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I wear my poetry on my sleeve
like a new blank document

I read my poetry
with a false sense
of knowing
towards disliking
and of course throwing
it into the

I read other poems
with a sense
of awe and wonderment
how do they do
when I seem to be crafting
words together
with a pick axe
while they do it with a
a wand
or a dictionary

does it ever

all come together?


The prompt from Poetry Thursday was really difficult for me. I almost opted not to do it, but decided if I had the time I would give it a try.  Especially because two of the poems I read I have always liked and never new were villanelles. They were Sylvia Plath:  “Mad Girl’s Love Song” and Dylan Thomas: “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”.  I never realized they were villanelles, never knowing what one was. As for the Iambic pentameter part, I am not sure I did that correctly.  I tried, but again, it was difficult.

Since Jessica spoke about obsessions, I wrote about my latest obsession. What life is like to work full-time with  two young children. This coupled with my patients who all have a few kids in their country of origin, while trying to survive here and maybe with another child or two.  So here you have it:

Looking out the Kitchen Window

A working mother lifts her newborn
saddled by her daily chores
why must her life be so torn?

she works to earn the right to be forlorn
alone at home she cries till dawn
a working mother lifts her newborn

smiling children laugh  in the morn
guarded and grey she prepares for their day
why must her life be so torn?

gazing out her window withdrawn
the children eat and ready for bed
a working mother lifts her newborn

ever watchful  of her neighbors scorn
the children sleep into the night
a working mother lifts her newborn
why must her life be so torn?

today I washed the linen off a dying girls body
and cleansed her soul from tomorrows
ashes she swallowed  for
aborting a fetus in
the parking lot at work as
she kissed her boyfriends lips goodbye in
their rusty old toyota I
thought how appropriate
I will be tending to her
very soon while he waits in
the car

Dear Poets,
out there you are
word crafting to the bone
I applaud you and am terrorized by you

who knows the rules of poetry?
who knows stanza, haiku and dream sequences
who knows
a drop of
down the side of a glass
is condensation tears or rain?
to visualize
the newness of something old
comprehend the beauty and ugliness
in all the unfolds before
hear the humor in the stillness of a photograph
see the crystallized prophets wings
as tiny scarab beetles crisscross the dessert
leaving empty trails

aren’t we all poets?