Ariel Poets on Twitter

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

https://twitter.com/arielpoets/status/918067714769457152?ref_src=twcamp%5Eshare%7Ctwsrc%5Eios%7Ctwgr%5Ecom.apple.mobilenotes.SharingExtension

You can also find Ariel Poets on Instagram.

Take a look at what we are doing there too.

Thank you,

My story on Wattpad

Hey guys,

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.

 

Much love,

Chrissy xx

Click on link below:

http://my.w.tt/UiNb/bwrt2pGhZE

In the Middle

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.

A poem about your back

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

inside me.

And even laying together under

the sheets with no sun

brought the heat of Venus

into our hearts.

IMG_8602.PNG

Where I lay my nest

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?

 

The dead

have so much more to say

after their death.

Tiny handwritten notes,

photos from 1956, first passport

upon entering Canada,

more recipes,

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

to Starbucks.

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,

large backyards

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,

while

everyone else

begins and ends my days

with artful quotes

maniacal attacks,

while everyone begins to think

they are just a character in my next

novel. The truth is

no one exists

for that long

except characters.

Lay my nest within

for soon enough

everyone will be gone.

 

 

 

 

 

Name

 

“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,

syllables,

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

alphabetical order.

 

I meant to

 

but my father died and

everything changed.

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

of

recycled hearts.

 

Poets with fake names

and broken stems

flowered bookmarks

library cards

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?

Memorizing claps.

Rewriting history

with lies.

Names reveal too much

and that alone is the essence

of writing.

 

 

Revival

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

fall apart.

Jar of Regrets

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

live,

have a time span,

can remain static,

or you can take them out

look at them

feel them

lock them back up again

where they have no air to breathe.

 

 

Lessons Learned

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,

adults, children

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

discussions

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,

you said,

come sit with me a while.

I have class,

I said.

But we both knew,

our time passed

and you had me on your bed

your roommate gone

and believe me I waited.

 

Visions of the Future

Sleep disorders are common

being awake is difficult

when you see your past float by

as if you were on a ship

waving good bye.

Take me to a small deserted town

and lock me down

no escape plan

small grocery lists

and the visions of the future

are written across the sky

deciphered by so-called artists

who see mamas and papas

in drugstore alleyways

dreaming of all the times

Oklahoma had hurricanes

in yesterday’s tomorrow.

Pass the whiskey

down the line

of tortured souls

the b-line to the exit

gets longer

the scars deeper

the wounds shout out in haiku

too short for shelter

bring me shelter

the future looks too good

to handle

too sweet to taste

i can see its brilliance

not sure i want it now.