To be continued…


I haven’t written in awhile, not poems or stories, I haven’t worked on my novel. I feel as though it has been years, but looking at this site it hasn’t been. I have been stuck in this world of social work and single motherhood. I have lost myself and found myself over and over again. I have lost my husband but found the feeling of love. I have lost my faith in mankind, but found another daughter, who is 17 and now living with us. I have lost my own story, my thoughts and deep feelings, they are minuet. They are nothing in comparison and so I’ve left them behind. That was a mistake and one that many make. Although our lives may be to care for others we are still human, we still have dreams and aspirations of our own. I am not sure how far I will ever come as a writer, but I know deep down inside I am one.

I write this tonight because not too long ago I found Spotify. I have the app on my phone and I have been listening to music that I haven’t heard in years. The Slim Shady LP, more specifically, that made me want to become a writer. Marshall Mathers, who I swore one day I would be dedicating a book to. He said what he wanted to say, without any regard. He made my journals mild in ’99, “extortion, snortin, supporting abortion, pathological liar, blowing shit out of portion, the looniest, zaniest, spontaniest, sporadic, compulsive thinker, compulsive drinker, addict.”

I smile when I listen to him, every raunchy word, not only because I just love it but also because he still gives me that feeling that I am not alone. I can do whatever the fuck I want, still. I can be honest and open and I can be as crazy as I want to be because I fucking want to be. He gives me a breath of fresh air in a stale world. I am going to write, now. It takes so much time. More time than most think, but I can do it. I will have to literally put it on my calendar each day and I’m sure some days I wont have anything to write. At least I will take that time, each day. I will feel accomplished even if nothing comes out.

Although Marshall Mathers inspires me to be who I am and who I aspired to be back then, when I write, I have inspiring writers in front of me. If you have read anything of mine, you know I have a deep seeded love for Kim Addnizio and Sylvia Plath. My favorite short story remains Tobias Wolff’s Bullet in the Brain. Maya Angelou is always in front of me, whether it be I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Mama and Me, Touched by an Angel (which was recited at my wedding), of course, Phenomenal Woman, but my favorite:

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


Throwing Glass Slippers


She felt like Cinderella, before the evening

gown glittered or fairy godmother granted wishes.

Not the Cinderella with horse drawn carriage. Before

any tiara wrapped around that hard, hair sprayed up-do.

She felt like Cinderella, wrapped in rags

mopping grimy floors. Days spent on dreams, wishes.

Cinderelly, whom mice called mother. Slopping

soapy suds and handkerchief held hair.

The princess in house slippers. Worn, seams plucking

peaking bare toes. One true love

of laundry, heaping.

Canto XXIV


I took the last line of Dante’s Inferno, canto XXIV, line 151 “And I have told you this to make you grieve” and inserted it into the last line of my own poetic verse.

The scorching weld that burns

two souls together. Meant to be. Love,

knocking at an enormously shallow door.

It’s dark and echoes the cold, stone

hallways of my heart. The loneliest soul

when his name is called. Years pass,

and I have told you this to make you grieve.

Real Life Poetry. It Hurts.



Our Last Supper


I know he is leaving, though he sits here

across from me, in my dimly lit kitchen.

Which, once was ours. He leans

over the cracked pine table top

to sip from the last glass of red wine,

shared. He cannot stay, we know. Then

will he go to a dark, desolate bar?

To wait for someone else, anyone else

to take him home. A black dress, I suppose.

He eats-

the chicken pasta I have prepared,

breaking bread in silence.

My heart eats, dying moments

of our love. Blood shot eyes,

focus on the food. Only thin black hair

stares at me from across the table. The table

that seems to grow larger,

as our plates become bare.

He is leaving,

but we eat.