peel back her stages
and souse your lion's tail
in the futurity of her
imbued motherlands.
...sparkle in her growth.
peel back her stages and souse your lion's tail in the futurity of her imbued motherlands. my mind bears the imprint
his false heart's history. no kiss or holy war of tears can make him disappear. i live with his denial through hidden tequila bottles and numb nights, but i don't know how to bear witness to my heart puckered and scattered across Southern Brooklyn and his lies flyblown to the steps of my Queens home. street light facts #86
illusion's hiding in the litter boxes of alley cats and winos. Another McKibbens exercise, an erasure poem (Prompt #27)
Hello Write Queen Readers!
I am so sorry that I am three days behind with my poems. I've been busy. Exciting new things are happening. For instance, I am starting a food blog with my buddy Elizabeth Ramanand of What The Liz. When we go out, we often discover super yummy food. During the last couple of food adventures, I have been claiming that all of the delicious things going into my mouth has been like having sex in my mouth. Let's face it, sometimes having food can be better than sex. You experience a crazy euphoria in your mouth and you feel like you have reached your peak. So after saying, "OMG Sex in my mouth" after a few discoveries, I felt like it would a great idea to blog about these awesome discoveries and so did Liz. So I set up a blog called "Sex In Your Mouth" on WordPress and now we have a blog. Go and check out the first post by clicking the logo below (which reminds me that The Write Queen needs a logo): Pwoermds are one word poems, using the combination of two or more words. This kind of experimental, minimalist poetry can be done whatever way you interpret it. This is what I did.
ecstatic + war = wecastaticr lovely + poverty = ploverlty miraculous + cruelty = miracruelousty miserable + optimism = misoptimerableism shameful + miracle = mirashamecleful penis + vagina = pevaniginas disgusting + honesty = hodisgustnestingty sunny + destruction = sundestrunctiony miserable + harmony = harmiserambleony hello + world = whelolorld Pwoermds were first done by Geof Huth who runs InterNaPwoWriMo (International Pwoermds Writing Month). That's right, a pwoermd a day. You can keep track of it on this website (http://napwowrimo.blogspot.com/). my heart is a co-
conut he cracks open for the juice. he leaves the meat to harden in its shell, said this part is not enough. * Another prompt from Rachel McKibbens. First attempt. I love this exercise and want to come back to it when I can get my mind to work again. (Prompt #29):
Are you my fairytale movie ending? Have you thought about our lips touching? What would be the name of our love? What does it mean when you hold me close? Have you thought about our lips touching? Why am I not good enough? What does it mean when you hold me close? Where were you when dreams were being handed out to come true? Why am I not good enough? What would be the name of our love? Where were you when dreams were being handed out to come true? Are you my fairytale movie ending? The cinquain I wrote today:
love is scented markers scribbled on backs of hands and you don't keep going back for the scent. This is from an exercise I did when I went to a free class at Gotham Writers' Workshop this evening: Love goes to the bathroom ...and she's a squatter. She grand-pliés over the seat hoping she doesn't leave it wet, like her counterpart Heartbreak who also always leaves the seat up. * Sort of a poem, but definitely a feeling.
When I eat pineapples, I think of the sadness of my grandmother's children. The first time I slipped a chunk in my mouth, the mother of my father cooked ham, another first for me. I was nine, on vacation alone with my dad, staying at my grandmother's, sleeping with her in her bed. I remember lying ridged next to her, making sure we did not touch. I was scared that I would squish her, already taller than her by nine. I knew she tried her best during that trip. My only other vivid memories of her before that were at the age of four and surprisingly ages three and two. My grandparents moved to Florida when I was about four, the only time I rode on a train that wasn't a dirty New York City Subway. I know that I must have seen her sometime between the ages of four and nine, but I was homesick for a mother back home with the same name while wondering how a father, who was traveling right next to me, knew nothing about me. I knew her cooking the ham was her way of trying to make me comfortable, of getting me to eat. I do not like most fruits and veggies, but I did fall in love with that ham soaked in pineapple juice. I wonder if she would be happy to know that I've been searching for someone who knew how to make the perfect ham. There's been close imitations, but that's all they were. Nothing can replace the warmth of her hands serving that pink glob of goodness. Or knowing that at least she was beside me at night, no matter how silent I was during that trip. Those were the last of the memories. I can't even remember if I saw her once after in New York. All I remember is her voice over the phone, especially after her stroke. It was like listening to myself at three or four before she moved, in a basement apartment in East New York, Brooklyn. "How are you? I miss you. I love you." I know my parents must have taught me how to say that to her when I was little. Now that's all she was able to say to me after I said them to her over 10 years later. These last memories we had of each other, imagining faces we once knew, but certainly have changed over a phone line were now only capable of time morphs thanks to the cruelty of the human body. She cried every time she heard my voice. I did the same. I think we both knew that we would never get to see each other again. "How are you? I miss you. I love you." and salty tears on the rim of the phone were our relationship until she was gone. I don't even know what her grave looks like. All I know is that when I taste pineapples, I think of the sadness of my grandmother's children. If I, who barely knew her, could cry every time I taste a pineapple, I could only imagine how often they cry. |
Christina D. RodriguezA Latinx poet and entrepreneur who blogs about poetry, music, writing, and life. Archives
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