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She’s cute and not very tall, but she sure is small
She doesn’t lay as stiff as a log, and when she’s sick she howls like a dog
Her nickname is Tab, she’s not able to drive a cab
This is because she can’t reach the pedals and put the pedal to the medal
She sits in her seat and makes a beat
She’s a little lazy baby and although she is crazy and does not know how to waddle
She sure can drink a bottle
She’s soft like silk
That’s because she drinks lots of milk
Her tongue is white
She likes to bite
Only because she has 6 little teeth
Her best friend’s name is not Aretha or Keith
When she’s asleep
She doesn’t make a peep
She doesn’t speak at all
That’s because she is still very small

An innocent nine-year-old girl sat behind a wooden desk
That desk was her home away from home
The days flew by, the teachers droned on
School was simple and life stress free
Recess and gym were a godsend
She had pals, but the desk was still her best friend

Now she is a teenager, and school is a prison
Her desk and friends have turned into plastic
Drama-filled text messages and the usual catfights
Listening to lectures and writing endless essays
Scholarly success versus the social blend
But the desk still remains her best friend

Now, she enters high school
Forced to study and whatever life she had must go
Dreading the college admissions rat race
And the endless pursuit of a perfect 4.0
Music, theater, debate, and sports, her feelings irrelevant
Still, the desk is as important to her as being Class President.

Finally, her time in prison is at a close
Diploma in hand and tears down her face
She does not want to say good-bye, and yet she does
Knowing that another nine-year-old girl needs a best friend.

 

 

Be soft 
And supple 
Hairless like a child
Pluck your brows
Dye your hair
But don’t be so vain
Stand up for yourself
But know your place
Be wife material
But don’t be so needy and dependent
Be strong
And confident
But rely on my compliments for self esteem
Don’t starve yourself
To look like a stick 
“Only dogs like bones!”
But don’t indulge
Be sexy
Be curvy
Be thick
But don’t be a cow
Spread your legs when I ask
Wear crop tops
Skinny jeans like a second skin 
And skirts so short they look like panties 
But don’t be so easy
You’re just asking for it then
Cross your legs
Sit up straight 
Make sure your skirt is long
And your lipstick demure
But don’t be such a prude
Please me
Abide by my rules
Submit
But don’t you dare
Cry “misogyny”
After all, we’re equals, aren’t we?

 

 

Please click this link to enjoy “My Poetic Voice Spring/Summer 2014: A Poetry Chapbook by Mighty Writers!”

I have known the untamed happiness of chill in early October,
biting against flesh, joy of light blue fleeces tucked up ‘round chins,
all the jubilation of purple dusk skies silhouetted with hot air balloons,
glory in turquoise and silver,
fried dough and alpaca fur,
the beatitude of shadows in the sky lighting up rainbow with the roar of fire,
delight in RVs, museums and Georgia O’Keeffe painted flowers,
burning in the day and crisp as apples at night.
And I have seen mountain homes perched on boulders full of cougars,
skies the color of gems and rocks the color of blood,
ancient and new, colliding in a rush of miraculous glee,
filling me up under a blue New Mexico sky.

 

 

9/11

deeply
nestled within
the dull concrete debris
lie the bones of those who could not say
goodbye

#

fear

fear is assuming
that the unfamiliar
is dark and evil

#

hope

living on nothing
but promises and a dream
that things will work out

Friendship is a stab in the back.
You put your commitment
in friendship.
You put your love,
you put your heart.
Still,
friendship betrays you.
Like a wolf
turning away from
the pack.
But there’s
no pack
it’s just you and her
and she left me
left me for someone.
Someone
who I can’t bear to say.
That’s why I am here
writing poems
and she has forgotten
who I was,
who she was,
who we used to be.

 

 

unger is relentless.
Hunger keeps you going
while pulling you back.
Eating away at you soul,
your nerves,
your bones.
Hunger is
that box
always waiting
at your door step.
Making you remember.
Making you always hungry
for food,
for money,
for love.
Until the day
when there is no more hunger.
No more food
no more money
no more love.

Sadness
is like a crumpled up grey t-shirt.
Smushed,
filthy,
and
abandoned.
Yet,
there is something beautiful
about the grey t-shirt.
Something that makes you stare.
That sadness
like the t-shirt
can be picked up.
The beauty
of that it can always,
always get better.
Like a sad song,
or an old book.
Something beautiful
Out of something
others think worthless.

My sister Susannah,
has thick black curls, slanted eyebrows,
and a dimple on her cheek.
She is a fig tree,
short but determined,
facing the wind, never bending.

She came back every summer,
to see friends, to see family,
to see Philadelphia.
But one day would always be devoted to me.

That day we would walk,
around and around the city in circles,
like a lost child,
but we weren’t lost, we know the city like an old book,
the kind you read over and over.
The city was our home,
but she had to leave it.

We would go to places we loved,
like the art store or the book shop,
we’d go to places we hated,
like the dentist’s office.

We would go to places we had never been to.
She once said,
“Look around, Olivia,
you might love this place.”
So, I looked around.
I was a tired cat just waking up,
turning around and looking at everything,
before rolling over, and falling asleep again.

Then we’d go home, we would stay awhile,
then she would go back,
back to NYU and New York,
and I would stay and wave.
I was a smaller fig tree, just a sapling next to Susannah,
trying not to sway in the wind.