Poetry Class Poems

Four Talking about an effervescent future With such naive optimism With a brand new beloved As he pushed me on the massive swing And jumped on Cuddling beside me As we looked on In bittersweet awe As the sun set

This never used to be difficult for me But it’s late and I don’t want to write All things seem harder now than they ever used to be And all I bring myself to do seems like an aimless fight Ever since last semester I’ve felt like no more than dirt While I struggle to make sense of why I somehow still hurt I mean, try as I may but nothing seems right As I attempt to sew up my veins and collect my debris I feel myself breaking as I stay up all night I thought coming home was the answer, yet still I can’t see Whether I’m overreacting or if this was really a plight

I could not even cope unless I stared at her image to keep from succumbing to that state of fear

I'm not even meant to be posting on here because I'm too meta to keep from mentioning that all this is after all is a poetry blog but oh, how I adore you readers you hold my heart and that means the world in the metaphysical wasteland I reside in but I oughtn't even be posting because it's lent and I'm catholic even though I'm not but I suppose the turmoil from that can just be set upon all the turmoil I feel anyways and otherwise I was on tumblr although forbidden looking up pictures of Giordano's and pining seeing all the boasts of sweet home chicago wanting to snarl and rave at it all this was all supposed to work you know and seconds before refuge in sleep my mind always gets shouting "You see that you were a coward" but I sit now sad longing and unfulfilled and writing the same poem I've written each time I've sat down to write for the last three months because I'm certainly unwell perhaps I'm insane but admitting it in those words is ableist I'm seeing Jen's concert tomorrow and she is my beloved darling she means so much to me and all my beloveds are found families although that's an old concept in my mind by now I just wrote an essay about the trope and that's half the reason why I watch Demo Reel just allow me to quote some Amanda Palmer and we'll be done with it but in spite of it all and all my pretense and failures you're still here reading like a true sweetheart and that means the world to me that have an ear towards my catharsis and take my heart when I rip my fat ribcage open because art is my religion and Hero is my confirmation sponsor and saint even when Columbia tore me to shreds with it's vitriol no worse than what I could do if I put my mind to it because I'm awful but I'm nice remember that but you were here throughout it all and that means the world to me, dearest truly

A girl once asked me to teach her to sing I never wound up doing so- I thought it unethical Since I’m not Ms.Hart. Regardless First you stand, you can sing sitting, but try standing first Make sure you drink water beforehand- But when you’re onstage it won’t seem to matter since your mouth will dry up anyways Then you take a deep breath- Direct it to somewhere sturdy and low- Be that your thighs, pelvis, feet or lower-gut Lower-gut is best in my experience Then feel something At first it doesn’t matter what; you can fine-tune it later- Feel something. Don’t do this onstage (Unless you want to; who am I to judge-) Motion your arm backwards, twisting your wrist As if beckoning the sound to come up from that low place it resides Point at the wall and project The sound will hit where you point, at least with practice That’s the target That’s the simplest it can be- It might not be technically the best at first But singing is still singing And singing is strong You have to believe in that strength and keep it Hold it safe but be sure to show everyone If they scream at you while you belt ‘Hedwig’ in the shower In hopes of finding that voice that was once strong in you And now is relapsing out of fear Know that those who shout and swear And intend to make you feel like nothing They don’t matter in the slightest Because Ms.Hart believed in me And I believe in you- I promise.

Warm Sweet-Smelling Lilac Fragile Thick Heavy Pastel Coffee Smooth Tactile Lumpy Round Light Grey Autumnal Feminine Girly Pretty Childhood Vanilla Caramel Delicious Liquid Watery Comforting Childlike Soft Hands Holding Cupped Fingers Hands Shaking Favorite TNBC Girl Home My Own Lavender Purple Sweet Kind Happy Endearing Commonplace Morning Daily Late Nights Watching Suburban Knights and To Boldly Flee January Winter Early Spring Palms Hand-Bones Sadness Mild Poetry Productivity Pale

she was _____________________________ my sister and she _______________________________ was kind And I ________________________________ am hers And She ____________________________ was mine

Her sole was worn down from walking many roads Her leather skin ripped and wrinkled from her many years She had belonged to many within her long life Her last owner was her favorite Though she was paraded around through winter winds and snow Though she had been used polyamorously to fit into different roles Though her laces frayed and replaced semiannually Her last owner was her favorite Because although the others cared When it came time for her to leave, they gave no second thought But the last owner knew it was her responsibility To shepherd the shoes into oblivion Owner put it off as long as she could But knew all this was inevitable Since her seams were deteriorating And it wouldn’t be long, now, before she falls apart completely

My favorite place when I was a kid was... The monument by the mississippi river I'd walk there with my mom and dog And I'd chase around the statue at the center of the park As Mama shook her head at the spray-paint obscenities scrawled by hoodlum teens I'd bounce from rock to rock And run down the great hill And everything was happy and perfect then and there My cousin got married there And my ex-boyfriend said he wanted to follow her lead with me And my childhood self snarls- To think we almost let him ruin such a perfect place Because it was Eden for me Surrounded by garden And a religious image itself But that wasn't what mattered What mattered was the playful hop-frog jumping rocks And the look out to the sunset and Minneapolis in the distance And the watercolor rain upon the flora And the fossil digs in the deep summer And the racing on my bike with Darius And picnicking with Tutu with parasols and mesh bags And running through valleys of Autumnal leaves sweeping all around me There was absolutely nothing wrong there I remember The times I set out to run away That was where I wanted to run away to

It was the most amazing sight He held the carnations tight between his thumb and index finger And he rooted it safely within the barrel of the gun He returned its stem to mineral-made gunpowder it grew from once The sergeant tried plucking some out that he had already planted But the message had already been sent The gunman's soul had already been saved Hibiscus' message had already been preached And I was there that day in that moment of beauty I have no fonder memory than this

Depression is walking Down Michigan Avenue The wind biting and devouring her skin Feeling frostbite creep into ripped boots But she keeps on walking aimlessly Since she doesn’t care Not at this moment Whether she gets frostbite She thinks of things of her past that once terrified her Like the prospect of having her soul ripped out And becoming a Wendigo Demon Letting the cold seep in Creep into the very softness in her heart Freeze the kindness she thrived on Burn away her once boundless hopes Shiver up her spine And take hold of her brain The wind whispers You will die if you keep on struggling Just give in Just give in I will save you If you let yourself become me And it still terrifies her But she thinks If I were that thing I could battle this evil With some evil of my own It’d steal away my identity But at least I’ll be able to fight And I'm good at emotional intensity So I'd be good at that I might not be me But at least I would still remain So she keeps on going Without even thinking about how much she hurts Since it's become the norm As has fantasizing terrifying things into thoughts of salvation So the wind keeps howling And it burns her flesh So she thinks This is the closest to warmth I've felt in ages Because when she’s inside Surrounded by others All she feels is an unfulfilling numbness And while walking in Chicago wind She can still feel the tiniest fraction of her soul Fighting to prevail Through terrifying means But trying to fight nonetheless And even if that means turning calloused and cold At least she isn’t standing still and giving up There is some small semblance of strength in that

It is walking Down Michigan Avenue The wind biting and devouring your skin Feeling frostbite creep into ripped boots But you keep on walking aimlessly Since you don't care Not at this moment Whether you get frostbite You think of things of your past that once terrified you Like the prospect of having your soul ripped out And becoming a Wendigo Demon And it still terrifies you But you think If I were that thing I could battle evil with some evil of my own And I'm good at emotion So I'd be good at that So you keep on going Without even thinking about how much you hurt Since it's become the norm As has fantasizing terrifying things into salvation So the wind keeps howling And it burns your flesh So you think This is the closest to warmth I've felt in ages Because when you're inside Surrounded by others All you feel is an unfulfilling numbness And while walking in Chicago wind You can still feel the tiniest fraction of your soul Fighting to prevail And even if that means turning calloused and cold At least you aren't standing still and giving up There is some small semblance of strength in that

I have a WWII hat that sits on my desk It was my Grandfather's Then it was my dad's It has an American Flag crest With an eagle emblem Protecting it The Eagle is Boodaddy I asked my dad for my army hat back And by that I meant a camo-cap And he gave me this instead I knew not what to do Since I couldn’t just wear it It’d be sacrilege somehow So I set it atop my desk Where it sits nobly I’ve grown fond of it Since it reminds me of my Grandfather So when my dad tries taking it back Everytime I stop him Because I know it’s safe on the desk Unlike at his house So my greed is an act of preservation

In my mother’s kitchen Clutter sits It always sits And she says often “Here is as bad as the hoarding house” And I yell back defensively “No it’s not” Because it isn’t But it is In my mother’s kitchen Non-food things stay Fire extinguishers First-aid kits And money tucked away All meant for emergencies In my mother’s kitchen There is floor-space I tap-dance on a water-waved- hardwood floor It’s closer to the home I call home, there In my mother’s kitchen I saw the ghost of my grandfather One night as I went to get milk It was nonchalant He greeted me and I greeted him It wasn’t a cerebral thing He just was there In my mother’s kitchen

Aunts and cousins Crammed in a kitchen Cream and terracotta walls Smells of roast beef and dish-soap Women's work But it is good I stand in the kitchen Six years old Spatula halved Kept 'cause "It's still good" Jokes shared- Maternal cackling Boys in the living room Watching football Boasting of politics Internalized gender roles Yet I miss it dearly

I have pink pearls Coral and lopsided But pretty in my mind They belonged to my grandma Mama says I should talk to her again I didn't bring the pearls to Chicago Thieves live there As do demons, as I learned I only wear them out Special times Often to the Guthrie I wore them to Cabaret There is a sadness, of course, in them I never saw Boomama wear them Only simple small white-teeth ones She wore pallid pearls and red shirts And I see Ms.Hart do the same Her words are contemporary and progressive But the letter my grandma wrote- Though old-fashioned and aiming for domesticity- Guides me, too I believe there were many ghosts that night But when I cried onstage as Marmee I think that was Boomama She liked musicals anyways I remember sitting in her living room Watching 'Carousel' and getting bored But 'You'll Never Walk Alone'- That's her too I know Patty gave me the pearls But they were my grandmas And I treat them as such, with veneration I remember once, standing in the kitchen Boomama said she wanted to be a saint Regardless of all else, I think she worked miracles And she helps me still I would like to think she'd appreciate the choice I made on Monday But who knows Those pearls hold a fraction of her spirit in my mind And I wear them to many shows Since I can't take Boomama to see them anymore But I remember being onstage for 'Carousel' The consensus was that it sucked But I couldn't care less Since I felt her presence And I think that helped me, at least in that moment To shy away from being timid Since I felt her then And that sort of spirituality isn't to be questioned, in my mind I plan to give the necklace to one of my children, if I have them Even if not, I know it's important enough To not let it die with me Since, after all, it didn't die with her

This will be boring This will always be boring To others But to me it's still fascinating and charming Because I'm me I'm here now Procrastinating in my own productive way Just as I always am Writing poetry That know As I age I become unsure of Since it might not be poetry at all Really it's just ranting And I lie here With my salamander neck Bad posture Bare stretch mark stomach Purple-nailed fingers typing poorly Cold coffee untouched No music Since youtube is dumb And I'm too preoccupied and pretentious To resort to the level Of listening to music I bought That can be saved for the bus Which will run late Since it snows hard here In the home of eighteen-and-a-bit years- I've only just now begun to embrace But I need to take the bus Early So early Which means I must sleep now Geology homework can wait until morning Because I'm lazy And this is how I procrastinate It's been a year now of writing poetry regularly But I think I'm getting worse I suppose that's why I took the class I am writing this poem for