Renaissance

If I ever had writer’s block you would see me dead

at some corner in a bar with your typical

bottle of Jack and burnt notebooks. I swear

if  I lost the ability to think through poetry

and write about my ripped up demons,

my past haunts, my future encounters,

then I would be dead inside for sure.

I can barely breathe now with how

real life sucks up my soul in conference

meetings, evaluation of employees,

frustrated children, parents who

neglect, my faults piling up

as I see how awful I could be

when confronted with life,

car crashes, headaches, aging,

poems pouring out like coffee

from a pot.

I took a class at Concordia

called The Renaissance

the History professor

proved that all these statues

had a story, all these white perfect

Roman gods had the same life

as the Greeks, changed a name

deleted a column, added an arc

and revived humanity.

If only I could do the same with poetry

make it my battle

rebirth

to the art that few protect.

Grab your pen

paper

raw words

and create

a new renaissance.

What else is there to do

except your nails? or your hair?

or your membership at the gym

needs renewal,

don’t forget to post pictures

of you and hubby at so-so restaurant

yes, I’ll be over here,

writing poems

and showing you my heartache.

You never knew I could write.

I know.

You thought I was just another wife,

but you saw it in my eyes.

You told me that once

I remember everything.

 

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Full Bloom

Crumpled up two pages

a rarity in my hands

most times I do not come up for air

as long as it takes a song

to start and end

as long as I make this pen bend

to my right and wrong.

I can detox my body

add ginger to my green tea

bring back my mind

with Rumi, silence and obscure poets I find.

I can revive my soul

writing until my notebooks are full

and the cardboard back cover will do

any blank space filled through and through

page after page of nonsense, raging like a bull

(you can come in and out of my room

I won’t see you, I’m in full bloom)

creating an inner world

with hotel rooms on fire

sex acts, food, conversation, attire

vivid characters’ desire

as she spreads her legs

feeds her need

with his vibrant seed.

I know the joke’s on me

of how could she write

such pornography?

Erotica from the Greek eros, I recount

and my real name

my real picture

forget it, it’s a bloody game

deconstruct me

the nature of literature

serendipity

carpe diem

in vino veritas

deux ex machina

professors’ voices reminding me

of tragedies, endings, motivations

mere words

to stop the critics, the academia, the vultures

the turds

you know who you are

and you might think you’re a star

but no one here gets out alive

and if you haven’t heard Jim say

it then get back to the past

listen without judging

take that fucking dive. 

Tell him a tale

wipe a tear

off I sail

do not leave any tracks

hard to tell the lies from the facts.

All I know is that I’m in full bloom.