And going to the beach
Or to the slopes.
Alone in the conspiracy
To break the rules.

I remember
Drifting to sleep
On the roof of
My apartment building
As you strummed your guitar,
Making up songs
As you stared out
At the city falling asleep
Below us.

I remember
Packing up your brother’s jalopy
And driving cross country,
Sleeping in the back
On blankets bought in a country store
When our eyes got tired of
Staring at the road.

I remember
Running through fields,
Skinny dipping in lakes,
Sleeping in each other’s arms,
And not wanting to return
To the life
I used to live.

I remember
Us getting married
As an Elvis impersonator
Swung his hips
And crooned about love.
We exchanged rings
We bought in a novelty store.
Big and garish
That puts goofy grins
On our faces
Every time we looked at them.

I remember
A lifetime of memories
And today,
I ask you
To create another lifetime
Of memories with me.

Saturday, July 10, 2010 1 words I am thankful for

Three Women

Three women sat
Across the table
From me.
Lydia Beauchamp.
Carol Beecham.
Laura Belleview.

Three women
Who epitomized
Style, grace and wealth
In our small town
Of Springville.

I sat before them
Hoping to join
Their little clique
Of influence.

I hoped to
Sit with them
At the fashion shows
In New York.
Designers drooling over us
When we visited their showrooms.

I hoped to jet
To Paris, Milan,
St. Bart with them.
Summering in the Hamptons.
They could afford
To use the word,

As I sat there,
We chatted about
Who I knew,
Where I've been,
What I've done.

But I always
Veered the conversation
Away from my wealth,
Fearing that they
Would toss me
Into the category of
Nouveau Riche.

Our meeting
Soon came to an end.
We said our adieus
And they made
Promises to inform me
Of their decision.

Seven days exactly,
A letter arrived.
Seven days later,
My social future
Was set in stone
By three women
Of influence.
Thursday, July 8, 2010 0 words I am thankful for

Pink Lemonade


A lemon
Fell on my head
As I hid
Under the lemon tree
That grew behind
The tool shed.

I let it roll
So it wouldn't
Bring attention
To my hiding place
But I swallowed
My yelp,
As the lemon
Came from the top
Of the tree.

My killer ran past
And I held my breath
And extended the stick.
He tripped
Just as I planned,
His head producing
A delightful clunk
As it connected
With the lawnmower.
All part of the plan.

I shouldn't call him
My killer,
As he failed in
Killing me.
He should have tried
But it was too late.

I dragged him
Into the tool shed
Laying him on the
Dirt floor. Now,
What tool shall
I use on this
Sad creature?

The night stretched out
To the point
Where it snapped
And pulled me out
Into the new day.
The tool shed was now
The way it was before,
Not a tool
Out of place.

As I walked back
To the house,
An old saying
Popped into my head
And I smiled,
Thinking how I would
Alter it to fit my situation.

When life gives you
Make pink lemonade.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010 0 words I am thankful for

Zio's Picture

He would stare
At the picture
For hours on end
And when we would enter
The room, he would
Tuck it away
In the middle of a book,
In a night stand,
Under a pillow.

We never asked what
The picture froze in time,
It was another of Zio's
Many mysteries.
We would imagine
What it possibly would be,
A battalion of a war
Too vicious to forget,
Zia in her wedding dress
Holding onto his arm
Like she was holding
Onto her future.

Our musings fell at
The wayside
When we at last saw
The picture.
The day after we said
Goodbye to Zio
For the last time,
We found the picture
Where he last
Tucked it away.

She was not Zia,
And yet behind her
Was Zio's favourite coat
At the time.
The time he was
Zia's new husband.

She looked at the photographer
With an air of familiarity
That could only be found
Between lovers,
And we knew Zio
Was the photographer.

We said nothing
To each other.
One of us tucked
The picture away.
In that moment,
We all decided to
Leave that mystery
With Zio.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010 0 words I am thankful for

Loving Them All

I am no taller
Than I was
And yet my hair
Has grown a millimeter
Or two,
So have my nails.

I am no taller
Than I was
Last month,
And yet a single
White hair grows
Not too far from
My right temple.

Not one inch
Has been added
To my height
Since I was 13
And yet I've grown
Around the waist,
Around the hips,
Around 30.

Each day,
A new curve develops,
A new white hair appears,
And each day,
I learn to love them all.