Introduction: Years ago I wrote poetry. Then, this summer, usually on an all night flight, I started to write poems again. I am wondering what I should do with these quirky little writings. Should I pursue poetry? I am still working on other projects and traveling. Yay! Oh, Oh and in the interest of full disclosure, I wrote these words during very tense moments. I did this because I often think friction creates the best narrative. With that said, please know all is well.
I would love your feedback. Enjoy and thank you!
Poem #1: You are a moth
You are a moth to your own flame.
Wait!
I mean, you are a loud, determined annoying little mosquito.
(I want to scream because you will not stop buzzing in my ear!)
You know the inconsolable sound a mosquito makes.
Here is how it would play out:
I am fast asleep.
Then,
slowly,
I wake.
First, indecipherable and indistinguishable.
I hear a sound.
Then, I hear a buzz, your buzz.
Angry.
I am angry that you found your way in.
Now my brain is awake.
I hate it when my brain is awake. It means that it will be hard to get back to sleep.
So,
Desperately I swat at you.
Urgently,
I want to sleep.
Neurotically,
I want you go away.
I keep swatting.
I keep swatting until I think you are gone.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I hear you again.
Determined,
I raise my arm.
With my open hand, I smack.
Ouch!
I feel the pain and realize I only hit my ear.
Then,
I hear your irritable sounds once more.
I swat and I swat and I swat,
Unsuccessfully.
Now,
as for you flame,
I am glad your light is there. If it were not,
I would only notice you by your incessant, intolerable, and incurable buzz.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
And your flame,
It is a light you fly straight toward, like like a biblical wife,
who cannot look away.
The light,
Your own light.
It traps you.
I feel sorrow.
I always feel sorrow for you.
You seem so desperate.
Ok. Sure. I will give you the benefit and imagine that once your light shone brightly, like the light referred to in another biblical reference or in some inspirational phrase I see quoted in the forefront, with a ballerina fading into the background of a poster that plastered onto a teenage girl’s wall:
“if you can imagine it, you can achieve it,
if you can dream it, you can become it.”
No, not that quote, I think the visual is more like this,
You are dying.
As I gently hold your hand, I see you are suffering. So I suggest that you
“Go toward the light.”
Again, wait!
You are not dying.
I am not holding your hand.
You bit it off years ago.
I just want your buzz to go away.
Today,
and maybe always,
that is why your light is not an inspirational quote.
It is certainly no biblical,
Unless you are referring to pestilence and plague,
Nor is your light the kindness you speak to someone moving toward death.
Instead,
Your light is small.
Your light is weak.
Your light is sad.
That glow you are so attracted to is the kind of glimmer you get off of a lightbulb on a hot and humid night. You know the nights, the ones where you can see the water dripping off of the thick summer air.
In the evening stillness, I see you, I mean your lightbulb.
It is hanging in a forgotten porch corner. The light is dimmed by the film of the dead insects it has consumed.
Next to the light is a trap: a bug zapper.
The bug zapper is also covered with insect guts — your guts.
So, you see.
Your light is not bright.
Your light is disgusting.
Your light is a crusty brown film of insect matter.
I also must confess.
It took me a long time to see how completely trapped you are by your own dim, and bug covered light.
And now I know.
The weaker you get,
You fly stronger.
You open your eyes wider.
You see nothing else,
BUT YOUR OWN LIGHT!
Regardless of its contents,
You,
YOU
cannot look away.
Your light,
It is not great.
It is weak.
It dims and dims and dims.
Covered with more and more bugs.
All different.
All the same.
All lost.
They are also
attracted to the light
Your light.
I do not want that to be me.
So I look away.
Poem # 2: 3 Women, My Husband and Me
Just because you say it is so
Does not mean it is so.
I saw you stop loving me
As I watched your eyes.
The beautiful blue turned dark
In front of the tv screen’s glow.
See,
I tried to tell you.
“I broke a long time ago.”
I thought I could be fixed.
You reminded me I cannot.
I am selfish.
I am wrong and too long.
PLEASE HEAR ME!
It is not you. It is me.
I really thought I could be fixed.
This week,
After more than twenty years,
I was validated.
See,
Years ago I was accused of doing something terrible.
I did not do what I was accused of.
It did not matter.
It did not matter what I said. It did not matter that I was innocent.
In contrast,
Because of what he heard about me, one of my brothers would not come to my wedding.
He said I was super bad, evil, awful.
He said those words in an email.
I received the email while I was at work.
Then,
I wept.
My co-worker asked why.
I sobbed at his kindness.
I gathered my things and went home.
After that,
I was afraid.
Nothing I did mattered.
Now,
Years later, the one person who did not need to apologize, did.
She was kind.
She was sorry.
She was forgiving.
She said I never caused any harm.
That is when I realized
The damage is cemented.
Time is our most precious commodity.
I will not get it back.
I am broken.
I am already gone.
That harm,
The one I was always accused of causing.
Stood tall.
It stood in front of me.
I did not matter.
So,
I had to shut my mouth.
Not because I harmed, but because long before I was accused of harming,
I was actually harmed.
My harm, the harm done to me, made others feel uncomfortable.
So I thought I was bad.
They said it would break her.
I needed to shut my mouth.
“She needs your silence,
more than you need to speak your truth.”
That is when I realized
The damage is cemented.
Time is our most precious commodity.
I will not get it back.
I am broken.
I am already gone.
I stepped aside.
Then I screamed!
I tried to hold the harm in.
But,
I could not shut my mouth,
My words always scream,
wrong and much too long.
Looking back at his blue eyes, tears fell.
I stare back,
and I think,
“I can see why you should not love me.
I was told I was wrong.
I was bad.
I should shut my mouth.
I should step aside.
I am already gone.”
Then he looks at me, lovingly.
He stands up, moves closer, holds my hand, and says,
“Let’s go to bed.”
Poem #3 ( a poem in two acts), Act One: Together, We are a Band, (the Short VERSION)
You think I am Lady Gaga
With my meat suits,
My little monsters,
My moods.
My way.
I definitely have may have my ways,
I am not Lady Gaga.
Because,
You and I,
We are not a solo act.
We are married.
We are a band.
In our band,
I am Garfunkel.
You are Paul Simon.
Yes.
My harmonies are pretty.
My voice blends with yours.
You.
You are the mind.
You write the music.
Anyone can sing pretty harmonies.
You,
You take us to Graceland.
That is why
I am not the Yoko
To your Jon.
In our band,
I am Ringo.
I am replaceable.
I am wife.
I am Garfunkel.
I am not Yoko.
You are Paul.
You are Jon.
You are the man.
We are not a reality show.
We are band.
I should be grateful.
Anyone can sing pretty harmonies.
I am.
Grateful.
My guess is by the look on your face
That
my words upset you.
My guess is you still think I am Lady Gaga.
I am sure
You
resent my assertions.
And maybe you think I am still so warped
that you must fix my selfish and crazy perspective.
So,
I ask.
“Why the look?”
You remain silent.
Like the pressure cooker our life has created,
You blow.
Then,
You proclaim,
“Why don’t you know when to end?
Just stop talking!
YOU!
You always get your way!
You are Lady Gaga.
I am one of your Little Monsters.
I do everything for you.
I give my life for you.”
Alas,
Our disconnect.
I take a deep breath.
I look at you.
I am lost.
Quietly,
I say,
“I think you forget.
We are not a solo act.
We are not a reality show.
I sing the harmonies.
You write the songs.
We are married.
Together,
We are a band.”
And that is when you remind me, “Simon always sounded better with Garfunkel by his side.”
Act Two: We are a Band LONG VERSION, the long, metaphorical, Jonas-Brothers’ Version:
You think I am Lady Gaga
With my meat suits,
My little monsters,
My moods.
My way.
I am not Lady Gaga.
Because,
You and I,
We are not a solo act.
We are a band.
In our band,
I am Garfunkel.
You are Paul Simon.
Yes.
My harmonies are pretty.
My voice blends with yours.
You.
You are the mind.
You write the music.
Anyone can sing pretty harmonies.
You,
You can take us to Graceland.
That is why
I am not the Yoko
To your Jon.
In our band,
I think I am Ringo.
I am replaceable.
Then,
You remind me that Simon always sounded better with Garfunkel by his side.
I am Kevin Jonas,
You know,
The oldest Jonas brother.
He is the one who plays the guitar.
He does not sing.
He does not write the music.
The band was not his idea.
You are Nick Jonas,
the youngest Jonas brother.
He started the band.
Or better, it was his voice, his talent and his idea.
Our boys, they are Joe Jonas, the pretty one.
Joe is money.
He sings.
Sometimes he writes music.
Nick Jonas has the power.
Kevin and Joe left him alone
To write the songs.
Nick did the work.
Then,
one day,
The Jonas brothers had a meeting.
At this meeting they fought. Nick thought they were not getting anywhere.
So,
he went for a ride in his car.
True Story.
Joe and Kevin waited.
Nick returned,
Without another word or explanation,
Nick said, “I am done.”
So, the Jonas Brothers were no more.
Nick went solo.
He was successful.
Joe started his own band.
He was not as successful as Nick,
But still successful.
Kevin went home.
He bought diapers and talked about his feelings,
MTV to gave him a reality show.
During this same time,
Nick and Joe performed without Kevin.
Kevin said, “I found out you were playing when I saw you play on tv.
That is what hurt the most.
I saw you play on tv.
You didn’t ask me to play with you.
We were a band.
We were the Jonas Brothers.”
Nick and Joe piped in,
“You cared about relationships,
not the band.
You had your reality show.
You wanted to publicly air our grievances.
We aren’t a reality show.
We are a band.
You play guitar.
We can get anyone to play guitar.”
Then,
Nick, alone, said,
“I write the music.
Joe and I sing the songs.
Kevin, you play guitar.
Anyone can play guitar.
We are not a reality show.
We don’t talk about our feelings.
I write the music.
We are a band.”
Years later,
when everyone least expected it,
Nick decided to get the band back together.
Now,
United again,
the Jonas Brothers have their first number one hit.
Kevin should be grateful.
He should not complain
about being forgotten.
They are a band.
Nick wrote that number one song.
Anyone can play guitar.
I am wife.
I am Garfunkel.
I am Ringo.
I am Kevin Jonas.
I sing pretty harmonies.
You are husband.
You are Paul.
You are Jon.
You are Nick Jonas.
You are the one who writes the songs.
We are not a reality show.
We are band.
I should be grateful.
Anyone can play guitar.
I am.
Grateful.
My guess is my poem upsets you.
My guess is you still think I am Lady Gaga.
I am sure
You
resent my assertions.
And maybe you even think I am still so warped.
That you must fix my selfish and crazy perspective.
So,
You don’t ask for understanding.
Instead,
You proclaim,
“YOU!
You always get your way!
You are Lady Gaga.
I am one of your Little Monsters.
I do everything for you.
I give my life for you.”
Alas,
Our disconnect.
Quietly I say,
“I think you forget.
We are not a solo act.
We are not a reality show.
Together,
We are a band.”
And that is when you remind me, “Simon always sounded better with Garfunkel by his side.”