I'm passionate about philosophy, but after having my girls I'm even more passionate about Mommy Matters


My Ars Poetica

Poetry is created where language fails, in the space between words.

There are current studies in linguistics that argue for the subconscious mind understanding and knowing more than the conscious mind does. If this were true, it would mean that by simply reading a text, especially orally, and not paying attention to the exact meaning of every word, then an individual could understand more than if they deliberately tried to take in every word’s meaning. Poetry is an art form that utilizes this idea more than any other literary form, and it is why I write. Simply by reading a poem out loud there is a tone, a spirit, an essence that permeates that poem and enters into the subconscious reader’s mind. This diffusion of language embodies poetry in every sense. I have found more meaning in the writing and reading of poetry than I have found in any other literary form, any other art form actually.

The question mark has always been my favorite form of punctuation. The ability to query and to deliberate is what consistently differentiates humans from other forms. I have always sought out the curious and unknown. Why do people do the things they do? What does it mean to be human? These are questions I struggle with in my writing and at the same time truly desire to understand, or somehow find answers to. Ironically, at the same time I know that the search for these answers and the struggle I have with these questions brings meaning to my poetry. So, if I ever found an answer or understanding I would no longer have the need or purpose I currently have to write.

Writing poetry is a very personal labor, one that also requires a community and an oral voice. I have found that when writing poetry I cannot help but find new meaning in the life my poem takes, one I did not even know was there until I wrote it and read it out loud. Again, the individual words and their meanings do not particularly matter as much as the resonating space created between them, a space where language fails and cannot infiltrate. The balancing of personal and communal realms strengthens my writing, making my poetic art even more penetrating; it is a difficult act and space to work with. 

Becoming a self-sufficient individual, happy in myself and of myself, gives motivation to this balancing act. This is not enough though, I have also found my desire to become a cultured individual also gives me motivation to achieve this balance. As Mark Strand knows, this Blizzard of One is more than art; it is a way of living and becoming. 

Physical Manifestation of My Inner Angst

Rocks fill my head
Bumping into each other
Rolling against my brain and skull
Breaking the nerves
Pushing against my eyes
What if they pop out?

Landing on the rug beneath my feet
The one my mother gave me 
I stole it
Because the uneven texture,
Heavy string tying strips of warn denim
Faded with age and dead skin cells
Forming a warped rectangle
With frayed edges and bittersweet nostalgia,
Every imperfection weaves into perfection
The artifact holds the rest of me together.

If my eyes pop out
Then at least I’ll see my mother’s rug
One last time. 

I Thought I Was Egalitarian

I don’t want these shocking symbols
or haunting hearsays.
His hushed voice hisses “you're mine”,
as the fire envelopes my neighbor’s tree.

I wonder why, but say nothing.
I like to believe I can control it all.
Control him.

His hands have turned to sandpaper
and I ask him if he cares;
he doesn’t seem to,
and who am I to judge?

He always answers in bibliographies,
which breed
serenity (or is it sycophancy?),
Either way I listen.

Caressing me,
he suggests gentleness and sentiment,
if only he was not removing my freckles
with every swipe of his hand.

We look without seeing each other,
for the first and last time.
His hollow expression mirrors
my own ashen face.
I have become a stranger to him,
another woman
he would never ask to see.
He has become a shadow to me,
an empty dishwasher
stuck in stagnation.

I will only wash my dishes by hand. 



I promise you’re beautiful,
heart exposed and free.

Its thumping threatens to break me open
filling my ears
forcing my heart to align beats
keeping time to our life and breath.

The crimson drips down your chest
Curling around slim arms
Dripping from fingertips
Pooling at your feet.

But the flow abates
a river damming up
some hidden cavern.

Thumping relaxes
ceases and eases
the force fracturing me.

Beat. By. Beat.

My ears empty
my heart fails
to align with the final                          faltering                         beats
keeping time to your life and breath.

For an instant I thought your eyes said, “Please, I love you too.”
But I was probably mistaken.

Your knees buckle and crack when they hit the ground.
A delicate and shrunken boy takes the place of a stalwart man.

Your head gives a sickening slump
dark cinnamon hair thrown forward
and masks what was left of the you
I thought I knew.

You once told me
“I want to create beauty”
Well, you’re still beautiful
I promise.

Self Refracted

Gaping in wonder
And awe
I witness the beginning
Of a life.

Every moment
Every object
Holds a brand new meaning
To a brand new soul.

A crescendo of curiosity
Midst competing forces
Finding nature,
A gradual balance.

Staring deep into me,
Her smile causes dreams.
Dreams of the future yet to be
Dreams of the past come true.

Reflected in her eyes
I see
A different me.


The link that holds her here will crack 
taking part of me away.
I hope to give to her all I lack.

She freely moves and puts pressure on my back
as I swiftly loose ink from this inadequate pen
the link that holds her here will crack.

Sometimes I feel her kick and attack
yet I still love, as a mother hen, gathering her in
I hope to give to her all I lack.

She dares to take my heart and strip
its complicated layers, so fragile and so little
the link that holds her here will crack.

Some insist there is only one right family track
but who could listen to such ignorance? Mom knows best.
I hope to give to her all I lack.

Our family’s chaotic puzzle forms a little pack
tied with trust in our own fragile haven
the link that holds her here will crack
I hope to give to her all I lack.

Dear Misunderstanding,

“Am I supposed to say, ‘Where am I?’”

“Where am I?”

No one has to adhere to someone else’s proper purpose
or listen to your sad-making syntaxy droppings.

By small and simple means
even flutterings of the spirit
one can find joy and purpose.
Pivotal moments such as these
are the strivings of life, I think.

Like a mantra, or an ode, anyone can call
to the universe seeking peace and mercy.
The words get synchronized with the person’s heart.
This is how we can pray unceasingly.

It happens over time       creating yourself            becoming,
never all at once            like a lightning bolt       to one’s frame.

            “Who am I?”


Eve in Her Garden

Are you here now, in this green nursery
with me? I see your hand
in its creation and wonder –
if this is all that is left of you. I know
you designed me too, half of an undivided
pair. We continue to work –
a survival we do not understand. This garden
has become a schoolyard, for the children
you do not divulge to. Forgotten
lesson plans and speculations
form the roots and wicks, from which we grapple
in the darkness. I wish
you would answer, if not in words
then in the space between them. The space
where artists see heaven again
and toil matures into reflection.
I will always look for you here, in this graveyard
of bruised rose petals.

In My Dream I Wandered 

Into the chilly dusk air, I watch for him.
The wolf that stalks me.

He watches me from familiar street corners
and rests on his hind legs, lighting a cigarette –
to make sure I think he is in my life to stay.
He can’t see that residing deep inside
there is a vixen, ready to wash away his breath.

A tree grows quietly across the street, letting her
leaves rust orange and carpet the surrounding scene.
Without warning or hesitation, a fire begins
to burn her, from the inside out. The wolf growls, turning
his back for an instant, crouching on all fours.

And I run.

Her selflessness gave me the momentum I needed.
Despite my angst and the heavy air, my legs take me
to a place where the wolf cannot see 
a place that resides between the spaces of objects and moves them.
He blindly follows, calls out to me, howling
that he wants to take me far away,
I hear pleading in his voice.
Wind flows from his throat
and tries to wrap itself around my ankles.
I kick it away and yelp in pain.

I made it this far
even if he lingers near,
I’m free to live my life
without fear.
I won’t give up either.

This ledge is my friend,
the boarder between earth and the forces that hold it together.
I let the elements consume me,
And hold on to the only true thing
I can ever be sure of now – this edge is real
and it’s just what I need
because the wolf won't ever be able to blow it down. 

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