Could we take a moment to consider O’Connor,

maybe Welty, or Faulkner too? Where regional

works are absorbed into families, and deformity

is linked to the spirit.

Because that is my own dilemma.

Can I have a club foot, or a disfigured

face, a hand that never lets go?

What would they have said about

my spirit? What would the lesson be?

There is a theme among parable-like stories,

short and long, novels and poems,

and words that sound like home,

every page I turn.

Perhaps I am already grotesque,

and that’s why I relate

so well.

Although, I’ve often felt closer to Chopin’s

characters. To take my clothes off near the beach,

run into the the welcoming waves,

and become so lost in my own awakening

that I drown.

Catching Minnows

She wades into the brook,
guiding wayward low-hanging branches from her piled hair.
Eyes and smile alluring,
fingers tracing water’s surface,
as water meets her waist.
Gracefully she peers in,
watery window of fish,
palms gradually submerged,
gently guiding past small bellies,
scurrying away as they’re touched.
Lowering their guard, curious to
strange worms suddenly sprouted,
they nibble,
close enough.
She pulls him up, inspecting him,
praising a handsome fish.
Puts him back, and continues
searching for her next catch.
Dazed and confused, each fish
swims away, wondering what
strange beast had beheld them,
and why she had not held them longer.

I Hate Velveeta

(I don’t know how to talk about this poem. I’m kind of ranty today. So, a ranty poem seemed fun to do. ^_^)

Every Christmas somebody makes it,

and while most are more catious

by loathsome vegetable pizza or fruitcake,

there is only one thing that I fear:

someone will call out that queso is out

I hurry to check, and find it’s not.

Putting Rotel in it doesn’t help it.

No amount of seasoned meat will disguise,

the flavor is anything but delicious

and calling it cheese is offensive.

I lose my appetite when I see it

I imagine the long term effects on my stomach.

It’s plastic. It tastes nothing like what it pretends to be.

An assault on your nose and mouth

like burned rubber tasting

worse than soured milk,

and people call it “liquid gold”

I just turn my nose up and sneer.

You can’t pour it into a bowlful of chips

call it nachos and present it to me.

I will feel sick, and go to bed,

don’t try to force me to “Just try it.”

I won’t change my mind in “one bite”.

You can’t fool me! This isn’t cheese!

Go eat your weird plastic food with the others.

You can pretend that it’s cheese among them.

Objective of My Heart

(This poem is in progress, but I wanted to go ahead and type it out before I lose my nerve.)

If I am your aim of conquest or

if my heart is truly your goal,

words alone will not tempt me,

only action will do.

I am the Haggard Woman,

only becoming beautiful at night.

I am not your wanton demure princess,

decorated and amused at jokes

that take no wit or talent to think up.

My soul craves knowledge,

a ravenous beast who feasts on Philosophy

stopping to adore Philology.

I am a bibliophile

following quotes and passages

figuring out the fountain of learning

and drinking until my belly is so close to

bursting that I roll to the side asleep,

dreaming of a life determining my career

based solely on my passion.

Do I bleed enough ink?

See this Haggard Woman’s deepest desire?

Confusion diminishes your demise,

and I become the destitute

as you focus on your score.

So often lofty lovers don’t think out

collateral damage, but I digress…

If conquest be your aim, I implore you deeper.

Beauty fades as age defiles youth,

and believe me, wisdom takes its toll

on a smile, on a mind, on a soul.

If you were Gawain, valiant and shining

what would you remember the lesson

or would you selfishly choose?

My Journey Through Self-Discovery, and in the Process, Self-Love

Again, in this dimly lit room, with

the sounds of tranquil waters gurgling from the machine.

I’m sitting on the very used, but comfortable couch,

talking out my issues with this season’s counselor.

My mind starts to clear, but I know by days end,

the mists will again roll in.

I talk about my parents, my two younger sisters, my silly dogs, my daughter,

anything to keep the questions about me at bay.

I will talk about anything,

except me.

Is it because I was bullied in school?

Because a girl would tell me I was fat and ugly,

make me flinch with empty threats and closed fists?

That a coach told me that I wasn’t a runner because

‘she couldn’t see it’?

Is it because they would call me the walking dictionary,

but then when they thought I couldn’t hear them

they’d call me something different?

Is it because my parents gave me advice

on how to look “prettier” and not so “frumpy”?

That at twelve I was taken to Weight Watchers?

Maybe it was that in the eyes of my father, I wasn’t worth fighting for

not from my mother, not from his mother, not from a man who had hurt me.

I’m not sure even I can ever answer which thing it was.

A thousand days of hiding behind make-up and push-up bras,

telling people lies so that they would

like me better,

and having relationships as a sole means

to fool myself into thinking I was

worthy of love.

How can you ever trust anyone to love you?

Where did I learn that turning against myself

was the only way I could cope

with what I couldn’t change?

Can I actually fool myself into loving myself?

As I look into my eyes,

reflecting back at me from my bathroom mirror,

then shyly look away,

I realize that even I don’t know me,

and maybe all of this self inflicted abuse

is still me, trying desperately

to reach out to myself.

I force myself to look at me,

recite my given affirmation,

and smile.


This blog is intended to allow those, who care to hear about my progress in writing, to see into my life.

This week I have been working on a poem about a moment shared between me and a friend of mine. At the time, I really had strong feelings for this person, and it was a beautifully strange moment. I can’t quite capture the feeling of the moment, and what I really want to do is to illustrate what I experienced.

Eye Contact:

I hadn’t thought you’d be here,

invading the library

halfway through my research paper

you came through the door.

I successfully avoided your glances,

but even pages began to whisper.

My eyes strained for a breath,

and fell upon on your blithe face.

You perceived my gaze from a distance,

returned it.

held it there as ransom;

unable to avert,


A few moments silence,

an effervescent feeling

an illuminating smile.

If eyes are windows to the soul,

you are incandescent.