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Talk Dirty

I string words like beads
onto threads of ideas
and tie them to
the tip of my tongue.
I want to pull them out
one by one,
drop them in your ear
when your lips
are pressed against
the soft spot
on my neck
that makes me sigh,

but there is a moment
between the rise and fall
of our bodies
when flesh becomes a
boundary to be broken
and desire ceases
to be ethereal
and words feel plastic
and small and clumsy 
and break against my teeth.



Vines burst through my eardrums,
working their way up, weaving
patterns into tressels of thought
hiding behind the roses.

Spreading, twining more tightly,
coiling like springs around me,
only expanding faster, longer,
and pushing into hidden places.

Flowering in corners I shouldn’t
want to reach. I find myself
leaning toward the light,
grasping at broken sunshafts,

and when I’m shaded, I trace
the length of the vine, the
mark your voice has left behind,
just to see how deep it goes.

This is a piece I wrote today for NaPoWriMo. 

I’ve been writing still, but I kind of withdrew from my online communities for the past couple of weeks, so I haven’t been posting. I’m not going to post all of them here since that would be a lot of catch-up, but you’re welcome to check out the other ones in my NaPoWriMo gallery

What Happens When the Well Goes Dry

Trying to catch up. This is what you get…

National Poetry Writing Month, Days 13 & 14:

Memory Problems

Forget is the word
that is stuck in my head
like “Jingle Bells” was in December.

There’s a reason it came
and got lodged in my brain—
if only I could remember!

The Planet of Squidor Prime

Jeff lives in a place
called Squidor Prime
where the weather is awful,
but the pudding, sublime.

His neighbor is Victor
whose sister is Jane.
They live on the end
of Guinea Pig Lane.

Every so often
Jeff walks past their door,
blushes and smiles
and looks at the floor.

Jane smiles and blushes
and pretends not to see
when Victor shoots Jeffery
right in the knee.

That’s life on the outskirts 
of Squidor Prime,
where the only thing common as pudding
is crime.


Got behind again; playing catch up…

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 12

Oh, and then there’s Amber—

She is wood fire, soft embers glowing
under October’s heavy harvest moon
in a the middle of a ripe Nebraska field.

Her dress rustles against the stalks
like whispers, and I can see her breath. 
She laughs like the crackle of dying fire,

and kisses like fall air and pumpkin pie.
Her tongue is warm honey, local, pure,
exciting, like a fresh caramel apple at the fair.

Her skin is dusky sunshine on my lips
and warm, like being buried in the sand.
Oh, she’s smooth, like glass, but she is soft

except her arms: they are drying resin, and I am caught.


A fellow deviantArt writer posted this format as sort of a poetry meme, and I needed inspiration. If you want to do one too, check out the link above for the guidelines in the artist’s comments!

The Race

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 11.

The Race

Dusty feet running, walking,
dragging down a dirt road
with no end. It makes me
think maybe the world
is flat and drops off
in a hole filled with water
a hundred feet deep, but
we are not surprised
to find it. We push
down to the bottom
with lungs that shouldn’t
breathe but do and we  
claw upward through
pounds of impossible 
pressure. We break the
ceiling and grin and gasp
and redefine life
for the ones who
have merely lived it.

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