King For A Day

He’s the quiet kid who sits in the corner.

He’s the last one picked for the team.

No matter where he is, he’s the foreigner.

 He’s the King of Low Self-Esteem.

His single mom would be his only mourner,

and would pay dearly for his scheme.

Nothing he had said could possibly warn her,

his words not sounding too extreme.

Though she did her best, everyone will scorn her,

and honor, she’ll never redeem.

Still, she is most grateful he was born of her,

despite the fatal blasts and screams.

 

Advertisements

Grease Monkey

Well, look at you … all sexy … with that grease smeared on your cheek,

your hair mussed, perspiration on your forehead, neck, and chin.

Just seeing you like that can make my freckly knees go weak,

and cause prolific goosebumps to appear upon my skin.

The black tank top you’re wearing shows your arms off at their best,

all seventy-three inches of your wingspan, tip to tip,

ribbed fabric stretched across your sweaty gladiator chest,

utility belt slung down low, a nail gun at your hip.

With your new fog-free goggles pushed atop your golden head,

the lights that you’ve installed have caught your dazzling hazel eyes.

They’re bringing out that glimmer … things we could go do instead,

which call upon what’s in the tool chest stored between your thighs.

The soft synthetic leather palms on your mechanic’s gloves

feel velvety enough that I’m an instant devotee.

So let our eldest borrow them for projects that he loves …

and buy a special pair for use when you’re alone with me.

Like those on expert surgeons, they fit steady, practiced hands,

ensuring every detail of your work will be done right.

Your hands make your endeavors turn out just the way you planned,

including those that take place in our bedroom every night.

Now bring that hot mess over here and let me have a go,

for certain projects must take precedence, and this one’s mine.

Although you tend these leaky pipes, they often overflow.

That’s just what happens when you tool around and look so fine.

 

Birthday Story

On my birthday, every year, my mom would tell the tale,

the story of the day that I was born,

when first I tasted air and belted out my premier wail.

It happened on a pleasant Friday morn.

I know what was in the bag she packed to take along,

and how they passed an orchard on the way,

the smell of blossoms from the orange trees wafting, sweet and strong,

their favorite song the radio would play.

I know the cast of characters who helped in my breach birth.

Dr. Annie Lamb would see me first,

a great role model, who would bring me forth to greet this earth,

as from my mother’s womb, my rear end burst.

It’s a great tradition I looked forward to each year,

hearing all about my grand debut.

When she’d tell my sister’s story, I would always hear,

catching, each time, something that seemed new.

 Now that Mom’s been gone some years, we slowly lose some parts,

grasping at the bits we both have left.

We share what we remember of our humble, messy starts

and of our mother, whose death rendered us bereft.

summertime

singing in the floor fan in my room

organizing rocks that I have found

ice cream in our freezer to consume

bare and calloused feet upon the ground

whistling with a single blade of grass

catching fireflies in a mayonnaise jar

sleeping late, attending not one class

trampolining closer to a star

wearing Off! and sunscreen everyday

playing in each rainy summer storm

taking rides in wagons full of hay

drinking from the hose, its water warm

iced tea, watermelon, lemonade

picking figs and peaches for my mom

crickets sing their nightly serenade

rollie pollies tickling on my palm

food: I’ve all a growing girl could eat

bills: like magic, all of them get paid

hardest task: to keep my bedroom neat

enemies: in games at the arcade

someday I would be a girl no more

someday I would lose my innocence

someday I would be the guarantor

someday deeds would earn no recompense

that day came and I’m a woman now

that day came and I know grown up things

that day came to leave lines on my brow

that day came and I have sprouted wings

though I have to buy my food myself

though there’s lots of money that I owe

though there’s crazy clutter on my shelf

though I face transgressions of a foe

summertime’s a bastion of relief

summertime’s contentment on a tray

summertime’s forever, although brief

summertime’s import eludes decay

 

 

 

The Row

The screaming curls the hairs upon my neck.

I recognize the shout before the tears.

I, being whom I am, get up to check

to find the scene has justified my fears.

The smaller child is thrown upon the ground.

The larger one has punched him in the face.

I interfere, as lots of blood is found.

The older one I soon put in his place.

The other children gathered ’round to see

have split apart as soon as I arrive,

the perpetrator proud as he could be,

the victim grateful he is still alive.

“They’re brothers!” says my son. “Don’t stop their fight.

It’s not your job to see if they’re alright.”

burden

the albatross approaches

it’s far past time to run

a burdened life encroaches

the worst has just begun

caught up in sickly deluge

and straining hard to breathe

no sweet relief or refuge

the sword you cannot sheathe

your best commitment sagging

resentment breeding hate

you find forgiveness lagging

no patience to abate

you want to see improvement

the journey long and hard

no vow of upward movement

both parties spent and scarred

your lover’s reprobation

upon your heart is seared

abhorrent confirmation

as bad as you had feared

there is no good solution

except for you to die

at last the devolution

his money couldn’t buy

 

Puppet Master

You pull the strings and watch the puppets dance.

You bend them to your will with loving threats.

You tell them lies to put them in a trance.

You keep them busy turning pirouettes.

You build yourself a pedestal on high,

your puppet beasts remaining down below.

From far above the stage they occupy,

you plan their coerced warfare blow by blow.

You promise they will change from wood to boys,

but only if they grant your crazy whims.

You treat them like abandoned, dusty toys,

yet dictate every movement of their limbs.

You wait to hear the crowd is most impressed,

bedazzled by the spectacle they’ve made.

The problems you’ve ignored have been addressed,

your puppets filling orders that you’ve bade.

But someday they will learn the awful truth,

that they were boys before you made them wood,

that innocence was stolen from their youth,

becoming soldiers long before they should.

The Edge of 40

I know the reason all my clothes are feeling tight.

They’re tight, yeah, baby! So tight, yeah, baby!

I’m gaining inches ’round my thighs, my butt and waist each night.

I’m wearing miniskirts but at my age it’s wrong.

They’re tight, yeah, baby! So tight, yeah, baby!

The plus size section’s where my pocketbook belongs tonight.

[Bridge:]

It’s hard to suck it in, to hide my double chin.

I’ve let my body go, let my back fat show;

it’s something I’m not frightened of!

[Chorus:]

I’m on the edge of 40, and it’s time that I should look at the truth.

Out on the edge of 40 and I’m now admitting I’m past my youth.

I’m on the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge,

I’m on the edge of 40 and I’m hanging on my last scrap of youth.

I’m on the edge of youth.

 

I’ll purchase modest clothes to eat food that is fried.

They’re tight, yeah, baby! So tight, yeah, baby!

I’m on the edge of buying larger underwear tonight.

Put on a girdle so my jeans will fit the same.

They’re tight, yeah, baby! So tight, yeah, baby!

Metabolism and earth’s gravity are what I blame.

Alright! Alright!

[Bridge:]

It’s hard to suck it in, to hide my double chin.

I’ve let my body go, let my back fat show;

it’s something I’m not frightened of!

[Chorus:]

I’m on the edge of 40, and it’s time that I should look at the truth.

Out on the edge of 40 and I’m now admitting I’m past my youth.

I’m on the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge,

I’m on the edge of 40 and I’m hanging on my last scrap of youth.

 

I’m on the edge of youth.

I’m on the edge of youth.

I’m on the edge of youth.

I’m on the edge of youth.

[Chorus:]

I’m on the edge of 40, and it’s time that I should look at the truth.

Out on the edge of 40 and I’m now admitting I’m past my youth.

I’m on the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge, the edge,

I’m on the edge of 40 and I’m hanging on my last scrap of youth.

I’m on the edge of youth.

 

Lyrics ©Bridget Ayres

Set to Lady Gaga’s “The Edge of Glory”

Rush

The empty corridor awaits the rush,

still basking in its momentary peace,

serene, immersed in solitary hush,

that pregnant pause which grew until obese.

The door swings on its loudly creaking hinge,

all silence swallowed shockingly at once,

definitively shattering my binge,

the first to break the solitude in months.

Activity awakens deep inside,

relentlessly withstanding all the noise,

exposing what defiance failed to hide,

illuminating all as love deploys.

My heart is now an open book at last,

relinquishing resistance to the past.

My Many Lovers

One ravages me standing up like this …

the same old “Dad” our family portraits show,

the first of all who bring this kind of bliss,

the lover that my friends and family know.

I, on my back, receive a different man,

his eyes set deeper, lips protruding more.

I rise to meet his hips on the divan,

our clothes and shoes still strewn about the floor.

Another man, I see, who’s laying flat,

his lips stretched broad, his cheekbones catching light.

My gaze flows downward, for this time I’ve sat

to ride atop my husband on this night.

Earth’s gravity, our nemesis, plays tricks.

I ache to take each lover he depicts.

“What Do You Have, Again?”

“So, what do you have, again?” he asks of me.

The “he” has been family for over 9 years.

What I have (again) will not, I guarantee,

be one of those things that one day disappears.

Please learn what it’s called, if you care for me yet.

It fills up each moment, asleep or awake.

Just say it enough that you’ll never forget

and show me I’m worth the half hour it’d take.

“And how do you spell that?” … like Google won’t know.

Just get sort of close and it fills in the rest.

Your ignorance, now, is a choice that you show

by asking instead of just trying your best.

“I guess there’s no cure then?” he asks with wink. 😉

Well, yeah, but I figure that’s cheating my fate. 😉

Your effort shouts louder than words what you think.

You speak sympathy your inaction negates.

We do this each Christmas, and sometimes in June.

We’ll do it next year and the year after that.

And each time he asks, I shall feed with a spoon,

just like the ten month old I once babysat.

 

Vacation

I pack up every outfit they will wear.

I gather entertainment for the car.

I bring the booster seat for any chair.

I answer questions (most about “how far?”).

I feed them first, and then my food is cold.

I take them to the bathroom if I must.

I make sure tummy aches are all controlled.

I comfort children anytime they’ve fussed.

I pack again each time we leave hotels.

I wash out underwear along the way.

I disinfect when led to messy smells.

I take in stride each problem and delay.

I hear vacation’s nice, relaxing fun.

I might find out someday (when childhood’s done).

 

To Me From You, Part III: Nature’s Envy

no wonder that the sunset envies you

your hair and lips transcend its orange and pink

your eyes more gorgeous than the ocean’s blue

skin softer than the fur upon the mink

your profile leaves in want the mountain range

your genius higher than the redwood grows

your gait more graceful than the seasons change

voice gentler than the dew upon the rose

your freckles far more gold than honey wheat

smile brighter than the light after the  storm

your taste surpasses any nectar’s sweet

your love more fit than fire to keep me warm

no other woman since our world began

surpasses Mother Nature as you can

.

Solace

How long have I been tensing both my shoulders to my ears,

taking my frustration out on everyone around?

It seems like it’s been going on for six or seven years.

Now the solace lost so long has once again been found.

 Breathing comes so easily, beloved peace at last,

never looking back behind me; I know this is real.

Now I’m certain struggles fought remain far in the past,

giving my existence an enlightened, weightless feel.

You Tell Me Now?!?

You’re telling me this now instead of back then?!?

I wish I’d known while unattached.

I promise, if I’d been aware way back when,

the sauciest plots would have hatched!

I didn’t think you had an interest in me.

You’d played it like you were so cool.

I’d love to seduce you; I’m no longer free.

Our one chance was back in high school.

We wouldn’t have married. We’d split in the end.

But, wow … all the mem’ries we’d have …

instead, you remained in the box I’d marked “friend,”

a fate we both know is quite drab.

I guess I shall daydream and that will be that,

for dreaming’s the best I can do.

So I leave you now, no real tits for your tat,

still wishing that back then, I knew.

Modus Operandi

I will remain calm and I will stay collected.

I’ll take a deep breath and I’ll smile.

I’ll hope my reluctance remains undetected.

I’ll hold out, but just for a while.

I plan to fend off the impending eye contact.

I’ll find some excuse and I’ll go,

while leaving with some trace of dignity intact.

As ever, it’s on with the show.

‘Well, hello!’ ‘Oh, hi, there!’ ‘It’s so nice to see you!’

‘Excuse me, I’m meeting someone.’

‘Where’ve you two been hiding?’ ‘Well, how do you do?’

‘Your first time? I hope you have fun.’

We all hate small talk, but it comes in so handy.

I  use it to zip through a room,

no thought to amend my modus operandi.

Thereafter, my life can resume.

Pussy Problems

This circumstance is not what you presume.

It isn’t voyeurism; it’s just gore.

I really wish they’d find a different room.

The pillow I was using’s on the floor.

I try to just ignore them and relax.

I turn the other way and heave a sigh.

I look up at the ceiling, counting cracks.

If they don’t finish soon, I’ll start to cry.

I have no choice but waiting till they’re done.

I’d be asleep if not for all the noise.

I long to find a nice spot in the sun,

or curl up in my basket full of toys.

Attempts at using doorknobs all fall flat …

the trials and tribulations of a cat!

 

 

Incubus

First slumber imparts disingenuous peace

as day fades away and I’m plunged into night.

Trance beckons a torrent of fright to release.

Sleep’s righteous new guardsmen invoke fight or flight.

My heartbeats make dents in attempts to break free;

their echoes clank like jagged rocks in tin cans.

Control leaks from pores, my legs deaf to my plea.

I waste too much time as foes execute plans.

‘They’ all want me dead and I’ve nowhere to go.

I’m scaling high fences and crawling in mud,

gauche ducking and rolling as daggers ‘they’ throw,

blades piercing my flesh and discharging its blood.

All safe houses dangerous, floors turn to dust,

air jilting my feet as they scramble to grip.

Huge flakes of sunned freckles chip off like old rust.

I bolt for the door, but on dead skin, I trip.

Disguise my last hope, I spot wigs and a cap,

their blackness such contrast that soon I can hide.

Once on, they turn orange, their betrayal a slap.

They flaunt my location. Concealment denied.

Half-conscious, I’m twisting, adjusting my sheets,

one slice of me screaming ‘wake up or you’ll die,’

unable to rouse till the horror completes,

my will to resist ‘them’ in dwindling supply.

I prostrate myself, left no haven or choice,

submitting to torture and pain that results.

I howl at the dawn with what’s left of my voice,

reflecting back onto my soul those insults.

Awakening sweaty, I punch at my bed

and toss pillows high to unearth stowaways,

reluctantly grasping: they’re trapped in my head

alongside fixed squatters I scorn nowadays.

heartache

growing up, I thought the word heartache was just a metaphor

but now I know that it’s literal and not figurative

it’s not a simile “like my heart’s being smashed on the floor”

real pain burning my chest, not its descriptive derivative

hot, enervating, radiating ache which will not subside

it’s all focused where my heart is physically located

not imagery in this poem, that’s how it feels inside

heartache’s an apt description that should not be underrated

pet peeve: people using “literally” when they don’t mean it

so I want to be clear that that’s not what I am doing now

this heartache feels like it might literally kill lest it quit

everyday it’s harder to say that’s something I won’t allow

 

 

 

 

The Like Button

We need something other than “like” we can click.

At times, it just doesn’t feel right,

for often I read things that make my heart sick,

but feel not to click’s impolite.

 

Inception

The first time I saw you, I felt my heart flutter.

The first time we kissed was so sweet.

The first time you entered, I felt a deep shudder.

It all made my heart skip a beat.

The first time the sun rose with you by my side,

I memorized every detail.

The first time you shaved the chin hairs from your hide,

you proved what I liked would prevail.

The first time we parted, I felt a deep pang:

the long stretch I had to endure.

The first time you came back, to that door I sprang,

your love for me my only cure.

All these years later, it still feels the same.

I pine for you when you’re not near.

I give myself to you, I take on your name,

and hope that my foibles endear.

Bury The Hatchet

We never will agree on the events that once took place.

By now, all we can do is start again and work from here.

Let’s both quit acting like we’re in a nuclear weapons race,

each purposely provoking, every action more severe.

There’s not a one of us who hasn’t someone else to blame,

pretending like our own mistakes are pure and innocent,

when really, in the end, our motivations were the same,

for none can claim so righteously he’s only good intent.

Let’s bury deep the hatchet and then move on with our lives.

We’ll share only the joyous and hold back our tongues in rage,

for when we look beyond, we see resilient love survives;

it still remains accessible, and pays the ideal wage.

Dinner Party

As soon as they arrive the mood is light,

strong appetites accompanying all,

the music and the table set just right.

My canapés do no less than enthrall.

They audibly appreciate the food,

“Yum-yum!”ing, “I want more!”ing, and the such,

all standing by the hors d’oeuvres like they’re glued,

all saying that they love my food so much.

The compliments don’t ever seem to end.

Each course I serve tops what could not be topped.

The flavors fuse to yield the perfect blend.

I’m Queen of All the Cooks! I can’t be stopped!

It worked with toddlers. Soon, I’ll try adults …

if only I can mimic the results!

The Lap of Luxury

I finally have folded all the clothes.

I washed the dishes and put them away.

I smothered all the bonfires that arose.

I cleaned up all the finger paint and clay.

I planned out all the meals we’ll eat this week.

I purchased the supplies they need for school.

I made the time to “play” some hide-n-seek.

I took them all for swimming at the pool.

I helped the eldest find his poster board.

I scraped the bubble gum from Boo-Boo’s hair.

I straightened out the wireless router cord.

I treated all the stains in underwear.

“You used to work before you had a kid?”

Sigh. ‘Once upon a time, I guess I did.’

Sick, Not Dead

I am sick, not dead.

Remove the rails from ’round my bed.

I am sick, not three.

You must back off and let me be.

 I am sick, not weak.

So let me think and let me speak.

I am sick, not dumb.

Your meddling has made me numb.

I am sick, not nuts.

Your hovering consumes and cuts.

I am sick, not blind.

I’ve listened; please repay in kind.

I am sick, not wrong.

If you would look, you’d see I’m strong.

I am sick, not slow.

Don’t trap me or I’ll pack and go.

I am sick, not lost.

So keep it up, and pay the cost …

for I am sick, not dead.

Don’t make me run away instead.

–for Mya–

Poetics’ Aesthetics

I love the shape a poem takes, its special own tableau,

some lines drawn out, others rather wee.

Although their lengths may vary, there’s a gratifying flow

whether meter’s set or verse is free.

The longer lines might demonstrate a complicated thought,

mirroring their value in broad lines.

Conversely, sometimes denser words reveal a complex plot,

manifesting though their width declines.

Appealing to man’s fundamental zeal for symmetry,

fold my work in half see it match.

Then draw some sine waves on each side with trigonometry.

Look for other shapes I didn’t catch.

It satisfies to click the “center” button from the start,

oohing as the balanced words appear.

It adds that certain something … more than concepts I impart,

the icing on my views as they cohere.

When I’m done writing, I will take a glance from further back,

stopping to admire the form it took.

Perhaps it will propel the potent punch I planned to pack,

meriting, ideally, one more  look.

Homewrecker

There once was a mother with hate,

who threw in the garbage the meal on her plate.

There once was a mother who left,

her children in agony, lost and bereft.

There once was a mother who cried,

“Take care of my children as though I have died.”

There once was a mother who moved,

her gross inattentiveness all that she proved.

There once was a mother who judged,

her perfect mascara remaining unsmudged.

There once was a mother turned green,

who couldn’t sustain consequences unseen.

There once was a mother afraid,

unable to live with the choices she made.

There once was a mother absorbed,

expecting to claim what she’d passed and ignored.

There once was a mother who foiled,

inciting a riot amongst those embroiled.

There once was a mother obsessed,

herself the one reason she raided my nest.

There once was a mother with guilt,

so viciously jealous, she smashed what I built.

 

 

 

Forehead Kisses

Your lips on my forehead can turn me to mush,

the upper and lower all tender and lush …

so gently against my own skin do they brush.

They instantly prompt a sensational flush

that sends my red blood cells down south in a rush,

imparting upon my pink places dark blush.

You then lay me down on a palate so plush …

  at first when you enter I suddenly shush,

then sing out elation, the way of the thrush,

allowing your magic to pierce through the hush.

I lose all control and explode in a gush,

in turn, then, inspiring romantic slush,

which measured in pounds would, upon any, crush.




The Road To Hell

The timid grey chinchilla has intent to cross the street,

considering his options far too carefully to move.

His true love stands beyond, yet he won’t animate his feet,

the pressure ever-swelling, adding something else to prove.

At last, when he is ready, traffic’s blossomed in the road.

It’s surging to and fro’ in a vertiginous display.

Anticipation mounts until he’s ready to explode,

his cowardice proliferating, much to his dismay.

His true love waits with bated breath, admiring from afar,

encouraging her quarry to come claim the prize he wants.

The Doppler promulgates the trail of every passing car,

his reticence interpreted as targeted affronts.

All day he sits and ruminates, comparing pros and cons.

He’s hoping she may come to him if he won’t go to her.

He looks up just in time to see her disaffected yawns,

his true love now retreating in a swift, indifferent blur.

Perpetuity

You all should shag a poet who is free if you’ve the chance.

A poet offers more than just a true, whirlwind romance.

For if you do it well, you will influence what she writes.

There’s just no way around it, if you take her to the heights ….

Then your love, she’ll immortalize, your essence living on,

your most impressive sexy feats persisting when you’re gone.

Perhaps you may pass on to kids your striking DNA.

But there are certain parts of you, your children can’t convey.

And though her silly writing’s not as famous as The Bard’s,

not spoken on the stage, nor used in cheesy greeting cards,

all words writ live forever. They’ll endure throughout the years,

for writing goes beyond your genes, or when love disappears.

Plus, even if your dalliance has ended in a mess,

from time to time, she’ll read her work, and think on your caress.

“Not Me!”

I’m not quite sure who “Not me!” is, but he acts up a lot,

for when I ask, ‘Who did this?’ it’s the answer you’ve all got!

“Not me!” “Not me!” “Not me!” come your three voices, loud and clear.

You all must think I’m stupid, ’cause you all sound so sincere.

Oh, sure, it wasn’t one of you who put snails in my shoe …

that’s something that a 6 year old would never think to do.

You’re saying maybe I had left the milk outside to rot?

 “Not me!” appears to be the only patsy that you’ve got.

Perhaps it was your father who poured soda in the plant?

See, I would love to blame him, but that’s crazy, so I can’t.

I also know he’s not the one who left the water on,

or drew with my mascara until it’s completely gone.

I can’t imagine using magic marker on the cat,

or leaving a green puddle on the sofa where I sat.

The dog can’t use a doorknob, so he cannot let in flies.

He really is an animal; it’s not some great disguise.

It’s not like Grandma wets a slice of bread and puts it back.

If Grandpa ate that bacon grease, he’d have a heart attack!

Your cousins haven’t been here in at least a month or two.

Through process of elimination, it was one of you!

I’ve heard “Not me!” so much that now I’m starting to believe,

though I know it’s ridiculous … exceedingly naive.

But said with such conviction, that I’ve taught you all to use,

it’s tempting to just disregard the pile of damning clues.

I know I’ll have revenge when you three have kids of your own.

But in the meantime, I guess I must wait until you’re grown.

 

 

Enabling The Future

A Global Network Of Passionate Volunteers Using 3D Printing To Give The World A "Helping Hand."

Everywhere Once

An adult's guide to long-term travel

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry

James Windale

The official blog of James Windale

Shadow and Clay

Adventures in Attempted Authoring

Writing Madness

blog of author charlotte cyprus

Catpaws Cafe

Random musings from my virtual fountain pen

Always Rebecca

A Mathematician attempting to swim in the ocean of writing.

Shanan Winters

Interpreter of Inspiration

La Belle Epunque

The Blog of Artist, Poet and Author, Alira Alomien Rosi

Pickled Words

a place for pickles, a place for words

To Tilt With Windmills

countless worlds at your fingertips

Red and the Big Bad Wolf

The story of me - Red living with Myasthenia Gravis or the 'Big Bad Wolf' as I prefer to call it

Wrong Side of the Glass

My Journey Through an Undefined Illness

One Fierce Mama

Unapologetic, uncensored, opinionated, and a mother.

Autoimmune Warrior

Life with Invisible Illnesses

the myasthenia kid

Life with possibly undiagnosed myasthenia gravis, diagnosed severe autonomic dysfunction and ehlers danlos syndrome

Experimental Fiction

"Come with me, and you'll be, in a world of pure imagination" Willy Wonka, 1971

Myasthenia Gravis Blog

MG Mind, Body & Soul Blog

%d bloggers like this: