My Bathroom Poem

In response to a great video called just pee:

 

Inspired a poem I wrote right after first seeing the video:

Style: Facebook Post/Song Lyric

Topic: Poo and Being you

Device: Talking about poop when people might not want to..

Drumroll here it is:

Just poop! You don’t have to snoop.

Be you . Accept your poo.

Wherever you poo make sure you be you…

Art project: draw a good poop emoji style and have it talking to a human in a bathroom.

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Poem: Accepting the Donald Trump within Me

Time is running out. I have to accept my own Donald Trump before he takes over and actually does something really stupid.

Trump loves whatever he says.

He doesn’t think before talking.

He loves attention. (I think my Trump is writing this poem.)

He loves to say crazy things and not agree with them the next minute.

He thinks he is really unique and worships himself.

He doesn’t like playing by the rules.

Hmmm. Sounds familiar.

My inner assistant Angie is keeping him in line

Angie knows when to say to my Trump:

“Shut the Fuck Up!”

Poem: Magic

There is a little magic in every moment:

to open up the magic I open up myself

and unwrap whatever might be covering up that package of magic.

today it’s a poem that was wrapped in shiny gold paper and tied with a shiny gold sparkled ribbon.

I tore off the wrapping in excitement.

What a tiny little box to open up.

a little voice that seemed to come from a tiny person in there

said Hello and welcome.

Poem: I Will Not Be Reasonable

I don’t like

When people say,

“Everything happens for a reason.”

I will not be reasonable. Yes, I won’t.

I don’t want to miss

the seven impossible things before breakfast.

Or the disappearance of the missing socks

that will not stay with their twins.

Those socks are not reasonable. Yes, I won’t be too.

I will put on my shirt backwards inside out

And wear a gold fancy dress to coffee.

Yes, I will disturb

The state of Things.

I will eat cupcakes for breakfast.

I will not be reasonable. Yes, I won’t

I will put my elbows on the table

And eat my fork, knife and spoon.

I will drop stitches, forget to cross my t’s

I will forget my pleases.

I will stand on my head and walk on my nose,

And start my sentences with and.

I will ride my purple unicorn

All over your reasonable explanations.

I will mess up your reasons one by one

And give them back to you glued to the

Outside of your Box so you have to peek out and take them back;

I don’t care if they shrank and turned pink in the wash.

Now we can both say seven impossible things

to each other

Before every meal.

Poetry Day 8: Flavor Elegy Enumaratio

Hope:

Hope used to taste like the cinnamon sugar mix on cinnamon sugar toast, The crumbly pastry on the edge of lemon meringue pie, the piece of lobster and butter coming out of the shell you bit into,

Hope used to taste like your fingers when you sucked on them, syrup you licked off the plate after the pancakes, the chocolate left on the candy wrapper, the bubbles in your ginger ale.

Now Hope has no taste. It’s a tiny wind that comes out of a little hole somewhere and you feel the invisible breath of it on your cheek for only a half second

before it has flown away. Sometimes you feel it coming from behind, like snow when it is falling diagonal. You turn around and it’s melted.

It’s like a hummingbird, light and fast and almost invisible, hovering near a flower, then not there as clearly as when it was there.

You can’t wait for it, you can’t ask for it, you can’t beg for it, you can’t cry for it, you can’t sigh for it, you can’t scream for it.

It’s in the moment your heart skipped a beat. it’s in the space between words. It’s the mistake in the painting, it’s the cookie you burned, the fall you had that skinned your knee.

Hope has no flavor no more. It lives still, in a quiet silent tiny invisible thread holding on to the air you breathe.

Poetry, Day 2: Skin, Prose Poem, Internal Rhyme

Warning: this is kind of intense written from the point of view of someone who suffers from “dermatillomania”, a skin picking compulsion. I am not doing this in real life but I work with patients who have this issue usually due to childhood trauma… In some ways the urges and picking is similar to self cutting behaviors where it’s soothing in some way and people who feel like they aren’t allowed to really be who they are can feel the physical sensation as well as trying to get to dig to some sense of self.

So here is the poem:

Picking at my skin, digging in, popping a pimple open then feeling a bit of wetness ooze out. Can’t stop now, digging in with the nail of my right index finger. I get in my pale skin and under to the red raw piece. Greedy for bleeding, small drop of red blood wets on top of the cut my nail made. The jail of skin opens up to me to get under and pick more. Sore skin blood thin. My face full of pick marks more like ripped paper, not skin. Deep in I could get to bone and then would I be real? Would I be my own me? The marks on my face like writing, writing my thin hiding, my skin turned inside out I am so far in I can’t come out without pus and blood, sore and wet like grout that holds together frail pieces of my cover.

Writing 101 Assignments: Serially Lost, Serially Found: Lost and Found in Neverland

I physically lost a blog post a week ago because it was in my journal! It was already a post about losing and finding, so I will start with typing out that post. This is part of the second “series” of posts. The first series for the class that inspired me was the series for Loss. This is a series about the “lost and found” we all have in our hearts, as well as losing important items in the physical world…

Lost and Found in Neverland

I lost my Hello Kitty hat
on a cold day in October 2013.
That hat was a happy pill.
A gift to everyone on the streets or subway
Who saw it and smiled.
The white knit hat with cat ears
and pearlescent sequined glasses
(did you know Hello Kitty is nearsighted.)
Even the neon orange whiskers
were on that hat.
And an orange bow.

I must have left it on a crosstown bus.
Hello Kitty is good for crossing over,
transitions, goodbyes.
I didn’t want to say goodbye to that happy hat.
I felt like a Mad Hatter in it.
The night sky was on
when I realized i lost the hat.
I was so torn apart
and frustrated with myself
I may have even cried.

I felt like a happy child with it on my head.
For under 20$ I got a hat with magic powers,
transformer powers.
I felt great waves of longing for it to come
back to me.

Suddenly a lightbulb split my hatless unhappy head open wide.
Yes I missed that hat, but I knew I could hunt it down on Ebay
If I wanted to replace it with another one.
But my friend who died the month before was gone
forever.
And not coming back.
There is no Ebay for lost beloved friends.
She is somewhere in a Neverland, stuck in the Lost and Found box.
Not the Neverland of Peter Pan.
The Neverland of dead people
who left too soon
and did what we never wanted them to do
to get there.

I got that Happy Hat back, or at least
one that looked exactly the same
and it still had the magic powers
to stop people on the street
and bring a smile to a grey day.

My friend is gone in that Neverland.
I wanted her to never go there,
But she did anyway.
we all have that choice.

That lost and found bin is in your heart,
the permanent place the love for K.
will always be found.

Serially Lost from Day 4: Post 2, National Poetry Month: Loss: Master The Art of Losing!

Trying to find poems about loss that are funny…

Found a great one!
Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979)

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Here is another:
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Another one:
Compendium of Lost Objects
Nicole Cooley

Not the butterfly wing, the semiprecious stones,
the shard of mirror,

not the cabinet of curiosities built with secret drawers
to reveal and conceal its contents,

but the batture, the rope swing, the rusted barge
sunk at the water’s edge

or the park’s Live Oaks you walked through
with the forbidden man

or the pink-shuttered house on the streetcar line
where you were married

or the green shock of land off I-10, road leading
you away from home.

Not any of this
but a cot at the Superdome sunk in a dumpster

and lace valances from a Lakeview kitchen where water
rose six feet high inside

and a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
in the dirt of a once-yard

and a Blue Roof and a house marked 0 and a

kitchen clock stopped at the time the hurricane hit.

Because, look, none of this fits
in a dark wood cabinet for safekeeping.

This is an installation
for dismantling
—never seen again.

This one by Numi Who is a different twist on loss and everyday objects; she says an apology for leaving abandoning the pencil!
Oh Pencil

Oh pencil,
whereforartthouhavebeentheeelsewhile
while I was away, neglecting you,
leaving you forlorn in the dark recesses of a forgotten drawer?

I have been remiss, a wayward ram
that had strayed from the womb of the flock
and was fleeced – and now,
here I return to you, and ask for your forgiveness –
will you forgive me, Pencil?

I have had my fling or two, or three, or four
and I have realized the error of my ways –
and I have found that it is you I need –
your gentle caresses, your smooth yellow skin
unmatched in firm suppleness,
unreserved in sensual touch,
giving without taking, obeying without demand…

If you will not have me back, I will understand –
and know – my head will never again rise,
my heart will never again soar,
and my mind will forever be shrouded in gloomy overcast –

and yet I would wish you such brightness,
and a perpetually sharp point,
in the grip of a large, thick hand
attached to an even thicker narrowly-focused mind
with a walnut-sized heart
as cold as an arctic floe –
for you know as well as I
that is how dismal and distant
your next best choice will be…

It is true I became enthralled with the gel pen –
its wonderfully tactile fluidness;
and with the highlighter –
able to swash instant rainbows across a page;
and the permanent marker –
indelibly recording my every intention…

but only you, Pencil,
can carry me back in time,
back to my very childhood
when the smell of No. 2 Yellows filled the air,
an air already scented with the soft mounds of pencil shavings
and trails eraser crumblings that belied our trysts,
strewn across the nightly waxed classroom tiled floors
upon which our rendezvous’ were made
and the dreams of ‘us’ lay waiting
for mutual steps and racing hearts…

Let me hold you once again,
that is all I ask,
and if the universe does not return us to our beginnings,
then cast me into oblivion –
for I would not wish to exist without thee
wherehaps I would have sharedeth
a long and loving life of literary essences with you.