THE POET DARKLING - POEMS

The Poet Darkling is a poet, lyricist, author, and freelance writer. She holds a BA in Creative Writing with a concentration in poetry and a minor in professional writing from Southern New Hampshire University, where she also earned her MA in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in poetry. The Poet Darkling is also a proud member of the Sigma Tau Delta (Alpha Pi Psi chapter) and Alpha Sigma Lambda (Sigma Psi chapter) honor societies. When she is not writing or plotting her bid for Poet Laureate of the United States, The Poet enjoys talking to herself, wandering around aimlessly and poking dead critters with sticks.

​Then and Now

Everyone loves a great story, so try this on for size;
Civilizations rise up from the bones of giants
                                                                        majestic, righteous
                                                                                                      and full of pride…or shit…
invent the wheel for a steal, 
                                          and steal fire from the sky to cook their food
ride to the top of the Ferris wheel and stop –

***

take a look around at all the wonderful things 
created out of the crude, the goo, the primordial ooze.
                                                                         the wrath of God, 
                                                                                                     tempest tossed ark and flood
greater than forgiveness or love
                                                  eased by the flight of a snow white dove
ride to the top of Ararat with an olive branch –

***

​look around, look down on the urchin and infirm
white faces black with crude, goo, and primordial ooze
                                                                           the price of warmth;
                                                                                                         even the worthless can serve
everyone has a use and a place;
                                                white as a dove with a coal-black face 
ride to the top of the food chain, laughing all the way –

***

take a real close look around at all the wonderful things
so easily destroyed; hung from trees; a small price to please
                                                                                an arrogant audience
                                                                                                               without sympathy or souls
and who needs compassion and love
                                                        when you’re as white as a dove?
ride to the top of the privilege train and stop –

***

Then, wild beasts roamed free in what is now waste
So easily destroyed; no food to eat; no water to drink;
                                                                              Although there is plenty
                                                                                                                 there’s no profit in charity,
nor in bridging fiscal disparity; 
                                                that grey between black and white.
rise to the top of the money heap…and leap

***

now, look around you for a place to lay the blame
then ask yourself, what difference does it make?
                                                                           We’re all the take,   
                                                                                                              nobody gets a break,
in the quest for compassion and love
                                                          save those few who keep faith
and rise to the top, the cream of the crop

***

those very precious few who stop looking to blame
stop looking down, around; instead looking inside
                                                                               past color and pride,
                                                                                                               with nothing to hide
but everything to give – compassion, love
                                                                 as pure as the driven snow;
those few rise above, now and then ….

​

Supper-time 
​

Dad is laid-off.
He smokes cigars 
all day in the kitchen.
He sometimes drinks 
                           coffee 
and watches Bob Ross.

Mom c h o p s   o n i o n s, 
          
                  g a r l i c and c  a r r o t s;

potatoes boil with 
meat on the stove.

I trace houses with chimneys 
in the fog on the window; 
a smiley face;
a boat;
a dog and the sun 
with 
long pointy rays
d
  r
    i
     p
       p
         i
          n
            g
         
             down…

Mom c h o p s   p e p p e r  s –
big sweet green ones
dad grew in the garden. Dad 
never pats her on the ass
when she bends over. Mom 
never kisses him goodbye
when he leaves the house.

There’s a tear 
in the wallpaper 
next to the window.

I pick at it; the tear grows.

Mom  c h o p s    c e l e r  y, 
her ass fat in a purple polyester 
pantsuit; her hair in a beehive; 
ready for work. Dad smokes;
sips 
                              coffee…
his beard growing in;
his hair thinning on top.

Bob Ross paints a happy little tree.

Nobody sees me
                          t
                             e
                               a
                            r
                         i
                            n
                              g the wallpaper;
                      the 

god-awful 
      orange 
     flowered 
    70s 
w
  a
    l
  l
    p
      a
        p
      e
    R  

The Perils of Dishwater

morning follows 
                          the 
night before; 
dirty dishes await 
an early riser. 
                          coffee.
must wait, too; 
the mug needs washed.

                          But first…
                                              a hero’s journey.
plucking a moth 
from her perilous 
                          perch atop a 
spoon floating in dishwater 
                          red with tomato 
gravy 
and 
grease.

I place her safe in a spot
                          of early sun 
                                              on the sill,
her feathery antennae 
                                 flail          her life.
                                        about      for 
as her wings
dry in the light near a tiny
basil plant, 
                          leaves 
                                    snip/
                                           /ped 
for last night’s spaghetti 
                          supper.
                                     coffee 
          brews, 
                                           pot
                                   the
                         from
                   up
          rises 
steam 
                          sputtering 
                                                 hissss….

                                           sink
                                    the
                           from
                     up
           rises 
steam   
                      a basil leaf in the strainer
                          
my 
      moth, 
                dry, 
                       flies 
                               away.

The Women You Are Accustomed To
​

​1. Drink in dim taverns alone.
2. Answer to various names.
3. Steal money from your wallet.
4. Drink beer but prefer gin.
5. Keep secrets…or so they think.
6. Worry about their weight but still eat. 
7. Lie to you, but you don’t care.
8. Have seen a thing or three.
9. Suppress compassion as a survival mechanism.
10. Fall for anything and fool everyone.
11. Really miss their children.
12. Eat dinner alone as a rule (refer to #6.)
13. Keep cats but prefer dogs.
14. Cry at night when you sleep.
15. Know the bartender personally.
16. Hide a shoebox of old letters.
17. Know you’d never love them.
18. Love you anyway.

Becoming
​

Working late again. The dying sun hung fat and orange over the edge of the city, spilling its warmth through the window onto Jack’s back, and he turned to open the window in defense of the heat. Working late was becoming common, and that was becoming a problem. He slept in his suit more nights than he cared to admit, and though his wife thought he was growing a beard to please a new mistress, the truth was, he’d simply tired of shaving. He dreamt of change; of an empty calendar and full days. He began by removing his jacket.