Drunk with Spring

Kim, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, asked us to choose an animal and turn it into a poem about a poem. I almost didn’t participate—I’m a bit tired. But then, a picture from our last visit with my in-laws said, “Poetize me.” And I did. 😉

The poem sits on my fingers
(shy, chilly, shaky), it feeds
on ink from a black diamond,
sings of lust and compromise,

of love that births
stanzas out of living flesh.
It jumps in and out of word-
ponds, until it croaks fresh

verses. Drunk with spring
in its blood, the poem
draws strength from heart-
beats and tears and mirth.

It stays with me, it learns
and it teaches. It tattoos
tiny prints on my skin.
It becomes. And it leaps.

– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry, 346


She said, “Think back over the past week. What have you observed that was odd, unusual, or just plain weird? Tell me about it…” I shrieked my response into a poem.

My cracked bones and I
danced on hot nails
for years, screaming


falling and rolling
in self-defense,
just to feel sharp
steel stab spine
and pierce gut.

For years, I’ve screamed
of my wrinkled psyche
and arthritic will—

you’ve heard nothing.

But when 40 springs kiss
silvery wisdom into my hair,
you say, “I’m here for you.”


(not so) wee notes…
– I’m stating that this poem is autobiographical (see what I did there? *cackles*). As anyone who has interacted with me for more than a month or three already knows, I’ve been seriously ill for quite some time. Because of this, I’m used to friends and family asking after my health, telling me that they will keep me in their thoughts, saying that they will light a candle for me, reminding me that they are willing to listen if I want to talk… So, when certain person said to me, “April is almost here. This will probably hit you hard. I’m here for you if you need to talk”, I assumed she was talking about my collection of chronic illnesses—the weather can be murder on some maladies. But nope, the twit was offering solace because she thought I would have a hard time dealing with the fact that I’m turning 40-years-sexy next month. I laughed hard enough to scare her. And yes, I actually said, “What the f*ck is wrong with you, woman?” Some people’s children, I tell you.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ WTF?

“Glamour Puss”, by Shelle Kennedy
(I just love the expressions on their faces)