Fleecy flannel feeties, Warm, lightweight, cheap, Kmart $3.99. Primary red, blue, yellow. Soft hand-me-downs, washed in Dreft and Downy. Hanging by the wooden pins, by the white plastic toes, swaying in the North Carolina wind. Zip up zip down, carefully, Lesson learned once. You, too tall but not too wide, so I cut the feet off for you, then they fit again. Big brother then small, Same ones shared at different times, until one day. No more feetie pajamas swaying in the wind, or tumbling in the washer, or sticking out of the top drawer, or in the cart at the non-existent Kmart. One day, gone. No warning or thought. Just gone, in the dump on Ramsey Road in Jacksonville, or the white trash bag for the Good Will, or the box in the attic that the rats got to. Gone. RIP feetie pajamas.
This poem may be disturbing to some, whether or not they’ve seen war or have suffered the effects, either directly or indirectly, of Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Some of the language and wording in this poem has become less than polite or proper through the years due to our glorious evolution of language, but the sentiment remains the same.Continue reading “Wilfred Owen. Day 171.”
Baylee is studying the late 1800’s in history, and because his workload this new semester is quite giant, I’ve opted to not introduce a novel and do some poetry instead.Continue reading “Miss Emily. Day 156.”
There is no cure
for deadline stress
like Munchos and Crush.
On my way home. A general buck.
I wrote this poem on a plane a few years ago when I was flying to North Carolina from Massachusetts to visit Tyler. I compare the two states, the two places I love. They both tear me apart with their memories and people. I revised this poem a little to post today which is actually tomorrow because I am writing this on Wednesday.
“Today” I will be or I am in Washington, D.C. celebrating Veterans Day with many special folks and Baylee. My deep breaths are going to get me through, and many tissues, I am sure.Continue reading “CLNC Revision. Day 65.”
Poetry is my favorite writing form. Maybe it’s because the first time a publisher ever said yes was for one of my poems put into a copy of Hypertrophic Literary Press called “Dear Annie, I Kissed Another Man.” Also, poetry is therapy because a writer may choose to rhyme or not, and it is a free and freeing way of writing. Some are intimidated by poetry, understandably so, but it is not as complicated as most believe. Lyrics are poetry and most of us sing along to them. Greeting cards, nursery rhymes, and even silly limericks are poetry. I suppose it doesn’t matter why I love it, but that I just do.Continue reading “Will Pay With Eggs. Day 59.”
Continue reading “Purple. Day 46.”
Revision in writing is what offers color to a piece, no matter the genre. I am forever editing and revising old works, and today have decided to paint a poem I wrote for a chapbook I put together a year ago, and the color I used is grape.