Fault lines shimmer
awake
inside my head.

Earthquakes shudder
alive
things you’ve said.

Won’t you drown me in my
coffee?
So that I will never face

any more natural disaster
memories
ripping through my day.

words dripping off my tongue
swirling round this
house

breaking glass is the sound
of truth pouring
down

down
down

beat the past
bury me

with the horror you can't believe

this was supposed to be a secret
this was supposed to be a secret
this was supposed to be a secret


"Don’t you know how to keep a secret?"


* this was written for Writer's Island. The prompt was controversial.

A Compulsion to Spill Words

it's the fish that swims inside my viens
it's a rush from dancing near the flames
it's misery and it's regret
it's so I can remember, so I can forget


its ancient visions come back around
its water flowing under ground
its madness and it is pain
its summer snow and winter rain

its crawling underneath my skin
its breaking out and sneaking in
its glory and its release
it holds me captive, sets me free

its solid and it is hollow
its gone today but sought tommorow
it's muse and hunger and instinct
catch the tiger, slay the dream

muse, hunger and instinct
why I spill these words
all over me

"I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely."

I was born to be lonely.
I'd wake and hear the cold- splintering, breaking-
and slowly I would rise and dress.

I was born to be lonely.
A child's blood so red,
fear the chronic anger of this house.

I was born to be lonely,
and watch light slowly close
against the yellow drawn shades.

I was born to be lonely,
dance naked grotesquely,
on water I'm not sure is there.

I was born to be lonely,
What did I know? What did I know?
But that's all right.

"I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely."

I was born to be lonely.
But that's all right.



* This is a cento. That means this poem is comprised of lines from other poets works:
Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams
Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden
Whose Mouth Do I Speak With by Suzanne Rancourt
My Father's Hat by Mark Irwin
Father's Song by Gregory Orr

This was done for the site Patchwork Poetry.

Hollywoodland Hunger

"Fame

is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Always the camera is angled so we look up
and nothing will come of our lovelock.

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

That lady with her garments on
is Life but is she Art?

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Nothing! Nothing but air, thin air.....
"This," says the voice, "can be laid to the natural greed."

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Men eat of it and die.
Food!
Just Food!
Just any old kind of food!

Dying to taste it. Take a slice-
only a pun for bread- seductive
visually, but you could starve.

"Fame is a fickle food
Men eat of it and

die."





This is a cento. None of the lines above are mine. The poems used were:
Running Away Together by Maxine W. Kumin
Video Cuisine by Maxine W. Kumin
Fame is a Fickle Food by Emily Dickerson
Ode to the Lemon by Pablo Neruda, translated by Jodey Bateman
Wonderbread by Alfred Corn
The Clean Platter by Ogden Nash.

The poems were suggested by Jilly Poet,Lissa, gautami tripathy, and Lirone. This was written for Patchwork Poetry.

Time and Time Again

Fluttering lightly on the wings of
fate,
I duel with time.

We fight like lions over the reins
of my tattered life.

Time- a silent foe bent on thieving with its
greedy hands.

Yet my hands are far from clean-
volatile and mean, a dirty gleam
that shines.

Still I
long to clarify the blood beating in
my veins,
heal my shame,

a reversal of my fate.

God I pray
there is still time,
time,
time.

Swirl a fantasy like good wine
around my mouth:
precious peace will rise from the ruins
of this war.

But the devil wants his due,
and all my sins I fear
I’ll never lose...

still I fight.


Note- this poem was written for a challenge at Poets Who Blog. I had to incorporate these ten words:

time
precious
reversal
clarify
volatile
silently
fantasy
flutter
peace
bent

a waterfall of
ashes
crash again my skin

hear me whisper softly
hallelujah
hallelujah

burnt remnants of
passion
leaves scars to mark my sins


pray now God will save me
hallelujah
hallelujah

pray its not too late to save me
hallelujah
hallelujah

Here I stand
my hands empty

Here I stand
bereft of dreams

Here I stand
where you left me

Here I stand
breaking softly


This poem was written in response to a prompt at Poets Who Blog Interactive. This first line comes from the Leonard Cohen song I'm Your Man.

The wind rushes in without an apology,
a storm arriving in winter hues.

You never knew me at all.


You who saw me thru hell's gates,
through the window
of the voices in my head,
through the closed curtains
of my
raw passion,
capturing the essence of life’s high noon.

Thought you knew the truth-
decoded into letters-
but what you knew
was only my
grandiose fantasies
or blatant out right lies.

Yesterday's melancholy song
still haunts.


The eager sun sneaks in bits of light
echoes of voices from afar.

All
these lonely days of blue
cut me with the bitter blades of what
you never knew. You never knew.


This is nearly a Patchwork Poem. It is composed mainly of donated lines from other poets but I had to add the lines

of my
still haunts
was only my
all.

Major thanks to Paisley, Lirone, and Lissa and Gautami Tripathy.

bring me sunshine in a cup
bring me laughter in your hands
bring me hunger then fill me up
bring me lustful grains of sands
bring me teardrops you have shed
bring me fireflies trapped in glass
bring me reasons to stay in bed
bring me ransom from my past



This poem is in response to a by a prompt at
Poefusion.

with special thanks to Paisley who did the prompt first and reading her poem inspired me to write my own.

The first line comes from an Emily Dickerson poem of the same name.

My heart knows a mystery old as life:

I have to save myself.
I have to save myself.
I have to save myself.


I know this much, my place
if I survive:

A life where hope outshines fears.
A life where hope outshines fears.
A life where hope outshines fears.


I tiptoe out of the room.
as if you were looking at me-

I have to save myself.
I have to save myself.
I have to save myself.

I leave you, my muse.
My excuse? I tore my own soul-
pushed the syringe.

Howling for help.
Howling for help.
Howling for help.

I have to save myself,
save myself,
save myself.




Note-This is a cento. Major thanks to Gautami Tripathy, Lissa, Mariacristina, Lirone, and Jilly Poet. If you would like to read more centos or like to learn how to write your own then visit Patchwork Poetry.