Young Writers Society

April 1

we don't do much dancing here on holidays.
we sit politely and eat and eat and eat
but i've never seen anyone dancing for joy.

the only dances i have seen are low and heavy,
hips rotating to pull other hips into orbit,
movements too familiar, lacking emotion,
abundant in lust.

April 2

the morning after the thunderstorm
the world is electric green--

the dogwoods have buds like baby fingertips
and the dirt exudes a spicy aroma.

the dog is on the porch, scratches at the door
whining, and the cat sits like a loaf, impassive;

but you are warm and breathe gently
like ocean waves-- it is a good day to stay
at the beach.

mags! I love the images in the first one—so pretty! And heavy. XD And the second one makes me think of early morning skies and the calm after a storm (which echoes that before a storm?); and I like the lighthearted way with which you end this~

April 3

like shadows at noon creep underneath
you stealth your way downstairs
and find the aftermath of dripping love lost:

a mountain of wine bottles with your flag on top
marks it as yours, a shameful claim
but honest, at least

the floor turned to paper tissue thin
shopping bags; you tried to buy your love, yes
you got the seeds but never planted them

last night you stormed screaming,
a whirlwind of fire and hair,
goddess of wrath
but bleeding wounded untreated
(the strange looping sound of buzzards
as they circle you circle you circle you)

April 10.1

I have always carried winter in my lower spine;
it crackles like crust on Christmas day
and it hurts the most when I am moving.
Winter is a still thing.

Spring lives on my cheekbones,
the hue of blossoming buds
and the lift like warm air when I grin.

Summer is fleeting, a gasp
that draws in beach breezes--
vanilla ice cream, melted already.

I carry dark autumn in my hair.
It flies like orange leaves
and falls down to winter.

April 10.2

Lavender is the color of loneliness.
Wistfully it envelops like the finest silk
I have never wanted to touch.

April 10.3

"At least it's sunny," she says.

Today, though, my mood would be matched
by the misty gloominess we had all week.

Today is too bright, a celebration of spring
in jeweled pinks and blossoming whites
so like the laundry drying in the neighbor's yard.

I am a hulking storm cloud
ready to block out the sun.

April 10.4

Black cat spills water
Sadistically on keyboard.
Finding new laptop.

April 10.5

Under my fingernails
I find dried blood.

It is strange to find evidence of wounds
in such a mundane place
when nothing different has happened.

April 11.1

He prefers gray denim to blue jeans
(gray denim doesn't remind him of star littered blue fields and the bloody stripes on his knees when he rode his bike down the ravine to shoot off fireworks at passing trains soon after independence day when he was nine)
(gray denim jeans are not slacks, not yet marking him a slave to a collective dream)
His father wore blue jean overalls
(he wore no shirt under them and did not work on a farm but sat and stewed in his own sweltering with domestic beer in front of the television)
(let Budweiser drip down his chin into the curly thicket of his chest)
He prefers gray denim to blue jeans
("Let me be a city boy, " he prays)
(he drinks vodka sprites in a high rise somewhere)

April 11.2

Unraveling sheep send dreams
of bears ruining weddings.
I consulted the internet and it means
I am unhappy?

It is not true.

My future has been told so many times
that the palmist has to peel back a layer of calluses
to stare at me, raw.

And all the futures echo in the back of my mind
Aquarius drips suggestions down the back of my neck
A two of cups turns up
but

It is not true.

Alarm clocks blare and finally
I am awake and moving towards my future,
not lost in prophecy.

I am the only thing that's true.

April 11.3

Ginger ale pops, hops
Clip clops up my nose like flip flops.
I suppose it shows how close
I held my nose to the pop.
And then it dropped!

April 12

He ate two pot pies before dinner
and at supper ate three helpings of pork ribs
and an entire plate of steamed broccoli.
Afterwards he crunches down a pound of runts
and chugs a sprite.

But the boy will get no fatter
no matter what he does.
He's a beanpole, a long tall drink,
so thin I see his bones.
His metabolism worries me
but all I can think to do
is encourage him to stuff himself
or he'll waste away to air.

April 13

There once was a girl from Peru
who dreamed of saying "I do"
she went to her boy
and jumped for joy
when he confessed, "me too."

April 14

everything is fine.

everything is fine.

everything. is. fine.

something is swirling in the pit of my stomach
a vortex of dirt gray rags

i swallowed them
and allowed them to stay

i want to vomit but i can't
or i'll choke.

everything is fine.

everything is fine.

everything. is. fine.