Poems of Complication 3

Below are seven additional poems based on the tweets from last Tuesday’s poetry jam on Twitter.

Poems of Complication 3

By @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @PoemsPrayers, @mxings, @togetherforgood, @cascheller, @mmerubies, @MonicaSharman, @DancinButterfly, @thegypsymama, @TchrEric and @KathleenOverby. Not to mention @shrinkingcamel. Edited by @glynn_poet.

The Moon Goodess and the Man in the Moon

It shall be a game with fluff and
pulp and the moon goddess in the
rain. If the moon danced a jig
would she spill wine like words
down the back of her skirt?
No, not down the back of my
skirt, not now… I can’t reach that far.
I am stained. The red wine is all over
me in intricate patterns. Will you stay
despite my stains?

If she fell , the man in the moon would
catch her with his wan hands and hopeful
eyes. The man in the moon is overlooked.
We are blinded by bright sun and forget
that he will burn us to our cores.
Trapped between my own quotation
marks, glowing like the moon, now waning,
now giving way to a dawn of
not one shade, not one hue,
not one slice of the moon.

The Grief of Famous Poets

All that I thought would come is
now decomposing. I will have to
rebuild. I will have to rebuild.
Milton?
Keats, Hopkins, Tolkien.
Tolkien?
(Italy.)
( Italy?)
Sidney. Sir Philip? Shakespeare.
Shakespeare? Who quoth thee
beneath the shoulder of the moon
tonight?
But Horace stuffs his grief beneath
Tolkien and Keats. I stuff my grief
under the lavender in the herb
garden by the little silver stones.
I stuff my grief into words
scattered on pages, tapped into
computers, spoken over the phone.
I stuff my grief under Psalms and
between the strong lines of Isaiah 61.
And you?
Where do you stuff your grief?
I have forgotten the place of stuffing,
but it cushions my seat.
Browning. Browning?
Milton stuffed grief into serpents,
bit Eve’s lip with his ink. I do not hide
my grief; I write it on my arms, living poetry
a testament to my story.

I Want to Meet Nikki Giovanni

I want to meet Nikki Giovanni and write
new words with her. I want her to
write her poetry all over me.
Forget Nikki; you have rainbowed friends
in Oregon, New York, Texas. They will
write poetry all over because we praise the
things that are not here, the lost, the
washed, the legal briefs.
I fear I have not read the poet who speaks
of rainbows. I have not trailed my skirt
in his ink. (Or is it hers?)

A Rainbow in Tupelo

Last week, a full rainbow formed over the
houses here in Tupelo. I thought of running
for the gold, but I have a treasure already.
I have never seen a house in Tupelo, never
wrung my skirt of the moonlight under its trees.
I stopped in Tupelo to visit the king, he was not
There, and I have lost my map. I have lost the
street, even the horses feet.
Oh, the King is alive in Tupelo. It says so on the
building downtown, three miles from his birthplace.
He’s arrogant as ever, sideburns scattered down
his jaw; they are not one whit wise.
So I moved on to Memphis for a brief glimpse of
grace, got lost, and found Graceland.

The Grace I Have Received

We know not our fate and yet we strive,
sailing tumultuous seas, each in search of
the great white whale.

You are not allowed to march back into
my life and be as important as you once
were. Serve me up a splash of something
hot, fried, covered in sticky poems and
whispered pauses. Had your way, you
would have traced your issues all over
my body in black thick strokes of needles
and ink, the ink speaking 1000 words on
each shoulder.

I am sick unto death of serving two masters,
three masters, many more masters than I can
count or keep accountable to. Instead, God
wrote His word on me. He called me, He called
me beauty. He gave me beauty for my ashes.
He replaced you with the crown of a faithful
loving husband. His love is inked around my
ankle in visible strokes and written on my heart
in the way it matters most.

I am stained and smeared, my colors bleed with
rainbow tears. Come Lord Jesus, come and take
my stains away. I am sick to death of loving them.
In Christ there are only two colors, blood and snow,
I paint in both, and we are, each day, painted in
both, offering up to grace. Here are my hands and
here is my heart, I am ready for your words to be
written there. I am tired of my own.

Refresh the screen, relive the lines, remember the
words of life and grime. I want to be a walking
testimony to the grace I have received.

Weaving with Sand

Someone weaves with sand. We hold our
breath while the sun is setting on this sand
and sea, the sea or a mirage shimmering
gold late in the season. Time is running like
sand, unless you by some magic can weave it into beauty, as
sand weaves through an hour glass, through the glass in hand;
like a soap opera, so are we the days of our lives.
These pictures of sand and soap tell me nothing; you are
wasting my time.
Perhaps, yes.

Blue Jogging Shorts

Time wears blue jogging shorts and runs at a quiet clip
down the suburban street at dawn. Time is in better
shape than I, clip clopping down the street.
I can dance, I can tap, I can jig, I can jog like
a laptop love letter. My feet and my fingers
dance their parenthetical tattoo, 50-yard-dashed
across miles.