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Silence Lives Here

It's louder than anything.
Dishes fall and shatter noiselessly,
the vacuum's muffled,
the spark of a match is unheard,
the television drones on, muted.
Silence booms.
It wormed it's way
over cleaning rags
and grocery lists,
straight to my heart
and ate it.
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A Revelation

I choke on the air
thick with the stench
of surmise.
Biting into that bastard apple
made my teeth ring cloyingly.
A simple optic scan reveals nothing.
You must peel me.
Pared of my skin,
is my viscera a revelation?
Does the tinny taste of my heart
bring you relief?
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If I held you here in the atrium
for twenty-thousand years
would you understand me,
word for soot-black word?

Sometimes, lying flat,
I rise out of my skin to float.
An apparition, I can see
my marrow is also yours.

If only lunacy were contagious,
you would see me
residing in your skin, your bones.

Instead, I hold you to me
and bury thoughts
between covers of leather-
shelves and shelves of ugly mirrors.
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First Date

Small talk over coffee
undoubtedly leads to talking
about our passions.
I can see in your eyes
that the mere mention of my art
throws up red flags for you.

You imagine me
an eccentric woman
in a thrift-store cardigan
sipping darjeeling
and quoting poets
long dead before Lincoln.

I'll ravage you nightly
before ranting in riddles
about cocoons and radishes,
things you won't understand.

After birthing our children by moonlight
I'll bury the placenta
under the daffodils
and insist on homeschool
before I crack.

You'll come home to find me
leaping from the 13th floor
with both wrists slit
hanging from the rafters

with my head in the oven.

Heckled by the neighbors,
you're the talk of the town-
the question looming
until your last days
'Did he drive her to it?'

Back in coffee shop reality,
you smile and say "That's nice."
But I know better
than to expect a return call.
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A Beach House on Mars

I marvel at my simplicity;
everything around you whirls, complex.
You sow oats in a monastery
playing shameless and oblivious,
though everyone knows you're neither.
I watch and imagine shaking you
(as if that would somehow help)
and pointing you in the right direction
to your babies, long abandoned,
the lost dreams you forgot about,
to the potential I see, but no one thinks exists.
My goals may be lofty, a beach house on Mars,
yet my wish that you would find your bliss
seems so much more farfetched.
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Green Trousseau

Does she wear white today
while I sit bare?

Her flaxen hair flowered,
mine dark and damp?

Do her eyes hold sparkles
while mine brim wet?

Her concealed blue garter
turns my heart black.

Does she carry daisies
while my smile wilts?

PS. Thanks for helping me pick a title for this one! "Green Trousseau" was my original choice, but I had some negative reactions to it. Glad I wasn't wrong about it!
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Do you like bad haiku? I do.

Amazed at the barrage of bad #haiku that runs rampant on twitter, my fellow Artwiculati @JonPowles, @SJHatzi, @Wifsie, and I decided to contribute. The following video of Silia and I reading our creations was created by @harrarp. Enjoy!

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Green Movement

I look back, my steps having marred the time-packed earth behind me;

I slip foot from shoe, foot from shoe and pad along silently.

Glancing backwardly once again, I see them: heel, pad, toe prints.

I gaze at the grass, growing silently, reaching toward the sun,

to disturb even one tiny green blade, I am not worthy.

But the stream runs along beside, rocks flattened invitingly.

The sap of the earth flows coolly over tiptoe, under arch;

squashy underfoot, the roan mud is a thick and gracious host.

The minnows glide past, apathetic toward any intruder.

Leaping from stone to stone, my feet splish with each tender landing.

Here, paranoia flees, sun warms, frowns fade. Yes, nature endures.
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April 1 writing prompts from Poetic Asides and readwritepoem.

A bit behind on posting, perhaps, but I thought I'd share the poems I've been writing from the prompts of Poetic Asides and readwritepoem.

The prompt from Poetic Asides was to write a lonely poem.

The Lonely Lopped-Eared Rabbit

A lavender wicker basket
tossed haphazardly upon the settee
catches my eye,
it's contents spilled forth:
scattered foil wrappers,
half of a cracked plastic egg,
a sticky, chewed jelly bean,
and there, nestled in the pastel faux grass,
a chocolate bunny.
With one ear having been partially ingested,
he watches me, his blue sugar eyes pleading.
Not one to allow such suffering,
I take heed
with one swift

The readwritepoem promt was to set your mp3 player on shuffle, write down the titles of the first 5 songs, and use them in a poem.

My songs were "Bulletproof" by Rilo Kiley, "Tiny Vessels" By Death Cab for Cutie, "Joshua" by Dolly Parton, "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath, and "I Walk the Line" by Johnny Cash. (Yes, I have an eclectic taste in music...)


Watching Joshua
with the barrage of tiny vessels
bouncing from his bulletproof facade,
left me paranoid.
Afraid to run, I walk the line,
that leads me back to you.
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February 11, 1963

You and I, amazing the similarities.
The desire to fit like the rest in a jigsaw,
but with jagged edges, we refuse to stay put.

The want of our fathers, long gone before they loved;
swaddled by our mothers, in tight cases entrapped.

Into verse delving; words fit neatly on a page.
Every dark thought, exposed, held upright with book ends;
the empty feelings, momentarily silenced.

Having used our words to reach out to faceless men,
loving them because of our own inequities,
but having no need to meet them, see, be with them.

Our second child, lost before being held.
You in hospital, I under counselor’s watch;
eyes roving, family whispering, “Is she mad?”
Oh, if they knew, if they had any idea,
locked away, locked away, we’d never see the light.

What makes us poets? A dark worm eating our souls.
Did they nearly save you, your children, as mine did?
Did he stifle you, squander your gift with semen?

Yes, you were powerful, but some dark splotch owned you.
It owns me, is it possible to cut that stitch?
Muse, I’ll house him for you; perhaps he’ll die with me.
I am I. You are You. We are We. Aren’t we?

(I had a headache yesterday, so that's why I didn't post. This is one I wrote from a prompt, which was to write a poem about another poet, using one of their lines.)
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National Library Week

(April 11-17)
Make sure you pay your local librarian a visit, it's National Library Week 2010!
The theme this year is "Communities thrive @ your library."

More information can be found here:
American Library Association

In honor of both National Poetry Month and National Library Week, I might just leave with a pile of poetry books!

What are you planning on checking out this week?
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Casualties of War

This is one I wrote after reading this article:
Nun is charged after protest at nuclear missile silo
After being worked and reworked, it somehow became a haiku.

Casualties of War

Three anti-war nuns
of Dominican order
crept through the still night,

damaging fences
on government property
to deface missiles.

Their blood in bottles,
they scrawled scarlet crosses on
nuclear warheads,

the deployment tracks
indented with crucifix,
Now nukes will not move.

Protesting with prayer
when authorities arrived,
their rallying song

brought attention to
weapons of mass destruction
in our own backyard.

Bound with silver cuffs,
the apprehended sisters
labeled terrorists,

stripped of their habits,
forced to wear gaudy orange,

without rosaries,
a punishment in itself.
Did their God forsake?
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Wall Street

Fat sow, hefty cattle, sated mare,
thick cream, dozen eggs, rich cheese,
full purse, locked safe, fine jewels,
guarded gate, paved drive,
house on the hill,

home foreclosure,
rusty latch, dirt path,
bounced books, change jar, dog tags,
sour milk, cracked egg, moldy swiss,
thin pig, starving cows, hungry horse.
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Last September

I still feel you within
and reel--reel to the point
I can't say the word
that rings like a bell tower
cracking sidewalks along fractured streets.
I've not counted the times I've hidden
and sobbed as if it were
last September,
or the days I simply forgot how to move.
I'd have swallowed nettles, anything to save you.
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Enticing poppy,
an unwitting aid,
one vial of your blood
they kill to accrue.

I’ve never felt you
course deep through my veins
yet, my soul's tarnished,
family destroyed.

Damn you, sweet flower,
repossess your gift
that eats from within.

We’ve no want for the
paltry donation
encased in syringe.
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Father's Image

My dense brow, cursed hairs
dark with your DNA.

I sit, stare, dare not pluck
a single follicle.

I see the blatant looks;
they don’t ask, but I know

secretly they wonder
why the girl with wild brows

would keep them. But you know,
wherever you may be.

You’ll see my sacrifice:
fashion for loyalty,

looks for love.
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Spherical rainbow,
a smile-inducing giggle-fit,
floats carefree.

Your innocent breath,
the part of you
I long to keep preserved,
fills it-- makes it so.

The iridescent colors
swirl around before meeting
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Hello and welcome to my blog, Scribbled Black Ink!

Let me take a moment to introduce myself. My name is Michelle, I'm a 26 year old stay-at-home mom and unpublished poet.

This blog came to be because I wanted to be able to share my poetry with the world without going through the hassles and headaches of publishing.

I plan on trying to share a poem a day, as well as some of the things I find inspiring, my favorite authors and a few good reads, a giveaway now and then, and perhaps even a sneak peek into what the life of a poet is like.

Comments on my poetry are welcome and appreciated! They're what will help mold me into a better writer. I only ask that you be respectful to myself and others when posting a comment. Other than that, there are no rules here! Feel free to speak your mind!

Thanks again for stopping by!

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