take a bow.
Should we be proud of your insolence?
Your ignorance, and indifference?
We are female.
We are proud.
We will not kneel at your feet.
We will not bend nor break even if we feel weak.
We are women.
We are strong.
We will carry on and be learned.
We will care and tend the weak, for we are steadfast.
Wear your tie, your cuff links, your pride.
Appreciate how much you make,
if you were us,
Being one of us is hard,
but, we are strong.
We are women,
and you are wrong.
AN: And that was it folks! Thirty poems in, well, technically less than thirty days because I started late, but I only ended a day late! I have no idea what I’m doing with this now that National Poetry Month is over, but I knew from Day One that I wanted this to be my last poem. It’s probably my favorite one I’ve ever written, and I’m incredibly proud of it.
To the Best Friend I’m Leaving,
We both know we’re going.
Logically, we have to,
but it’s going to be hard,
and we know that too.
Our colleges are three hours apart,
close enough to see each other,
but far enough, we have to wonder:
will we make the effort?
I’m going to miss you.
I know you’ll miss me.
No one knows me as well as you,
and I don’t really want anyone to.
I’ll call you as much as I possibly can,
but we both worry it’ll devolve
into half-hearted texts
and two-second phone calls.
I’ll make new friends,
and so will you, but
part of my heart is permanently
labelled with your face and your smile.
I’m leaving you.
Let’s face it, and you’re leaving me,
but not behind, never behind,
because we’ll always be in each other’s minds.
She sat in a tower, all alone.
Sure of what’s coming,
but no one can know.
Why won’t they listen?
If they listened, they’d live.
Some worldly power kept the flames
from her tower.
Her tears flowed fast enough
to put out the embers, but
that couldn’t bring her people back.
She sat in a tower all alone,
knowing what’s coming,
but no one can know.
She can’t fall asleep,
with the laughter coming round.
Leaving on a Jet Plane
Bags packed by the back door,
Mom’s looking around to see if I missed any more.
Dad’s talking quietly,
to my little sister,
she’s clinging to our cat,
and begging me not to go.
I have to go though.
It’s time. It’s been time.
I committed in March,
we began prepping in May.
It’s August though.
I’m ready to go.
I feel awful leaving like this,
so I kneel down to her, and say:
“You have to be a big girl now,
Mom and Dad need you to be strong,
You can do it. Don’t prove me wrong.”
My bags are packed.
I’m ready to go.
Goodbyes have been said.
I’m heading for a tour of deserts and men,
where gunshots will ring in my ears,
and goodbyes may be forever.
So I take it back.
I say, “I love you, and I’ll see you later.”
I don’t want goodbye to be forever.
She sees you far too often.
He sees you far too often.
Does she consider him a vampire,
because he has to take blood from her?
Does she understand that
he’s only trying to help her?
There’s no cure for what she has,
but it’s somewhere in her blood.
And he’s the unlucky nurse that
hurts her every day.
When he can see her smile,
and walk freely by herself,
and leave this place behind forever,
it will be worth it,
even if she hates him.
nearly on the tips of his toes.
His arms reach toward the sky
in curved lines.
His head held high,
his smile soft and cheeky.
His foot points,
and steps onto stage.
Keep His Dinner Warm
I’ll keep his dinner warm,
while he’s away,
called into work again.
He’ll come home with a
weary expression on a tired face.
He’ll thank me,
and kiss my cheek,
but it didn’t go well,
and he can’t bring himself to eat.
He’s always on call.
I am too.
For him, a car crash calls him to work.
For me, a child gets kicked out of home.
He’ll get up in the night
to wash his hands again.
There’s no blood on them,
but he can see something.
I wish he’d realize
it’s not his fault.
I bet he wishes
I wouldn’t blame myself
when we fail,
because we both fail sometimes.
We can’t save all of them.
Sometimes, the wounds are too deep.
Sometimes, they waited too long.
Sometimes, they don’t want to live.
Saturday morning creeps in like fog,
the streaming sunshine suggests it’s later than morning,
a glance at the watch acknowledges it’s noon.
There’s this warm thing at the foot of the bed.
It’s purring, and wriggling,
and now it’s pouncing because a foot moved.
It better be the cat.
A mask is a different character,
but whose to say it doesn’t reflect on us?
Am I really a different person,
or am I just tapping into myself?
The stage is a different world,
and my costume is my character,
but my character is me.
So what does that say about masks?
The air is cold and bitter,
the windows shake and shiver.
The kids have rosy cheeks,
snow angels left in the ground.
…avoid the yellow,
she wants to call.
The dog grins guiltily at her feet.
In a few moments, she’ll call them inside.
For now, let them enjoy their time.
AN: I do know it’s no longer April. I forgot to post the rest of my backlog yesterday. So, pretend like it’s still April 30th, and enjoy the eleven poems you’re about to get. Oops?