Infliction

At the time, I was nervous

for living,

when no one else

 

wanted to talk with my mind.

You have no free time

to sacrifice, nor do I.

 

All our time is filled up

with taking others for granted.

Yet we talk on the phone

every couple of years,

and become friends

 

over preferred lovers.

When  we were lovers,

we loved each other,

we lamented our skin

 

As old lovers do.

It never gets old. Your skin is my map

home.

Time makes clouds

of us all.

 

I have no hard feelings

over deleting you

It is merely a word. Define it.

Gone, evaporated. Hack me!

 

The moments are in hearts

reliving the kisses

and the touching

 

every spare day

I spent it all. Poor again

loveless;

Childless.

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A punch drunk poet: Book Review of Stupid Flowers by Brice Maiurro

IMG_42595 out of 5 stars.

I have to say receiving a signed copy of this book in the mail was a real treat. I loved it from the first page and the first look. I know when a poetry book will be one of my favourites or not, by the feel, look and glancing at a few poems,  I instantly knew this one would be one of them. Brice Maiurro’s debut poetry book, Stupid Flowers is a poetry book with a certain rawness to it that I could relate to.

Brice Maiurro brings in actual events, whether true or not, and combines them in every day poetry. Written in lowercase and with unusual witty titles each poem stands out for its own quirky themes. Titles such as, “Talking to God Over Shitty Coffee at Denny’s” make you smile and by the end of the poem, make you reflect on life, destiny and society as well as church. Maiurro has a way of stirring the poetry pot with the important ingredients floating on top and the mundane sinking to the bottom. In the poem “3015 Kamia” there is a section that I read over and over again.

“i’ve been taught to look at the mountains

the sky the trees the murals on the sides of buildings

but you reminded me how god hides

in the places you’d least expect to see her”

What I adore about these four lines is how poetry, the way it is supposed to be written, should not tell you what the poem is about, but should hint and leave it open-ended. First off, he compares man made art, such as murals, to the sky and in doing this he includes the concrete with the abstract, to emphasize his point of beauty and attraction is not limited to nature, as most poets feel; in essence, we see it as we drive or walk in the city. Murals are an oddity, because people do stare and love art on walls; the grandiose and mystery of it, the colours and the talent, this alongside god being a woman, is a poem that leaves you in a reflective mood.

Each poem and use of stream of consciousness leaves you to interpret this poetry book with all its implications. Poetry is ambiguous, this is what most people find hard to understand about poetry. By leaving some things unsaid, you, the reader, fill in the details, and Brice Maiurro, does an exceptional job of this. The interpretation of his poems leaves the reader to imagine what and this is what literature is all about.

There was one poem, “dear maria” which especially touched me and made me cry. Not only is my daughter’s name, coincidentally Maria, but she is also going through her own little turmoil as a teenager, and this poem was reflective of all the maria’s. I made her read it, and at sixteen, she wants to read this poetry book. It is an outstanding poem, and by far, my favourite of this whole collection.

Brice Maiurro makes up his own composition of life with these poems in Stupid Flowers. This is a debut collection of poetry by this poet out of Denver, Colarado, and I am looking forward to reading more of his work in the future.

I think this is a valuable book, in consideration of what other poetry books are out there circulating in the poetry section.  This book reflects the heart of a true poet with a talent to see the unseen.

Short Bio:
Brice Maiurro is a poet out of Denver, Colorado. Stupid Flowers marks his first full collection of poetry, published by Punch Drunk Press. His poetry has been featured by The Denver Post, Birdy Magazine and Suspect Press. His poetry blog, Flashlight City Blues, was recognized as one of the top 25 poetry blogs online by Feedspot. Brice also enjoys road tripping. His goal is to visit every National Park in the United States.

Published by Punch Drunk Press Ltd.IMG_0800

Instagram: @maiurro

Twitter: @IAmBricesTweets

 

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The Fire of my Storm

Inside my chest

is a raging child

she buckles up her seat belt

and waits for the accident

it is coming

it always does.
I remember her at six

how the piano freed her soul

and anger burned her wings

in burial grounds

where her mother met her fate.

This storm inside her at sixteen

tore apart all her friendships

these addictions to people

taught her about toxicity.

Now at thirty-four

she sleeps alone

and waits for the shores

of her youth to be

taken by the roads she missed.

She is a calm wave

waiting for her destiny

and lightening.

Live my life

I want to be me but you keep on repeating

how my world is not yours. I want to be  you

but you keep on explaining how hard

that could be, what with my wings

and my brains in the sky.

I want to be someone else

just for a day

these blues in me

keep singing.

I bust out once in awhile

and go to the hotel

and stare at the window

and wonder what happened to us.

It’s three o’clock in the morning

and you’re actually sleeping

through my existential crisis.

Again? yes, again and again

I knew you could never handle me.

Why do people who say

“I love you” want you to change

in ways that are not in your nature?

I say “I love you” and can define why.

I love the flaws and imperfections.

I see the world in an absurd way

in a theatre with the playwrights

who made it so. Ionesco weeps

with me too. We all discuss the marvels

of how hating someone

is still loving someone.

I don’t know how you came

to use sex and art as your bullets.

I caught them in my mouth and with my pen

and looked at you to see the love in your eyes

but it wasn’t there.

I still love you though.

I know I don’t deserve it.

I’m wicked now.

A human weeping willow tree,

churning poems for no money.

If only we could be rich

off of words.

If only you cared for me

more than what you claim.

Loving me is difficult I know.

I thought you would smash all the pictures

along my wall

but you only added your photo there

and now I stare at emptiness.

I embrace cupid

and this horrible frightening love.

 

GNO

Vodka, champagne

ice bucket,

free drinks on the house

because

we know the club owner. This

is his wife, we are her

privileged friends. We drink

and eat for free and pretend

we mean something

to no one.

Girls, girls, girls,

on fire, out to impress

each other with

shoes and a purse

and nothing to say.

It was q & a for me

“What do I think of a thousand dollar

pair of shoes?”

I had so much to say

and no one who cared to listen

and a few “she’s a writer”

so hence the nods

at my philosophy of designer

shoes and purse

and where is the value

in that? to look good

and panic that someone

stepped on you or spilled their

drink and the world has to stop

because they are alive.

I am ready for the exit

but first I need a few more drinks

to discuss how I prefer to spend

a thousand bucks on books

and you won’t catch me dead

in those

the only way is to buy them for

me

so I told them my stories of how

I feel when I walk

when I talk

and who knew that jealousy

is so ingrained in some souls

that they hate me first

and then such love and compliments

that fakery fuckery has arrived to visit again.

Oh, yes, who cares my phone cracked

life is beautiful, the lights are purple

the women are complimenting each other

and then whispering the truth.

On the drive home, my friend turns

to me and says,

“you’re just an oddity

no one understands

or gets you

so don’t get angry

because they just don’t.

I’ve known you for years

and I get it

but that girl who said

she knew you but never met you

she knew where you lived

she knew all about you

and you, shaking her hands

nice to meet you.

She said, nice to finally meet you.”

I swear the night just got weirder

and stranger

couldn’t wait to get the fuck

out and stop defending

my philosophy

my Nine West shoes

my vegan food

my new hair

my books

my poems

my art

I need to seriously be drunk

to face society girls.

 

 

 

 

Book Review of Scissors and Paper Hearts by Lex Letters

Lex Letters and I follow each other on Twitter and we instantly connected through our poems. I read her poetry book and couldn’t put it down. It is a poetry book full of passionate verse and full of a soul that touches your heart. “She was the exception to every rule,” her poem “Undiscovered” begins and that is essentially how the entire book grabs you. It shakes you bends you, and makes you search deep inside yourself for that love that broke you.

Lex Letters’ poetry evokes a yearning for lovers and longing, never quite fulfilled. It is as if lovers are talking, writing poems to each other. In her poem, “Hate” this excerpt stood out for me:

“Breathing is for the living

The rest of us are dying to survive

on expelled breaths and ink

forcing feeling onto paper

trying to make sense of the pain.”

Her poems take you to the past, the present pain and the distant future. The poems mostly live in the past and recount a relationship in moments she can’t forget through memories of being loved and of loving. Take this passage from her poem, “Imagine” where she tells us where she writes from, “I write from an internal beckoning, a raw and emotional grave.”

In this collection “Scissors and Paper Hearts” there is poetry that heals, letting go of a loved one, breaking up, scorned lovers, rage and a tumultuous love affair. I will not spoil the ending, but it is gut-wrenching.

In the poem, “Unsaid,” it begins, “Paper hearts stained, folded into letters, stuffed in pockets, left to be unread.” This, in essence is the crux of this poetry book. How we all live in glass houses, how worlds can fall apart in love, how passionately we can love another person, sometimes even more than they can possibly love us, resulting in an emptiness that most people who fall in love recognize and can connect with her poems. I highly recommend this poetry book.

 

Lex Letters can be found on the following social media links:

Twitter: @_inkaddictionx

Facebook : @Lex Letters Author Page

https://www.spilledinkwellwritingwordpresscom.wordpress.com/about

https://www.amazon.com/Lex-Letters/e/B06W9K8Q6W

Discussion

I don’t fall into categories

I prefer to create them

make them shine on my skin

so only lovers with no thoughts

can see them. Leave chat groups

that are toxic for the soul and

create an affair with words

you adore. I discussed poetry

and words and how I have always

been writing, only now it has

controlled me, I can’t contain

it in a beer barrel anymore and

put a lock on it for happy hour.

I can’t shut it off and go to sleep.

I wake up with it and walk around

with these words on the tip

of my fingers and my tongue.

Here they are discussing the

way we move in and out of bed,

the way we talk, with respect

and patience. The way you ask

questions and wait for a reply.

No one ever cared for the same

reasons. Discussions of the soul

with no words are the ones

I cherish. The way we communicate

without words

that first brought us together

and will eventually tear us apart.

I can see the story, I can write

it, I can direct it, I can begin

and end it. I know how to

do it all

for I am a dreamer

and so are you.

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Physical Pain

I met you at a time when I felt lost

and all the physical pain

collided with my emotional state.

You were the last person in the room

to approach me, and the first to notice.

I told you a story about how lovers

were stuck between all the worlds

they created and you rolled your eyes at

me. Oh, God, you said, another poet.

I’ve never met another one, I said.

Don’t fall in love with him I told myself.

Although I knew I would be the first

to fall for your dark eyes before you

even noticed mine. They were

as dark as my thoughts. You’ll

break my heart and I’ll lose count

of all the ways you want to love me

and other stupid thoughts kept

pestering my brain. shutthefuckup my brain.

I just want to get over someone

so badly, you said.

Me too, I said because it didn’t sound

so pathetic as (well step right up handsome

I’m the one). It’s funny how my mind

says one thing and my mouth another

or my mind thinks one thing and I type another.

No one really knows me then.

They just think they do.

I went to the bathroom and you were gone.

I thought that was just perfect.

A perfect ending to an awful night.

I had concocted all these ideals

that you were  the one

and other such bullshit

but in the end

you were  another character in my poem

I never knew.

I scared you with my witch eyes for sure

and other such nonsensical thoughts

raged my brain

of why men leave me.

 

 

 

 

Poetry Book Review: Captured Moments Inspiration captured in verse by J.D. Estrada.

J. D. Estrada’s poetry book was a true feast of words and poetic forms. He makes everything sound poetic, even sipping a cup of tea with honey. I enjoyed reading this book very much. I am so used to reading romantic poetry this was so refreshing to me.

“Honey sings and taste buds listen,

with each cup of tea,

Until empty.

The cup does glisten.”

Honey, cantaloupe, or any other simple food that evokes taste for the poetic soul, J.D. can find poetry in all walks and flavours of life.

“Scale” is an example of good sound advice coming from a poet along with a rhyming unique verse.  He observes the sky from an objective view point as a spectator,

“As I drink the sky, I gently swoon,

copper clouds, silver moon.”

The poem, “Retrospect” is my type of poetry, full of longing and love for a lover. “I love you like a lost  kiss in the corner of a memory,” it starts off and briefly illustrates how memories and moments are a mere passing like a wink of an eye.

J.D. Estrada has written a multitude of haikus that explore the human condition and the mystery of truth, desire and expression.

The way he describes drinking a cup of coffee in the poem “Note to Self,” makes me love coffee even more, if possible. I loved everything about this book. It has an old feel to it, J.D. Estrada is a poet with an old soul, he writes poetry with messages about humanity, people and the bonds that tie us together.

I would recommend this poetry book.

Here is his bio and go check out his books.

Bio:

As a child, JD Estrada knew he wanted to be an inventor, he just never knew he’d end up being just that but using words. Estrada is a Puerto Rican indie author who is always looking to better his high score in life. A fan of creativity, he takes the freedom of being an indie writer and indulges in a variety of genres and storylines, consistently pushing his writing as much as possible. He currently has 8 published works including two full length novels, 4 poetry collections (3 in English and one in Spanish), a  short story collection and a bilingual collection including poetry, short stories, and essays. For this year, he expects to release several new titles including 2 new poetry collections, a sci fi novella, and his first YA fantasy novel.

As for links to social media, here you go:

Website – www.jdestradawriter.blogspot.com

Read me in book form – https://smile.amazon.com/JD-Estrada/e/B00CP4834O/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1473866995&sr=8-1

Twitter – www.twitter.com/JDEstradawriter

Instagram – http://instagram.com/jdestradawriter/

Google+ – https://plus.google.com/u/0/

Facebook page – www.facebook.com/JDEstradawriter

Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard

Soundcloud – https://soundcloud.com/j-d-estrada