Humanity Washed Ashore (7/30)

Tags

creative writing, death, life, poem, poetry, postaday, refugee, Syria, tribute, war

Aylan Kurdi, a three year old toddler in blue and red.
One of four million Syrians fled.

His mother, Rehan, and brother, Galip, also past,
capsized on their way to Kos.

Refugees, a boat journey, senseless death…
Where a family fluttered in the sea…

One swam away.

Their father, Abdullah, chokes and cannot breathe.
How can he begin to grieve?

Where will he find welcome haven?
When only shadows of loved ones hover, haunting.

May they rest in power.
Peace is not for times like these.

To sponsor my writing, please see https://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/doubters-alert/

Craw Daddy Academy (6/30)

Tags

creative writing, Florida, fundraiser, poem, poetry, postaday, tupelo press, Zephyrhills

“Scorpion, scorpion!” Sister screeched.
She had climbed to the doorway,
Backlit by a naked bulb in the front hallway.
Her outline hazed, she stood—
A gesticulating, accusatory, angel goddess.
I tasted her tension. It electrified.
She pointed and saluted
The berry, the red, our lives,
The red,

For the conclusion of this poem, please go to the Tupelo Press and Teen Creative Writing 30/30 Poetry Fundraiser at https://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/. Please consider sponsoring my work. Every little bit helps. And, thank you for supporting my work. 🙂

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/mouth-drop/

Thirty Six

Tags

creative writing, life, poem, poetry, postaday, time

At thirty six,
I look at my reflection as I move past all shiny things.
Not narcissism, but anxiety keeps my stare…
Am I am still here?

Reassured by my wide nose and eyes
in the sides of toasters and store windows,
I walk on.

I am immortal.

At thirty six,
I am older than this morning’s rain.
I am older than my last thought.

I will never be thirty seven or fifty.

Frozen even in the late summer heat.
My time stands still, as
I walk on.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/golden-age/

The Decision

Tags

breaking up, creative writing, love, poem, poetry, postaday, relationships

I look
at his extended hand with open box.

I wonder
if we are in his palm’s future.

I drink
in the hopeful in his eyes.

I notice
how the black velvet slips in his sweaty, nervous fingers.

I remember
his saccharine kisses and nothings in my ear.

I smile
as I recall meeting his quirky family.

I say
no.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/decisions-decisions/

Vocabulary Choices of a Pariah

Tags

censorship, creative writing, expression, immagration, language, life, poem, poetry, postaday, words

I was once a beautiful word full of richness and meaning.
I was derived from Latin and stuck around for thousands of years.
Then, I immigrated to America.
They shortened me and modernized me and Americanized me,
so I no longer recognized myself.
I became a poor and bereft word, a shadow of my formal self.
Desperate, I began to steal, spit on the sidewalks, curse.
Eventually, I was banned from polite language.
I exist now on the mealy breath of dissenters.
I hope one day to be resurrected.
Now, I lie in the gutter of expression staring at the stars.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/no-thank-you/

Earning My Own Soulful Eyes

Tags

creative writing, life, poem, poetry, postaday, self-esteem, women

Destiny was a cute, long limbed, pixie girl.
Everything she said was fun and profound.
She made me mixed tapes of alternative bands I never heard before.
She made me giggle.

One night, at a party,
she came in with her hands cupped together
and whispered for my son to come over.
He was so young then.
She opened her fingers,
and a toad jumped from her hand to my son’s.
He was ecstatic as he gently rubbed it’s
cool, smooth skin.

Why had I never caught a toad?

I remember thinking how some people were just destined to be loveable.
I remember thinking if I were taller, dressed with more color…

Years later,
walking in the rain,
after I won the battle of self-love,
I wondered about Destiny,
with her perfect hair and soulful eyes.

And, a toad leaped onto the pavement in front of me.
I reached down and scooped it up,
and gently rubbed it’s
cool, smooth skin.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/que-sera-sera/

He Came Back A Bee

Tags

creative writing, flash fiction, ghosts, micro-fiction, postaday, prose, short story

“Momma! A bee just bit me!” she calls through the open window.

“Bees don’t have teeth. They have a stinger. You were stung.”

“No, momma. This bee had dentures! And, a black top hat!”

Momma smiles but does not look up from her ironing and crossword puzzle.

“What a fine dressed bee. Do you think he may want to come in for a tea party?”

She opens the kitchen door hand in hand with him.

Momma looks up and faints upsetting the ironing board and sending cascades of newspaper to the floor.

When she comes to, her daughter is kneeling over her, alone.

“Where is he?”

“The bee got on a bicycle and flew away.”

She grabs her daughter to her chest. She knows he’s been dead for years. She strokes her daughter’s hair wildly. She knows he’s been dead for years.

“He’s back,” she murmurs into her daughter’s forehead kissing it again and again.

“He’s back for her.”

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/that-stings/

i was the monster

Tags

creative writing, god, jealousy, poem, poetry, postaday, prayer, race

her ivory skin and auburn hair shamed me.

i prayed to god to make me like her.
i closed my eyes and begged him to enlighten me.
i opened them when i believed and felt a transformation.
i saw the same brown and blackness.
i was tricked.

god and i did not speak for a long time.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/green-eyed-monster/

lithium

Tags

creative writing, drugs, lithium, memoir, mental health, poem, poetry, postaday

your salt water hugs have drowned me and given me wings above the waves.
being the lightest, you’ve left me in shadows of sanity and the stone white light of clarity.
you tried to murder me. you tried to make me see.
your double edged serpent tongue lied to me and brought me closer to my truths.
i tried to leave you many times and found myself on busy street corners insane dancing.
my synaptic gap kisses burned and became fatal without you.
i loved to hate your control.
and, i thank you for balancing and threatening me to live.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/red-pill-blue-pill/

The Intersection of Class, Race, Childhood, and Truth

Tags

cars, class, creative writing, growing up, memoir, poem, poetry, postaday, race, truth

“Is your dad a lawyer or a judge or somethin'”

“No.”

“Then, how come you got a Cadillac?”

“I don’t know.”

A car was just a car until it became a lie.

1989 Toyota Camry–

I saw my friend walking on Main Street one night.

Pulled over and hit a fire hydrant.

I am sorry I could never tell you the truth, Daddy.

“What are you?”

My mommy called me Heinz 57. I told you this truth. We laughed. You became my friend.

That is a lie.

I looked down and muttered, “I don’t know.”

You took my reserve as superiority and never forgave me.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/west-end-girls/