Connie

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NaPoWriMo Poems

I thought I'd add these to this blog just in case anyone still reads it. These are some of the poems I wrote for the National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) challenge in April. Basically the concept was just to write thirty poems in thirty days. So here's the ones for public viewing:

blue steel

My grandmother was in a lot of ways like Derek Zoolander.

Not only did she like trying to help people who don't read good, but she also had issues with

Turning left.

On her feet? Completely fine. But behind a steering wheel... Impossible.

It's not that her car was incapable of

Turning left, no, she just always wanted to be right.

This woman would take four right turns just to avoid

Turning left.

I don't know why, exactly.

I can, however, relate.

There's an intersection I used to pass on the way to school

That's by far the most unpredictable

Left turn

I've found in the state.

I knew a girl who was killed in the same intersection.

Turning left

Kind of makes me nervous too.

But not so much that I'd avoid it like my grandmother.

I never knew why she hated

Left turns

So much.

But then I never understood why she got cancer either.

I didn't understand why we had to give her ice packs

Or why she shaved her pretty silvery hair

That had always seemed to bloom from her head

In a cascading garden of off-white curls.

I didn’t understand why she was in pain.

I didn't understand why we went to her house

Dusted off her car, got the keys, and

Turned left

Out of the driveway, only to return without having done anything except drive

I didn't understand why I had to play Go Fish with my little brother

While my mother, aunt, and grandfather talked to my grandmother

I didn't understand why she didn't make us top ramen the special way anymore

Or why there was never candy in the candy jar

I didn’t understand why it was suddenly such a priority for the two of us

To share a weekly game of Pac Man.

But I was glad that she didn’t let me win.

We each made the most of each of our

Turns,

Intent on fleeing from the hungry ghosts

Trying to claim Pac Man’s life.

I didn’t understand why she stopped being able to sit at the computer.

I didn't understand.

I understood when she was gone.

My parents sat us down and told us she had died.

I didn't cry. I knew it had been coming.

It was more right for her to die than continue to live in agony

How could she have

Left

My life forever?

I was young enough to incompletely grasp how she was gone

But old enough to accept I couldn't bring her back

I was told she

Left me money

That I couldn't claim till I was older.

It seemed silly to me.

I got to keep some of her things

Jewelry and little knick-knacks

They gave me the Pac Man game I always played with her

But I didn't want to play by myself.

I didn't wear black to her funeral.

My mother said she wouldn't have wanted us to be sad.

I got to wear a pretty white carnation pinned to my dress

That reminded me of her silver locks scrunched up in her curlers

Surrounding the flora with petals of her own.

I decided carnations would be my favourite flower from then on.

It seemed right.

Life was our Pac Man computer game

Grandma had passed

But I still had my entire

Turn left.

alphabet soup

Sometimes I marvel at the miracle of literacy

The disjointed pictures of what we call 'words' formulated through little scribbled markings called 'letters'

When I was in Kindergarten, I still believed in god

We prayed every morning in class and gave thanks for what we appreciated in our lives

Each kid in the class got a turn

And when the teacher called on my raised hand, I told her I was thankful for god giving us the alphabet

All the kids laughed at me.

Mrs. Debonarde scolded them and said it was a perfectly reasonable thing for which we should all be thankful

I still cried.

I studied the illustrated alphabet cards pinned high on the wall above the board

Wondered why they didn't see how amazing the different combinations were

How, if invited, each string of letters and spaces could transport you to a completely different universe

Could draw an intricate story, just as detailed and complex as the O'Keefe print hanging in my kitchen?

I removed myself from class that day and read a book called My Father's Dragon.

Somehow, I took revenge in knowing that the other kids had no idea of this secret world.It was magical.

I almost never read about dragons anymore.

Nothing against them, it just doesn't cross my mind

It does cross my mind that I've become incredibly familiar with words

You don't choose which words you read.

A sentence is put in front of you, and you automatically comprehend the meaning of the sequence.

I don't envy those people who can't read.

They aren't able to appreciate the stories in writingWon't ever disappear into a world of dragonsWithout a visual or audio aid. 

Movies never do books justice, and audiobooks simply aren't the same.

The satisfaction of turning the last page is surely superior to watching the end credits roll after a movie...

One day, I'm going to make a shirt that says, "I bet you $20 you just read this shirt."

For once, give the illiterate the upper hand.

Only trouble is, they'll never know it.

I forgot the title.

I just turned the page of my journal to jot down an idea for my next poem

But I forgot what that idea was.

I get up several times a day and walk into a different room

Only to have forgotten what I wanted to retrieve

We all open the fridge and forget what we wanted to eat

Pick up the phone and forget who we wanted to call

We all accidentally to write words sometimes

But sometimes that works to my advantage

Occasionally, I end up with something better than what I intended

It's like looking in the cabinet to find some crackers and instead getting chocolate covered pretzels.

They're still in the same general category, but much more satisfying.

Sometimes there's a satisfaction in just writing whatever comes to mind

Even if it doesn't make any sense

Or strays off on a ridiculous tangent about how a purple orangoutang was knocking on your window asking to borrow a cup of sugar to make the carrot cake for his pet kiwi.

I've forgotten where I was going with this train of thought...

Forget you even read this.

the wheels on the bus.

Last month I sprinted out the door

To catch the bus

In front of my house.

I got there a second before it left

I took a seat and checked my phone

To make sure I wasn’t running

Too late.

I felt the man next to me

Scrutinizing my

Purple hair

Leather jacket

and camera.

I smiled at him

He winked back at me.

He said the purple suited me

He liked my style.

I laughed and said

Thank you

How has your day been?

He grimaced and explained

He was sick

And would probably have to

Carry around an oxygen tank

For the rest of his life.

But at least the weather was

Getting warmer.

I smiled and agreed.

He had many stories to tell.

This month, I sprinted out the door

To catch the bus

In front of my house

I got there much too early

I waited for a while.

It finally came

I took a seat and checked my phone

To make sure I wasn’t running

Too late.

A man in front of me turned around

Pointed to my hair

Asked me why

I told him my hair hadn’t ever been purple before

He showed me his tattoos

And said he used to have a blue Mohawk

I laughed and said it must have been fun.

He had many stories to tell as well.

Today, I sprinted out the door

To catch the bus

In front of my house

I got there just in time

There were no seats so I stood

And checked my phone

To make sure I wasn’t running

Too late.

A man in a seat raised his voice

And asked if I am a journalist.

I didn’t know why he would assume such a thing

I smiled and said no.

He gestured in my general direction

Told me in his time

My hair would be uncalled for.

That it wouldn’t be accepted

That it still shouldn’t be accepted.

I smiled politely and told him

I accepted it for myself

So that’s all that mattered.

Another woman agreed with me.

He shook his head disapprovingly and

Dropped the conversation.

I bid him good day and got off at my stop.

My hair might not be the most practical

But it sure leads to a lot of interesting encounters

With strangers

Especially on public transportation.

l'esprit de l'escalier.

Fancy walking along a cracked, broken in path

The cool breeze stinging your exposed skin

Cold, but not cold enough to make you wish

You had grabbed the extra jacket

You contemplated bringing

Hands suctioned to the bottoms of your

Broken in pockets

The tops of your wrists

Creating a fine balance

Between toasty and nip.

Wet your lips in a futile attempt

Sniff

Watch your warm breath

Disperse and unfold

Taking with it the silhouettes

Of words

You wish you’d had the courage to utter

Grimace as you twirl the conversations

Through your mind

Again & again

Analyzed beyond the point

Of comprehension

Settling deep into the darkness of

What-ifs

And wishes.

Again & again & again & again,

Suddenly striking a sharp awareness

Of being incredibly

Alone.

Reach for the phone

In a spark of courage

Forcing your hand to brave the cold

Contemplate clearing your mind

Say what you wish you’d said

Close the phone.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Sniff.

Not worth the risk.

One foot in front of the other

Propelling yourself aimlessly through space.

It’s brisk.

cubic zirconium.

You cried me a symphony

Of cyan and teal

The mean reds consuming

Your sparkling nature

Leaving me to wonder

If you were ever truly pure

The tears glistened reflections

Of the hurt you expelled

Scarring your pristine surface

With droplets of imperfection

Somehow a beauty separate from your own

I remember the day I found you

A gem within the grimy geode

Hidden between the filth

And piles of rocks unworthy

Of my hammer

The hammer so eager to hunt

For your beauty

I found nothing.

Hours spent searching but to no avail

There were small insignificant victories scattered in the dust

Not worth the time it took

To excavate then from their much too easily broken tombs.

I struck upon you in frustration

And gasped as you opened your heart to me

Reflecting my image and all of that around me

At last, I'd found my treasure.

You were my favourite accessory

Fastened like a heart to my sleeve

But I was reckless.

I wore you and tore you

Your once bright visage diminished

To the point where I began my search

For something to return my own shine

To the point where I set you aside

Tolerated your company only out of habit

Your diamond shaped heart complimented my own so easily

But we eroded together and against one another

The facets of our bodies and minds no longer matching pieces

So we let each other go

To watch one another smooth the dents

Inflicted by carelessness or infatuation

Even then you continued to cut me with your diamond facade

But the distance grew and we healed

Shining anew

And I came to realize

You were never a diamond

In my haste to find a jewel, I mistook your welcoming sparkle

For something much more withstanding than you will ever be

Your cubic zirconium may reflect an impressive array of life

But your nature is too easily shattered to remain precious to me

I filed down the scars you scored in my own surface

Whittling myself down so all that was left of your marks

Was a smooth new plane to welcome the light

And hope someone strikes open my outer walls

To make me their own treasure.

You forced me to slice away a part of myself

It took a while to accept.

But the sharp edges have worn down

And you have become a minor part of me

You may have altered my cut forever

But no single facet defines the jewel.

In fact

I'm shining brighter than ever.

the veggie monster.

Wandering through countless pictures

A traveling gnome with a vague sense of misanthropy

Soul  stolen through (honestly) accurate pictures

Heart sold for a pair of sticks and guitar strings

A wandering soul, but a driven body like (my) own

Divided ideals won’t tear you past a vegetable-

Even artichokes have hearts.

Our conversations balance precariously on the tip

Of your (hopelessly) non-confrontational tongue

Directing the topic toward the near blizzard

Or the retreating warmth of yesterday’s pleasant overcast.

My eyes wander & my actions speak my thoughts

Verbatim to the (romantic) confab I’ve played out

A myriad of times in my mind

But you smile politely & nod

My encouraging drift trickling unnoticed through your catch.

Your elusive nature ensnares my curious (tendencies)

A cautiousness I (may) take with a serpent

Lying under the sheets of my bed-

The awareness of the viper

Does nothing to disarm the (danger) at hand.

The venomous bite leaving only

A trail of beating hearts & blushing cheeks

Relying on the kiss of your antidote for relief.

The cure will instantly satiate the longing

(Our) brief connection lingering in memory

Before settling into a comfortable routine

Between antidote and poison

Creating an obscure (friendship) between the opposites

Which are in some ways,

(So) very alike.

The comforting cure quickly learning when the

Sharp sting of the venom begins to crescendo

Diminishing the pain left in its wake

The serpent striking whenever it may (please,)

Creating a reliance on both parties

Lest the balance be overturned causing each side to collapse.

The soft hum of your guitar strings can (take) the snake

Into a hypnotic daze, leaving us alone

To meander through (this) precious sanctity.

Unspoken thoughts carried across the melody

Open for critical interpretation

Allowing me time (to) peel back your protective leaves

One by one

Savoring every layer

Until finally

Reaching

Your artichoke (heart.)

missed opportunities.

I watch

inconspicuously

as he holds the cup

to his thin lips

it lingers there

just a few seconds

longer than

necessary

we accidentally make

eye contact

and smile a

crooked half moon

mirroring

one another

I contemplate

saying

anything

but instead

look back toward

Bukowski

we repeat this

tiny dance

a few more times—

I wonder if he wants

to say

something

too?

he stands

walks over

will he sit down?

he passes

wanders

searching

I smile once again

point to the

dish box

he responds to our

tiny dance

laughs shyly and

thanks me.

exit coffee shop stranger.

flying

I sit here

reading poetry

writing poetry

breathing poetry

I stand to get

water

every time

I walk downstairs

I stand before the

first small flight

embrace the rail

with 

carefully

painted nails

every time

I see myself

trip

fall down that flight

out the window

every time.

when I was

small

I would have this

reoccurring dream

that I would

learn to

fly

by jumping

off 

that staircase

it was

exhilarating.

but that was a

dream. 

I wonder

when that exhilaration

became

so

dark?

singing in the rain

                     It’s

                  raining.

          There has been

       Quite a lot of water

    this year. I wonder if it

    will flood. Utah has had

    some pretty epic floods

     over the years. Once

           it flooded and

                                                                                                 Made

                                                                                            the caskets

                                                                                     from the graveyard

                                                                                 uproot from the soft soil

                                                                               and drift down the streets

                                                                                in a solemn parade of left-

                                                                                over tears the loved ones

                                                                                 spilled in memory of the

                                                                                        deceased floats.

                                   Then

                               in 1983, a

                          score of people

                         were killed in the

                      intense floods which

                  transformed State Street

                 into a river. People fished

                 from barricaded roadsides.

                   Never mind the people

                    who drowned in that

                          same water.

                                                                                                                                           I

                                                                                                                                         like

                                                                                                                                     the rain,

                                                                                                                                    But I wish

                                                                                                                                it wouldn’t rain

                                                                                                                             quite so often. It’s

                                                                                                                          making me want to hole

                                                                                                                        up in one of those caskets

                                                                                                                         that could be be washed

                                                                                                                               away if the floods

                                                                                                                                   come again.

                                                                I

                                                           have a

                                                      cold-blooded

                                                  heart & no amount

                                                 of rain will warm me

                                               to the bipolar weather

                                             that defines Utah’s daily

                                             forecast. Rain, rain, go

                                                  away... Please?

tyler durden

I am Maren’s failing mind.

My disconnected nerves cause endless distraction

Thinking gears sputtering

My thoughts dripping like molasses through my pen

In an almost illegible scrawl of cursive

Purple lipstick stains the rim of the porcelain cup

Whose contents match up with my sleepy nerves

Giving me the energy to stay awake just a few hours more

Working through my daily routine

In a somnambulatory daze

I allow Maren’s thoughts to drift off into

A labyrinth of romanticism and confusion

Each new turn taking her deeper into

The maze of her heart

With the ferocious minotaur taunting her

With a swift death and no more

Wandering

I’m lost within my own thoughts

A paradox of maybe’s & what-if’s

Trapped without an escape in sight.

I am Maren’s failing mind

And I plan to take her down with me.

a sense of greed

Today, I am feeling greedy.

My palms sweat with anticipation

My heart flutters like a schoolgirl with a crush

My pupils dilate as though they themselves

Wish to absorb all that they can

Before I tear my line of sight away.

My eyes are greedy.

My hearing falls to the traitorous images

I’d rather be deaf than blind.

Or would I?

The memory of melody fades to the point

Where it all seems nothing more

Than a lovely dream.

My fingers are greedy.

They itch to rasp the banquet in front of me

Trembling with the longing, a self-induced state of mind

Longing for blood sugar

I shut my eyes reluctantly to relinquish the desire

Forcing it all upon my open hands

I’d rather feel than see but not own.

Or would I?

My greedy fingers explore the food

Trying to remember the visual appeal

The food once held.

My nose is greedy.

My fingers become statues

As I take in the pleasant aroma of sustenance

I sniff as though I can breathe the food in.

I’d rather smell than touch.

Or would I?

I release the awareness in my sensitive fingertips

Allowing my nose to explore the food

Without distraction.

But my mouth is greedy.

I imagine the burst of flavor erupting on my taste buds

The satisfaction of the savory food

Threatens to overwhelm the smell.

I’d rather taste than smell.

Wouldn’t I?

Both remaining senses slip beyond my awareness

As I swallow

Taking away the tantalizing tempting of the food.

I let go & my senses begin to return

Leaving nothing of the food but a bitter aftertaste

And an already fading memory.

I open my greedy eyes

But to their utter dismay

My banquet has disappeared. 

house of mirrors.

Look

In the mirror

Picture aging gracefully with time

Unmarred by the harsh reality

Of truth

The cloned image

Portraying our serene façade

Through twin smiles

And a kiss

Of sexual prowess

Step closer

A thin veil of dust

Covers the reflecting glass

Obscuring vision

Blurring the harsh lines

Of our forced smiles

Into loving grins

Another step

Reveals the cracking paint

Slathered carelessly

On the back of the glass

The transparent spaces

Revealing the thin strings

Holding us together

Fibers growing thin

From excessive wear

Threatening to

Shatter

Our mirror world

Look

Past the mirror

Time taking his toll

In a harsh whirlwind of erosion

Cracks in our foundation

Sending raindrops of

Disagreement

Spiraling down with gravity

It’s not our fault.

The charming infatuation

Holding us together

Has run out

Time has run out

The bodies outside the mirror

Step out into daylight

Parting ways

Leaving what little

Was left of their love

In the house of mirrors.

It bounces around

Aimlessly

Across bent and

Twisted surfaces

Finally dying from lack

Of a human host.

It’s not a reflection’s nature

To love

Only to mimic lifetimes

And complement

The sparkling trail

Of tears we left behind.

nelumbo nucifera

Serene water

Surrounding

Space below

Magenta petals

Rooted far

Far below the surface

The surface of water

The surface of mud

Earth

Frigid earth yet

Warm leaves

Warm blooded stem

Attracting

Cold blooded

Pollination

Expanding the eyes

Of Vishnu

Elegantly pure

An ideal of

Femininity

So divine

Monet settled on

Water lilies

For fear of

Painting injustice

Injustice to the image

Of the Sacred Flower

Sacred in consuming

Lotus-eaters consuming

Petals

Stems alike

Though harnessing not

The narcotic

Nature

Of the blue lotus

Not narcotic-

Unstained

Gentle accents

On the bright

Circle

Precious seeds

Laid delicately

In their caves

Untouched by water

Supporting

Footsteps of

Divinities