Poetry Speaking

•April 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment


I wrote this two years ago near the beginning of the public sharing of my poetry. It still speaks to me. Happy Poetry Month.

Originally posted on sometimesihatemycat:

Look at me

Read my words

Fold me up

Place me

In your back pocket

Or your shirt


To your vital organs

Or crumple me

Throw me

In the trash bin

Either way

I will still be here

Giving you words

Of (dis)comfort, strength

Waiting for you

To notice

Something valuable

To you

From me

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•April 22, 2014 • 4 Comments

There are captains and pilots imperfect
There are creations and vessels unsound
There is not a God choosing this one or that
Or which horse to unhinge on what round

There is chaos and change all around us
There is a timepiece inside ticking fast
There are no honest methods to hold to it all
Only handfuls of now slipping past

There are spectacles sliding down noses
There are fittings quite fashioned too small
There are always malfunctions inside mechanisms
Our essential ambitions can barely forestall


 Steampunk Carousel Sideshow by Taneshi on deviantART.com


Nap Noir

•April 20, 2014 • Leave a Comment

I cuddle closely when I nap
A thing I cannot do at night
Daylight provides me cover
When in darkness I find flight



Bats by Leah Solnier

Inspired by an Easter crash and cuddle.

The Rabbit

•April 20, 2014 • Leave a Comment


Happy Easter, Happy Spring, Happy Poetry Month! This was my first posted poem two years ago…she is making an appearance again for Easter.

Originally posted on sometimesihatemycat:

Quiet, soft, unassuming

 Barely a noticeable twitch

Give her long enough

 She will harbor sickness

Take a bite out of your best laid plans

She sits frozen as you approach

Empty eyes of endless inky night

Not even she is aware of when she will bolt

Her space, the stuff of legends and fairy tales

Buried unseen under your feet

Waiting to break an ankle

Or turn your world on its head

–April Resnick


Not So White Rabbit by Grace Slick

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Haiku & Me

•April 17, 2014 • Leave a Comment

We want a cure for

Ourselves but to sling it swift

At each other, shame



Shame by Osobandido

Wading Through (again)

•April 17, 2014 • 4 Comments

I will not censor part of me,
Which begs to be expressed,
Because it shatters the illusion,
And reveals the human mess.

There is no way around it,
Only the wading through,
Up to my neck in all of it,
Is all I know to do.

Perhaps I’ll sit a moment,
Just be with the stink and then,
Investigate bacteria,
‘Till I get up and move again.

I see all of you around me,
Also trying to make sense,
I can’t look away and decorate,
Or try to cover up the stench.

I do not mind the stopping still,
To have a look around,
Being with the shit that bubbles up,
Is the only way I’ve found.

To engage this life and all of it,
As it presents itself to me,
I’ll just use it as fertilizer,
Composting crap creatively.









Woman at Mud Volcano 2 by Natasha Prosenc


Because sometimes people wonder why I write about “certain things” that perhaps they think should stay private. My answer, because it happened, because it comes up, because it is part of life, because staying silent about any of it simply causes isolation. Isolation for myself and for others who have a similar experience.  I have been silent at the wrong times, about the wrong things, for too long. Silence for me will stay “on the cushion” and that is it.

This is Where

•April 16, 2014 • 2 Comments

In the Louisiana night
Playing on a splintered gate
Another predator by my side
A heavy paw he placed

This is where
The cricket song and heavy air
Rallied the chirp and weight
In my gut
This is where
I found my voice
Carried over the chorus
Of evening bugs
This is where
The “no” that was not heard
Years before left me loud
This is where
The little me got bigger
Echoed “not again” and found me
This is where
I looked away from ponies
And willful stared into a monster’s face
Called his bluff
This is where
I put my childhood out to pasture
Beneath a southern summer sky
Grew up

Pushing off that splintered gate
My feet firm on Cajun ground
I walked away with my own brave
Too young, “I am a fighter now.”














Broken Gate by Dave Sandt


Inspired by the #ThisIsWhere project mentioned on NPR.  This is the place, picture, memory, that came to me and would not leave. So I wrote it down.


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