Poetry Portfolio of revised work

Life after Death

I fear the void,
The emptiness, the silence,
the crystalline idea that I am nothing,
Are you out there God?
Are you sitting there judging me?

Counting up my sins.
The way I jaywalk,
that I laugh too hard,
swear too long,
and lie with a straight face.
Each sin mounting in the infinite answer,
rejection from your pearly gates.

Should I try to be good,
a better person,
constantly struggling to change who I am?
Does not God love me no matter how I act?
Can he not see that I am torn?

Trying to live up to his expectations,
those of my parents,
those of my friends,
and worst of all my own...

Is there life after death?
Is there a place of respite from these fears,
constantly banging around my head?
Branding me a sinner,
forcing guilt down my throat,
choking on the hypocrisy.

A darkness, a light at the tunnel,
Silence.
Emptiness.
Death,
and finally, Peace.

Waiting...

Your leg jumps, vibrating next to me,
I know your nervous, I am too,
but you need to stop the incessant shaking,
the tremors making me feel nauseous, unstable, insane.

The door opens, she walks in,
her face shows us nothing,
keeping us in suspense.
In her hands she has a file,
THE FILE, OUR FILE,
the file that will change our lives.

It seems innocent enough,
a normal, simple manila file.
Slightly turned up edges,
where you can see people have opened and closed it,
perhaps that is a bad sign?
A slight tear in the upper right corner,
a slight crease,
where someone bent it back too far.

I feel the folder stealing my breath,
as the woman sets it gently on the table in front of her.
She sits behind it, her face gives nothing away,
no telltale sign of our fate,
adjusts it so that it faces her directly,
my heart is ready to explode as it is opened.

"We have reviewed your file..."
My heart stops.
Time stops,
I can feel you tensing beside me,
slowly you squeeze my hand,
that I had stopped realizing you held hours ago.
No sounds spins through the room,
as we wait for her next words,
breath held in fear and anticipation,
"and we think you are perfect candidates."

My head buzzes,
Your eyes shout your relief as you stare out at me,
a smile breaks out on your face,
but I don’t see your smile, I stare at that folder,
waiting....

Its not done,
holding our life in it's thin paper grasp.
"We normally have a waiting period,
but we received a new born..."
I don't hear the rest, do not hear your questions,
Your curiosity spilling from your mouth in a tidal wave of hope.
I do not hear the social worker say that she is from Mongolia,
or how her mother was sick but that she is 100% healthy.

I only see the file,
spitting out a picture,
a photo,
of a beautiful little girl,
small and innocent,
just waiting…

To be loved by me,
Smiled at by you,
Sung to sleep by us,
A real family at last.
I begin to breathe again,
Feel the ground solidify under my feet,
And realize that the our life is just beginning.

Bloody Knuckles

Torn skin, withered heart, and a feeling of deep betrayal.

Your staring sweetly back at me, smirking at my pain, filling me with emotion.

A memory of that moment when I saw you for who you really are, a love lost, proven false.

Torn skin, withered heart, and a feeling of deep betrayal.

You post the pictures of your NEW family, you smugly like my threads, comment of my empty nest, you continue to harass me!

You make me feel fear that I will always be alone, and anger and rage that you stole my happy ending.

Torn skin, withered heart, and a feeling of deep betrayal.

Your staring sweetly back at me, smirking at my pain, filling me with emotion.

Child Eyes

When I was young I believed in fairy tales and magic,
I believed in happily ever after’s,
wishes coming true and make believe.


When I was young I believed in infinite possibilities,
in making my goals come true with hard work,
in the limitless future of ballerinas, astronauts and movie stars that I had in front of me.


When I was young I saw the world through rosy colored glasses,
blurred lines of what will be and what can be,
images of a better future filled with magic and wonder.


When I was young I saw no color,
no differences,
no reason to be scared.


When I was young I saw more than I see now,
and infinitely less.


My eyes are the same,
yet what they see has changed as I have grown,
stereotypes, stigmas, and everything in between color my eyes black,
fogged over by the what ifs and how comes.


They see the lies that are spread,
The terror that people rejoice in,
The oppression of those who have nothing.


They see that my future is limited,
Chained by society’s expectations,
Of social norms,
And how I am expected to act.


My child eyes saw life as freedom,
Dancing and singing in the street,
Jumping in puddles,
Laughing at a leaf blown in the wind.


My adult eyes see darkness,
A prison of potential opportunities lost,
Of regrets, and wishes lost to soon to the heavy burden that it life.
When I was a child I believed in more,
now I am an adult and I know there is less.

Fresh Ink

The ink is poured slowly into plastic pins,
Small and round,
they seem to hold nothing at all,
but enough to mark me forever.

The colors green and black,
Not mixing,
not yet,
the whirl of the machine as it roars to life,
Buzz.

I’m tense yet exhilarated,
ready for the burn,
ready for the heat,
the sizzle of my flesh as its torn and stained.

The first touch to skin,
the first drop of blood,
mixing with the ink,
a pattern emerges,
streaks of black,
swirls of green,
your favorite colors imprinted on my skin.

The blueprint slowly disappears,
beneath the hum of the machine,
the design starting to take shape,
take life upon my skin,
as your life,
your presence changed me forever,
marked me with invisible ink.

The pain is addicting,
Lancing through my arm,
Settling in my stomach,
A gentle ache,
A reminder that I want this,
like I wanted you, even with everybody’s warning, opposition.

This tattoo that will mark me forever,
Never let me forget,
The real pain of your loss,
The real pain of your passing,
the void that your absence has created.

They say that love is internal,
and that there are thousand types of love,
ours was real,
and beautiful,
and honest,
we proved them all wrong,
by making the most of the time we had,
smiling in the face of your chemo,
laughing in the face of surgery after surgery,
death didn’t scare us,
it made us stronger,
connected,
whole.

This is my memento,
to a time when love was fresh,
and we smiled in pity for those who didn’t feel what we felt,
didn’t understand how two sick people could find comfort in each other,
find strength in holding each other,
knowing that time was limited,
short,
that the pain we felt was nothing in the scheme of our love.

I don’t regret it,
Not one second,
Not one moment spent with you,
Even now as I struggle to breath,
and smile without you,
I know it was worth it,
our love was perfect in its imperfections.
This pain too will pass, it will settle into an ache,
that will meld into a memory,
That will remind me forever of you,
like the whirling buzz,
of this my first tattoo.

Waiting...

Your leg jumps, up and down, up and down,

I know your nervous, I am too,

but your jumping leg is driving me insane.

The door opens, she walks in,

her face shows us nothing,

keeping us in suspense.

In her hands she has a file,

THE FILE,

the file that will change our lives.

It seems innocent enough,

a normal, simple manila file.

Slightly turned up edges,

where you can see people have opened and closed it,

perhaps that is a bad sign?

A slight tear in the upper right corner,

a slight crease,

where someone bent it back too far.

I feel the folder stealing my breath,

as the woman sets it gently on the table in front of her.

She sits behind it,

adjusts it so that it faces her directly,

my heart is ready to explode as it is opened.

"We have reviewed your file..."

My heart stops.

Time stops,

you stop moving you leg,

no sounds spins through the room,

as we wait for her next words,

"and we think you are perfect candidates."

My head buzzes,

as you grab my hand,

a smile breaks out on your face,

I stare at that folder,

waiting....

Its not done,

holding my life in it's thin paper grasp.

"We normally have a waiting period,

but we received a new born..."

I don't hear the rest,

not about how she is from Mongolia,

or how her mother was sick.

I only see the file,

spitting out a picture,

a photo,

of a beautiful little girl,

who starting next week will be coming home with me,

with us,

and I begin to breath again.

Life after Death

I fear the void,

The emptiness, the silence,

the crystalline idea that I am nothing,

Are you out there God?

Are you sitting there judging me?

Counting up my sins,

They way I jaywalk,

the way I laugh too hard,

swear too long,

and lie with a straight face.

Each sin mounting in the infinite answer,

rejection from your pearly gates.

Should I try to be good,

a better person,

constantly struggling to change who I am?

Does not God love me no matter how I act?

Can he not see that I am torn?

Trying to live up to his expectations,

those of my parents,

those of my friends,

and worst of all my own...

Is there life after death?

Is there a place of respite from these fears,

constantly banging around my head?

Branding me a sinner,

forcing guilt down my throat,

choking on the hypocrisy.

A darkness, a light at the tunnel,

Silence.

Emptiness.

Death.

and finally, Peace.

Tayler

The afternoon had drug on long past what the young girl had expected, but it was worth the wait when she met her sister for the first time. She smelled like cow manure, sewage and blood but her screams showed her strength, and brought a rush of love so fierce that no smell could stop the young girl from gasping with joy. The young girl became scared she would accidentally hurt the new baby just by touching her, so smooth, so tiny she felt in her arms. The way she breathed softly into the air, the curl of her long lashes upon her cheek, the soft sound of contentment she made as she suckled their mother's milk. As the clock ticked the young girl allowed herself to realize the meaning of this new young life, how with each breath, each soft mew, this child had become hers to protect, hers to safeguard, to teach and shape but most importantly to love.

Bloody Knuckles

Torn skin, withered heart, and a feeling of deep betrayal.

Staring sweetly back at me, filling me with emotion.

A memory that forces me into action, a love lost and proven false.

Torn skin, withered heart, and a feeling of deep betrayal!

You post the pictures, you smugly like my threads, you continue to harass me!

You make me feel fear, and anger and rage.

Torn skin, withered heart, and a feeling of deep betrayal.

Staring sweetly back at me, filling me with emotion.

Cliche Love Poem: Time Traveler of Love

I am a time traveler of love,

our love is infinite,

it has lasted an eternity,

only time will tell how long it will go on.

I saw you at the sock hop,

I lost track of time watching you,

in the nick of time I asked you to dance to the last song,

I felt my heart beat at the speed of light.

What a waste of time my life was before I met you,

my sorrow would have lasted an eternity had we never met,

yet now, I am without a care in the world with you by my side.

You are a diamond in the rough,

you have made me as week as a kitten,

and as brave as a lion.

They say time heals all wounds,

but without you I would perish.

Waste away to nothing,

With gut wrenching pain,

I imagine a life without you.

I would travel through time to see you,

there are not plenty of fish in the sea,

there is only you and me,

opposites attract, as we did,

moving together to live happily ever after.

Like a kid in the candy store,

I smile at my good fortune,

I laugh with you, not at you,

I dance till I drop,

I spring into action,

and fall into your arms,

knowing that time stands still when were together.

I am a time traveler of love,

yet with you,

time stands still.

Ring

Silver, Hard and soft,

Red, Strong and passionate,

Black, Bisecting and slashing across my sight.


I carry you everywhere,

attached you are to me,

on my finger,

around around around we go.


You wash the dishes with me,

You type on the keyboard,

you sleep with me,

you dream with me,

you are a memory,

a flash of a time and place.


You are a guilty part of my psyche,

a reminder of a sin,

of being a "bad little girl",

a time of sirens and blue uniforms,

a star that is a sheild.


You are a reminder of sun,

margaritas, and beaches,

of laughter, spas, and Lobster,

you remind me of a vacation I can never forget.


Shaped like an eye,

you stare at me constantly,

catching my attention in the sun's rays,

flashing in the light,

a single ring that on my finger means so much,

and means so little.

Child Eyes

When I was young I believed in fairy tales and magic,

I believed in happily ever afters,

wishes coming true and make believe.


When I was young I believed in infinite possibilities,

in making my goals come true with hard work,

the limitless future that I had in front of me.


When I was young I believed that my family would always stay together,

that blood meant something,

that family was forever.


When I was young I saw the world through rosy colored glasses,

blurred lines of what will be and what can be,

images of a better future filled with magic and wonder.


When I was young I saw no color,

no differences,

no reason to be scared.


When I was young I saw more than I see now,

and infinitely less.


My eyes are the same,

yet what they see has changed as I have grown,

stereotypes, stigmas, and everything in between color my eyes black,

fogged over by the what ifs and how comes.


When I was a child I believed in more,

now I am an adult and I know there is less.

The Golden Win

A team of five step on the court,

thousands roar in anticipation,

the countdown,

10,9,8,


7,6,5


4,3,2


the jump,

it STARTS!!!!




Minutes tick by on the clock,

breaths held in hope and horror,

mingling in with the screetch,

swish and snap of the ball,

on the floor,

in the net,

moving, running, rushing,

pass, pass, pass,

SCORE!!!




So close,

yet so far,

its been fourty years,

since our last win,

we've been waiting,

hoping, wishing, and praying,

waiting for it,

times almost out,

seconds counted down,

3, 2, 1,

we've WON!!!




Blue and Gold,

a roar is heard worldwide,

a cheer of victory,

we are the champions,

we fought the "king",

and beat him down,

with Curry on our side,

we made history,

we are top,

NBA Champions,

Lets go Warriors,

Lets go Warriors,

Lets GO!!!

Fresh Ink

The ink is poured slowly into plastic pins,
Small and round,
they seem to hold nothing at all,
but enough to mark me forever.

The colors green and black,
Not mixing,
not yet,
the whirl of the machine as it roars to life,
Buzz.

I’m tense yet exhilarated,
ready for the burn,
ready for the heat,
the sizzle of my flesh as its torn and stained.

The first touch to skin,
the first drop of blood,
mixing with the ink,
a pattern emerges,
streaks of black,
swirls of green.

The blueprint slowly disappears,
beneath the hum of the machine,
the design starting to take shape,
take life upon my skin.

The pain is addicting,
Lancing through my arm,
Settling in my stomach,
A gentle ache,
A reminder that I want this.

This tattoo that will mark me forever,
Never let me forget,
The real pain of your loss,
The real pain of your passing.

They say that love is internal,
and that there are thousand types of love,
ours was real,
and beautiful,
and honest,
this is my memento,
to a time when love was fresh and new,
like the whirling buzz of me getting my first tattoo.

The Massacre of Barabish

The massacre of Barabish is to date one of the most brutal and bloody, unresolved cases in history. The spring air was fresh and the sun shone bright on the Wednesday morning of May 12, 2020. Waking up no one could have known that such a beautiful, hopeful day would be so stained with madness. In the quiet town of Barabish, the townsfolk began to gather for the wedding on one of their young ladies, Miss Arabella Samsun. Arabella was a young and spirited lady. With a head full of long, red hair, she was known for being both spirited and brave. Never one to scare or step down from a challenge none had been surprised when Miss Arabella had gone off on her own to achieve her goal of becoming the town’s first female doctor. When she returned fresh from medical school, the town cheered and gave thanks that such a young, promising doctor had decided to return to work in their small town. They watched as she began her practice and fell in love all over again with her high school sweetheart Tommy Magirer. There’s was a love of movies and books. When the young couple walked through town, people stopped to sigh at the obvious love they had for one another. He would smile and her face would light up a room, his eyes would twinkle and crinkle at her witty humor and together they brought light and laughter to all those they passed. The townsfolk knew that their wedding would be one of great laughter, and love, filled with joy and prosperity. A marriage one could look to and wish to emulate. It was never to be however, for upon the fateful day of their marriage something went terribly wrong. Some say it was the water in the town that had been poisoned, others say a demon took over Miss Arabella and forced her to do evil. Whatever it was that caused the young, bright doctor to snap was the beginning of the end for the town of Barabish. As the townsfolk gathered in the church, they marveled at the decorations. The bells wrung merrily, the orchestra played a soft tune as people entered and found their seats. The church itself was covered in tulips and daffodils, a swirl of yellow and oranges that brought light to the room. Against the deep brown stained pews, sprigs of lavender hung over reefs of holly, and ribbon was braided into streamers of daisies. The church smelled of new spring and many smiled with the joy and hope the decorations inspired. Dressed in their best, the town settled into the church to await the bride's entrance, whispering in anticipation at the marvelous sight they knew Miss Arabella would be. Yet it was not a beautiful blushing bride that entered the church that morning but a hell storm of rage and death. The first hint that something was wrong was the terrified scream that rent the air from just outside the church. Then before people could do more than turn towards the sound, Arabella slammed open the heavy and old oak church doors and entered the church. As the doors swung, people gasped in alarm, they could glimpse through the doorway that the wedding party lay sprawled in bloody heaps on the stairway to the church. Arabella herself was a ghastly sight. Her sparkling and virginal dress was covered in red, dark stains. Blood seemed to crawl up her body, swirling into patterns of death. Her face was splattered, her eyes gleamed with a madness that seems unearthly and in her hands she held a sawed-off shotgun. Her eyes danced crazily over the crowd before she let out a hysterical laugh. To those frozen in their seats, it seemed a demon had entered the church! Arabella did not waist time, shots rang through the air as she sprayed bullets throughout the crowd. Screams rent the air, and people threw themselves down to avoid the cloud of bullets. It seemed as if time stopped, as she reloaded and walked, silently, stepping over the body of the mayor and the butcher to where her fiancé lay at the end of the aisle. Tommy's white face, showed the pain he felt from the bullet he had taken to his leg, a soft whimper escaped his mouth as he stared up into the face of his bride-to-be. Arabella stood over him and let out what seemed to be a sob of deep sorrow, looking down into Tommy's face, a single tear escaped her eye. "Why?" she whispered, and then the resounding sound of death tolled as she pulled the trigger. Blood and brains sprayed the room, covering the bible on the parapet. Eyes glassy she barely acknowledged the trembling priest huddled under the pew, clutching a silver embossed cross to his chest and shaking as he prayed for salvation. Turning she looked over the blood bath she had caused. Death surrounded her; mothers lay in puddles clutching their children to their chests, fathers and uncles died with looks of shock and horror on their faces. Those that had escaped the flurry of bullets, hid under those that had fallen, too scared to move. The sight of it all seemed to hit Arabella all at once, as if she was seeing it for the first time. She jerked in shock and a whine of pain escaped her mouth. Collapsing to the church floor, her dress bellowing out around her she looked like a white rose, stained and crumpled but beautiful all the same. Her red hair framed her pale face, the black of the gun powder singed her hands, staining her gloves dark, "I had to" she whispered to the room, before turning the shotgun on herself. In the time that followed, the questions of Why? Shook the town and all those who learned of the horrible story. Out of the towns 316 inhabitants, 52 had died, 15 had been wounded and none had left the church unscathed from the horror. People tried for years to understand what had set off the events that sparked the tragedy of Barabish, but no answers could be found. They had died with Arabella and the answers that were so desperately seeked by the town would never to be found.