A New Book

Every once in a great while

I feel the need for a book.

So I go to my library, and look

For something I haven’t read before.

But somehow I have the uncanny knack

Of checking out the same book again and again.

I really am not such a great fan

Of the ending

But still I read and hope for something different.

I swear I’ve made a list

Of the titles to never check out again

But if this book can change its title and cover, and hide

Under a new name-

How can I avoid it?

I listen for all the tell tale signs

“I’m not a jerk. I’m a nice guy.”

These are my red flags that I’ve willfully ignored

I know the story now, I know how it ends

So what’s the point of beginning?

Each page I turn I know what will happen and

I dread being right.

I pray to be proven wrong.

I really don’t see the worth anymore,

In going to the library and getting a book.

Knife, A Haiku series

I could sit and stare

For hours at an empty chair

Waiting for your touch

I’ve dreamt of that touch

The smooth caress along my

Thighs. The thin white lines

That show our story

Whispers of our broken past

You’ve penned into me

You’ve ruined me for

All the future men that see

Signs of my distress

They know I’m empty

And have nothing left to give

As I’m still waiting

For your silver kiss.

I know your kiss is poison

But still; I need it.

I need your frigid

Bite. The methodical cut

Burning peace at last

Every day I stare

At that stubbornly empty

Chair. I won’t give in.

I tell myself this

And hold you in my trembling

Fist. Just leave me be.

Go away, let me die.

Please release me from your cage.

I swear I will not.

Musings

I am an untapped well of
Bitter bile. Run while you can.
For the slightest push of your hand

Is poison Overflowing.

“I’ll grind your bones to make my bread,” you say.
“Please do, dear Giant, for my bones are glass
And everyone knows what wonders
Ground glass can do for one’s constitution.”

My bones are glass, my heart is stone-
Broken into two pieces, three, four, five?
I’m too exhausted to care, really
Let me know if you can find it.

Be sure to dust off the sand and dirt
Use duct tape to put it back together
Everyone, dear soul, knows duct tape cures all.
Too bad it hurts like a bitch when you rip it off.

It hurts like a bitch but I promise
It’s the only time I ever really feel.
So please, make me scream like a little…
I beg you to just let me feel something.

If I scream too loud so as to annoy your sensitivities
I’ll let you pour sand down my throat.
Let me choke and stop pretending to try
Unless, of course, you get off watching me drown.

I guess that’s ok then, too. You’ll just
Build me back up again because don’t you know?
The more heat you apply to sand,
It just becomes glass again.

A Mother's Wish

Her hands are cracked,
Aged and calloused from
Long nights filled with warm soapy water and

Soaking dishes in sinks.

Her husband is loud,
Aged and boisterous after
Lengthy meals with multiple courses; he loves to soak his
Bread in soups (though she tells him time and again it's uncultured).

What does she know of culture?
No time to read, or see
No time to even watch the changing world outside
The window over the sink where a yard is
Shared with the neighbors and their son.

He's tall where her husband is short,
Slim where her husband fell to seed.
She watched him go from ungainly colt towards agile youth-
And glowed with pride whenever he gained some triumph,
As if he were her own.

And then, innocent pride turned towards
Something else. Something frightening, and scary, and
Thrilling. A new emotion clouded her mind when she
Saw her own daughter's change come.

As her daughter began to awaken and to question
The woman began her own reawakening.
She began to question the stolid filth of a man she once loved
And her own worn and wearied hands.

She saw the smooth unblemished fingers of her daughter,
Delicate, thin, and spritely- symbols of her youth and freedom
And grew jealous. And when she saw that
He also saw her daughter's fingers, her heart turned to stone.

She began to dream then, that it was she with
The beautiful fingers. That she would run them over
His trembling lips and lightly brush his eyes.
She dreamed with her daughter's hands and mouth.

For months and months, the three danced this
Quiet dance. A mother pulling strings, and living through
A loving daughter. A boy in love with ideas and words and women
And fingers. Gentle, young and nimble fingers.

And as quickly as it was begun, it was over.
A young daughter ran into a welcoming mother's arms and
Cried out, saying "He's in love with another!"
And a mother's heart skipped a beat.

And later that night,
As a mother bent over her familiar sink with
Familiar smells, she saw a light from his window
And saw his beckoning hand.

The Wall

There is a man who stands behind the wall.
Is he mine? Can he hear my call?
If so, he’s still standing behind the wall.

Does he see when I bring home
A friend? Does it matter to him that night
After night after night the friend is different.

More than it matters to me, I’d think
But still, he doesn’t move,
From his place behind the wall.

Does he watch or turn away
Giving me some modesty I don’t deserve.
I don’t know because he’s standing behind the wall.

I rip into their backs with my nails
And pretend I am tearing down the wall
But I don’t want to see him standing there.

A face of silent sorrow, or a mask of hatred
How would my man look on?
As he’s standing behind the wall.

Does he stiffen with each scream?
Faked or unwilling?
Can he hear everything behind my wall?

Never Have I Ever: Conversations with a Wilde Nightingale

Have you ever heard a story?
A story that struck and stayed with you for
All your life? A story which, you could safely say,
Was the best story of any other?

Never have I ever.

I have heard a student wail,
Bemoaning the fact he could not have his love
“But for a beautiful, simple red rose-
I could leave my dusty books behind for the whisper
Of a maiden’s kiss.”
And my heart soared to him,
For love should be experienced by all
Including students lost in dark and musty words.

Have you ever flown to the ends
Of a rainbow?
Have you collected your weight in
Gold and stolen a little man’s wishes and dreams?

Never have I ever.

I have flown to a tree that I know,
A tree with beautiful roses, and begged of him,
“Surely, Tree, you would have one simple
Red rose for me?”
“Alas,” the tree cried, “Of roses, I have plenty,
But mine are of innocence and lasting calm love.
My roses are the roses of virginal women, who
Step into life as dutiful new wives, pale as sea foam and
Fresh as snow.
Go see my brother, for surely, he’d have the rose
For your heart.”
And I thanked him and left.

Have you ever sailed across the
Ocean? Tasted the salt of the sea? Have you spoken
To a mermaid? Heard her spin silver and gold and
Copper with only her voice?

Never have I ever.

I have sailed through the air to the
Brother of my tree and begged of him,
“Surely, Tree, you would have one simple
Red rose for me?”
“Alas,” the tree cried, “Of roses, I have plenty,
But mine are of sunshine and death, sorrow and eternality.
My roses are the roses of dutiful wives, lost from this life,
Who stepped out quietly among their grandchildren’s
Tears. Golden crowns upon dead women’s heads.
Go see my brother, for surely, he’d have the rose
For your heart.”
And I thanked him and left.

Have you ever danced in the rain? Splashed
In puddles like you were once a child?
Lifted your face to feel
The light kisses on your lips?

Never have I ever.

I have danced across the wind to the
Brother of my tree and begged of him,
“Surely, Tree, you would have one simple
Red rose for me?”
“Alas,” the tree cried, “Of roses, I used to have plenty
But the winds have been cruel and biting.
I have not one single flower of blood and passion
To give!” and the tree wept.
“Oh, poor Tree,” cried I, “Surely there’s a way you can give me
One simple red rose! It’s all I ask!”
“There’s a way,” the tree sniffed, “But it’s too awful.”
“Tell me!”
“I must have your song by moonlight, while you press my
Thorn to your breast. Your heart’s blood will give my
Poor roots the strength for a single
Red rose.”
And while I pondered for a moment, and looked at
The wonderful sun, I thought, ‘Of what worth
Is my life in the face of a young man’s love?’
“Please, Tree, I’ll be back tonight,” I whispered,
“And you shall give me a rose as red and sweet
As blood.”
And I thanked him and left.

Have you ever sang to a lover?
Opened your mouth with a hesitant note?
Waited intently for his reaction to you,
To say if he loved you?

Never have I ever.

I have sang to my wonderful student,
“Oh never fear, for you will kiss your maiden
On the morrow. For I shall feed my blood
For your simple red rose!”
And my student, my dear wonderful silly man,
Replied, “Oh, she has such a wonderful voice.
It’s too bad, really, that she means nothing.”
And I cried to him, “I wish, oh, I wish you could promise me
That your life will be spent in love, with both white roses
And eventually yellow. Don’t waste your time in a dusty dark book,
When you can love your maiden!” And I flew from him, to my last friend.

Have you ever told a secret? Even if
It was the secret of another? Come, be honest now.
I promise, if it’s someone close
I’ll never tell.

Never have I ever.

I have told my friend my most daring plans,
And he cried, “Oh sing for me, one last song
If you truly must leave me forever,
I wish to remember you long, long after your nest,
Has blown away into ashes!” and he wept.
And I sang him one last song, as
The Sun slowly set.
I traveled to spend my last night for the love of another
For my sweet and silly student,
Whose love was worth a thousand times my own life.

Have you ever traveled to a distant land? To see
Foreign queens and kings playing at
Politics? To see if their games were really
Quite so different than ours?

Never have I ever

I have traveled across wide expanses,
In a short space. (Time takes ever so much longer
When you’re about to die.)
“Quickly,” said the tree, “If we must do this, then we must
Start now. The moon has barely begun
Her rise. Sing to me and hold my thorn to your breast.”
So I began to sing. And first I sang of the bright fresh
Young love, of a boy and girl, upon meeting.
I sang on the freshness of a first kiss.
And as I sang pale petals began to bloom, and the
Tree cried, “Hurry, sing, you beautiful bird!
The moon is at her highest, and I must finish this flower!”
So I sang of the passion of a fiery embrace,
Of hot tempers and the cooling embrace that comes
After. More petals unfurled, becoming the barest blush
Of pink.
And I gasped, for both the beauty, and losing my breath.
“Quick, finish it!” urged the tree, “It’s too late to stop now, and
If I can’t finish, it will be for nothing! Pierce your breast so that
Your life’s blood can turn this to the reddest rose.”
And I gathered my breath and…

Have you ever pierced?
Nightingale, what did you pierce?

I have pierced my breast straight through my heart,
With the thorn of a rose tree, to make a wonderful,
Red rose. I sang a strident song, too wonderful and wild,
To even be described. (I’m sorry, but to do so, would only cheapen
What was wonderful. Let some things be mine.)
And as the moon stood still,
The last thing of my failing sight, was a wonderful,
Beautiful red rose.
Redder than the freshest blood.

Have you ever dreamed, Nightingale?
Of a life long and fruitful? Of nestlings
And your own sweet bird to tweet and
Sing songs of love and passion to you?

Never have I ever.

I have dreamed of my student,
My wonderful silly man, giving the rose to his lady.
I dreamed they would dance and live
In silent harmony.
I wish I could end my story here, but for what
I have seen.

What have you seen, Nightingale?

I have seen my student take his love my heart’s blood,
And she laughed at him and said “Oh, a rose?
Of what worth to me is a rose? The chamberlain’s son
Bought me jewels and everyone knows that
Jewels are worth more than silly posies.”
And she tossed the rose back. My student
Looked at the flower and cried, “Of what use to me is
This stupid rose? There’s much more worth in physics and mathematics
Than in love.” (And oh, if my heart wasn’t already broken, I swear
It would break again.)
And he tossed the red rose onto my broken body, to become
My dusty red grave.

Have you ever clapped your hands, in order
That a fairy may live? Nightingale, if I could, then
I would clap so that you may live.
Nightingale? Nightingale, where are you?

Worth of a Wait

What is the worth of a wait? 
One breath too long, and the moment’s gone; 
But the rush of standing still, on being
On the brink
Of something new and strong and fast and
Here.
That single sigh which hides behind your lips is
All and more that you’ve said in a lifetime
Of words.
How long can that moment last before?
Before it becomes wasted?
Does a moment come and go,
Teases and flits between a dreamless sleep and a
Waking dream?
Does she hold you near to her heart but
Laugh?
Laugh at your tears
Frustration, Burning Anger
Does she love to hold the flame beneath your feet?
If you move, she’s gone, as if
She’s never been.
A wait is a pause between lifetimes
Eternal and Fleeting.
You’ll never know her worth til the moment’s lost 
Forever.

On Stages of a Thunderstorm

A quiet fanfare, rustling of leaves

Ocean waves in the grass

My whisper grows louder with each passing second

Ghosts of words take form

The trees yearn and flowers reach up and up;

Their thirst betrays their station

My footsteps rumble in the distance as I pound the clouds,

Flashing brilliance across the sky

I am in the air, ready and waiting to come

Pouring down to satisfy

I am still, poised, waiting for

A time to dance and splash into the earth

To pour my soul into upturned nymphs

Who laugh and sing in quiet praise

I aim to give them all and everything

Every bit of my “self” is theirs

Everything is not enough.

I whisper and pass the grass, footsteps treading lightly

On the ground…my fingers running down your tree’s trunk

Lightly I tap your window,

Come, come and dance with me

Let me trickle along your face while you

Drink me in

Dance in the wind and skies, While I soak into the

Earth. Push myself deep into her welcoming embrace.

You can’t catch me, I am a million

Fleeting drops

I taste of salt and air and the breath of a flower

Whose petals have been lost to the wind.

Louder now, a crescendo, giving into the world

You called and begged and now you could not care?

I will scream into your ears and whip the clothes from your back

Until you’re bent upon your knees in Supplication

I will crash in the clouds and blind you with

My bright knives- which flash fire in the grass

I am on top

Forcing you to look away while I rip

Off your thin veneer

Nothing; I am nothing

Just a little ghost, a whisper of things

To come

I will show you how deafening nothing can be

Crash until your ears will bleed

I will scream nothing into your soul

Make you blind while dust rolls from your eyes

I am not so easy to forget, you’d find

If you had a heart to look

And just as suddenly as I was there

Beckoning with a slight whisper for a

Small dance with my winds

I am gone. Truly

Nothing

I have fed the

Earth

And pleased my

Nymphs

I will save my whispers for another day

This first post is really an introduction post, an icebreaker.

I like poetry, reading it, writing it, and apparently, some of things I write, I've gotten complete strangers to enjoy. So, I've decided to expand to a broader audience and see if other people enjoyed as well. I decided to call this blog the twisted girl because I apparently have a twisted writing style, so yay! I'm not great with titling anything when I need to, and while poems are generally allowed to go untitled, blogs probably are not.

I would like this blog to not just be me writing poetry, but also maybe discuss other people's poetry, dismantle some of the things I've written, go over the what makes a "good" poem, and maybe some discussions.

For instance, whose opinion matters more? The audience's opinion or the author's? What makes any poem a good poem?

It isn't just emotional quality of the person writing it, because I know personally I've written things in a space of five minutes, and had arguments with people, where I was saying it was complete crap, and they were saying it was gold. And then I would have something I spent over 2 and a half hours on, based on one of my favorite children's stories, that I would read every night before I went to bed, and no one would ever say a word.

So, emotional quality of the person writing it does not always matter.

I hope people enjoy, and I hope I can keep up with this. After I get this established, if anyone would like to maybe suggest their favorite poems, I would love to check them out! Hopefully...Thanks so much for reading! I hope this is a successful experiment!