It feels like fear- heart pumping fast,
Like a lion in a cage-
Riding up to the throat, beating, beating.
No sweat but the pounding has reached
The ears. The impossible
Becomes the inevitable. Hearing is
Perfect but there’s no sound,
Just beating, beating.
The ground scratching at skin
(Remember when all scrapes needed were a
Superhero band-aid and a kiss?)
It’s too late:that’s the fear talking:it’s too late
Can’t think of anything else it’s too late
Nothing, it’s too late except for the heart, it feels like
It’s going to explode it’s too late and it’s
Beating, beating.
Category Archives: Poetry
Unanswered Questions
Who are you?
Stranger in the street
In a blue dress, holding flowers
Waiting
Who are you?
Man on the subway
Half asleep, yet alert
Watching
Who are you?
Girl at the corner
Shoulders bearing a backpack
Standing
Who are you?
Man in the shop
A dozen donuts for his daughter
Smiling
Who are you?
Stranger in the mirror
A face so familiar yet peculiar
Hiding
Who are you?
A Thousand Paper Hearts
They came like
Angels in the night
And they never meant
To stay.
A single candy wrapper blows
Across the vacant parking lot,
Its wrinkled plastic
Flapping helplessly in the air.
It’s only there for a second
And then- gone with the wind.
I think that it’s like me
Lost and alone.
A cigarette appears
Like magic that I don’t believe in anymore
And I watch the fiery embers
Burn into the night.
It wasn’t so long ago, was it?
That I lay on my own bed
Staring at the floral curtains
My mother picked out.
I wonder if she will take them for her own
When I go to college
Or let’s be real,
A homeless shelter for ex-convicts and drug addicts.
As the night falls
And white stars dot the sky
I state into the darkness
Around me, waiting
It takes a second, but it hits me.
I’ll never have what I want
(What I need) again.
I see them then.
They come from the sky
In dozens and wrap me in
Their crinkled skin
Carrying me away.
I wake up
Myself, a long time ago
The first time I saw myself
And hated my mirror.
My father, dressed
For success, greets me
With a bowl of gruel oatmeal
And a single raisin on top.
I’m like a ghost, retracing my steps
Into chemistry, where the teacher
Whose name I never learned
Drones on.
I follow the invisible
Thread into the gray courtyard
Lit up with the glow
Of her hair.
Whispers crawl up my skin like bugs in June
Saying hissing that I do care and it hurts
On the inside
And out.
She burns like a million
Volts of electricity
Golden and radiant
While we all bow before her.
She smirks as if
She can see my
Soul, and my protruding
Heart and mind.
A thousand- I like that number-
Days later, it seems
She dances her fingers through
My hair.
Her voice sings out
Like a nightingale
With her dreams
And hopes and wishes.
I would listen to anything
She had to say
Everything
At any time of day.
High above, fireworks
Light the midnight sky
And dance with brilliance,
Birds of passion that steal my breath.
The paper hearts unfurl
Themselves, and they clamor
For a spark, a flame
Of color.
It’s magic, like rainbow banners;
Tiny, colored shooting stars
Dashing across the dark
Blue curtain.
This is the moment
When I fall asleep,
Her head on my chest,
Matching my even breaths.
Maybe the paper is gone
By now. I don’t know,
But under my eyelids
There’s a faint outline of red.
This time, when
I wake, I’m back (was it a dream?)
Lying face down
In the dirt of a convenience store parking lot.
My mother used to say,
I can drink a hundred shots. But
A hundred and one makes me an
Alcoholic.
I’m an addict
To life?
To trouble?
To love?
Or maybe it’s true
And I’m a sinner but
I can’t tell truth from lies
And nothing makes sense anymore.
The cigarette burned out a long
Time ago, but in the ashes
I can see the faint glistening
Of an exploding firework.
The brilliant colors
Are gone, but I
Don’t long for them
Like I used to.
Who would?
My mouth says.
Who could?
This one’s my heart.
Her eyes were blank
As pale sheets of ice
And her mouth shaped words
She couldn’t say.
I used to love her
But that love had died
And a thousand paper hearts
Fluttered to the ground.
The Riverside
In the thick, dark woods where the trees stretch out to touch the powder-dusted clouds
Cold, cerulean water comes rushing by
The comforting, rhythmic gurgling
Filling my ears
With warm promises of love and happiness
And hope to come.
Everything begins with a river
And that’s how everything ends.
Toiling labor swept away in the calm depths
And a baby swaddled in soft blankets.
A river gives life and a river gives death,
The natural course of change.
The brook burbles with a full stomach
Running on fast feet over smooth, round pebbles.
The water rushing by goes on with no end in sight
Slowly turning from the beautiful blue to a dusky, darkened gray.
There is no time to look pretty
When there are other things to do, other things to say.
No need to stop
No time to stop.
Why be late
When you can be early?
The faraway sun lights up
The transparent waters, like a lamp shining behind a sheet of paper.
The river illuminates
The golden light showering down
Upon the glimmering blue;
The light side of the dark river.
A clear path, marked by jagged rocks and sifted sand
Swaying grass and tiny tadpoles
Dancing to the music.
The river never stops to listen
Never stops to meet or greet a friend.
No, I’m much too busy with things to do
I’ve got to go.
I’m running, running, running
To find a road home.
Paved by the ones who run all day
Carved from the feet of rushing waves
Never stopping, always going
Looking for a road home.
untitled [poem 1937]
there were the boys who talked
to me and really, i preferred their
conversation above all else because
i didn’t have to worry
about what i was going to say
but there were the girls who primped and
preened with(out) meaning to and i
was supposed to talk to them so i did
and i said all the wrong things at all the
wrong times and they looked at me funny
while i buried myself into the ground and wished- not
for the first time- that i was invisible.
those were the girls
who curled up next to everyone
and said they were friends and
they were so fake i could see
plastic and dye in their hair
but i pretended i couldn’t and
went off with them to fairyland and i
was sucked way way below
and the elves with tiny fingers and big eyes
held me down so
i couldn’t escape.
there were a hundred queens
and i knew all of them by name but one by one
they all began to drift away except
one girl who said we were best friends and even when i knew
the truth i said yeah ok and
we walked arm in arm to the bookstore
because even though
i had a thousand books, they
were just pieces of paper that pretended
to be binded together and
fell apart at the first chance they got.
i think we all floated away with the storm
that came blowing wind and a torrent of rain
and maybe we drifted back to our homes or maybe
we met some people we
never meant to and they told us to stay
so we did, but all i really know is that
the rain
kept coming down and there was nobody beside me
and i drowned in the sadness
and anger that poured out with each drop of water
and the shadows asked why i was crying
and the only reason i knew was because i knew how to be lonely
but not alone.
28 diamonds
she knew how much she was worth
because she had a closet for jewels and
a collection of gold and a thousand
men to place flowers in her hair
which never had a strand out of place
or a single split end
but she didn’t know what she
wanted so she pretended and she was
good at it but she wasn’t happy
no matter how hard she tried
she met him at a cafe one afternoon
when the barista gave her
his drink and she thought
it too sugary but when she gave it back
he could taste no sugar because
she was the sweetest woman he had
ever seen.
he gave her 28 diamonds on their
first date because that was how much
she meant to him but she just thought
he was another rich man
and played her games and at the end
of the night he stood outside her door
with a single, red rose as the snow
fell around him and the next morning
she ate
28 diamonds for breakfast
and called the maid to clean up
the littered petals on the ground
outside her window
Around the Corner
We were always looking around the corner
As if for some sort of miracle or the pounding
Rhythm of a busking musician.
I wonder what was so special about that corner.
She
She whispers like a dream
Catching fireflies in her fingers
Just one more hour in the moonlight.
She curls up with the cat sometimes
And lies amidst a thousand blankets
Swallowed up in the marsh of comfort.
She stares out the window when it’s raining
Watching the teardrops run down
Tracing each path with one delicate finger.
She makes up friends because she wants to
(Even though it’s really because she has to)
And gives each of them names I’ve never heard before.
She told me once, in the cornfield behind her house
That she was sad and lonely and angry
And I didn’t answer.
She used to make pies with mushrooms and lamb-
Lots of flavor, mind you-
But I tried to make it today and I couldn’t taste a thing.
She talked to me on that last day
Already distant and spreading her wings
When I said goodbye and she flew away.
Architect of Dreams
An architect of dreams walks in both worlds
Illusion and insanity blurring the
Thin lines between reality
And what exists as reality in our minds.
63rd Street
It was seven months since I last saw you
And you looked me in the eye,
Introduced yourself
Like we never even knew each other.
I remember that final day
On the subway- 63rd Street- when
You took my hands and
Said you’d never forget
But you walked away first
And you didn’t look back.
You etched your knife
Into my soul, carved out my heart,
Left me to bleed, to die
Alone on that sidewalk
Sandwiched by graffiti and closed delis.
I used to see you in the windows of stores
In the suits that you insisted on wearing
Formal- even to the last minute-
And brimming with confidence.
You were the wings of every
Bird that flew by
Free and unflinching to the wind
And sky.
You etched your knife
Into my soul, but there was something
I didn’t know, that as my blood
Ran out on the street
You were falling on
The other end of the blade.
I remember that final day
On the subway- 63rd Street- after
We’d woken up late and gone to a nice lunch.
You walked away first
And you didn’t look back
Because you didn’t want me to see
The tears in your eyes.
It was seven months until I saw you again
And you looked me in the eye,
Introduced yourself,
Like an apology, a fresh start.
Penelope Havensworth 