Misc Poetry, Poetry

Is a Lie

If you tell the truth
Knowing
No one will believe you
Thereby
Intentionally obscuring
The truth
Did you lie?

Is a lie a lie or
Does a lie have lie-ness?

Is truth on the lips
But a lie in your heart
Merely
A lie that can’t commit?

If the root is a lie
But the tree is true
Where do the limbs lie?

Is it the letter of the lie
Or the spirit?

Lie with me, Spirit–letter
Lips and limbs.

-M.

Misc Poetry, Poetry, Writing On Writing

I’m Kind of Having a Poetry Crisis You Guys

It’s like noticing your boobs
Are shaped differently than all
The other girls’ boobs. Or their
Boobs are shaped differently
Than yours.

Is that good?

You shouldn’t need a boy to
Tell you, but you really kind of
Want a boy to tell you, and
You really kind of only want
Him to be honest if the news
Is good.

-M.

God Poems, Misc Poetry, Poetry

Tick Tick Tick

Father Time is the G-rated
Version of the voracious
God who ate his children.

Father Time taps his
Tick-tock at me gently
Sighs, smiles, shrugs and
Smooths his lustrous beard.

The voracious god, belly
Full of children
Looks me up and down and
Makes rude comments about
How my tits used to be higher.

I trust this god more.
Our relationship is complicated.
When he leans in for a kiss
His breath stinks like children
And it gets my childless womb
All in an uproar.

I kiss him back anyway. I kiss
Him passionately until his
Breath stinks like safe sex,
Guiltless liquor on weeknights, and
A liberation I’m not even sure
I believe in. It makes him gag
And vomit up his precious children.

-M.

66 Day Poetry Habit, American Sentence, Misc Poetry, Poetry

Poetic Fatigue Syndrome

The line tires me
but the great, gray
scratchy pens perk
like scalding coffee.

-M.
(Day 22 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit. Tired today, hence the doldrums poem. Not bad, just yawn and zzz. I’d rather a nap, but I promised myself, at the very least, an American Sentence to keep the streak alive. Here she is. Today’s American Sentence keeping the streak alive. Now… yawn and zzz.)

66 Day Poetry Habit, Misc Poetry, Poetry

Little Trees Do

Dragging the little tree’s
Corpse behind me a
Diatribe to the heatwaves
Rising from the cement

It’s not you, little tree
Doing what little trees do
Maybe even trying to
Shade the porch in
Your little tree ugly
Intrusive volunteer way.

It’s not you little tree
It’s the gardener
Who let you grow
Lets the rose bushes
Grow too
Evil arms that reach and
Grab in the walk

Blind to anything
Apparently
But mow and go—
Especially go.

-M.
(Day 9 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)