Category Archives: prose poetry

The Tell-Tale Clock

​Clocks no longer tick or tock
So the poet, whoever that really is,
I mean really, is it merely those
Deemed publishable?
Those who’ve been trained?
Or even better, the street poets,
Whose grit and determination
I know nothing of;
Those really clever folks who
Know iambic pentameter
Through training or some grace of some creator
You know…those who know how to correctly write a flesh and blood haiku
Because apparently all of these un-Japanese teachers
Believe it or not, know the right way to do so

Anyway, back to that clock
And that poet who
Cannot mention the tick tock,
Psst…the younger crowd won’t get the intended dramatic effect,
Or the use of semi-colons
Here, I use them for spite.
Aware the amateur editor down the hall at my office
Will question the validity of all my punctuation
Or lack thereof
And if I should be using thereof,
That sort of thing pisses her off.
Come to think of it, I do hate improper punctuation and
Unnecesary lead-ins like anyway,
Which I used above to let the reader know
At the start of line 15 that
I am fully aware I got off track, 15 being my birthdate gives it symbolic consequence,
or so some would say.

In any case, the poet who would
Decide to use the tick tock of the clock
To describe the backdrop
Annoyance of a clock when trying to fall
Asleep when he cannot fall asleep
And I use he loosely, because right now,
A poet feels more like a man
Who cannot fall asleep than a woman
Who cannot fall asleep,
And because men seem to like clocks and noises,
More than they like to use feelings for the same purpose,
To describe, I mean.
Mostly though, because I am a girl,
And I feel less and less like a poet every day.
Although there are great female poets whose
Words and construction on a page
Bring me to my knees
Or at least make me tear up.
I am just not one of them

But back to that clock
With its tick tock
Of which I am acutely aware
Poet or not, (probably less so, than more so)
Whose ticks and tocks bang out a now silent, but still vigilant reminder
That time is running out.
And every writer out there feels
Every rejection counting
Against that clock
No matter how many times
They are told by some inattentive friend that J.K. Rowling…
She was rejected, like 59 billion times,
And I can only respond,
No, it was more like 30 or 60 something
But who knows, and I don’t care
Because for criminy sake,
She is J.K. Rowling, and I am simply
The unpoet who was rejected again, today,
Who feels vulgar saying Christ as a curse word,
Yet overuses the word Fuck!
Now, remind me, what was I saying about that clock?

A Different Kind of Sunnyside Up

​Its where it all took place
My childhood
That hub of in and out
A cookie jar whose lid
Always lifted by each entrant
Signaled one was home
The cookies
Always hard, crispy

Offspring guided in cookery
By watching,
Those efforts of care
More than for bodily sustenance
Where sometimes life’s
Frustrations got the better
Of the fry cook
A broken yolk
A seeming disaster
I never understood

Last night, my second son 
Asked how to make
A fried egg sandwhich
The step by step
The question and answer
An absolute pleasure
And no one got mad when
Both of those golden yolks broke

What

​Which is which 

Is not at all like
This or that
The latter is an either
The former a choice
Of one or another
That can be chosen
By one as well as
The one can be you
As can he or she be
But typically stands in for me
Or you, but not you and me
As that is us, or we with to be
While I stands alone
Not lonely alone
But by oneself
For one can be amongst
And be lonely
But never alone among many
Unless
One states the obvious
Only to lose track
Over they turning to them
And get making us have
That which we cannot
Not to be confused
With the which of before
Which is a bit of a witch
For making us choose in the first place
When everyone knows
Either is rarely neither either

A Left off the Road

​Being catholic, it feels small
Quaint and very well kept
The rule for decorations
Posted sternly
At the entrance
Which when I first
Came upon it
I took for the exit
Which is acutely ironic
Considering the utility
Of the place

The church stands next to a
Home for the aged and frail
The vulnerable who
Can easily move to the church
When it is time
Easy to imagine
A procession across the street
Without aid of a long black car
Just wheel a person from
One stage to the next

My feet sink into
The earth
It cannot be good to feel
So comfortable with cold stones
Etched names
Some a bit familiar
None of mine

There is the billboard
Which hovers too close and too big
Advertising a reminder
Of my lost virginity
To what I thought then
Was the love of my life
He said I was too smart for him
I think it had more to do with
My size than my brain
Odd, the visible beginnings and endings
In one gaze across
A landscape

Makes me not want to leave
But I must
For my stomach growls
And my heart knows
There is still more
For me to do
And more for me to love
Before I become another
Name on a stone