Ugly Is Manmade

Society takes her tea with a pinch of blood, tears and unnecessary hurt. She sits in my kitchen expecting libations squeezed from flesh and spirit her goons label unworthy—too fat, too different, not tall enough, too old, too woke, too human, too unlike her hand-twisted puppets.

ugly is manmade,
the filthiest of constructs,
a poison that rots

Society’s tea cup is overflowing with teeth and broken expectations. My kicking boot is scuffed.
.

the wee notes…
– This is not the first poem I wrote for this year’s Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month. When I first thought of the topic, I intended to Protest and be Outraged about healthcare and similar issues. I even wrote the poems (I’ll share them, eventually). But yesterday, someone close to my heart told me that she felt fat, and uncomfortable with her looks. She is a beautiful woman and a brilliant soul… Her pain leaves me wanting to kick society’s ideas of beauty in the freaking jaw.
– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry, 350.


This is a closeup of a painting by Shelle Kennedy;

to see the original piece, in full color, visit Shelle’s blog.

We Aren’t Dead

Have you ever wondered what writers like Poe, Eliot, Brontë, Stoker, Plath… would sound like on Twitter? What would they tweet about? And, if you could, what would you reply to their tweets? Well, I’ve wondered. And, as you might expect, I poetized.

.
I saw crows
pecking at soulless
body piles…
dead people afire,
humanity-stripped.

Body piles,
you said? What of teeth
and ravens?
My quill’s in dire need
of something to bleed.

Look deeper,
dear sirs, see us twitch—
we aren’t dead.
True humans will kick
‘til all tongues are freed.
.

a wee note…
– The 1st stanza of this poem is a tweet from T.S. Eliot. The 2nd stanza is Edgar Alan Poe’s reply to Eliot’s tweet. And, since I refuse to stay out of any conversation that involves teeth and fire, the 3rd stanza is my reply to Eliot and Poe. If you wish to play, visit the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and see what you need to do to Twitter Me a Gothic Poem.
– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry, 348.

image borrowed from @Edgar_Allan_Poe

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