New poem on the fly
Ariel Poets is a Twitter Poetry and writing account that was created by Alexandra Meehan and myself. We run the account and help writers and poets around the world by inspiring them with our tweets. Twitter has sone phenomenal poets and writers. We have writing prompts that we are featuring on a monthly basis. Use the hashtag #arielpoets and write a poem about betrayal. For the month of January, betrayal is the theme. Follow us on Twitter @ArielPoets to read our daily inspirational writing tweets. Our inspirations are Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.
This tweet on Ariel Poets is our most popular one yet. Take a look https
You can also find Ariel Poets on Instagram.
Take a look at what we are doing there too.
Check out my story on Wattpad, just joined and having fun writing. Are you a member? Let me know what you think about this social media platform?
So far I am just experiencing with the writer in me and the stories, but I found there is actually a poetry section. Who knew?
I will be taking a summer break, be back in September.
Enjoy your summer.
Follow me on Instagram for my story and adventure in real life as I explore Greece.
Take care of your heart and soul. They are precious.
Click on link below:
Once I was at the end of the love song
crying for years because it was over
before it even began. We were caught
loving the wrong person. I immersed
from my drowning and swam to the
beginning of the line. I sailed across
your poems and floated on your words.
You sent them to me by mail, on out-
dated postcards, you wrote them on
the back of my hand with your
fingertips. I sent you magic and
illusions with one needle on your
arm. We lived in a movie and
recited Shakespeare naked in bed.
You were not even close to being
who I thought you were. I was
too much for you to handle back
then, wanting to do everything
and doing absolutely nothing
about it. I climbed Mont-Royal
in heels and you laughed at
my absurdities. I was spontaneous
and explosive, until I wasn’t anymore.
I bent backwards on words
and the power of your hands.
Now I’m in the middle of something
that will change me forever.
I will never bet that girl again.
I have to be someone I thought
I would never be. Life throws you
these wicked curveballs
and I am catching them,
ready to be stuck here
hoping that it will not get
worse. All this hope
for songwriters and poets
but for a regular woman like me
it’s a waste of my time.
I wrote the five letters of your name
in cursive writing with my fingertips.
I wrote the rest of the poem
in my head. It never comes to me
in the moment. It comes after
in riptides and synonymous with
coffee drinks. It arrives at my front
gate and whispers how you made
me feel cherished and adored.
I wrote in my head, on your back,
I love you, for showing me
your eyes, your thoughts, your touch
for having me
in your life. It is not even the
hours that matter, but what you
do with the ones that do, with the
silence and the words. Nothing
is something. When you ask me
what am I thinking? I am thinking
about how I do not want time
to cheat me, but it seems to
never stop banging with truth.
I felt your closeness
And even laying together under
the sheets with no sun
brought the heat of Venus
into our hearts.
Along the shores of my bank,
I spotted this seashell; it was
the color of my childhood.
In a tiny plastic bag, knotted twice,
I was given ink-colored rocks
along with a note,
written by his aunt,
Greek tiny writing.
These rocks are from Voulagmeni Beach. For you with love,
so you could always have a part of Greece with you.
Your aunt, Tasia.
I did a DIY and recycled
glass lime pies
cute decorative bowls
I could not throw away,
along with Petite Maman jam jars.
Covered the note under them
like a lost treasure.
Who will find it next?
have so much more to say
after their death.
Tiny handwritten notes,
photos from 1956, first passport
upon entering Canada,
my own cards with no dates.
It was my father’s birthday yesterday,
he would have been 76.
I said Happy Birthday to you,
to the ice cold day, parked in
front of the cemetery on my way
I lay my nest in all the places
where I lived.
On Stuart Street, 1974,
running across the street
to elementary school
while the bell rang.
Grade four, suburbia nightmare,
and poker parties.
I lay my nest
where my children are
my husband’s hand
my dead father
my mother’s midnight panic attacks
my brother’s sweet soul,
begins and ends my days
with artful quotes
while everyone begins to think
they are just a character in my next
novel. The truth is
no one exists
for that long
Lay my nest within
for soon enough
everyone will be gone.
“The minute you publish your own name you lose freedom.” -Ted Hughes.
What we find in a name
is the mystery of a person.
Five letters or ten,
you play over and over
to a mantra or a tune of a song
you have never heard.
Is it the one you imagined?
I give my letters for free,
but you hide yours under
sand castles that break.
I should have changed it,
walked among the normal
and let the secrets lie in
I meant to
but my father died and
Legacy and names
became as relevant
as building inspectors
handing you notices
of an evaluation of a lifetime.
Write, read and produce words
like a factory produces t-shirts
that hold in the warmth
of your soul. Made in China.
Made in Canada. Erupted
recession in California dreamers
wanting to hug all those trees
Poets with fake names
and broken stems
take your name
and stare at it a while.
Remember when you counted
the letters in your name
eight plus seven equals fifteen
adding them up
and making up numbers?
Was that just me?
Names reveal too much
and that alone is the essence
On the days I feel I have nothing left to give
a root sprouts with verse. I have to be
a psychologist with no degree, give so much
to get nothing sometimes. Appreciation
flushed down the toilet. Revive me with
an oxygen of words. The revival of
the artist within
with raw poetry
in my veins. I have nothing else
to give you or make for you
but Greek hand me down recipes
that I botch up. My tired legs
and lifeless soul need ventilation,
pass the glory of self-publishing
into modern technology
reap no rewards. I try to revive
myself when the alarm rings
with caffeine and poetry.
Pack the lunch, make breakfast,
start the car, reminders,
doctors, appointments I forgot,
trace the outline of my body
with imaginative chalk
as I hold onto poetry
for dear life
and let everything else
Once I placed all the sand from Center Island Beach
into a tiny Ziploc bag, then my god sister Dina
spread cream cheese and honey on Breton crackers
at half past two in the morning
and we all got up out of bed to talk until dawn.
I tool the airplane alone
at sixteen and spent my days
on others’ schedules and landslides.
It was warm and humid in the city.
We took subways all the way into Queens
and Flushing, disregarding cigarette butts
in alleyways. I still feel impressed with
graffiti and shoulder pads. My crazy Aunt Eleni
drove like a mad woman up and down Fifth Avenue
honking and calling everyone a malaka
god rest her sweet soul, she must have been
an angel to take care of all of us crazy teenagers.
There was a jar of regrets on her nightstand
it held some shells
from Cape Cod when my parents
and she and my uncle went on their honeymoon.
It was a double wedding, she laughed, we rented
our gowns, your mom and I.
We took a taxi ride. None of our parents
were here, we were free.
I have this jar of tiny rocks and gems
I collected from
Santorini. It means that regrets
have a time span,
can remain static,
or you can take them out
look at them
lock them back up again
where they have no air to breathe.
You once told me
you’re my lesson learned
or some other nonsense
that upon hindsight
deciphers how your soul
is as blind as mine.
I rarely keep my eyes closed
watched a movie
in a catatonic state
only to wake up to analyze
the ending in a forty-five minute
discussion about Mexican cartel.
I taught high school,
all those degrees on the wall
are some type of lessons
I carry with me to the cafes
we used to visit
across the university campus
where a Philosophy major met
an English major
and we never stopped talking
you could never kiss me
you loved me too much.
You tried that one time
to invite me to a party
but I said no.
I was lying on my bed
with the telephone wire
wrapped around my finger
Depeche Mode was playing on my turntable
and you said
c’mon, bring your friends.
My friends had no place with yours.
We were a semester of illusion
as you played me the guitar
I sat on your bed
and you talked about Descartes
and when I ran into you at Loyola Campus
you came running down the stairs
to stop me
come see what I’ve written now,
come sit with me a while.
I have class,
But we both knew,
our time passed
and you had me on your bed
your roommate gone
and believe me I waited.