I hope everyone took advantage of Daylight Savings Time to get an extra hour of sleep last night. I know I did. Also, a quick note, because some have asked: Poets are more than welcome to jump in and start poeming along, even if they’re a day or week late to the party. The more the merrier, and you’ll still be just as qualified to send a chapbook in December. So get poeming!
For today’s prompt, write an addict poem. There are lots of possible addictions out there–some of them serious and some of them not so much. For instance, there are times when I think I’m addicted to work and pop (“pop” is what we call soda or cola in Ohio, where I was raised). Anyway, I realize today’s prompt might stir up some skeletons for some folks. For instance, I doubt I would’ve ever written my poem today without this prompt to prompt me.
Here’s my attempt:
“In the blood”
At family gatherings on my mother’s side,
I was always someone else to everyone.
You look exactly like Tommy, they’d say, meaning
my uncle Tom, who laid carpet for a living
and who raced hot rods at Kil-Kare on the weekends.
He was the spitting image of my Grandpa Fox,
a car guy himself. Even Grandma Dorothy–
near the end–mistook me for Tommy. Come closer,
she’d say, let me have one more kiss from you, Tommy.
The last time I saw him was at my mother’s house.
We’d heard through the grapevine he was into drugs now,
but he gave Mom a story of how he wanted
to turn things around (and maybe he did). First thing
he said when he saw Ben was, He looks like Robert,
which of course meant he looked like everyone else,
though I admit I’m not into cars, though I do
love to race. Like Ben, I was fast on my feet and
sometimes with my mouth. We had a good last dinner
with Uncle Tom. Over the weeks afterward, Mom
noticed things missing until finally she had
to call in the police, because her van vanished
with him behind the wheel. Every so often,
we’ll get word that he’s moved in with someone before
getting booted out. But still, when I travel to
Goodland, Indiana, on Labor Day weekend,
I hear the same thing: You look so much like Tommy.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
And tweet poetic about the challenge and poetry in general using the #novpad hashtag.
*****
In Writing & Selling Your Memoir, literary agent Paula Balzer draws upon her experience working with New York Times best-selling memoirists and carefully explores the genre. This book helps memoir writers identify strong opening and closing points, find and develop a strong central hook that your readers will relate to, structure your memoir for maximum readability, and more.
Peacock Eyes
You tramped yourself
up with peacock eyes
and tried to blend
in with the crowd
but I could see you
waddling worlds away,
your wings wide open
in drunken denial.
That’s a great start, Laurie!
Way to lead the pack Laurie! Sounds like someone was showing off some peacock feathers.
“waddling worlds away” well put
Thank you… I was so happy to be first!!
Oh, my, what a great poem, shocking in the honesty. I know this person! LOL
I’m a day behind with reading. Laurie, this is excellent!
Laurie … WOW. What a start, talented lady!
WHY
Why do we addict ourselves to things?
To fill our deep black holes?
The empty abyss of our longings,
With something easy.
Something to dull the pain,
Something to make us forget.
To fein a fullness;
Or at least to encourage a cynicism,
That fakes indifference
To our emptiness
That we are trying to ignore.
Yes, I think it is to dull the pain of ife eventually. Not that I would know too much about it. LOL My diet coke and chocolate proclaim their harmlessness to me, but I know.
\
Sunday in the Parade with Friends
sunday, 6 November, 2011.
it’s my usual o-dark-thirty time,
and it’s chilly, maybe even cold.
not Wisconsin frigid, nor Seattle dank,
but cold for here, for this time of year.
how shall we dress today?
long pants? long sleeves?
gee whiz, my Pride Parade look is
shorts and a tee (“gay, fine by me”)
PFLAG ball cap, no ear flaps.
none of this matters, of course.
my pals’ daughter Suzi’s in town
and grown men beam. grown women too.
has to be some warmth in that.
can’t imagine a life without friends
Lovely.
thanks, Ina…anyone with cats & Vonnegut is ok by me
That’s funny. I was about to write an addict poem yesterday
Gee, I think I did.
Yes, Robert! Whew-hew. Kil-kare, go Ohio! Never been to kil-kare but definitely heard about it.
Concerning your poem people used to mistake me for a doctor when I used to work in a hospital. I couldn’t resist to go along a couple times. He-He…
Robert,
Like the details in your poem–family gatherings are so full of those connections. Sad about the addiction.
On a lighter note, “pop” is the word for drinks of soda, cola, root beer here in Ontario, too!
It is always a chuckle when American cousins visit!
I agree about Robert’s poem.
I have a friend from Boston. She grew calling all softdrinks “Coke.” As in, “I’ll bring the cokes,” meaning that she would bring an array … Coke, Pepsi, 7-Up, Rootbeer, etc. So funny!
Pingback: SILVA RERUM : SOMETHING TO GNAW ON « Words We Women Write
A mother of three’s idea of a good time
It all revolves around your need
to be the center of attention
when you call and tell my brother
that you need help,
that you’ve broken after only five
days of being sober and that you’ve
ordered three hundred pills
on the internet.
If you’re only taking a handful,
you’re not serious about suicide
so we all know the game you’re playing.
You’re giving up your body to strangers
and neighbors for bottles of whiskey.
It doesn’t seem to bother you that
you’re waking up in the beds of people
you’ve only met.
Your kids don’t even know who you are.
Your mother tells you that it will be
expensive to take care of your body
after you’ve pickled and bloated to an end.
The ambivalence is growing in all of us.
There will soon be no one left to scrape you
off of the linoleum in your apartment kitchen.
A desperate flurry of texts will end up
floating in cellular purgatory and
all of us will have forgotten you ever existed,
left only with the aftermath’s sordid clean up.
You wrote this beautifully. Thanks for tackling the truth behind what the family and friends feel.
Thanks so much. I haven’t been very pleased with what I’ve written so far, so positive feedback is really nice.
Well done. The frustration and hopelessness of the situation is clearly conveyed. So sad.
Powerful!
Pingback: Dinner On Sunday « It's Real To Me
Tomorrow
One
More….
yes, that should
get
me
through
today.
Tomorrow –
A better day
I shall be
stronger,
perhaps,
and then
Need
One
less….
It’s all a cruel illusion.
Pingback: PAD Day #6: Prompt: addict « 31poems
My Pleasure
My pleasure
is seductive,
and reptilian.
Computer games
of swords and magic
give me strength
agility and wisdom.
The poets of software
code potions and spells,
gemmy blades, bows,
all manner of things that need shooting
But they buckle my swash,
and tickle my fancy
most of all by designing
good looting. I
Love
Loot.
I open drawers and pull out loot.
Take lids from boxes: pull out loot.
I find it under rocks and under ground.
You’d be surprised at all the dungeons
full of jewels in the average ten-house town.
I’m so honest
in reality I bore myself
to tears,
but stick me in
a jerkin, put a crossbow on my back,
and I will steal the lining
and the lint out of your pack.
I acquire. I amass.
I’m in heaven.
HAHAHAHA! LOVE IT!!
Wow! I have to confess that I have NEVER played a computer game. I must try it some time.
Me neither, Viv. Funny, but it just doesn’t appeal to me. But Barbara’s poem about it sure does!
test
test
Yay!
You plan on sharing your secrets with your partner, or am I left to my own devices?
How Did you DO that?
For italics: sandwich the word(s) between
For bold: sandwich the word(s) between
Hooboy. It took it as commands. Hmm … Let’s try this again.
For italics: sandwich the word(s) between , but with no spaces before or after the i.
For bold: sandwich the word(s) between , but with no spaces before or after the b.
GAH!!!!!!!! I can’t explain it, because it keeps taking it as a command!! Let me try again.
For italics, place a small i between greater than and less than signs, before and after the word(s) you wish to italicize.
For bold, place a small b between greater than and less than signs, before and after the word(s) you wish to bold.
poem-atic
i write ‘em down on paper
i write ‘em in my head
i write ‘em in my pjs
when i’m ready for bed
i write ‘em in the shower
i write ‘em in my car
i write ‘em when in town
or when i travel far
i write ‘em in my sleep
i write ‘em when awake
i write ‘em when i’m eating
a tender juicy steak
i write ‘em all the time
i just can’t seem to stop
nothing will keep me from writing
not even writer’s block
PERFECT!
Agreed, absolutely, even the last line: writer’s block has me freewriting madly until something emerges.
LOL!
Yes!
Thanks, everyone!
I love this – such fun!
Good one.
Pain pill addiction?
Those living in pain need them.
So why must we judge?
Oops. Only the word “need” was supposed to be in italics.
its a fine line between need and dependency… and i am not qualified to judge!
seriously good haiku!
I agree, Tara. And thanks for the kind comment.
When I was young and foolish.
Bassetts’ Liquorice Allsorts
a whole packet for lunch was my way.
Coffee, strong black with sugar
several times a day, kept my brain alert
for work and play
until I could no longer sleep.
Cigarettes, another youthful folly,
- a slow burn, from one now and then
to twenty or thirty a day.
Insidious hold, they had over me.
Sickened and broke I soon became
a reluctant addict:
precious little pleasure with them
and none at all without.
Twenty years of trying and failing
furtive puffs in secret places -
shame added to the distress -
crowned at long last with complete success.
Maltesers, Mars and Marathon,
the gift of a box of Belgian heaven -
one for Jock, the rest for me -
repentance you will never see.
One addiction replaced with another,
chocoholicism is never gone.
.
Nor should it ever be, Viv.
Not nice Robert, difficult one. My poem may be found here:
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2011/11/06/withdrawal/
Elizabeth
Worry Beads
I can walk away at any time,
Really, no lie, it has no hold
On me. I’m perfectly calm,
Everything is fine. I’m not
Dwelling on what might happen,
Where the world is spinning,
How will we live, or eat,
Or drink. Where are the trees,
The flowers, the whales, the bees?
I’m not chained to this flurry.
What, me worry?
Unfortunately, I can relate. I never thought of being prone to worry as an addiction, but I guess it really is.
CONFESSION
Confession.
I’m addicted
Beside myself
Convoluted, conflicted
Cocked, Coiled, so eager to spring!
Ejected, projectile, still developing
Speed, wind, and a brisk bustle
To capture that prompt
For this I must hustle
Quickly descending, one thing in mind
Pounce on the manna, that prompt is mine
Salivating satisfaction as I sink my teeth
Of those play on words
When they sink beneath
Ahhhhhh…a sweet assimilation
Yes, I confess
There is an addiction.
The Fat Girl Laughed
She was addicted to things she shouldn’t.
Tea, milk, sugar, fat – her weight ballooned
until she was twice what she felt comfortable with
a diet is what she needed
but she could never stick to one;
the lure of bread, of crisps,
of corn flakes and ice-cold milk
as she caught up with the morning news.
She asked the doctor to wire her jaws shut
but the doctor declined, laughing
telling her not to be stupid.
She hated that
she’d rather be stupid than overweight.
Could she drop the calories?
survive on bran flakes and fresh air
until she reached a better weight?
She became addicted to water
drinking a glass when she felt hungry
another when she didn’t
another when she was happy
and the when she wasn’t
She got through days by keeping her stomach full
of calorie-free water
and declined offers of meals out
until her target weight
when her ribs jutted like beautiful xylophones
under her pallid parchment skin.
And then she drank more water.
Water to keep the vitamins down
water to stop the retching bile
water to take the mineral salts.
In the hospital they gave her glucose drips
and pumped her full of protein
but always in the mirror
the fat girl laughed.
Oh such a sad poem, but so well put together
Truly.
Heart-wrenching. Vivid.
those last two lines gave me shivers…wow
This is golden.
So well done.
Pingback: Poem: The Beautiful Game « Wanna Get Published, Write!
The Beautiful Game
I play it
My daughters play it
I coach it
I watch it
It’s football around the world
Here, I love soccer!
Addicted to Love
Fluorescent light glares down through air tinged with sweat.
The woman straddles the bench, resting between sets.
My boyfriend moved out, she says.
She lifts with effort and extends her arm.
I study the ceiling.
He never meant to hurt me.
Her words are black and bruised and blue.
Her hands rise above her head, the weights collide.
I see her crucified against the wall of mirrors.
She is a tangle of bones resisting gravity.
I want him back, I can change.
I look at her with curiosity
or is it pity?
This grave gossip weighs on me.
So, hey, would you spot me?
i liked figuring that out
it can be hard to let go…
THX Tara, it is kind of a puzzle, isn’t it, since the italics aren’t there for when she speaks.
I got it right away, well-crafted, deep imagery.
From the Poe House on Spring Garden
I’d like to take back some of the things
I didn’t say as I wandered around the Poe house
in Philadelphia and listened to the possibly drunk Ranger,
who I think more than once
referred to him as Edgar Daniel Poe,
introduce the eight minute movie
which ends with him unconscious on a sidewalk in Baltimore.
They hung drawings of fireplaces in front of
places where crumbled remains of fireplaces now were,
and what is more unlike Poe than fabric art!
Remember that night we drank cognac all night
and read “The Black Cat” over and over
to see if we could find any traces of laudanum?
There was no evidence of the cat,
not even the portrait of a cat in front of its grave.
No demons were there either
unless you count the ones I smuggled in
and when I asked the Ranger
why the eight minute movie said nothing
about any of Poe’s possible addictions
she said
What Addictions?
Had a similar experience at Papa’s house in Key West. Interesting observation
Thanks.
Skeletons
Alcohol.
Anger.
Drug abuse.
You had your demons.
I had you.
Powerful!
So short and so potent. Love this one!
Ouch!
WOW. Nobody, but NOBODY has such consistent knock-em-out power and creativity in so few words. AMAZING.
De, How do you say so much with so few words?
‘Another Saturday Night”
Tonight
I will drink champagne
from a finger smudged wine glass
I will wear red beaded, loose pants
from another place
and my hair will coil and twist
like upset snakes
while I sit alone
upon a red sofa that just might
flip into a bed.
I will drink tonight
with my lips open
feeling sped up
even in the silence
Knowing there is no place
for the speed
to take me.
WoW!
Indeed!
Pingback: First Light | Prose Posies
DON”T
Don’t dwell on the scores.
You already watched the games.
Get away from those weights.
You ran eight miles.
Take your ear buds out.
The radio’s on.
No online games. Today,
you should be
addicted to me.
Ooohhhh. Fiesy
ADDICTION ALTERS ADOLESCENCE
Just eighteen
When she sampled it first
By nineteen
She was shaking
As she told me about
Her boss who fired her
The store owner who harassed her and
The police who accused her “hard-working”
Man-boyfriend of pandering in the parking lot.
I knew this young woman
Since she was four
Since First Communion
Confirmation
Grade eight graduation
Her Father’s heart attack death
When she was just sixteen, so sweet
High school graduation
With a bouquet of red roses and
All the world at her feet
One year later
My daughter’s friend
Was shaking
As she spoke
Addiction had taken its toll
All offers to help received a nope
Two years later
Recovery
Fragile release
To celebrate
Birthday two five
Glad to be alive.
I was hoping all through it that she would escape. Thank goodness!
Yes, me too. The happy ending was a great surprise.
Thanks Domina and Marie Elena. We are so thankful she has come this far Many losses but she has started to make a new life for herself, in a new setting. Many prayers were answered!
Oops, Domino!
Here’s my Day 6 poem.. in a Pleiades form.
Paintings
Like the poem, Leo.
Are you going to post it here?
Black Thing
It was so obvious to us.
It was so simple.
Just don’t – don’t do it
and all the petals will stay on their flowers.
This thing you do, how your elbow bends.
Don’t do that and we can stay and laugh
and never grow old.
And that, how your mouth opens that way.
If only you would just not do that,
we will not begin to die like this.
Nor you. More important: nor you.
Please. It’s simple.
Isn’t it so simple?
Just don’t don’t do it.
That. Just don’t do that.
How your mouth opens
and your head tilts back
and you close your eyes
in ecstasy of oblivion
while we tug at your hem
and say, “We’re here.
We’re still here. Please!
Just don’t do that thing.”
And in the bloodstream
the spirit stirs awake. We tug
at your hem, say, “Please.
It’s so simple. Just don’t.”
And when you open your eyes
they are black:
the whites are dimmed, the iris: black,
the pupils widened, widened, widened and black.
The eyes look down on us.
And the twisting mouth opens, differently.
And the Black Thing snarls. It says,
“I hate being a mother.”
And – that fast –
there is no trace of you in you.
THE FUN IN DYSFUNCTUAL
I’m not addicted to your
laugh, the trill of it isn’t
a thirst I cannot quench.
I’m not always jonesing
for the gaze of your brown
eyes, and I get along fine for
minutes at a time deprived
of the silky way you say
Shut up when I’m talking
stupid stuff. My veins don’t
wail for every wasted
moment you aren’t holding
my hand, and this sweat
isn’t broken over that
pair of flowered shorts you
shake as you walk away.
I am not powerless in
the face of your face, and
I am entirely ready for God
to untie all these nots—
then maybe I can keep at
least twelve steps away
from you, as long as there’s
a wall between us,
Great poem. I really liked “least twelve steps away”
LOVE IT. One of my favorites of the first 6 days … from ANYONE.
I would star this as a favorite too.
(from novel main character’s pov)
Addicted to Art
By the time we made it to Georgia,
I realized he wasn’t just an artist.
he was addicted. He breathed
inspiration and creativity.
Oils, acrylics and water colors
ran through his veins.
He visited art museums,
shopped for paintbrushes,
instead of Georgia peach tee shirts,
and saw the gnarled driftwood on Jekyll Island,
cypress and alligators of Okefenokee swamp and
ever present Spanish moss and kudzu vines
in terms of lighting, perspective and arrangement.
When we played on the beach
he sculpted castles.
When he made dinner,
a feast for the eyes.
And when we kissed,
I saw rainbows.
the glow
of my computer screen…
first light
–Cara Holman
Very well put Cara (Haiku Queen)
Thanks, Meena. Nice to see you back here. Hope all is well!
Don’t Take it Personal
In an instance fun is gone
she’s yelling
telling you
you’re worthless
fat
a waste of space
a disgrace.
Try not to take it personal
she doesn’t really mean it.
She’d hurl those words at herself
if she wasn’t so fragile.
Instead she takes another swig
and drowns her memories
of times when someone else
hurled those hurtful things
damaging
demeaning
self-esteem destroyed.
She turned to substances
to fill her body with
warmth.
But in the end,
they only left her
cold.
I like both poems you shared here, but this one is absolutely chilling. Your line spacing adds intrest and impact.
Thank you.
Wonderful. I particularly liked “She turned to substance/to fill her body with warmth.”
Maybe Things Would Change
In a rundown room
with fold-up chairs
I stared
as addicts told their tales
each one seemed worse than the first
stealing
cheating
selling themselves
car crashes
children torn away
There wasn’t a limit to
the depth of rock bottom
But the meetings seemed to help
Some were clean for years
I wiped my tears and dreamt of better days
Maybe things would change
Hey, smart people: how do you get your picture posted for your profile? Obviously it can be done, but I don’t see any way to do it on the WD site.
Brian, I had posted a solution probably two days ago. Marie and Hannah both had no problem posting their pics. Try this:
There is a website called Gravatar.com ( http://www.gravatar.com ) that allows you to establish your photo as an avatar that they say “will follow you around the web”.
Go to that site. Click on “get your gravatar today”. It will ask a few questions to open the “account”. The icon attaches itself to the email you provide in the account. If there are multiple e-mail addresses you use, add them also to the account and attach the same photo to them as well. Then whichever one you use here or any other site will associate that photo and you should be good to go.
Thanks, Walt! I’ll try it.
02.11.12
I come back to your memory
like a tongue
to a broken tooth.
Here’s a gasp. Perfect!
WOW. Destined to be repeated.
wow.
Says it all!
Addicting Dimpled Devil
The weather doesn’t have to be perfect
Or even close
Although I prefer sunny and warm
Rain is acceptable
Up to and including a category 2 hurricane
Or typhoon
Depending on where I reside
And there’s the number one weather rule
“42 and blue will do”
In truth, however
The blue is optional
I will undertake the challenge
Alone or with friends
Or even with strangers
Not worrying whether or not
I embarrass myself
You never can tell
I just might impress myself
Either way I don’t really care
Because it’s the challenge
Not the outcome
My quest is perfection
An impossible quest
But I realize that
And accept it
Still I undertake the challenge
Whenever the opportunity is right
To whack the dimpled devil
From tee to green
To play it from where it lands
As long as I can locate it
For I do not like snakes
Nor do I swim
The dimpled devil gives me fits
But at times
Makes me smile
As I smack one straight down the middle
Taking snapshots as it flies over the others
Then I stick one in the flag’s shadow
So close that my opponent says to pick it up
Or I send ball and sand skyward
And when the dust clears I’m tapping in
One of my favorite shots is the elusive
Chip in from anywhere off the green
But we can’t forget the impossible putt
That wasn’t that impossible after all
I’ve made all of these shots many times over
Throughout my years of play
Of course, not all in the same round
Or even in the same year
Yet I persevere
For the love of the game
And the challenge of perfection
That I will never reach
I do, however
Have two goals I wish to reach
Before I retire my clubs for good
One is to shoot my age
And the other is a hole-in-one
If I never get either
Or both
I’ll still be satisfied
And I will die knowing
That the addicting dimpled devil
Brought me so much joy
“waste”
the shadows
are her quaking quilt where
she cocoons most nights—
white-eyed and fetal;
it’s no secret
he possesses the
Red-Eye power
of spirits to cripple
even
the
lame.
So many “wows” for this prompt. This is another.
Emergency plans
I take nine seconds
to reach the coffee maker
(eyes closed, in pj’s).
If this fact seems trivial,
then you’ll never understand.
excellent! yes, I understand.
Oh, how well I understand! I love this, Andrew!
LOL! YEP!!
A little dark and gruesome, but its an addiction, none the less
T.E.M.P.T.E.D
Trapped
Yearning For my life support
Needing to Land on the runway of a
Jugular vein
A deadly desire
I am intoxicated by the smell of blood
A mad bull needing to see red
Escape
Into my gruesome coffin of isolation
Waiting for my next prey
Waiting to fulfill my crave
Wanting to swim in the pool of my addiction
Mesmerized
I lay panting, anxious for nightfall
Contemplating my attack
Swift like a gazelle
Or patience
Pouncing on my unexpected foe
Plundering
Deeper as the time draws nigh
I can taste the savory satisfaction
Quenching an unquenchable thirst
One after one, on an unwinding cycle
Reaching my perfection
Time
My cold blood frozen
Sweep through the autumn’s breeze
I am set free
Fulfill my desire
A necessity to calm my insanity
Empty
Though I’m filled
More, need more
Dried by the infirmity of the unfulfilled
Resent this deadly sin
I am tempted again
Done?
Can I be?
Never
Wow, depicted nicely. That certainly sounds like an addiction.
Oooooooooh!
Gray
Naively he viewed everything
as a vast gray area. If there is a black
and white or perhaps a yellow line
drawn somewhere he cannot see it.
A line drawn in the sand is erased
by the rising tide or a strong wind.
Surely, there must be a rule.
Who will decide the
difference between habit
and addiction? Who will have
fingers pointed in their direction
and heads shaken at them
is disgust? Not likely at those
who start each day with several
cups of coffee or by heading to
the gym. But still, they can’t help
themselves, it is a need. Addicted
to coffee or working out?
It is possible.
More likely at the pack-a-day
cigarette smoker with the
nicotine addiction or those with
one or more of those other vices
that many refer as addictions.
They may still see themselves
as in the gray and not on one
or the other side of some line.
An addiction has a beginning
but perhaps no end. A circle is a
curved line with no beginning
and no end. You are either inside
or outside of the circle and either
side may be gray. Perhaps both
sides are gray and the line is gray.
Is gray a black which has faded
or a white that has shaded?
He can take it or leave it. He tells
himself he can stop at any time.
He only knows of gray.
It is no ones place to judge.
By Michael Grove
Addict
Hello.
I withhold my name
To protect those
Around me.
I am an addict
A user
A loser
A junkie
I have a problem.
I steal time
From my family
And neglect them
Or snap at them
But
I always
Apologize.
Life isn’t fair.
No one cares
That I need this
For me.
Need it.
Be miserable
Without it.
Understand?
Let me write!
Love it! Write on sister!
This is awesome!
thanks! i need support =)
Totally!
Obsession
Staring intently -
Entire body absorbed
By the object of focus;
A focus rivaling surgeons;
Breathing slowed, brow furrowed,
Waiting … not with patience,
More a single mindedness.
Intense concentration
Bordering on passion.
Building anticipation,
Poised for instant reaction:
All attention, awareness, life, joy…
All coiled in the potential of
A small green ball
FETCH!
(thought maybe some levity was in order)
HAHAHA! You are fast becoming one of my favorite PA poets. KEEP IT UP!
Hehehehehehe! I can SEE my in-laws’ Westie – 16 but she becomes a puppy if there’s a tennis ball in sight.
So cool!
The Addict’s Villanelle
I can quit this habit any time -
don’t let self-righteousness go to your head.
Don’t worry about me, I’ll be just fine.
I’m not an alcoholic – beer and wine
are all I drink – I think you’ve been misled,
‘cos I can quit this habit any time.
I’m not a druggie – don’t hand me that line.
So what if my skin’s sallow, eyes are red -
don’t worry about me, I’ll be just fine.
And when it comes to sex, it’s so sublime
to lure as many as I can to bed,
but I can quit this habit any time.
To gamble is a thrill, it is no crime -
I’d bet my house; the kitty must be fed -
don’t worry about me, I’ll be just fine.
You’ve got your life to live, and I’ve got mine.
Perhaps I’ll change my ways before I’m dead.
Yeah, I can quit my habit any time.
Don’t worry about me, I’ll be just fine.
(Please view my poetry video of the day on my Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/bniedt)
This is the second poem of this form I have seen this week. I like the was it reads as it trips along so quickly and waves away our concerns because you’ll be just fine. Great job! I’m both jealous and inspired. I tried one once and it was dreadful, but maybe I can try again.
Always a tough form to write well, and an excellent one to use for this subject
What a great use of the form. I am in awe.
Framed in Blood Red
The Etch-a-Sketch
could draw me in
enticing my flexing fingers
to anticipate the feeling
of the erratic twisting
of its creamy knobs.
Hours would pass
before my neck would lift
in a final decision
to wipe it all clean
by flipping it over
and shaking it senseless.
My desire to leave
my artistic mark
with those jagged lines
of metallic entrails
retracing my thoughts
was again proven worthless.
“metallic entrails” – great description!
Your creative mind goes to places that fascinate me. Bravo!
Is There Any Question
The whole society is addicted.
To calmness, prescription and illicit drugs,
coffee, tea, fashion, themselves,
Another person, a group, a schedule,
Money, the nomenclature
Of hierarchy, slotting people
Into boxes, observation, murder,
Evangelism, servitude, misanthropy,
Authority, personal revolution,
Dust, litigiousness, vampires,
Sexual preference, dietary
Requirements, Bohemia, denial,
Self-importance, disease, counting,
Topical applications of antibiotic
Creams, and Platonic theory.
Just a few that come to mind.
Oh, you NAILED it!
Discourse With A Regular Caller
Ah, my longtime companion.
It is terribly comforting to receive you again,
Though, I cannot honestly say you are welcome.
I have been waiting, expecting you,
Who, more than any,
I can always depend on.
Excuse me a moment,
You know my routine.
I now force myself to await your arrival
Before preparing my necessity cocktail.
Imbibing too early impedes your visitation,
Yet, I am not strong enough to entertain you unaided.
Now, lets us commune while we have some time;
Reveal to me your depth of honest discernment.
Communicate to me in that brutal, universal style,
Personalized for me alone to experience and understand.
Challenged to cull what I seek through strained senses
While time is constrained and thoughts assaulted….
Lamentably, this time together comes to a close;
Once again, I fear you drift away too soon.
I will eagerly, apprehensively, anticipate your return,
For you, that I covet but dare not call Friend,
Are what I must force myself to remember is real:
Contrary to this numbness that curtails our intercourse.
Addicted…
Chewing ice isn’t nice
Nor is picking a scab on your arm,
Sit quietly in the church service
Do not point at that lady over there,
Never snort in class when you laugh
Say please when you ask for food
May I or Can I?
Well or Good? Sigh….
So much to learn….to break those addictions
Smoker’s Choice
Ash and smoke
Feed my nicotine
Addiction.
With each drag
Extended suicide creeps
Closer and closer.
Well put.
Grandmother’s Way
Your love can’t cure her addiction,
And yet you hold the unfailing belief that
she will come back to herself and find us
patiently waiting for her joyous return.
She stole your heart with her cherub baby face.
She was the grandchild who looked most like you
And you empathized with her more than you should have.
She reminded you of the injustice of being a girl child
Who was misunderstood and punished for day dreaming,
Taking too long, being stubborn, back-talking.
People talk of tough love, but that seems cruel to you.
You believe in unconditional love and finding the strength
To love more the ones who seemingly deserve it the least.
Others may call it co-dependent, but it’s your way of being,
Even though your credit card is missing – again
And you can’t find your ring or antique pin.
She proved resourceful, resilient, adept at lying.
She could convince you a rooster was a goose who laid golden eggs.
More punishment, more jail time cannot cure it.
It keeps you worrying, wondering, how to set things right again.
Maybe this rehab will work, maybe this church, maybe this time….
Maybe love can’t cure addiction, but then again,
Maybe it’s the only thing that can.
How terribly sad. Well done.
Pingback: Addiction Poem « LOVELY: Life on the Inside
A Comforting Friend
I am addicted to food
It helps me celebrate my joys
And solve all my problems
It is a friend when I am heartbroken
Trying to cheer me up with
Wonderful sweet treats
Such as chocolate, ice cream,
Whip cream, cake, cookies and M&M’s
When I am celebrating food gives me
a feeling of accomplishment
I par take of BBQ ribs, chicken,
Potato salad, hot dogs and hamburgers
Let’s not forget those chips and salsa or
The wonderful rich and fuzzy taste of root beer
Food helps me enjoy my family
With good ole comfort food
Nothing is so special as mom’s cooking
Fried chicken, scalloped potatoes, mac and cheese
And meat loaf
For those dinners to share with that special someone
Nothing beats steak and lobster
And on vacation to a state with different foods
Food offers me new experiences
Food is a friend that does not have a mouth
And can’t verbally speak
But can be your very best friend as he/she
Knows exactly what you need at any given moment
Notes From Before
I’ve never killed anyone
and I don’t have to try
not to, anymore.
But, oh please, No one can write
about this because those who do not
have this thing have no idea what it is.
Those who do are in complete
and utter-fucking denial.
The recovered have come back
from the dead – for the rest of their lives;
And this is a mystery.
The dead, are just the dead.
I can tell you that there is no separation
between the sip and the binge. Beyond that
there is no tracking the alcoholic mind.
Small edits:
I’ve never killed anyone
and I don’t have to try
not to, anymore.
But, oh please, No one can write
about this because those who do not
have this thing have no idea what it is.
Those who do are in complete
and utter-fucking denial.
The recovered have come back
for the balance of their lives:
this is a mystery.
The dead are just the dead.
I can tell you there is no distinction
between the sip and binge. Beyond that
there is no tracking the alcoholic mind.
wow. love “no separation between the sip and the binge” love the language – very appropriate in this context. great first line. very real.
Totally agree.
Cool Hunting
Ignore your older child,
talking right by your head,
the endless parade of
nibbling questions, this
slow death of your focus,
bite by bite, “Mom?”
after “Mom?” until you
want to explode, but you can’t
justify it, your lost temper;
after all, this is illicit, improper
use of time that should
belong to your children, their
ceaseless needs. Instead,
you’re checking all your
trot lines: e-mail, Facebook,
this blog, that other one,
your local online newspaper,
this funny site, that other one,
looking, again and again,
for something cool to post,
something people will notice,
comment on, pass around to
their friends, friends of friends,
and so on and so on. No denying
there’s a dopamine hit with
every “share.” How many until
you feel less empty, not more?
How many until you feel
validated, like the life of the party,
when all you’re doing is sitting
in your dining room, alone in
a hard chair, hunting and pecking
as you ignore a real life
right next to you, loving you
while nagging in your ear?
oh man! some of these poems today hit really hard, including this one. Our social lives are lived in isolation now. great poem of modern life.
a powerful piece. well said.
Feed the Beast
Four hours away from the first game of the season.
‘Old man basketball’
‘Older than Dirt League’
‘Geezerball’
Doesn’t matter what you call it, or how non-highlight film
the results are these days. You see, I’m typical
about to hit 58 years and still need to get on the court.
‘run’ the floor. Pass and shoot. All at a much slower speed.
Doesn’t matter inside. Still gotta feed the beast.
I’m married to a beast of 64, on the hunt for an over 55 league, he’ll love this poem.
This is a powerful prompt. Will be back later.
SWEET ADDICTION
Childhood was filled,
With sweet treats,
Starting at the Boardwalk!
Pink cotton candy,
Easily excited me,
Tasting the delicious light,
Sticky stuff,
Feeling it disappear,
Into your mouth,
Whipped tall and high,
As they handed you the mound,
And, poof, it was gone,
So fulfilling,
I felt like I was somewhere else,
In a good way!
Salt water taffy,
Came in every color,
And taste, even the names,
Were delicious!
Peppermint swirl,
Banana twist,
Chocolate mint shake,
Blueberry marble!
They stayed sticky,
In my teeth too long,
Tasting like the sea itself!
Soft ice cream,
With chocolate dipped tops,
And brightly colored sprinkles,
Were the best!
As a family,
Every trip there meant those cones!
We’d sit by the Merry-Go-Round,
Listening to the John Phillip Sousa music,
Watching all the brightly painted horses,
Go around and around,
Delighting in the ongoing joy,
Of riding on it year after year,
Even hitting the clowns mouth,
With the direct shot of the ring,
We’d grab with all our might,
As we toured the full circle!
As I got older,
Halloween meant,
Walking up the street
To the house nearby,
That sold those goodies on the Boardwalk.
They had displays of huge candy bars,
Giant lollipops and, of course, their famous,
Cotton candy! We could pick only one,
The choice was tough,
Unless we shared!
I used to laugh that it was my mother’s fault,
Her name was Saralee!
Although no relation to,
The famous sweets company,
It still made me laugh!
After college,
My chosen career was,
Teaching young children,
It took me years to realize,
A lead occupational hazard,
Was the endless freely,
Provided sweet treats,
With cupcakes for birthdays,
Holiday cookies in various shapes and,
Deep rich colors with more sweet designs on top,
And Christmas,
With every tasty, pretty sugar snack,
Made, not to mention,
All the other sugar gifts the kids
Wanted to give their teachers,
Which were rich and plentiful!
When I had my children,
I worked in their school library,
Every week, year after year!
Until they were done!
The librarian invited us to her house,
Every December where she sponsored,
A cookie tasting party!
Every possible cookie was available to eat.
She and her husband made them by hand,
For their guests to celebrate Christmas!
Offering a global selection, how could we resist?
Many years later,
I finally saw, noticed and recognized,
Sugar was always around,
And often without thinking,
It had become a food of choice.
It really hit home,
When recently,
After dinner with my adult children,
I saw my son,
Pour a huge amount of sugar
Into his coffee,
After devouring a huge dessert!
When asked why he did that,
He replied, “This is always how I take my coffee.”
It stayed with me for days,
Not only did I have
The sugar addiction,
I had passed it on.
As I looked more closely,
I also realized my husband and I,
Had sweets every day,
And often made special trips to buy more,
After discovering a fresh new bakery,
Somewhere fun!
Yes, I gave up alcohol,
And stopped swearing,
Coffee is only a cup a day.
Drugs of any kind never worked for me,
Yet the strongest culprit,
Is the most delightful,
The prettiest, the sweetest,
Most tasty,
In the world,
And if I don’t stop . . .
Someday it might kill me!
Or, on the bright side, I will always have . . .
Sweet dreams!!
So true that until one really looks, one has no idea just how much sweet stuff is in the food we love. ^_^
Yes, Domino . . . oh, so true! Thanks for your comment! I appreciate you reading such a long poem but sugar has long been a problem . . . all things being relative, of course! <3 <3 <3
Love your poem, and the memories of past boardwalks.
Thank you, Sara, great to see you and thanks for stopping by! Yes, those memories can stay for a lifetime, can’t they? Could be the smells, sounds and, of course, the tastes . . . which as the poem indicates, might be better staying memories . . . but really good ones!
Need
I want the pain meds
to ease my pain,
not caring if I become addicted.
I want to spend
every minute of the day with you
because you are my addiction.
I want to watch you
no matter what you are doing,
to memorize every aspect of you.
I want to live longer,
see you grow up
but that option is no longer mine.
I need to write you each a letter,
something for you to hold,
a part of me.
Because time is almost gone
and then,
so am I.
My Crafty Addiction
It started with cooking
to help mom save time
helping with dinner
At about age nine.
That turned to baking
I just love to bake
cookies and candy
bread, pie and cake.
As a young woman
I learned how to sew
I worked at a theater
making costumes to go.
Then I took up knitting
and crochet and more:
Yoga and ceramics
and camping galore.
And writing, wow, writing
Now that is so fun!
Novels and poetry;
I’ve only begun!
Lately I’ve looked at
making jewelry too.
Cliff diving? Gardening?
I’ll just add a few.
But I have a question
It’s not that hard to see:
Am I running my life,
or is it running me?
Diana Terrill Clark
Great question!
Sounds like you are living life to the fullest and that’s what counts.
Good point, Patricia! LOL
all ambition needs is time!
great poem =)
LOL – If only I had more of it! That awful “making a living” thing always gets in the way. Thanks for your support!
Doesn’t matter if you’re having fun. It sure ain’t boring, is it?;-D
Not boring, that’s certain. ^_^
Pingback: November PAD Challenge 6 « Yay Words!
Pingback: poem-a-day, november 6 « carolee sherwood
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
as he saw his Father
hit his wonderful mother
and observed her silent tears.
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
as playground lords scoffed
his looks, his accent, his books
and dared his complaint
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
as he picked the scabs
from his livid knees
and watched blood’s trickle
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
as he pulled the legs
from a polished beetle
and observed its spin
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
as he feathered the razor
down his flesh
and thrilled at the beaded cuts
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
as he watched the accident
with screaming sirens
and awaited a death
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
as he pushed away love
to savour its emptiness
and enjoy its stabs
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
as his words lashed out
at her liking, her love,
and desired her tears
‘I am not attracted to pain,’ said she
as she left his darkness
well knowing this last gift
‘I am attracted to pain,’ said he
(Paganini Jones)
Hey Pags! Nice to see you here!
Hi Bruce! You too
“Word-Eating”
Road signs, romance
Novels, headlines from
Trashy magazines in the
Checkout line. She just
Can’t help it. Her eyes
Devour the letters of their
Own accord, words
Swimming behind
Eyelids like coy in a pond,
Fattening her brain with the
Banal and the brilliant.
(Thank you Jane for inspiring this title!)
Love! I have a similar addiction.
Yep, you pretty much nailed it. Nice job.
This is BRILLIANT- a perfect description of people who can’t help reading cereal boxes
Hunger
ice cream
cashews
pasta
pizza
yogurt
cookies
chocolate, chocolate, chocolate
quench my hunger
like rain on a wildfire
leave me steaming
cool.
Let me
no longer be
ever empty.
Addiction Poem
Mind Addiction
He kicked heroin, became
a moderate drinker, and stopped
smoking several times with success,
over the long years I know him.
Some addictions exist within
the mind, intangible battles fought
without weapons, dark dreams
that disturb your sleep, fire flashes
that startle your days. Tattoos of war
inked in color on your mind–the addiction
of memory.
Fixxed
Gimme those kissable cheeks and eyes,
little dewdrop ears, I love ‘em,
and those chubby feet
with toes like sweet peas
curled in a cackle;
hand over those dimpled elbows
and knees, and that delicious
expanse of belly
primed for motorboating
from hip to heart.
If you can’t stand it,
just back away, but
gimme gimme gimme,
I’m hungry for,
I gots to have that
Grandbaby!
Addiction of the sweetest kind, isn’t it.
Lovely Jane! Babies are quite adorable!
Hello. My name is Nonna Marie, and I have an addiction.
Oh, can I relate!!
I also meant to say that I admire the totally different take on the prompt. You are gooooood!!
Nonna?
Cat Man
I remember when you could not remember
your own name or mine, but your need
recited pharmaceutical names eighteen
syllables long without a flaw, one of
our nation’s educated junkies, I suppose,
although you’d often swear you were no
addict, no drunk either, you could quit
whenever you wanted to, you just didn’t
want to. A tired joke. Not funny, just sad.
Therapists say an addict has to hit bottom
to catalyze desire for real lasting change.
I watched you lose your house, your car,
your job, your lovers, your family, and
me, but you didn’t seem to notice for so
long, your eyes having grown accustomed
do darkness, your long drop bottomless.
To you, everything just seemed misplaced,
like keys, or kitchen spoons, not Lost.
The only things that stayed at least part time
were cats–every savaged, rejected, tame
and feral cat of the neighborhood followed
you to this or that place you flopped, meowing
and trusting you, finding goodness in you
no one else saw, purring and milk-treading
your bare arm, claiming your beard and chin,
never deterred by your smell of failure. They
kept you sane. Saved your life. Gave you shelter
and new eyes to see the light, the rope, the day.
This is so tender and moving. I love this one, Jane.
Yes, me too.
Stunning, and I love the last line.
My Sweet Addiction
You wake me up each morning
Much to my delight
You know exactly what I need
And how to do it right
I’m still a little sleepy
Until I feel your touch
Your warmth flows into, through me
I love you, oh, so much
Maxwell, you’re a darling
I keep you in a can
And reach for you each morning
To kiss your face of tan
Your deep and robust passion
Arouses to the core
I know now I cannot
Live without you anymore
You’ll never need to worry
No one can take your place
I sip you and inhale you
With a smile upon my face
Maxwell, you’re a darling
I love your coat of blue
And in the early morning
No one else will do
Maxwell, you’re a keeper
Perfection in a can
I wonder what would happen
IF YOU WERE A MAN
Janet Martin
I need my coffee too. ^_^ What would we do without it?
Last one, I promise. Late start.
Pusher
When people tell me they don’t read
I think I’ve misheard, asking them to repeat
so I have time to think how to respond.
Really? Oh, so you must be one of those idiots
I’ve heard so much about in the political arenas.
How are you managing that lack really? Don’t
you have to read contracts and recipes, letters?
Read read, they mean. They don’t read books,
so here I am, feeling sneaky as a pusher,
enticing them with a life-changing story
of a woman who belongs to three book clubs
who cannot keep her busy, she reads so fast,
eating words, the only metabolism of her body
that burns at fever pitch…
I find the non-readers intrigued by stories,
just reticent to create a habit that shuts off
a television for an hour, so I say,
taking a good read from my hand bag,
just take this free sample here
and read the first few pages. If you don’t like it,
give it back. If you like it, I have more,
so much more…
You know you are “my people.”
Jane you are on a roll!
From one pusher to another, I’m with you!
Treatment
The only treatment for a mind
too busy, too full to rest–
a long drive to the coast,
no radio, no book, no talk,
no passenger. Just me,
the road before me.
And quiet. Any music
I must sing myself
or hum along, my tires
on the highway
my rhythm track.
Hooked to sound, to words
in any form, I can never
just be still. My eyes, hungry
for a fix, scan billboards,
road signs, bumperstickers,
as my thoughts race
like the buzzards flushed
from their roadside carrion
as I pass, eager to return
to their gorging once threat
of interference passes.
I measure my progress
not by twelve steps,
more or less,
not one day at a time.
Just
one
mile
at
a
time.
The only variation comes
in the play of light and shadow
between clouds and sun,
or percussion
of the wipers as rain clouds
gather overhead
as I pass through.
Before I smell the ocean,
before I start to see signs—
out of season—
for flip flops or beach towels,
I know I’m close to the coast,
barren now that autumn
has arrived, flushing tourists.
Mind unoccupied, my eyes
begin to see the trees—more
pine than hardwoods now–
to notice the dirt taking
on a sandy hue now, to count
car white lights headed east,
few tail lights beckoning ahead.
I spy deer skittish, stopping
to feed, their eyes flashbulb red,
spoiling their camoflauge.
I loosen my grip on the wheel,
breathe
in
and
out
listening
to silence,
feeling my mind relax
like a baby surrendering
to sleep after a futile fight
to stay awake.
I get acquainted
with peace,
with me.
It’s good to let go of the busyness, isn’t it? Nicely said.
Oh Nancy, how beautiful.
YOU MIGHT AS WELL FACE IT
I’m the kinda guy who loves to be loved.
I need it. I gotta have it.
Love keeps me alive;
gets my heart pumping.
It gives me the sweats,
palpitations; steals my appetite.
Keeps me up all night,
blurs my eyesight,
gets me uptight.
The more I get, the more I want…
I need… I gotta have…
You might as well face it…
Great Walt—we all need it, don’t we to survive in this world. RMA
Ditto. We all need some lovin’
You’re not the only one who’s addicted to “love,” not on this site! <3
Love you, love it, Walt. Now, relax;-D
Ditto. And go to sleep!
Out of town all weekend. I’ve missed having time for comments. Tomorrow! Ahh.
Choose This
Of your 32 teeth, chose the two that will remain
like haggard stalactites from the burnt cave
of your mouth. Of your children, choose the one
that will die, the two that will be remanded to
the care of foster parents. Of your lovers, choose
the one you will rob as they sleep for cash, then rob
him, rob her. Of your family, choose which ones
will still return your phone calls, which ones will
acknowledge your existence when they pass
you on the street. Of your history, choose a trinket
or two to cram into the dark recesses of a wallet
that will be lost or stolen or confiscated by cops
in a late night raid. The history must be wallet
sized; of everything else, choose what you can sell
or trade. Of your veins, chose one strong vessel
to collapse; continue searching for it until
a constellation of bruises comes into focus
on your arms. Of your dignity and need,
choose one, but know that need has always
driven you, even before, when what you did
could have reasonably been called a choice,
before all sense of choice was washed away,
like the name you carved for yourself with
a great big stick on the sands of Ocean Beach.
Oh wow, this is powerful stuff, Gil. I feel shaken. Good job.
EVERY EVENING
you take dreams
to ease you out of the
clockwork-hamster
revolving cage
of thought. A dream-
catcher hangs wordless
before your eyes
in the dark.
Last night you found
a lost graveyard
ancient as moss. No
markers, names or dates
on tombstones. Only
the stones
themselves, giant statues
toppled so they
could sleep without
identity
or sequence.
But who was
the young girl who
kept on asking?
You rocked her to sleep
in your sleep
as if she were your
self.
love this. a wonderful ending.
Addicted to Life
Yes, my addiction is to life and to living
To wake in the morning and greet a new day
Rejoice in the dreary as well as the sunlight.
I am addicted to nights and to days
Mysterious deep starlight and bright open sunshine
Hot days of summer and winter’s deep cold.
I will give thanks for the gifts that I’m given
The comfort of touch, to be able to feel
A mind that may falter but still remains steady
Ears that are feeble but still can distinguish
One word from another, the notes of a song
My music, pure music whenever I choose.
My eyes though they falter still can distinguish
One word from another on the page that I read
And thrilll to the colors of a heavenly display.
Love and be loved, no gift can be greater
Than to share with another life’s sorrows and joys
I am gifted with children and children of children
Bravely entering the future when I am at rest.
Marianv A perfect poetic sentiment of which I greatly concur as an eternal optimist RMA
Add I>C>T> = Add–ict!
R>M>Atwater Nov 6, 2011
ad = to; dicere = to say (Latin)
Hence comes “addict” to win
The day with chocolate!
Add “ice cream” for I>C>
and “Toffee” for the T>
And what do you have?
A Toffee ice cream addict:
That’s me!
“To say” the least! Hooray!
This link if for Mary K’s poem for Day 6:
http://inthecornerofmyeye.blogspot.com/2011/11/addiction.html
Elizabeth
Great prompts thus far… particularly fond of this one.
years lost in
kaleidoscope patterned
squares of LSD
every night she wishes
upon B-type stars
freebasing
dribbles of orange paint
down white walls
hot enough
to burn the sun
(more of my #novpad work here: http://yaywords.wordpress.com/)
WORKAHOLIC
Idle hands drive me nuts,
no ifs, ands, or buts.
Sitting sedentary
is a scary thought for a guy
with more minutes than he knows
what to do with. So I do it.
What ever it is, I’m busy.
It would dizzy many heads,
but I dread being left
with nothing to do.
Always in motion,
the notion of taking it easy
seems sleazy. Hard work
never killed a man. So I
spend my time in rhyme
if I’m not building, of cooking,
shipping or looking for
the next big thing to occupy me.
Even vacations become homework.
Just an over-productive jerk
working overtime on the company dime.
I could have used some “Essence of Walt” should you ever find out how to bottle it. As always, amazed. ^_^
A shot and a beer
will never find a home here.
Nineteen years sober.
Nice…
Congratulations! Bring on the Hot Cocoa & Sugar Cookies…let’s celebrate! (oh…wait…….)
LOL! You got it! (MEGA congrats, Walt!!)
“More serious that it seems, perhaps.”
If I had a quarter for every quarter I dropped
into a video game coin slot, I’d still be out
months of living time, all for the sake of noise and light
and fascination with why my joystick brought about.
I run across burger buns, climb up construction sites.
I become a yogi warrior who spits fiery gouts.
In those scenarios, I get the parameters.
I didn’t make them, I’m not in control, and I don’t
have sufficient skill to boast; yet in there, all is clear.
I’m wholly in charge of the destiny I have bought.
Without finding Mario’s mushroom, I grew taller.
With my driver’s license, I opened six new arcades.
By the time Street Fighter II came to Beach & Warner,
the games were a purpose in themselves, and I paid for
those lonely nights’ solace with boxes of excitement.
I know I was aware of what my investments made,
and thinking they might be rock solid had me afraid.
As always, it will need polish, but here is my effort for the day. It also, as yet, lacks a title.
The rock and tumblers
Are stowed neat
Appearing only New Years Eve.
Burning paper in huddles
Of like lunged youth
Has been snubbed out.
Only one addiction
Has ever beat me:
Her voice in the dark.
-Cory Funk
Hi, All! My poem will come, but just wanted to let you know I am here. Almost forgot, since I no longer get the email reminders as in the past. But…I’m “addicted” to PAD!
Looking forward to reading everyone’s work.
Peace, Linda Rhinehart Neas
I Started This One Hobby to Counter an Addiction and Acquired a Addiction
It was innocent enough, this new found love of sequins –
they looked like frozen tears with a built-in apology
or a broken promise candied and strewn over black longing.
But sequins are not to be trusted. They’re a gateway
to clutches and stilettos and cigarette holders, to dates
that shouldn’t have been let in much less flirted
with. Their pact of guiltless assignations and guileful
conversations, whispers of a sultry Malbec and spicy empanadas,
of dark chocolate one after another spreading the glamour too thin.
HOT CHOCOLATE AND SUGAR COOKIES
The first step is admitting you have a problem,
every demon that vexes and perplexes,
wrecks a life going full speed ahead.
But I muster the will power to resist,
failing miserably, yet I insist that
I can give them up at any time.
Unfortunately, I’m kidding myself.
I pilfer them from every elf;
and sneak quick sips behind the workshop.
I can’t stop. So now I struggle with
my addiction, before a dereliction of duty
leaves me up the North Pole without a sleigh.
Thankfully, there’s a meeting today.
“Hello. I have a problem. My name is Santa Clause.”
“Hello, Santa Clause!”
Ho! Ho! Ho!
A nice epilogue to the previous one you posted
Bring on the hot chocolate!
Spring Addiction
The drive is almost primal
Before the catalogs arrive
The lists of wants run a mile long
Bulbs for the walk
Forget-me-nots along the path
Veggies to start before spring
And roses…oh, the roses
To be without a new rose
would be like cutting off a limb
I know I shouldn’t but…
The smell, the color intoxicates
I am hooked!
Pingback: apple woman « lost in translation
Cap
“The sharp,
cold taste
of beer
stinging
the back of
my throat.
Can tipped
to the sky
on a hot July
afternoon.”
That’s what
Cap told me
he missed
most about
drinking.
Great image. Great characterization. Love the sound, too. Startling, resonant condensation. That’s poetry.
I like the rhythm in this poem.
“I could quit any time I wanted”
Perhaps
it being the month
of my birth, we are tied,
together, always,
like a bad line from
a romantic comedy
but something about November,
makes me crave more days.
Autumn is passing but
leafless trees still reach high,
trying to tickle that first snow
from low gray clouds,
failing, we are greeted with cold, hard, rain.
The next day brings sun
and 50 degree days which feel like 70,
a warmth I never feel in spring.
I greet the morning frost
in shirtsleeves
and stockinged feet,
knowing she will treat me warmly.
An Old Addiction
I have lost the memory of your taste
And even the look of your face
When I tightly close my eyes
I can remember all your lies
Yet when I pull back the sheets
And try so desperately to sleep
It is there deep within
I can still smell your skin
Mmm! Perfect!
Dear God…
(a prayer for my honey)
I’m addicted to my honey
please fix him, make him well
he’s so good and fine and funny
I’m addicted to my honey
life with him is bright and funny
life without him would be hell
I’m addicted to my honey
please fix him, make him well
This is really sweet. I hope he’s well
Dear God…
I’m addicted to my honey
please fix him, make him well
he’s so good and fine and funny
I’m addicted to my honey
life with him is bright and sunny
life without him would be hell
I’m addicted to my honey
please fix him, make him well
Somehow he knows
I struggle to unlock the front door.
I drop my keys and bend
Down to pick them up, spilling
The contents of my take-home dinner.
I curse.
The door opens to let me in.
I walk in and let
My laptop bag slip off my
Shoulder with a resounding
Thud.
I inhale.
I look into the family room.
I then look away towards
The staircase as a tear
Starts rolling down
My cheek.
I close my eyes.
He holds me tight.
I feel myself gently ushered
Into the family room into
The warm haven.
I open my eyes.
He is looking at me.
I try to smile as my face
Crumbles into pieces.
“Is work really worth it?”
He asks one more time.
Absolutely LOVING having you back, Mina!
Pingback: Corralled (NaNoWriMo – Day 6) « echoes from the silence
CORRALLED
corralled in this space
the dappled gray stallion
prances and paces,
emitting discontent wails
with every swish
of his tail
piercing the air
the distant, strident call
of his mare
reignites the delirium
of his addiction
to freedom
intensity seems to define
the stallion’s circles
of its confines;
unwilling to curtail
his right, he pitches
forward to clear the rail
vanishing into the pleats
of time and space,
only echoes of hoof beats
are heard on the plains,
leaving behind the corral:
an empty shell of pain
2011-11-06
P. Wanken
Hey Paula,
I recognize that wordle! Haven’t written my yet. It would be the first.
Benjamin…this is a “first” for me, too. No, not my first wordle poem. BUT…it is the first time that I’ve written two poems from the same wordle list! These words just wouldn’t let go of me. I love the wordle prompts!
~Paula
Nice work!
Thanks, Walt.
I Come Behind You
The comfortable yawn
in your casual, lawn chair way
motions you have stretched
out in your compulsion
I come behind you, brown bag stabber
collecting trash to smash down
into the steel mouthed trash compactor
like cremation without ceremony
Against the eight foot privacy fence
you feel no splinters, nor the tweezers
I take to your leathered, weathered skin
a vain effort wasted on vanity
You wave to the neighbors I hide from,
bring pies to in disposable pie tins
Today, finding lost socks and matching shoes
has stepped up its right of way
Co-dependence
I can always tell when you’re tripping, eyes just slightly
out of focus, glittering and leaving their trails on something
that isn’t there. Too much animation in your voice: the
extinction of thought and the damburst of consciousness
pouring out all over yourself. And when you mix the deep
red underwood fungi with electric white powders, when you
swallow stamped vitamins and chase it with sparkling wine:
what do you feel without it now? Once the river comes
driving its hands through the canyons and forces open
your life– that’s it. There’s no more settling for the cairns,
rocks piled high over a sleeping body. You ride the rapids
and burst forth, and there is no room for me, who chose
magnificent teak skin and a carved mask of a face, instead.
Putting up with your ramblings on the phone as a kind of
absolution. Hearing you weep, to have broken forth, and me,
wondering when you’ll crumble and let me back out.
SELF-NEGOTIATION
I’ll have some….
to sample
to retry
for fun
for snack time
to socialize
for the game
to dull the senses
when I feel lame
when I’m at home
when I’m alone
to comfort
to console
because I want
because I can
because I need it
…now.
Still working on yesterday’s prompt:
Shadows of a half-cocked god
The blue face of a man
Speaks in tongues
Above the rope
He sought for refuge.
While out back in the alley
The body of a girl,
Skirt above her waste,
Adorned with handprint necklace,
Lies prostrate to the fate of the marginalized.
The only proof of her will to live,
Ten red polished nails, broken.
By Pam B.
Today’s prompt, first draft:
Addicted to Time
Coveting the centuries of undead counts
With erroneous thoughts about Gregorian calendars
Feeding stories about the apocalypse to the masses
To make a moment burst like an orgasm
Seeking a release without the clumsiness
Of opposable thumbs
Needles and spoons are just the clumsy way
To seek the gods
The fate of Buddha sending nothing more than the
Chill of fear to my spine.
by Pam Bodnar
Haiku time!
“Tragic Hero or Masochist?”
How can you profess
such malcontent in life, when
misery you love?
The point is…
Point.
To point.
Starting point.
To the point.
Turning point.
Up to a point.
Point of view.
To earn a point.
To make a point.
To shape into a point.
The point of no return.
Because, you see…the point is…I like points!
CAFFEINE & CORN SYRUP
Looks like you have eight cavities;
we’ll need to fill them, okay.
Okay.
Today.
Today?
But wait–how much you say?
The cola only cost a dollar forty-eight:-(
Pingback: Anytime I Want To… | TrollPants 2.0
Any Time I Want To…
Anytime I want to, I can quit.
It’s optional; today, I’m opting in.
Whenever I decide that this is it
It’s over: Take the coda, fade to Fin.
Anytime I want to, I can stop.
Nothing would be easier for me.
Two falls, three falls, I’ll come out on top.
I only have to make the call. You’ll see.
Anytime I want to, I can turn
Back into what and who I was before
And then you’ll see how easily I spurn
These so-called “demons”; they’ll be shown the door.
Anytime I want to. Any time.
I want to. Anytime.
But not this time.
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
Maybe she needed money for drugs or alcohol. I will never know…
Pamela
Do all the Bus Trips have to be Surreal?
Not always dramatic…
No flung bottles
Slurred speech
Or desperate rides
In the night
Just the everyday check
Of the unsmudged sherry
That is ever always filled
Sneering graciously
Birthday Bash
She yelled that evening
They were in the kitchen
Sticking candles in the cake
She wasn’t a yeller, or
A cake smasher
Until she was
Spraying spit
At some slurry outrage
While grandma
Sat straight in the
dining room, party hat on
hearing aid low to
A pleasant murmur
Drifting with candle smoke
From the kitchen
Waiting for her slice
That would never come…
Lust in a Turkish Carpet Shop
I’ve never sampled a hookah; seen them, though
set on shelves above enticing clutter
in Turkish tourist shops.
Hookahs
brass and copper pots
machine-sculpted marble goblets
ceramic tiles splashed with geometric designs
teapots enameled the same sky-blue
as the irises of evil-eye charms.
I sauntered by all these lures
un-tempted.
Not so the carpet shops:
wares rolled like woolen dolmas*
propped against rug-draped walls
floors plush with strewn carpets
lush textile tortes, delicious layers,
stained the blue of mulberry juice
tinged a tart cherry-red and dabbed
with whipped-cream-colored wool.
The shop air redolent with memories
of boiled sage and wild chamomile or
licorice mixed with onion skins
pomegranate or olive stews
tobacco leaves, madder root
simmered to the exact hue needed
for each strand of wool used in weaving
complex motifs for a menagerie of form:
Portable prayer rugs
thick carpets for all room-widths
flat weave grain sacks in various sizes
rectangular baby cradles with fringes
infant carriers in triangular shapes
even narrow-necked salt bags . . .
Other shops I can resist;
but for carpet shops, I lust.
* dolmas – stuffed vegetable dishes such as grape leaves, eggplant, zucchini, tomato, peppers
(it’s still before midnight on the West Coast, so here you go)
A Predictable Headache
She is a beautiful,
tragic corpse
these days,
but I can recall
halcyon days
just her and me
riding the highways
no map
no empty pockets.
We just kept calling
out to each other
and we kept answering
“sure, why not?’
It was only after
many, many nights
did I sense her
disenchantment
and the part of her
that came alive
from my touch
became perfunctory
a dull routine
a predictable
headache.
Impulsively
I said goodbye
and divorced her
very publicly
to help gird my decision
and while some doubted
her sway over me,
I knew the truth,
and I still visit her
in the liquor aisle
of the grocery
almost smug
at my 21 years
of sobriety,
but still
afraid to
step back into
her embrace.
Wonderful!
What he wanted
Each breath writes on
the air that all he wants
is one more breath,
one more moment,
but each breath grows
feebler though the want never
does and eventually
there is the last breath
and then no breath at all.
The Real Deal
They use it as anything goes
For boyfriends and Oreos
Shopping and reality shows
Mani’s and pedi’s, music from Bose
They use it as anything goes
Though boyfriends, cookies,
Shopping, mani’s, pedi’s and blaring the Bose
Laugh light the innocents the stench still far from their nose
Hi Robert …. Did anyone ever tell you you like Tommy? Bravo on the poem
Apologies all no time to comment…. De …tight and tertific!
Okay IPAD THINKS TERTIFIC… I THINK TERRIFIC;) !
You go even though
You know, you will cut them hard
You go even though
Love it!
Pingback: The Naturopath (NovPAD #6) | Never Say Never to Your Traveling Self
I was away w/out I-net or PC for 3 days, so I come in a bit late, but here it is: an addict poem
*
this sun above will always shine
and we will be forever glued
to gaze at its beginnings
and its endings,
without a thought to miss
just one or two
as I’m addicted hopelessly to you.
© 2011 Mariya Koleva
Focaccia
First the worst
Second better
Maybe third
Time’s right
I’m addicted
to perfection
TWITTER
Uncontrolled longing,
a minute more, some more words
no mystery.am addict
Pingback: Poems for #novpad (day 6, 5) « Pages from my mind
you can’t stop
fingering worry
beads, rubbing
the blister
till it bleeds
repeating in your head words
that can’t be unsaid
cool!
Addiction…
In shadows dwell senses alive,
Casting blinded burning eyes,
Silence lilting lonely leaves,
By moonlight faded fortune weaves,
Your bewitching eyes they drew me near,
Soul soaring as you appear,
In darkness in love I entered you,
When finished I’d cry and you cried too,
My heart seared my soul burned through,
My life and more I gave for you,
Taught you to read and write and count,
And paid your debts though growing mount,
I tried so hard to habits break,
Your life I knew so much at stake,
But though you loved me to the core,
There was stuff you needed more,
Oh sweet damaged darling stay,
Instead slip further further away,
Now hopeless raging wretched I be,
Addiction… stole… my… love… from… me…..
Addicted to writing
Music is but a form –
Poetry flows in all ways,
Like the paper on my desk
And pen clutched within my fingers.
Everyone’s Favorite Drunk
So many things we celebrate:
His wit, his laugh, his Famous Grouse.
So many things we tolerate.
His wit, his laugh, his Famous Grouse
he’ll share with us on holidays,
in Monday coffee, in a Coke.
In Monday coffee, in his Coke.
In surreptitious lunchtime sips.
His Thermos always at his side.
The Grouse lives in the bottom drawer.
His desk is always organized.
He’s always careful, on the clock.
Above his desk, so organized,
A clock we gave him, face inscribed:
I count only happy hours.
It took so long to realize.
He never was a stumblebum,
just everybody’s office pal.
He got it done, he even shone.
His eyes were maybe sometimes red.
We held hands as we walked the edge.
The note about the wake made clear:
DO NOT BRING ANY ALCOHOL.
We all could laugh without it, still.
Off hours, regrets: What might have served
to save him from his final fate?
So much that we still celebrate.
So much we learned to tolerate.
Pamela Murray Winters
The Cure
He says he can’t help himself,
that he’s a sex addict,
at the mercy of urges
he cannot control
or be held accountable for.
I say I can help him with that.
He smiles in relief,
thinking I’ve bought
his pitiful excuse,
thinking I’ve forgiven him.
I reach for the garden shears…
Salt Tolerance
It calls and I follow
Wet whispers
And sun sparkles
I drink it in
And wake the next
Day thirsting
For more
Love this one, Sara.
Yesterday’s poem on too much TV would also work here
ALL THAT STUFF
I’m not a hoarder, people tell me,
Yet I know
How hard it is to lift even one piece of paper
And move it from here to there
Especially if there is the garbage
I don’t have a closet overflowing with clothes
Yet I know
How important it is to have that new coffeemaker
That makes just one cup
To sit alongside the one that makes 10 cups and
The one that makes enough for a meeting I’ll never hold
I easily toss out yesterday’s newspaper
Yet I know
How old mail clings to your soul
Rejection letters, love letters, even bills
Archaeology of a life
A history so easily forgotten
The amount of stuff that has passed through my hands
Into someone else’s life
Can fill several dump trucks of hopes and dreams
The dream was never in the thing
The dream floats formless, beyond possessions
Whether I have that gossamer dress or the coral lipstick
I still have my dreams
And, oddly, they never are about stuff
Busy Addiction
From first glimpse of sun
Eyes open
Tick, tick, tick, tick
Like a time bomb
Ready set…….i’m off
Without a blink
Here, there, everywhere
No stopping
No time for food
Well, maybe some caffeine
Have to focus
Have to do this and that,
Lists
Such a thrill
To mark each task off
Oh, there’s more, Let’s go
No sitting down,
No thank you, really
Why can’t you see?
Family Work School Friends
And thinking about that committee,
Making a difference
Feeling the thrill
Sleep is overrated,
Holidays, no exception to the rule
Cleaning, baking, hosting
Nope, still not allowed to sit,
You sit, you sleep
Sleep doesn’t accomplish
Sleep won’t appraise
Just, gets in the way,
Possessed of being motivated
While those that sit and gab
About their thoughts,
What should and should not be
Life gives choices
Once you’ve ignited
The drive, no way
To stop it,
so here I go
finish this line
Start
Accelerate
Another.
Personality Psychosis of the M-I-L
On the phone
At the door
Each function
Not sanctioned by her
Nor invited
In your ear
In your hair
Creeping deep in the gut
Does not matter where
Manipulating
Coddling
Gossiping, intruding
Coveting lives
As long as it’s not hers
Queen Amoeba
Consumes all that is familiar,
Putrid contagion
Refusing the soil
The world Will arm
Themselves with herbs
Glorious day that will be your last.
***
strip baseball
***
I was never allowed
to see your arms
where so many birds
had been
Beloved Thou Art Gone
Hot tears break and burn
thoughts of bitter things
Solitude smothers
empty broken vows
Is it love that I have known
Lonesome nightingales sing
*******
I did read over the rules again today but I still haven’t a clue as to where we will send our manuscript? and is it a printed copy or will it be sent via e-mail? .. please don’t think me addled.. lol.. but the rules don’t say or at least my addled eyes didn’t see it.. and yes I am new to this whole thing..
To answer your question, Entries are sent via email (to Robert). Hope that helps.
Beloved Thou Art Gone
Hot tears break and burn
thoughts of bitter things
Solitude smothers
empty broken vows
Is it love that I have known
Lonesome nightingales sing
*******
I did read over the rules again today but I still haven’t a clue as to where we will send our manuscript? and is it a printed copy or will it be sent via e-mail? .. please don’t think me addled… but the rules don’t say or at least my addled eyes didn’t see it.. and yes I am new to this whole thing..
Unabashed Bibliophile
Even as I try to down-size
With a view to moving
Into a much smaller place
I find it almost impossible
To sort through and toss
Any of our hundreds,
Perhaps thousands – of books
Equally am I unable, it seems
To resist the lure of bookstores
All types – local private ones
That I feel a responsibility
To support; chains that,
Let’s face it, are just too enticing
With their stacks in the windows
and deals galore
And let’s not even talk about
The places that sell the gently used …
All my life I’ve suffered,
—if you can call it suffering,
it seems so pleasurable —
From an addiction to books
All types and sizes – from tiny to huge;
Hard cover to paperback –
Everything about them excites me,
There is nothing to equal a book
The smell of the paper and ink;
The sound when you riffle the pages
or crack the spine
The feel of hefting one,
or any number of tomes
Is it any wonder I count them
Amongst my dearest friends
And cannot imagine parting
With any one of them?
Day 6 11-6-2011
Write an addict poem.
Through the Wrapper
I could smell the pungent darkness.
Inhaling again, I swept the bar
into my buggy.
A bargain at three dollars,
still, it wasn’t 72 or even 70 per cent,
but a mere six-oh.
Bad choice–my addiction to cheap
beat out my addiction
to the best dark chocolate.
Addiction
If you were a toddler struck by a hit and run driver
I would leave you on the side of the road
If you were a Nobel Peace Laureate
I’d lock you in a cage
If you were a blind human rights lawyer
I’d beat you and confine you to home
If you were a performance artist I’d disappear you
If you were a sleek new train
I’d derail you on a bridge into a rain-drenched night
If you were a school I’d shake your flimsy walls
Until they fell into the deep mud
And if you were a mother it is there I would
Suffocate your only child
See what you make me do?
The Thirst
The craving never ceases
the search for more
and more
and more
there can be no end
there can be no cessation
there must never be any let up
there must never be an end
to the fulfillment
to the ingestion
to the thirst
for knowledge
Iain
Addicted to words
Drawn to write verse
Day after day
I toil a 9 to 5 shackled job
Counting time down to
The evening and release of words
untitled for now
Family Ties
Family addictions are
Endless and corrosive.
Dad drank to avoid endless pain.
This ripples into today.
I still cork the bottle after
A single glass
Afraid that the feel, taste
On the tongue, mind
Would grow to consume me.
It took 30 years
Before I would buy
More than one bottle
At a time
Sure that I would
Only want
More.
I now only wish I had more
Time to share with you.
X-Addict
Three years ago you stole my heart
I’ve been trying to retrieve it ever since
You have more hearts than anyone
could ever want
Why do you need mine?
Not that I want it back
This longing has plugged the hole so well
I’d probably feel empty without it
Now my heart wouldn’t fit inside me
the way it used to, I’m sure
You’ve left your marks all over it
but you have no idea
Not an inkling
of how your name is seared into my forehead
because you’re living rent-free in my brain
You have no idea
how I hate to love you
how you lurk in (nearly) everything I write
It’s bad enough that you stole my heart
The least you could do
is give me back my originality
A Donut’s Veracity
Come, delight yourself in me
Sink your teeth into my doughy flesh
Chew your way through
My icing to ecstasy
You know you want to
Beside, it’s just once
Just today
You can start your diet
tomorrow
One glazed ring is not going to hurt;
You take the fish oil pills
like an algebraic equation.
Both sides will cancel each other out:
Fish oil pills negate Krispy Kreme donuts
Calories in, calories out? What kind of voodoo math is that?
Beside, you only have so many days when
You can eat me.
After the surgery, it’s goodbye
Forever
We will never meet again;
no more savoring each bite of
fried goodness,
no more sugar orgasm
no more food of the gods
So go ahead:
Ravage me
You may be sorry later but
It’s all sugar now, sweetie.
In My Blood
I smell you, I taste you
Like berries on a vine
I drink in the essence that is you
I can’t get enough
Night comes but I can’t sleep
No need to wake me
Waiting for you
Like food to the hungry
Like water to the thirsty
Like love to the lonely
I shake with the lack of you
I cry from desperation
My addiction knows no end
You are cruel to leave me wanting
You are cruel, but I’m still waiting…
Powered by Java
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Pretty much my whole damn life
has been powered by “java”
(the cigarette of the coffee bean underworld).
It started about age seven,
romancing me from behind
my father’s newspaper
with it’s sweet aroma,
all sugary and creamy brown.
But Mother was quick to
crush that romance,
“You’re too young,” she said,
“It’ll stunt your growth.”
By age twelve
I became a walking breathalyzer,
able to detect alcohol, mints,
and java breath.
“You’re a natural!” my Grandfather teased.
By the time sweet sixteen rolled around,
I was already in the back seat
with Juan Valdez and his gourmet beans,
his everything Columbian on my lips day & night.
Try as I might, I couldn’t stop.
“Better take care,” warned my Doctor.
By thirty, my habit had grown
to double-shot espresso’s,
doughnuts and Starbucks stock.
It didn’t matter.
Birthdays, Holidays, Vacations, Everydays
was all about mochas, lattes, & cappuccinos.
On the morning of my sleep-deprived fiftieth,
my beloved said “You’re too jittery, better go have a looksee.”
After a battery of tests
(followed by a 20-cup-a-day confessional)
the Doctor concluded, “You have a nasty Caffeine addiction to break.”
Ten more years ensued of gums, patches, and special filters
until I finally broke it’s supernatural hold over me.
Well, better let me rephrase that,
until the Earl of Grey came to town…..
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Addicted Too . . .
thick, dark chocolate,
spiced with mint or
sandwiched with cream.
Orange delight,
almond pasted
with velvet smoothness.
All meltingly decadent,
on eager tongue.
Pleasure replete – by chocolate
Twelfth Step
Does she lace her shampoo
with opiates? Imbibing that scent
of lavender and tree blossoms,
flourishes into intoxication,
a need to stay close,
to traverse the scent-scape
along her neck line
like a newborn mammal
searching for nourishment.
Sleepless nights await me
in her absence, withdrawal
manifested in sweat-soaked sheets,
twisted knots of thoughts
that won’t stop tangling
behind my eyes, like vines
of thorny ivy that grow
with supernatural speed.
I need her to feel calm,
to quiet that tide of volcanic magma
that swells beneath my skin,
to speak the words to my hands
that make them still, a soft
brushing of lips against flesh
that kisses away all harm.
Her eyes are the windows
through which I crawl,
to hide away from this world
that wishes for my failure,
a castle with walls of gold
mined from broken promises
and forged into a home
that can never be sold
as long as the door stays open.
Anamneses
We three sisters, born years apart,
span nearly a generation in time
(several miscarriages occurring
between us – brothers
never meant to be ours)
We three share the same lineage,
similar histories, identical house,
yard & neighborhood, and yet,
our respective childhoods
remain distant, dissimilar, distinct
First born remembers
never bringing home friends
for fear of what they might find:
the old man, injured, or drunk, perhaps,
passed out in a stupor – on any given day
Middle child recalls
despising Dad’s taunting and teasing,
his pickled, pie-eyed humor, un-funny;
gait frighteningly unsteady, as he stum-
bled off to bed, most weekends & holidays
Little sister recollects
a responsible father, maker of dinner, washer of
dishes, driver to school, vegetable gardener;
she vehemently denies the designation,
takes offense at the appellation: “alcoholic”
Addict
I desire to be a person who is dependent on God
Devoted to the divine
An enthusiast for the gospel
A follower of Christ
Not just in word, but in deed
A practitioner
A true believer
A lover of all that is good
All that is God
I desire to be a disciple
Enslaved by love
Inclined toward God’s heart
Persuaded that nothing can sever
Me from Him
Ever
‘ataaba for an addiction
my way and – now
that tells you how
you want it is how
it will be, my love
time for your bow
back to the row
that gets it all now
push comes to shove
Addicted to Him
Addicted to the pain I can’t escape
To the way he looke at me
To the way he says my name
Dying on the inside from all the pain
Letting it eat at me, slowly killing me completely
Driving me insane
Addicted to a love I thought was the greatest thing
Holding on to the memory or the fantasy of love’s perfect ring
This drug is destroying me, but still I can’t leave the rain
I inhale it, sniff it, popl it, shot it into my veins
Addicted to him on the verge of death
God help me…so my soul can rest…
Schweddy Balls
I have a new addiction: it’s Schweddy Balls.
I finally bought a pint and ate it all up
but you know, it’s hard to find, which really galls
‘cause I crave more of this than a pint or cup.
Rum balls and malt balls swim in rummy ice cream.
It has a weird name, but no flavor comes close.
Ben & Jerry’s do right with this yummy theme.
It’s a true addiction, if you’d diagnose.
I don’t care. I’m off to get more. Adios!
###
(Note: the form is Novelinee.)
suicide in slow motion
you aren’t the same person I once knew
depression hangs thick in your halls
you medicate from early light
just to make it through the day
i long for the magic bus
that will wait impossibly
for you to board
that will carry you
to another way