you hate my haikus
you want the real me in verse
uncensored for you
One Day I’ll Be Back
you hate my haikus
you want the real me in verse
uncensored for you
truth
If You Were Me
if you were me,
tears and doubt would be so common
you’d learn to silently cry,
to wipe away moisture
while putting puzzle pieces together
with your five-year-old,
to catch that knot in your throat
before it bubbles into a balloon
of anguished sobs
if you were me,
you would be more than
an overly-confident status update
who brags about cycling down the interstate
for a late-night gas emergency,
who flippantly adds an impossible dream
to the brutal reality of all
that you must carry
on your already heavily-laden shoulders
if you were me,
you would see the reality
behind your words,
you would know how utterly small
you stand beneath decisions
that press against your soul
and tear you apart from the inside out
if you were me,
you might want to be
(just for one moment)
the safe-secure-satisfied working mom
who would never do this to her family
but then…
you wouldn’t be me.
i wouldn’t be me.
and what kind of truth
would we both face
if we met, you and i,
and we were not ourselves?
No One Notices
she is five
she is my baby
we stand in hot sun
beneath a bittersweet ending
i help her hold up her hand
and when she isn’t included
no one notices
and i feel smaller than her
when he comes up and asks
if i’m some other girl’s mother
so he can invite her (not mine)
to a birthday party?
all i can do
all i can do
is be grateful for my new
dark sunglasses to hide my tears
and the worries that rest
deep in a mother’s heart?
this is the bittersweet beginning
of a lifetime more
Love/Hate Relationship
you are not the worst
i am not the best
is this love or hate
or a need to frustrate?
i wish that i could explicate
our desire to communicate
you know i love this place
and would like to leave with grace
but i cannot swallow lies
two-faced talk i despise
so please put it to me straight
is this love or is this hate?
Cheshire Cat
you sit with your Cheshire cat smile
prettily perched on outstretched limb
you seem to love, but all the while
with callous eyes you scan and skim
i have walked a glorious mile
this is not an unsettled whim
please take back your synthetic smile
till you can learn just how to swim
you took me in, and with your guile
filled my faithful cup to its brim
but you can take your Cheshire smile
and slink along another limb
Particles of Light
you are the feathered flowers
that lie buried
in the hand-me-down plant.
i want to run my fingers
across the petals and
pluck out the frilly baby’s breath,
put my nose deep into
the scent
that carries me back ten years,
that carries me to the moment
those flowers became you
(a tile floor, shards of glass,
love hidden in particles of light)
this is the love
that is too soft
for others to touch,
the flowers that will never die
though the plant may fade
into the reality of life cycles,
you will still be as brightly beautiful
as the moment
i placed the stems
in the oh-so-fragile vase,
forgetting for a moment
how what breaks us
is what makes us
Royalty
you’ve already made it clear
you’re the king of the castle
so save your glorified words
i’ll live without the hassle
do not step down from your throne
throw your haughtiness my way
always an authority
on subjects you wish to sway
i will not bow down to you
’cause i see right through your shit
you may think you’re royalty
but we know the crown won’t fit
Professionalism
she steps in on the conversation
that she would as easily hold in the hallway,
in the gym during an assembly,
in her office about other people
(handled as unprofessionally as possible)
but we are the ones being inappropriate?
are they listening through these walls?
what will they hear?
that we’re getting trampled on every day
by parents and students who’d rather blame us
than take responsibility?
is this even a poem
or a complaint about the truth of
why i’m so angry right now?
if they’re listening,
i’m quite sure their last concern
is some whiny-assed kid
who can’t handle getting the
reality of his life handed to him,
backed by parents who won’t admit
they have a teenager, not a toddler,
who needs to pulls his lips
off his mama’s nipple
and move the fuck into adulthood.
but that’s just it.
they’re not listening.
nor is she,
though she can cut short this talk,
throw in a quick critique,
and act like her mouth is the
perfect picture of professionalism
(Parenthetical)
i don’t want a poem with pushed out words,
one that couldn’t capture the heated moment
of tears she keeps at the corners of her eyes,
a poem that pushes out unbelonging rhymes,
one that couldn’t draw a picture
of her head in my lap,
her sorrow seeping into my knees,
one that will tell me
(teacher’s note signed)
that my daughter has moved
from above average to average
i don’t want a poem
with pushed out thoughts
to taper my emotions back behind me
like my on-fire muscles during workouts,
riding up my back like a hot rope
that i will never pull tight enough
i want a poem like the songs i sing
(out of tune)
my own tears falling willingly
in the dark hours of morning
as i belt out lyrics
with the best of them,
my shaky voice
everything that is
inside and outside of me
i want a poem with well-formed words,
one that will sing to my soul,
make me remember this day
because it is like any other day
(it is unlike any other day)
i will only have it once,
and i want to grab that poem,
squeeze it in my palm,
and suck the bloody juice
until i can taste the truth
of the world found in imperfect poetry
Journal: September 11, 2001
Dear Brittany, Tuesday, September 11, 2001 8:30 p.m.
I just keep hearing it. A line from a movie? A speech from a long-dead political leader? Or a description, so precise, so harsh, so true of this very day in the history of the world.
“A day that will live in infamy.”
I don’t even know where to begin. Should I repeat, in this journal, the story that I’ve heard from 20 journalists, seen video and photos of over 100 times, repeated in over 100 ways? Or, when I look back at this entry years from now, perhaps as a mother, a grandmother, a dying old woman, will the date alone strike a chord and bring back the terror of this day?
Will I be able to look back, many years from now, or will this journal be ashes in the rubble remaining from days of nuclear warfare?
I face the same questions as everyone else; the questions I ask my students to answer every time they read a story or write a paper: Who? What? Where? When?
WHY?
HOW?
Are these the keys to good writing, or unanswerable interrogations about our country, our world, our humanity?
No, I cannot answer today; maybe not ever. I stare blankly at the muted screen, its words that so quickly skid across the bottom, blurry to my tired eyes. I can’t listen anymore. I look at the seriousness of the journalists’ faces, the grave, reserved anxiety, unable to keep my thoughts on track. What track? Where am I going? Where are we going? The questions again, endless, like the questions you ask yourself when you’re reading a great story.
Only, this isn’t a story.
–KMV
Step Write Up 