Believe it or not, we’re less than a month from starting the 4th annual April PAD (Poem-a-Day) Challenge. I’m very excited! Here are the guidelines. Please share with anyone you think may be interested in the challenge.
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For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Better Off (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Possible titles might include “Better Off Dead,” “Better Off Alive,” “Better Off Playing Video Games,” “Better Off Minding My Own Business,” etc. I know I’ll be better off poeming.
Here’s my attempt:
“Better Off Upside Down”
Even in the dark I’m hanging on by a thread
enveloped in my sheets and waiting for sleep
to take me like a cow in a field waits for other
cows to move or the way a bird sits on a branch
and rests long enough to hop to the next one
while keeping an eye (an ever wandering eye)
out for predators or prey or whatever it is
that I should be searching for though maybe
the problem isn’t that I’m waiting but that I’m
searching when I should be more like a bat
hanging from the roof of a cave or attic and
wrapped up in my comfortable sleep devoid
of any stray thoughts or worries or dreams.
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Check out the latest issue of Writer’s Digest!
The 2011 March-April issue of Writer’s Digest is available. In addition to the Poetic Asides column, this issue includes 50 Simple Ways to Build Your Platform in 5 Minutes a Day, Getting Started in Ghostwriting, Free Money, and so much more.
Click here to get all the details.
I’m better off believing the show,
And though I wear no tattoos
To publically state
My selfish demise,
I did carry a ring of hope,
Lost forever to the ashes of silence
Now and forever a shadow of the past.
Because I wear no tattoo to show you,
I am unarmored against your show,
Your lecture and your guidance –
Too rude to be admirable.
I’m better off believing the show,
Revealed to be a lie or at
The very least not heartfelt.
But the show is all I can see
You drill it into me indirectly,
Until the show – not revealed by you
But by God –
Becomes my reality.
Beat that.
http://www.examiner.com/stayathome-moms-in-sioux-city/justine-hemmestad
Would I be better off with no strife,
No struggle and no plight?
Would I be better off with
Crowds and yet be free?
No, I would be better off with
The turmoil that more than
Leads me to the door,
More than points the way,
I am better off with the conflict that pursues me in my sleep,
And wakes me up with a slap of truth,
But resuscitates with the joy of evergreen.
I am better off with the pain,
Never having missed a moment of relief.
I am better off loving you,
Than never loving you at all.
http://www.examiner.com/stayathome-moms-in-sioux-city/justine-hemmestad
BETTER OFF NOT KNOWING
Secrets were kept,
swept away with your remains.
One of the stains on my heart
started when we were young.
We had sung that song many times;
many rhymes under the bridge of reason.
It seems like treason that one so fair,
of Auburn hair, could have been so violated.
But, I am over the pain. And again you have
invaded my nightly mystic visions. Dreams remain a
derision of heart and mind, left soulful but lacking.
I cherished your backing to resurrected my muse.
But I refuse to blame my ambition for being unaware
of your condition. These poems became the seeds of you
that I continue sowing. As far as the extent of your anguish went,
I can’t believe I was better off not knowing.
BETTER OFF BACK HOME
I’m ten thousand miles from Tuesday
and its trembling trees, temple of seasons.
How I miss the touch of tendrils, teasing
tramp of trails. This town’s a technologic
trap of term-limits, triggers, trying to turn
truth to tabulation. I’m tired of topics
and turn-arounds, too much traffic
exhausting throat and lungs; tired of taxis,
tourists thumbing through slick tour-books,
traipsing to every trite attraction. To
each his own, they say. To me, time
turns thick, a tedium of trickling gutters.
I’m a trick turtle, trampled to asphalt.
Tomorrow I’ll take a ticket home.
BETTER OFF GONE
(a Welsh Englyn Cyrch)
What cuts deeper, first or last?
You left us five seasons past –
August golden in the field,
rich yield against New Year’s blast.
I taste for words on wind, I’d
read them with my lips and hide
the promises you’d never
write. If ever you would bide.
You never once looked behind
with eye indifferent or kind.
Fields are gone to stubble, cut.
Where you went, what did you find?
We trim, scrimp, hunger. Your smile
must sunny somewhere awhile,
then move beyond horizon.
Our brief sun across scrubbed tile.
I’ve only skimmed since last week, but De, I definitely had to coment. Love the imagery, the form, the thought. Struck a chord, for sure.
The whole is greater
than the sum of its parts, said
Prof. Aristotle.
WHEN YOU’RE NOT BETTER OFF ASLEEP
A pillow wedged against my neck and ear
conjuring dreams of crushed walnuts tossed in fresh
spring greens and golden honey glistening clear.
Thought I’d be better off asleep; why’s fasting
never fast. A tapestry of dreams with amber chipped potatoes,
bejewelled with salt and dripping molten duck fat down my thumb.
Tomorrow’s my annual fasting blood cholesterol test.
better off to know
not what may become of me
than catch tiger tails.
Better off to have
faith in the promise of spring
in a robin’s song.
W
NOT WELL OFF, BETTER OFF
So, a few less dollars grace my pockets,
and no sky rocket celebrations in the offing.
And maybe my offspring don’t inherit any more
than their mother’s good looks
and their father’s well turned phrases.
At this phase in my life, my wife and I,
though preferring a lifestyle upgrade,
have decided that our pride and upbringing,
could have us singing in the rain,
instead of preying on that rainy day pittance.
Our daughters have learned well, and it tells
in the way they carry their grace and name,
and although they are not the same by any stretch
of my over-active imagination, they know their staion.
It might seem that we have no ambition to position
ourselves on the ladder of success, but I guess
raising these beauties with an eye towards
bettering themselves and the world around them,
is worth its weight in a life well lived.
We’re not well off, but are much better off in the long run.
Better Off Dancing
Gliding across the earth
worries slipping away
smile putting cracks in my frown
sweat gathering between my blades
a rusty laugh issues forth
joy eclipsing
dance!
Better Off This Way
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
I am terrified
of giving in to it,
(–vulnerability)
afraid that
if I dare hold hands
it will step off the ledge
and simply take me with it,
a murder-suicide
despite my objections,
even if all I wanted
in the first place was to
simply save its life.
This is why
I can be friends with you
no longer.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Better off Them
Clouded head parts way
For rays of clarity
To bite the edge of my vision
For it is better now
To be off them
Than be someone I am not
Better Off
Was walking the boardwalk
Just out for a stroll
When approached in the sun
By a creature uncannily much like a troll
A dismal troll creature who pulled at my coat
A bleary eyed gray guy aromatic of goat
Right there in the sun
at the edge of the sea, with dirt crusted hands that were rather slippery
That were rather slippery right there out in the sun
He wheedled on about whether I was coming inside, was my betting begun
As he wheedled, and groped, his red eyes glittered, above teeth of a yellowish green
As an emissary of the open mouthed casinos
He was quite a turn upside done stomach sight to be seen
Never was ever a bettor never once tempted to play
And walking the boardwalk, stopped as virginal prey
The dismal, foul creature, convinced me not at all of the " charms" of his way
Turning I on my heel letting the sea breeze offer an arm
Led away from the slippery slope that would lead only harm
Walked again on the boardwalk again free in the sun and fresh air of the sea
Better off, not betting, at least for a troll sensitive sort such as me
( with apologies and honor for the great "Doctor Seuss")
Uma…fascinating…vivid…lovely…truly an extraordinary piece!….. Kudos all around
Better You than Me
How often have I said these words
Or even had just the thought flit
Across my mind
Some situation has developed quite
Unexpectedly that could have gone
Either way
I could have been the one with the red
Face, the embarrassing result, the need
To explain
But, due to a fluke of timing or nature
Or any number of serendipitous happenings
This time, it is you
This time, I get to see you take the fall
Eat humble pie, or crow, or whatever it is
We’re calling it
This time when someone has to take responsibility
For that which has not gone as planned
Has in fact, turned out wrong
This time, I get to breathe a sigh of relief
And if not say it aloud, at least think it
Better you than me
Better Off Unborn
Never make love at sunset when the gods
take a ride in the skies, look down at you copulating
skirt pulled up, the breeze from the jackfruit tree
cooled the damp sweat, mapped the moist trail
that her ascetic husband with dreadlocks left on her skin.
He watched her emerge from the blue depths of desire
muddied by wisps of sadness. The sky a mottled lilac skirt
planted the two seeds of curse under, a gash that ached while
the voyeuristic gods reclining on firm clouds
sneered at the woman for lusting seeking her man.
My upbringing is impeccable, never leave behind my comb
with strands of hair, never let my skirt balloon
on the clothesline at night time, roll away my mat, sweep the floor.
Twilight is dangerous my father had warned, open the doors, let
gods see everything, that I am clean at dusk time between my legs.)
Her womb swelled like the river in monsoon time,
rashes of worry spread on the skin, pouches of dread hung under eyes,
complexion the colour of lily curdled like stale cheese -
happens in pregnancy the women at the ashram told her. She
stilled her breath, eclipsed time till it hung like a discarded plastic bag.
The poison inked her blood a deep purple,
fetuses kept a hundred years in the womb turned blue;
the glaciers inched and the earth shifted under her feet,
her boys moved pushed tugged , stirred love and affection
while she prayed they drown in the primeval water of creation.
( As I wrote and interpreted the story of Diti and Kashyapa from Srimad Bhagavatham, I saw it shape to the prompt of Poetic Asides.
When the universe was still young during the first Manvantara, Brahma created from parts of his body Prajapatis who would people the universe with their progeny. Daksha was created from Brahma’s thumb and he birthed fifty sons and thirteen daughters, one being Diti and the other Sati the wife of Mahadeva. Marichi the other son of Brahma was one of the Sapta rishis. His son Kashyapa inherited from his father the right of creation. He married Daksha’s daughter Diti. They gave birth to the asuras Hiranyaksha and Hiranyakashpu .
Because there needs to be light and shade, growth and decay, creation and destruction and since the tapestry of the Universe is spun from warps and wefts of curses and penitence, angers and munificence of gods and rishis, since the curse by rishis on Vishnu’s two celestial gatekeepers has to be annulled by their birth on earth, Diti makes love in dusk under the prying eyes of gods and is cursed for her improper act with asuras for sons so that the accursed gatekeepers can have a passage of life through her womb. In this large pattern the mother is forgotten- the mother as she is agonised by guilt, who yearns to hold her sons, also dreads so much the destruction the birth of her sons will unleash that she carries them in her womb for hundred years, is seldom remembered.
Or, only remembered when I pin my cascading hair up at dusk time. )
BETTER OFF NOT SEEING
A glimpse cut short, ripple effect
of headlights on rain-
slick asphalt. A glint of mask –
ringed tail vanishing –
raccoon? Endless corridors
of dark, hunger’s power-play.
Some small creature’s
hesitation. Grasp of claws.
Well said J Martin.
Very interesting poem Tracy!
Of course Walt is inspiring.
Better Off In Limbo
(Part Two)
Sometimes I am pretty sure
I would be much better off
If I knew less than I do
And were free from all wrong.
I would have no scars
bruises, broken hearts
fears of failures or
pockets filled with rain.
Then I play my folk music
In a work room with much art
see how she now takes this theme
shows me babies and some bees…
Better Off, Says I
Snow pinks briefly
As the morning sun glare
Burns the necessity of day
Into the bleary brain.
Squint-shut eyes can
Only see the objects around
By their dark shadows cast,
By their solar footprint,
Ansel Adams zones of black.
Then it fades to flat dullness
Overcast, March meltdown,
Remnant ice hides under
The dirty snow.
Something pricks in brain
Wresting something less tangible
From these arthritic wrists,
From the fat-ache fingers now
Warming back from the cold.
Better off, says I
As long as I remain,
Long enough that the snow
Melting reveals a tide-line.
Better off than ugliness,
The old-age snow leaves,
And curly youth wakes
In the stretching newness
Of grass green growing.
~ Better Off ~
I’d be better off without all these
mosquitos, biting flies and bees—
better off indoors, wondering if
they’ll ever invent a better Off!
Just a little silliness…
Better Off Asleep
For a hundred years the princess slept
In fantasy and bliss,
Until the day that fate would bring
A prince’s true love kiss.
Finally the day arrived
She woke in his embrace,
And leapt into his waiting arms
A smile upon her face.
They rode away together then
To his castle far away,
They swore their love in marriage vows
Forever, that same day.
But as years passed the story changed
The prince grew old and fat,
The princess had a couple of kids
Who turned out to be brats.
She cleaned the castle day and night;
She woke each day with dread,
And often thought amidst it all
"I should have stayed in bed."
The moral of this story friends,
Is look before you leap.
The kiss that woke you just might mean
You’re better off asleep.
better off
enough of the art of losing
every movie i’ve ever seen
makes it clear who the bad guys are
and even now, when every civil courtesy and moral is ignored
at least you are allowed the ambiguity of imagining that the best guy won
all is clear inside a volcano, molten red and full of fire;
spilling rivulets of destruction, last gasps buried under ash.
in a prison hospital, tucked away from society, from family, the judge
full of cancer, alone, his wife murdered for hire, grandpa, missing vigil
of generations he molested, wracked with remorse
premeditated, murdered for $50, death row beckons a volunteer
their pain, our pain; blurred storms of delirium
the sound i make is sympathy
an endless refrain of rhythmic shushing
the value of surrounding words, breaking or broken
covered in dust of dead souls, somewhere unseen, however rationed
offering a jackpot of love, understanding the incomprehension of pain
please dear Lord, undo me with an occasional eruption of joy
the sensation of falling
Better Off Believing…
…she’s in a better place,
no pain, no suffering,
just peace.
Better off believing…
…grief will lessen in time,
our pain and suffering
will ease.
Better off believing…
…we will see her again,
some time, in the future,
one day.
Better off believing…
…but I don’t believe,
and almost envy those
who do.
Thank you for the mention, Pearl. Always so kind and generous with your comments.
So many impressive pieces of work here so far that I can’t mention them all. A few have caught my imagination though…
Rinkley, I smiled whilst reading Better Off Me. Charming.
Walter, Much Better Off is gripping, tender and agonising. I’ve read it 4 times, and I find that it’s put a few wrinkles between my eyebrows. And oddly, I don’t know how to read those wrinkles. Slightly saddened, I think, whereas I don’t think that’s your intention.
Katrelya, BETTER OFF BEING AN ARTIST just knocked me off my chair. Brilliant story telling.
de, Better Off Without This Ink-stained Heart really touched me.
Earl, excellent!
Rachel, Better Off Starving — with each line I was growing more hopeful for you. And then the last time came. Oh dear, I sighed.
Kimiko, a hauntingly vivid poem.
I’M NO BETTER OFF
And so they said,
you live and learn, but
I said, I never seem to.
I repeat and repeat it,
and live on repeating.
Plain ol’ stupidity or déjà vu.
No surprise that
I’m no better off.
And so they said,
ignoring history dooms you
to repeat it. Not so, I said.
I love history but still
I repeat and repeat it.
Plain ol’ stupidity or déjà vu.
No surprise that
I’m no better off.
And so I said,
looking in the mirror, my
left hand holding scissors,
Is it plain ol’ stupidity
or déjà vu; why do I think
I can cut my own hair?
No surprise that
I’m no better off.
Better off inside
your mind, than to grope
around in mine
not knowing
what you might find,
or not finding
anything useful
to take with you.
BETTER OFF JUST SAYING GOODBYE
Before you suggest the shortcut, the scenic route –
consider weather (is the footpath churned to mud
by a summer shower?) and pasturage (is the farmer’s
bull in the barn?). Try to remember this year’s
rotation of crops in the fields (wheat, then clover…)
so your guest will know when to turn at which corner
of the fence, to find the gate that puts him again
on the high-road. Consider the turning of the year
and season in the planting-harvest cycle.
If you don’t, your guest may find
the field’s been newly plowed, footpath
and all, and lose your directions
altogether, and end up
at lunchtime
right back where he started
this morning, at your front door.
BETTER OFF BLIND
sometimes i wonder
if my eyes could be shuttered
if i would even mind
sometimes i think
feeling the braille of your skin
would be much better
than reading your face
and thinking i understand
your entire story
sometimes i wonder
"Better off wild / better off quiet"
There is no beauty greater than me as I sit soundlessly on the ground until the time that I rise.
I could jump in the lake or run down the woody hill keeping warm on adrenaline and zany abandon.
In dreams, Dr. Seuss trades drawings with me. Mick Jagger feels I’m a freath of bresh air.
Using mnemonic devices, I manage to check off items on the to do lists in my dreams.
A hundred poems a day and usually a novel get lost in the wind between my mind and the writing.
My blood is so red, empires of bacteria treat it like gold. The violence is not my fault, but it saddens me.
My body upon waking is the heaviest thing in the house. Elephants could not move me. Prove me wrong.
Any one of my motes, acting alone, can heat the air in a room, but to cool it all must act in concert.
The business world from top to bottom (gratefully) grinds to a halt on the days I play hooky.
The ocean will make me a fine bed where I will be able to roll all night and never fall out.
DA
Thanks Sara – here’s a 2nd draft – note one of the changes was eliminating the DUI references, as I decided that’s quite different from driving distracted, though unfortunately sometimes with the same end result.
Better Off the Road
There should be a special lane
for the distracted, a car-width off
the shoulder of the highway,
but instead of HOV diamonds,
we’ll paint the asphalt
with icons of a happy-face
holding the wheel with one hand,
looking down or to the side
at the other hand, which holds
a cellphone or Blackberry,
an iPad or iPod, a CD or DVD,
a road map or GPS,
makeup, an electric shaver,
a sandwich, a crying toddler,
a tiny dog, a horny lover,
a spilled coffee cup.
Then when they careen into
the inevitable crash,
it will be into each other.
MiskMask adorable… what a hottie you are… RJ there is that voice that always prompts a smile and MiskMask cute repartee and reference back to your poem. Sara M. wonderful image of the horses careening off the carousel..I’m a huge fan of carousels and Rob thanks for reminding us of the Good Doctor’s birthday…
Walt-Much Better Off was wonderful and brave
De- Loved it.
Bruce, Love the idea of a "distraction lane". Very clever. Congratulations on your chapbook!
Better Off the Road
There should be a special lane
for the distracted, a car-width off
the shoulder of the highway,
but instead of HOV diamonds,
it would be emblazoned with painted icons
of a happy-face holding the wheel with one hand
and looking down or to the side at the other
which holds a cellphone, or a video game,
a CD or a DVD, a road map or a GPS,
makeup, a sandwich, a tiny dog,
a crying toddler, a beer, or crack cocaine,
a horny lover, a spilled coffee cup.
Then when they careened into
the inevitable crash,
it would be into each other.
Better off than us
She doesn’t talk about it very much
But once in a while she lets something slip,
A brief glimpse into her preteen landscape,
While we are walking, or making supper,
Especially after a sleepover.
“All my friends have so much money,” she says,
Not enviously, more matter-of-fact.
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.
Better off?
Better off?
Echoes of what was remain
To taunt
To tease
Echoes of what is
Reverberate
Over and over
Falling
Failing memories and all that is left is recall
Better Off Starving
At the auction, there were paintings under the hammer
of all ages and abilities, but mostly students
and graduates hoping for a bit of money for their soul
of a break from one of the agents or collectors up from London.
No Goldsmiths or St. Martin’s this, but a quiet
provincial city where mothers rubbed shoulders
with the know-what-I-like brigade
preyed upon by ancient men in white linen jackets
with a paintbrush like a secret signal in their top pockets.
<i>Why don’t you come and see what’s on my easel?</i>
My painting is lot one-seventeen, a six-foot crucifix
comprised of skulls and warheads flanked by centurions
in riot gear and rubber bullets. It sells for seventy quid
to the church of St. Mary Magdalene and I find out later
that they burned it.
BETTER READ THAN DEAD
We speak in hushed reserved piety,
of a "Dead Poets Society".
But, a cause of their noteriety
stems from them being dead.
As poets we strive to stake our claim,
in the formulation of our fame,
and rest our laurels on that name;
we’re poets, born and bred.
My file cabinets overflow,
in a literary undertow
and has me treading H-two-oh
while my work load feels like lead.
I will serve no rhyme beyond my time,
and reap the accolades sublime.
So, you better read me in my prime,
I’m better read than dead.
BETTER OFF GROUNDED
What detour seduced me off the freeway?
Tired of bumper-bumper. Exit
onto frontage road, winter-gray vineyards,
fallow fields; one-lane bridge
over a living river. Windshield blinding
sunlight. Out of the heavens, color!
Balloon? Wind-drifting across
my azimuth a rainbow I could never
catch, who cares, a rainbow is a rainbow.
Skydiving angel coming down,
guiding toward safe landing.
Each of us, grounding.
Posted too soon. Morning Horror, take 2:
Woke up to
broken coffee pot
and no joe.
better off in bed
if sweet creamy java is
denied me.
Saga of my morning:
Better off in bed
if that steaming cup of joe
is denied to me.
Better Off Me
(celebrating Dr. Seuss’s Birthday)
Theodor Geisel,
known more famously
as Dr. Seuss, wrote
a wondrous story
of a boy who dreams
how it would be
to be other, more-
different than he.
In the end, though,
he is able to see,
he’s happiest him-
I’m better off me.
**not quite ready for prime time, but it’s late
Better Off Than On
Chaos reigns on
crazy carousels,
where horses grin
like ghouls as they ride
up and down. Watching
them spin from the ground
is enough to make you ill. Stop
slow down and live,
or your horse will careen
into unseen spaces,
and it will be too late.
Better Off
I was recently asked
By a representative
Of the government
Whether or not I was
Better off today
Than I was 4 years ago
I had to ask
In what way
Financially
He retorted
Not so good
Health wise
He added
Getting older
Politically
He persisted
Not so trusting
Spiritually
He jeered
Much better off
This sparked his interest
So he pried just a little
And asked
Why are you better off
Spiritually
While everything else
Went downhill
Quite simple
I said with a smile
I’m getting closer to God
Why
Because the world is
Heading straight to hell
And I want to make sure
I’m not going along
For the ride
Sorry it printed twice! Please delete one! BB
Better Off Without This Ink-stained Heart
Better off not
Caring
Not loving these words so much
Or leaving raw pen-shaped pieces of myself
For the wolves to carry off into the darkness.
Better off not
Grieving
Every long slow syllable of my tongue
Or the way the graphite and the white become one
Or when the black clacks merrily along, a song.
Better off losing them
Loosing them
Only to wind and wave
My torn lost soul
To save.
BETTER OFF ME
To be sung to the tune of ‘What a Wonderful World’
Though I’ve had my day,
And I’m old and grey,
I look around and then I say,
From what I can see
I’m better off Me.
There is too much rain
And too much snow,
Too much wind when cyclones blow.
From what I can see
I’m better off Me.
See children in the school-yard
With things to learn each day!
Then see the poor young parents
With all those bills to pay!
See folk over the sea
Looking grim on TV!
That’s when I’m glad
That I am Me!
Now I’d like to be
A Sweet Sixteen,
Be an eternal Dancing Queen,
But, since that cannot be,
I’m better off Me.
From what I can see
I’m better off Me.
*
~ Better Off The Deep End ~
A cannonball
is a sort of fall,
but without enough water,
its usefulness could depend.
For a cannonball
to be a great fall,
consult with Humpty’s daughter—
you’re better off the deep end!
Don’t!
If you have to ask
if you should, then
you shouldn’t.
If you can keep
from teaching, then don’t:
as a favor to yourself,
to the students
who need your all.
You’re better off
working at the mall.
If you have to ask
if you should marry,
you shouldn’t.
If you’re basing
your choices on
what makes you
tingle, do everyone
a favor: you’re better off
single.
If you’re feeling
the least bit
of hesitation,
wondering if
you should hang-glide
or bungee-jump
or sky dive, then
don’t. You’re better off
alive
BETTER OFF THAN ON
Better off in jail
Than imprisoned
From denial and resentment
Better off in rehab
Than surrounded
By you, yourself and thou
Better off in asylums
Than tormented
With ravaging addiction
Better off than on…
Yes, better than dead
BETTER OFF BEING AN ARTIST
The mountain, the trees, and the river
Sat on the desk of Jerome Carlton Roberts,
The master photographer.
He looked at me and said "Good job.
Tolkien was an artist, too."
When I was a damsel, he took my picture
For Cymballet School of Modeling,
Over which his lovely wife Cora presided.
Beneath his wife’s caring watchful eyes,
He invited me behind the camera,
Where I beheld weeping willows
Dangling dreamily into a lazy lagoon.
He told me I was beautiful in front of the camera,
But stunning behind it.
I left him the photograph on my way to the hospital,
For I was told that medical transcription is a good job.
During my typing test, my mind wandered back
To the wilderness of art,
And when the interview was over,
I stopped by his desk again -
Mr. Roberts said "I hope you get a good job."
And tapped my landscape, handing it back to me,
Beaming.
Transcription is a good job-
But the more I typed, the more I knew
I would be better off being an artist.
Many ladies – and many gentlemen -
In many hospitals and clinics thought so;
"Sorry" was the word I heard the most from them-
In time, I quit medical transcription.
I picked up my camera.
I took pictures – and for the first time
I knew that I was, indeed
Doing a very good job.
BETTER OFF
(for Marie Antoinette)
She once had
a husband and son:
now who knows
where they’ve gone.
Now it’s the guillotine blade
who wants to love her.
She thinks back.
How was it that she
did so wrong?
Some misstep
has got her onstage again,
drawn their attention.
Here is where
l’ancien regime dies,
snapped at its
bloody crown:
but really, she is so sick
of caring–
"Better off with a charcoal pencil"
The Grays still play
the dominant role,
ruling over this domain
with iron fisted strength.
Scant color attempts
to bleed through
but is quickly back under cover
of clouds
and snows,
blacked by exhaust
have exhausted me.
Better off knowing.
Better off knowing, than nothing to do
It is our life and all we have to
Make it all Wright? Get it just Wright?
Or just keep our hands down off the light?
Is it now better, when u just know
Where will you go and where will you flow??
Is it now better or it is just not?
Will it get colder or is it still hot?
Man, it’s too difficult just to realize
What is going on with our lives?
Is it just a dream or is it real life,
When you cut your hair and cut off your wife?
Is it too easy just to understand?
Where are we going and who will command
To stop and lay down, than pass it around
And then just stand up and keep walking to sound?
Tell me, my maker, is it it enough?
Or are we just making you stand up and laugh?
Is it reality? And if it is real
So why it’s so hard just to believe?
To believe in the hope, To believe in the light,
To believe that i’m doing everything wright!!
Just to believe that someday we will
Shine on the light and forget about ILL!!
And all i’m trying to say
That knowing isn’t enought for God just to say "Hey"
That knowing is just knowing and maybe it’s great
And maybe someday we will cut OFF the the hate!!
Better Off Doing Yoga
It’s a proven scientific fact that
standing on your head
makes you hear frequencies
usually reserved for dogs.
Well it’s not really proven.
Or scientific. Yet.
But I swear I’ve heard tiny invisible people
(seemingly people-like)
asking me
what it is I’m doing upside down.
RJ, cute. Just wait until you’re my age. Shaving your beard is something one contemplates on a regular basis. Thank goodness for threading. LOL!
Better Off…
One time, I wondered
(please don’t scoff)
if I would have been
better off
if I’d been born a boy.
How weird,
‘cause then I’d have to
shave a beard
most every day.
That sounds so blah.
I’m better off a girl.
Hurrah!
Pearl! Too funny. Same title!
BETTER OFF THAN ON
Heat rises and mine’s rising up
from my shoulders and up
my neck to my chin, pearls of
moisture swimming up and bursting
like ripe grapes under a heavy foot,
and in a fevered panic I toss away
layers of clothing on this cold winter day
like a lunatic wandering lost
on the burning Sahara sands.
These clothes are better off
than on, I say as a
shiver cools my skin.
Better Off Than On
Better off than on
if on should be
a facade smiling
fatuously
Better Off with the Lord
We’re better off with the Lord,
even if He turned out to be a hoax.
He has us loving our neighbors,
being faithful to our spouses,
being honest and kind and
not stealing or murdering,
venturing forth in faith not fear,
comforted when we’re wounded,
cheered when we’re down
and befriended when we’re lonely.
Even if He’s a figment of our collective imagination,
we’re better off.
MUCH BETTER OFF
A void of the heart was where it started.
When she departed I was left with three things.
It rings of despair, but therein lies the rub.
The first was a feeling of desolation;
isolation from all that molded me.
It let me be free, in a way. For on the day
I found my solitutde I construed a strange
realization. I wasn’t alone. My thoughts
were companions. Connections to the senses
of which I was dealing. Stealing seconds from
time served, I swirved into a second epiphany.
The ability to love, above all else was rooted;
extruded from the heart, mind and soul, doled out
without recompense; and unconditional condition.
I was able to give myself permission to express it.
Even if I compressed it into the fewest words,
my voice could be heard loudly, clearly.
Nearly everything I felt found a place on any space
I could used to rhyme. And in time, the third fact
became very apparent. It was inherrent to all
of which I prescribed. I had imbibed a life serum,
which resulted in these poems coming to the fore.
No more self-pity or doubt, all out on the table
for all to read and absorb. In company
with a poetic hoard. Others may scoff,
but in my mind, I am much better off.
Better off Gone
This is where the alleys turn, turn,
from room to room and, she, again,
walks in shadows, embracing walls
that love her back for what she sells.
What she sells is ad hoc, as-is love,
more than she is worth, less than her
competition.
The street calls her out, calls her in,
like mother’s dinner, and she sighs, sighs,
like a child, when she sees what’s there.
What’s there, there, is a man, his palms
wet like rain, rain, but suddenly not just
there, when he strips down to bear his sweat.
When they merge, they bear left, right,
stop, yield, slow, and at last, accelerate.
When it is over, it is like tide breaks back
into the night and even moonlight is gone.
And then she is gone, been pawned for time,
reduced to this, equal parts pleasure and pain.
She walks, shedding a layer of skin each time,
stares straight into the headlights for one last pain
before taking a breath on impact to numb the time.
BETTER OFF IN LIMBO
In this place, neither here nor there,
I can see thing I wasn’t meant to see.
Far be it from me to judge,
I couldn’t budge a mind with force.
But, of course, a slight nudge would suffice
if I didn’t think twice and went with my instincts.
It’s a unique feeling dealing with my thoughts
on a personal plane, and never drain my muse.
For better or worse, this verse is perpetual.
It is a virtual glimpse at a soul in control.
In a good place, where I want to be.
Just me, neither here nor there.