A Threefer*


Poetry Month, Poem A Day, Nos. 13, 14, 15


Noisy old girl
with your songs sitting
in a rocking chair
on a starry night
on a branch jabbering
like an old girlfriend
carrying on
and on in conversations
nobody really listens
to you
maybe the moon
or me
staying up
past my bedtime
nose deep in words
or my own business
a sleepless fool
with tears in my eyes
remembering that pain
I knew it
it grows distant
but never far away.

My Life is Just a Country Love Song

My life is just a country love song
played with a twang and a steel guitar
screechin’ tires and starless nights
slammin’ doors and broken hearts

My life rules that smudged juke box
in a dank and dusty red-carpeted bar
drunk old men and lonely girls
wonderin’ why’s it got to be so hard

My life’s become a country classic
full of ‘my man done left me’ blues
maybe you’ll hear it on the radio
all this heartache I’m going through

My life landed fast on the key of C
I’m singing alone, he’s not listening to me
they’re making out in our smoke-filled van
my song’s playing loud, she’s got my man

Ten Days with Bronchitis

Woman of wood stoves and Sunday morning scones.
Woman of chatter on the frozen foods aisle.
Woman of the red kitchen and fog and song.
Woman of the seasons, the trails, the keyboard.
Woman of white hair and silver eyes.
Woman alone wondering
What the fuck.

Did you think I was on vacation?

Note to self:
When down and sweaty, out with fever, out of it,
somewhat lonely, and definitely viral,
Do not talk to ex-husband.

Minimal. Minimal. Minimal.
I feel like a dust mite,
tiny and little.

Break up or body break
down, it’s all betrayal.
Love frustrates immeasurably.
More complicated than clean.

A harrowing kind of snow day.
Left my car down the road.
Out of this crazy place.
Moon-cicles in my window.
The blather of blizzard.
Noisy drips on my entryway.
Frozen points waiting.
Sunshine is so messy.

Dancing right through the ice.
Dangling from the gutter.
A wind chill to blow us all away.
The cold made me so tired.

Turn pain into poetry.
Turn sour men around.
Turned yogurt contaminates.
Turn yogurt man into sour poetry.

Go on a road trip.
Fun little niche.
Off to New Mexico.
An occasional kiss.

The dreaded dark words.
Wouldn’t let himself have me.
Won’t miss the wonder.
Oh, February.

*You would think that as a person who calls herself a poet I would be able to at least draft a poem a day during April, national poetry month, or any month for that matter, and share it with my readership (love all 32 of you).

As a novelist, I should be able to write a novel for NaNoWriMo (national write a novel month). Right?

Well, I have attempted the former successfully, several times, I will say that, before this year when I committed to share the like online.

I have done the latter twice, and not yet committed—but such commitment could be forthcoming—to publish my novels on pocketpoet.net.

Part of the reason for this blog is to get my bum out of blather mode, out of the romantic notion of independent woman writing alone by sunrise each morning, out of ‘someday’ and into Today!

Well, I’m batting 12 for 15 in the poem-a-day promise, and I cheated on one of those posts, assigning more days than deserved, but it was a good poem! And I’m cheating again. Here we go.

Today I give you a ‘threefer’– three poems for the price of one (free!). And inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt: song.

Surely I could scroll through my poem inventory and dig up a poem or three that contain the word ‘song’, dust them off a bit, polish them up, and share them with you, dear reader, whomever you are. And thank you.


Wonderful photo depiction of the romance of writing . . . . by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

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