(24) Talking to Men

Woman,
get your eyes up off the floor.
Staring at your shoes isn't cute anymore-- 
in fact, it's attractive to men
who are looking for girls 
who don't believe they can change the world
or anything.

Woman,
you gotta stop shying away from every conversation
like it's setting the stage for questions of destiny,
cause if he's asking about compatibility before you even get two words in,
you do not owe him an answer.

And woman,
he doesn't owe you one, either
he is a living-breathing-brother-being,
not an exclamation sent
to counter-point your question mark

Woman,

quit looking in his eyes

like you're trying to find your own definition

like you don't actually know who you are

or where to run when you forget

Woman,

you gotta own that title

you are not a girl, a chick, a baby-doll,

you are strong as the long line of warriors that bore you

But woman,
Don't be too invulnerable in boldness,
cause this is not some high-stakes card game,
and if you play it like it is,
you must remember
that the upper hand will always be unheld 
and unholding.

(23) I Quit Poetry For Good Today

I burned the notebooks and the fancy pens
and took down all the cyber-posts,
 resigned from all the social groups,
and canceled my subscriptions
to digital daily doses
and three literary magazines,
--and filled the feedback fields
with rants against their efficacy.
I did a small self-inventory
 and found the places in the corners of my brain
where poetry was hiding,
 pulled it from its niches,
gave it over to the fire.
The poems did not scream,
but sighed
as they became gray ghosts of memories.
But some sat quiet, resolute,
inside the red skin of my heart
and though it hurt, I had no choice--
I left the wreck-rod in the flames,
then pressed it to my flesh
til each tattoo was cauterized.
And the silence that arose
to fill the space the words had left
began to beat against the rhythm
of my smoking, scarring-over heart,
and declared itself
poetic.

(22) Apocalypse II

the world

has fallen

apart

and you are lying in the wreckage

you are gazing up past

broken teeth and jutting bones

of bashed-in homes

that don't remember

whose they were

you are breathless on your back

as cracks of fragment sky

decline your definitions

technicolor clouds are sprouting

flaming

aging gray

threatening to wash your dusted face

in blister-and-mutation rain

yet your mind has settled silent

in the dust of every thought

except

they are so beautiful

(21) For My Sister on her 23rd Birthday

Because we rest inside the tension
      of weighty pain and buoyant hope,
because we're only floating
      on the surface of this life,
and because we're learning to harness
      all the wind that tries to blow us over,
we are, for the purpose of this poem,
      two boats.

And maybe we're in different oceans,
but that doesn't mean I don't know what it's like
to look at all your loved ones on the shoreline
and know you can't go back for them,
to know we can't go back to the bay
that used to hold us as we played,
where grown-up in swim trunks would splash
at safe but permissive distances
and laugh as I'd do anything you said,
cause you were my captain.

But we came into our own--
to each, her own boat,
her own sails,
carving her own trails through water
that never promised to be easy
but smooth sailing never made a skilful sailor,
like they say.
A good ship-mate is hard to find these days,
but don't forget you're sturdy as your mother,
free-wheeling as your father,
far-flung as your crazy little sister,
and smart as the sharpest captain I've met.
And you may not know where you're going,
but you'll make it.

(20) The Fledgeling flight of the Upstart Crow

(thoughts of graduation, reflecting on the college experience with heavenly (?) discontent)

Two weeks from the end
that everyone keeps saying is in sight,
and I'm not done yet.
Poured three years into this diploma,
but I've been thinking that it wasn't what we'd thought--
maybe college taught us that progress is relative,
or relatively meaningless,
that if we could just get a grip
on the fine art of flying
by the seat of of our washed-out jeans,
we would arrive,
that good enough would be good enough...
but what if it's not good enough?
What if our self-satisfaction has dragged us off track?
What if our lazy mid-week thoughts
are how we lost the opportunity
to stretch ourselves,
shake the dust out of our heads
and make them better places to live?
Maybe there is too much giving in
and not enough living in a moment that could grow us;
maybe we foretold our future when we said we'd make it,
but I don't want to "make it,"
cause my popsicle-stick constructions don't keep anyone safe
and my dilapidated battlements
do nothing to patch the cracks in my self-satisfaction.
I'm not after pats on the back
or awards on the wall
or excuses to stop moving,
and in a culture of accomplishments,
of measuring my height against imaginary averages,
I don't want to rise above the average.
I want the average to rise til I can't reach it.
I want higher standards,
kingdom answers to the question of who we're meant to be,
cause perfect rest in God will leave us restless
when we seek perfection anywhere else--
and he's
not done
with me.

(19) Paradoxial Postcards from Slumber Parties on Neptune: The Margaret Landon 21st Birthday Mashup

Paradoxical Postcards from Slumber Parties on Neptune:
The Margaret Langdon  21st Birthday Mash-Up
(For THAT friend)

Words by
Lucille Clifton
Propaganda
Shane Koyczan
Fun.
Owl City
Imagine Dragons
Eminem
Eboni
Michael Lee
Phil Kaye and Sarah Kay
Elizabeth Rhea

Girl,

you a wonder

you a city

of a woman

I don't know why I still try to wrap my mind around you

there is nothing basic about you

but I am beginning to see you for all that you are

Deep inside of you there's a ruby glow
And it gets brighter

and the wildfire inside (of) you inspires

but you are so much more than sparkle

(you) speak with Heaven's accent,

you move mountains with your words

and light up universes

(and) I want to be the one to put it in a song

(No), I can't sing, but
I feel like singin'

(cause you are) the single vibrant item in the black and white photo

Of the abundance of the heart, how few still speak

but you still dance with spirit

(you know that) our lives will always ever continue to be a balancing act

that has less to do with evanjellyfish churchianity

(and more about knowing) we should live until we die

(and we are) gonna live forever

(you who) dare to love this world not in the fake and shaking way it loves itself

but with the unrelenting love of its creator

Seeker of visions

You know lower standards will lower the culture

mighty yet meek, (you) raise the banner

your voice is small

but don't ever stop singing

sometimes (you) even sing when (you) speak

you may not be brazen, but you do not hear yourself as others hear you

Girl, you were born turning plowshares into swords

Don't hold back

(cause)

in the midst of the twist and turns and scars and burns

(you are) strong enough

to get down on (your) knees

and pick up the pieces of the heart (they) tried to break

(Yes,) This life will hit you

hard

in the face

Snap (you) back to reality, Oh

All this gravity will try to pull you down
But not this time

(you) won't give up that

Easy, no

you will put the star
in starting over
The path to heaven runs through miles of clouded hell
(so) don't you ever apologize
for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining
And illuminate a world that'll try to bring you down

But not this time

(you are) a tree whose roots are strong and deep
and bear (you) up and keep (you) firm
through every storm that tries to shake (you)
you never quit in all your life

(but)no matter how wide you stretch your fingers
your hands will always be too small
to catch all the pain you want to heal

(there's times your) insecurities (might try to) eat (you) alive

(and maybe you) grew up believing that (you'd) never meet someone who'd make (you) feel like the sun was something (he) made for (you) in (his) tool shed

But I have seen the best of you, and the worst of you, and I choose both.
(and) if you can't see anything beautiful (inside you)
I want to be the mirror that reminds you to love yourself.
Or reminds you of your oceans while you're crying them
(that) boulder on (your) shoulder
gets heavy and harder to hold
(but) heavy wings grow lighter;
It's just a matter of time before we learn how to fly
I don't ever want to let you down
(cause) What are the odds of finding someone
who knows not to just to lend a hand or an ear
when you need them to give you their spine
(you are) that friend who's not scared to say when (I'm) acting stupid
Though poles apart in politics
me and you be sisters.
that's why... we've got to walk together
It didn't start with us
It started with Winnie-the-Pooh and Christopher Robin.
Bert and Ernie!
Abbott and Costello!
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!

Watson and Sherlock!

Pikachu and Charizard! And they could tell you what a miracle this is.

I don't need to be reminded that change is gonna come
This picnic will soon depart
But I swear I won't forget you
When I call you up so we can shoot the moon
we could stay and talk until three
(and) when you are old and can no longer remember my face
I will meet you for the first time again and again
(but) I think I'm ready to be here and now
(we) better capture this moment and hope it don't pass (too fast)
'Cause this is the future and (we) are alive
It's time to begin, Isn't it?

#17 and #18

(17) Care Fell into the Water

For us it was
the bridge of
The Three Billy Goats,
Winnie the Pooh,
and Terabithia,
all bound up in a few planks of wood
that kept the feet of passers-by
from getting wet
in the little stream between our houses.
Some days we ran through it anyway,
but most days
we picked up sticks together,
both let go and dropped them in,
watched as they emerged on the other side,
or lost them.
Once we held on to each other's hands
just a second too long
after the twig dropped
and forgot to watch for it.

(title/inspiration from a sign written in poor English. Think 'engrish.com'. The phrase just really intrigued me, though, in a non-comical way. Still needs re-vamping.)


(18) A Poem in the Oven

Somewhere in the back of the house
a frail voice calls,
“Careful, dear,
the last one was undercooked!”

(It's fun to see little series(es?) develop throughout the month. I want to put this one with 'apocalypse' and a few other short witty ones.)

Spoken Words

Five poems that blow my mind & inspire me in my journey.

"The Crickets Have Arthritis" by Shane Koyczan
My sister sent this to me after she heard a few of my poems. This is the one that I make people sit down and watch.



"How to be Alone" by Tanya Davis
The first one I ever heard. Still put it on from time to time.



"Kaleidoscope" by Levi the Poet
Probably the most intense one I've heard; watch out, it'll get to you!


"That Girl" by Eboni Camille
Pretty much my life story. By a friend of a friend.



"Sexy" by Michael Lee w/Kenny Foster
A good friend wrote the poem, and another good friend supplies the musical accompaniment.

Words Move Worlds: Performance & Album Release

After reading the writings of seven people who refused to accept injustice and played significant roles in victories against it, Elizabeth Rhea wrote poems in their voices, echoing their passions and their ways of articulating them. She is proud to perform all seven poems, and to be joined by guest poets Michael Lee, Kristen Maxwell, and Gianna Kozel, who have contributed poems to a section called "Words Still Move Worlds". She will also perform "Mijo", a poem about her experience with two children in Ecuador. The CD will be made available at a $10 suggested donation to her return trip to Ecuador, where she hopes to find the twins again this Summer. 

(15) How We Fell

30/30 Poem-A-Day Challenge: Update

It was not
the seasoned ballerina's
delicate and choreographed
conversation with gravity

It was not
the head-high knee-drop
of the soldier who keeps
walking toward the bullets

It was not
the thrill-seeker's
rapturous rendevoux
with empty air

It was
the sudden clawing
wide-eyed slipping
of the child who knew
the branches were too thin
who heard father calling
saw how small he'd grown below
and just
kept
climbing.

Biking Through Irvine

(14) Biking through Irvine

Between the bike rack at my apartment
and the front door of my students' home
there are six bridges
two each over roads,
freeways,
and streams,
and one place in the path
that arches excessively over
a railway track,
upon which a train whisks park-and-ride passengers
between San Diego and Los Angeles,
fathers that take jobs there while the kids stay safe behind.

Mothers shake their unseen baby-weight
by jogging with the latest model baby buggies,
and later let their triking toddlers set the pace,
and later still tote yoga mats through strip mall parking lots
while the kiddos thrive at high-performing schools.

On parent-teacher day,
half the children act as translators
for teachers that have generally no complaints.
Kids turn in their solid-colored extracurricular team jerseys
and go home to grandmothers they don't understand,
cooking food that no longer smells pleasant to them.

From an early age they take in small and manicured doses of nature.
They do not know enough to ask if the lakes are manmade.
They see how grass unfolds itself
in two-dimensional, crayola-colored planes,
watch as diverse forms of wildlife-- mainly squirrels and rabbits--
grow adorably fat on the seeds of non-native species.

It is a safely in-between place,
distant from both extremes
of the income spectrum,
of urban bustle and agrarian stagnation,
of exotic roots and American pop culture.

I pass tract and dis-tract homes,
apartments that could likely pay for mortgage
in another place,
imagine myself living
anywhere else
and grow restless
just in knowing
that I am
so very
safe.

Embracing Fridge Magnets as a Catalyst for Poetry





Shadow Danger







The Clear Choice Tree











Flowers and Outer Space

These were written last semester. "Sassy" And "Mars Landing" will soon appear in Concordia University's literary magazine, the Aerie. Enjoy!


Sassy

Sassyflower, you are bold.

You throw your head into the air,
No remorse for all your orangeness.
Growing by the road among the simpletons,
The undercut, unconfident, the pistil-lacking flowers--
You blast the tune that they but murmur.
I doubt you knew what you were asking:
The ecstasy of being chosen,
the deadly fate of being picked.

DreamBlossom

 

Hosted by the homeliest of earth-shrubs,
small in volume,
loud to look at,
red as fresh-cut life,
your green nodes channel fluxuations in the aether.
Too great and strange for this great realm--
a cosmic hiccup must've brought you here.
So tell me of the other worlds;
bring me signs of better life.

 

Mars Landing

The irrefutable pull
of this former fleck of light,
this ancient god,
this brother-world,
makes evident
the insignificance
of my own
small
gravity.


The acid contours of this place
stretch to form horizon,
redder than the first light of creation,
redder than the blood in the veins
of the life they hoped to find here.


All is silence
save the violent flutter
of descent--
no familiar air to tear me to pieces,
only acrid vapors
that would rust me the color of this place,
were I of weaker composition.


Light and dark divide themselves upon the surface:
rocks appear,
and rivulets;
no tracks of those who came before--
no one came before.


Mountains rise--
Engines fire--
Metal braces--
Impact.

Days 11-13

National Poetry Month  30/30 challenge update-- (first drafts of) the three newest poems.


(11) Hush.


What we on Earth have named as silence
is the gentle hum of refrigerators
and laptop battery packs,
the subtle settling of houses at night
the traction of tires of passing traffic
the rustling of nocturnals in the underbrush
the padding repetition of the cat-bath
inhale whisking its way through cilia and nose-hairs
exhale eking through bronchial ribs
and blood pushing into crooked arteries
blood scrubbing itself in and out of capillary crevices
blood slipping insistently under eardrums
Though we whisper-shout within ourselves
the lie that we have found it,
It sits safely out of focus,
out of reach of stringent search,
among pure motives
and satisfaction,
and there it will remain.
The most beautiful music in Heaven
is silence.




(12) A Haiku for Sunday at 1:44am


Everybody knows
haikus are for the lazy.
Some care more than me.


(13) All I Wanted


Your eyes say
you have something precious to give,
keep speaking.
They reach toward me
like cupped hands,
eager but unimposing.
I reach into the pockets of my mind
and find
social lint.
My eyes say
It's all I have.
Yours smile and say
I don't believe you.

Day 10

From today's 30/30 prompt.

 

(10) Windshield Wipers

Maybe I am a broken poet

because I am not inspired
by windshield wipers
the pleasure of their gentle swish
evokes no deeper metaphors
rain is brushed aside
but not like I am brushed aside
or problems are brushed aside
or distractions
I do not trace the path of the rains
from condensation back into evaporation
off of lakes and sweating joggers
I do not write poems to the thump-screech heartbeat
or ponder the plight of drivers
who grow stiff in the precipitation
I only think of getting out
not dancing, or frolicking
just walking
watching dark spots on my shoes
head growing heavier with each drop

April is National Poetry Month

That's right-- a month of poetry! You can celebrate by reading, listening to, or writing poetry daily-- though it's always fun to try all three!

I'm taking the daily writing challenge, and will be posting them-- just remember, like NaNoWriMo, 'NaPoWriMo' is about getting ideas down and drafts started, not about creating something truly publishable daily. I'm personally not using prompts, though I might do so occasionally as the month progresses-- there are tons of 30/30 prompt lists out there! 

Here's the so-fars:

(1) I forget that I love you

I never had to say the words
you knew them
I never had to prove it

you knew I meant it

but hearts aren't always reaching up

to touch what they believe they are

and I believed that I was constant

but when I wake up to the fact

that I have let you make me think I need you

I forget that I love you

when you speak prophesies over me

and then leave as they're completing

I forget

when you ask about my passions

and look bored at the response

I forget that I love you

when your silence is a tool

that you keep sharp to keep me guessing

I forget
 

when you cower or cringe

outside my celebrations

I forget that I love you

when you dance inside delusions

and I realize I've joined you

I forget

when you are all need

and no pouring back to me

I forget that I love you

when we were never dating

but it still feels like a break-up

I forget

when you act as if my Aspergers

is a disease in need of curing
(or at least your social quarantine)

I forget that I love you

when you slide your social papercuts

along my freshly healed confidence

I forget

when you start proving all the things

I never wanted to believe about humanity

I forget that I love you

when you hide yourself in silence

so I won't see you throw yourself away

I forget

my love isn't all that righteous

it's impatient and unkind

it has fled in your time of need

it has lost hope

it doesn't know how to persevere,

and it never cast out anyone's fear

and I am sorry

I would never ask you to accept that

from anyone

but in the times when I'm trying to grab at the ends

of my words and my deeds just to keep them together

don't forget that I love you

(2) Finally! I've heard of music!
'Carved' from a newspaper article

Let me just start by saying

my usual realm

just had to be experience

the first since he's been gone

we all can sing--

the reason is not what I was expecting

we're all used to usual

there is a lot of soul

a few give off an old vibe,

while others reflect fantastic pop hits

let the groove be surprise

and receive plenty of airtime

everyone needs to become familiar

give it retro sound

I've been singing in my head nonstop

just everything has a vibe

reminiscent of swaying side to side

and snapping your fingers

experience

trust

just do it

be surprised as always

keep listening

(3) Escape to...

A.

flock to the wild

crowds in search of emptiness

all of us alone

B.

come see the mountains

birds are singing everywhere

squirrels on the road

C.

sunrise up the hill

sky stretching all around me

city is so small

(4) I quit poetry

There is too much memory
in cultivating experience
always living now, and now, and now...
my rose-colored/sky-colored/techni-colored glasses
make me cross-eyed
and I'll leave them by my bedside
to see my dreams in
but the morning is unmetered
and means nothing more than electromatic waves

(5) Apocalypse

Somewhere East of Chicago

in a badly back-lit basement laboratory,

A silver-haired scientist

wearing a long white coat and several significant initials

tells his bespectacled fledgeling assistant,

“Careful with that--”

(6) I quit poetry again today

There is no relief

from the nausea of words

except for silence

 

(7) The Only Thing You Whisper Is 'I Love You'

How sweet it seems to curse the sky

hard fists like flags of no surrender
clawing at infected roots
clearing forests to make way for tanks
and, when pushing buttons doesn't cure the need to level justice,
to use the trees as battering rams
against the doors of those that keep the weak as hostages
Snarling at the darkness that surrounds you
you will prevail--
you scream so to the thunderclouds
begging them to grace your face with bullet-rain
you invite everything which might provide a pressure
against which you can feel the thrill of resistance
It is always loney
It is always fighting against
and never
fighting
for

(8) I tried to quit poetry again today.

There is no relief

for the nausea of words,
not even silence.

(9)The world is too much with us.

The world inside your pocket,
pain flits through your fingertips
in electric agony
images and voices screaming
Nobody cares?!
Nobody cares?
Nobody... cares...?
And lamentations fade into the hum of tragedy
and all emotion is white noise
and the poems grow shorter
the arguments longer
the jokes more pervasive/persistent/perverse
the people sleepier
fitful-sleep-ier
eyelids closing tight against the onslaught
blinders to block out a memory of a time
when it was only
Wednesday
in our city
that hurt us