As you faithful readers know, this is not a poetry hub whatsoever. I’ve fallen in love with memoirs, but still think it would be worth it to share some of my older poems.
Published by Threshold Creative Arts Magazine 2010
Childhood is not from birth to a certain age.
Childhood is the kingdom-hood in which no soul dies.
Die, one who imagined fables
and danced in day dreams
with ribbons snapping in the wind,
toes wiggling deeper into the sand.
Die, one who played with kittens
and gave voices to puppets;
Who cannot be said
to have witnessed it all.
But you do not wake suddenly
in the middle of the night
blanket in your mouth.
At what point do you shove the tear-stained bear
between the bed and the wall,
and forget about it?
To be grown up is to sip bold wine with
stiff-bodied poem quoters in tall backed chairs.
I watch my daughter brave her divorce:
she cries into the silk couch pillows.
She drowns in her bottle of vodka,
due to the loss of her childhood.
Did I allow my daughter
I didn’t award myself?
Your tea is cold now.
You can barely stand up
without leaning on your cane.