Fancy Doctors

I just discovered that if I have work on a WordPress site, I can reblog it to my site.
I probably should have figured this out earlier.
That said, enjoy some poetry on how mental illness sucks.

Madwomen in the Attic

Fancy Doctor

I’m spiraling and my mother made me

See a strange woman with a spiteful stare

And I used big words like

Trick-o-till-o-mania and she laughs…

She thinks I make things up.

I think she isn’t worth the frame holding the degree on her wall.

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Poetry Month!

It’s National Poetry Month, and as such I wanted to write about poetry.  More specifically, I wanted to write poetry.  There are a couple problems doing that on your blog, however.  For one, if it’s a piece you may want to send out some day, you shouldn’t post it elsewhere.  The second part of the problem is that you never really know when you’re going to want to polish something up and post it.  Also, my current crap WordPress theme does not allow for my poetry to appear as I would like.  So, what I’ve done here is chosen a few poems that were recently penned by me and have some sort of relation to the past week or so of my life.  If I make the decision to rework them, I will remove them, and I formatted them as best as I could given my narrow theme selections.  (Ps, all of the formatting on WordPress has changed, and I don’t like it.)

So, here’s three poems.  Enjoy, and Happy Poetry Month.

Cross Fade

In tight on a point of light/ somewhere in the darkness we create/ with black drapes and paint spills.  Ghost light center stage/ a reminder or warning/ depending on your point of view/ depending on how long you’ve been/ scraping tar and feathers off the floor. Some people have disposable souls/ kept in their pockets like tissues for windy days. Others have masks they discard as the music moves them/ twirling to the edges of my perception. Quiet and watchful as always I/ notice these exceptions/ these disregards/ this lack of loyalty. The slap in my face was deserved; I know how much you took. My silent observations belie my hand/ and this heart disconnects from its fingers/ pouring blood where they used to be paint. I watch you sink, and frown.  What a waste.


Unbreakable, my skin/ tough like Teflon but soft/ in places where light shines through/ I feel tissue-paper-thin as/ I bend in the wind. My arms like lead and my/ head on fire I remember when/ my skin gave way to/ prickles of blood on white and/ I felt my senses swirl away from me/ reaching for a steady hand/ when all that catches me / is air.


I want to write madly/ fingers flying over a keyboard as I / feel my senses bleed onto word documents but this darkness paralyzes me/ leaving me broken and bruised again.  I lick my wounds and stare/ at my black behemoth of a computer that/ sits in judgement over / my lack of output.  She shakes her head/ this ghost in the machine/ and scolds me for giving up, for taking time…I cringe.  My heart is beating but my pulse/ is weak and I feel / lost somehow in the tangle of wires/ that connects me to the world outside.  I want to sit on my throne and/ pen my words with the rapid fire click-clack of keys/ or the scratching and scrawling of pen on paper/ but I can’t raise my head toward the light.  I can’t grip the pencil between my tired fingers.  Instead I sit in shame while she judges me again/ laughing at my weakness like so many schoolchildren/ and I am left wanting once again.

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on

Poetry in Motion

Approaching my self-imposed deadline again.

All in all, I would say I have been doing good with posting at least weekly, but then a day like this comes and I don’t know what to say. Literally the only thing I have written this week was a handful of poems, mainly inspired by the bonkers weather we have been experiencing. On the one hand, yay new poems, on the other, boo no blog. So, I figure one could bleed into the other a little.

They’re not good. Of course, I think nothing I write is good, and I don’t want to go getting your hopes up. These are not my favorites or my best, just what I’ve gotten out of myself recently. And since I can’t seem to get a decent blog post out, I’ll go with this until I find one.

Makeup- deleted for submission, 2020.


Below my balcony a baby wails-

“Too hot!”

Over and over

And I agree because that winter weather

Has moved out for the summer,

Packed its bags and disappeared

To leave me boiling

In heat too early for May

And I want to rush to it

My maternal instinct kicking in

And hold a cool cloth to its head,

The one on mine,

The one to take away this headache that does not leave

Because there is a baby

Wailing outside my window.


I plant flowers in cheap dirt and pray for miracles

Like raindrops and sun

But the ground freezes over again and I am reminded

That this is Buffalo and I should know better

Than to get my hopes up like the vines

Of the morning glories I try to bring to life

Despite rocky soil and poor climate.

I don’t know excitement,

Because I can never muster it,

No thanks to tiny pills that run my body for me

Because it is too tired to run itself.

I look for joy in these little seedlings,

But find myself disappointed

When nothing remains but dirt.

**published Street Light Press,2018

“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.”~Carl Sandburg

I write everything.  I have written stories, plays, poems, essays, blogs, articles…if it can be made with words I have tried it, and that includes some collages I made out of newspaper articles.  I read everything. I have no one favorite genre, and I love fiction and nonfiction equally. I consume words and would always rather read the article than watch the video. But of all the things I read, and all the things I write, there’s none like poetry.

I’ll admit I found most poetry boring as a child.  A few classics stood out to me, and I did enjoy the ones that rhyme, but mostly I found it to be a little “what’s-the-point?” It wasn’t until I was an angsty high schooler that I discovered why poetry was invented: to speak for the soul.  I was instructed to write a poem for English class. I don’t remember what it was about, but I do know that several days later I had purchased a purple notebook that I filled with poems I wrote, and quotes I found from books and music. I listen to everything, much like I read and write everything, but a song with powerful lyrics is always preferable to me.  I feel that lyrics are today’s poetry, which I feel is a dying art.

I see some people keep it alive however, and this pleases me.  I used poetry to express myself all through my adolescence and young adulthood.  As I hit thirtyish, I stopped writing as much, but of all I have written, there is more poetry than anything.  So, I decided to do something with it.

When I was about eighteen I had a couple poems published in anthologies though the former, and figured why not try something like that again?  What’s stopping me? So I took a handful of poems I didnt think completely sucked, and I reworked them a little, and I sent them to some online publications.  I neither know nor care if anything comes of this, though of course it would be lovely to be featured. I just did it because if I didn’t, I would have wondered “what if,” and that is one of my least favorite emotions.  I would always rather know for certain. I did it because once upon a time there was a fearless girl inside of me who thought nothing of sending a poem out to be read. A girl who let friends borrow that purple notebook because they wanted to read the words she had written.  That girl is still in there under years of neuroses and the general living of life. That girl writes my poems, and she’s not nearly as shy as I am.