READ IT HERE FIRST: Two Seriously Amazing Poetry Collections.

Nicole Marie:

Poetry lover? Then you won’t want to miss the work from these two writers.

Originally posted on ERICKA CLAY:

As Compilations Editor for Tipsy Lit, I have had the pleasure of sifting through the work of some extremely talented writers, and after a lot of consideration last month I found myself being pulled back to two authors in particular: Wayne Burke and Jada Yee.

Their poems are the kind that when spoken aloud leave a taste on your tongue that is hard to describe; you can only say that you want more. We are honored to have been given the chance to showcase these two collections via Wattpad, and invite you to head on over and read some brilliant work.

In Dreams We Hunt the Lion by Wayne Burke

Photo Cred: https://www.flickr.com/photos/78214643@N07/6976145304/in/photolist-bCsyXj-dUowq8-nv2BRK-7mCYFc-wXbZG-or1hDT-9F4fXa-4YqVjV-8zk6sU-bwJeqA-o2DSrv-8bCh6X-b5unYt-boZbuX-bvQvjr-3jzosc-7JjAc8-9CgmfU-7iafhY-efDvNo-fXLoMs-pY615y-hapqXS-bA3Ksy-a5etAY-dofs7i-diti3a-mbudFE-jySRoi-5qhDBC-eKAfiV-7oGzzc-5reS4B-b5tDWa-4LAYpV-phTUKN-7v1TbU-2g7qnC-nYQTL5-pwnB8P-6HAA3T-87KZ2Y-oeEwKb-8vQAMP-82PjFw-ocEyfs-aovzeQ-6mWJxx-8WE3TE-ecpNRD Photo Cred: https://www.flickr.com/photos/78214643@N07/

READ IT HERE: http://www.wattpad.com/story/33811120-in-dreams-we-hunt-the-lion

In a collection that Burke describes as “minimalist” and “accessible”, In Dreams We Hunt the Lion guides readers through the nooks and crannies of everyday life in a way that is smooth and…

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At Midnight

ciggarete_2

Daddy built a fort in the living

room out of cigarette ash and

empty beer bottles while I

kept busy sweeping up the soot.

 

I tasted it once, licked an

index finger and dragged it

across my salmon tongue

in the shape of a crucifix –

it was thick and earthy,

it hid between my teeth and

told me stories while I slept.

 

Mommy poured another glass

of iced tea on our front step and

exchanged gossip like rubies

with our next door neighbor.

 

I hopscotched over purple

crooked numbers on our

pavement, stared up at the

clouds that watched me overhead –

at six the streetlights would kick

on and I’d hide between their yellow

while I waited to be whistled inside.

 

At midnight I was in bed carving

holes in my mattress by moonlight:

one for the ash,

one for a bottle,

one for the rubies.

 

I smoothed down

the pink sheets and dreamed.

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#1000Speak: Party Girls Don’t Get Hurt

Nicole Marie:

Amazing. My friend Samara has done it again – she is constantly spilling her heart onto the page for us. Please, give this a read.

Originally posted on A Buick in the Land of Lexus:

Beer_Drinking_Woman-500x335 4

I’m the party girl, the smarty girl, that arty girl

That rock and roll child, toured with Nirvana

Born to be wild, dressed up in style

Party with rock stars, cool kids, out laws, in the raw

I’m the cool girl, the hot girl, the “it” girl, human tilt-a-whirl

The popular girl, wild child, live on the edge, crouched on a ledge

The sexy girl, men want to screw

Super talented chick, don’t you wish it were you?

One two three drink

one two three drink

one two three drink

throw ‘em back till I lose count

Envy me, copy me, fall for me; worship me

Beg for me, plead for me

If they want me they bleed for me

I’m the girl who takes all the chances, who dies everyday,

is reborn every moment, I’ll lead you astray

Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you my…

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What summer was like

The backseat of my

grandfather’s Lincoln

smelled of warm leather

always saltwater

even folded into his

sloping

Mayfair driveway.

 

Two weeks of

washing with generic

soap bars

and his skin still

made me think of

hard work, cedar,

sandpaper.

 

The name inked

on his shoulder

his own

drooped and faded

quietly like the

sea memories

of a sailor.

 

They packed away

the soap and

I rolled up the

windows in the

Lincoln so I wouldn’t

forget

what summer was like.

 

I curve my hands

now

around the steering

wheel,

around his shoulders,

I press my forehead

to his happiness.

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Decoding

 

I remember my grandmother’s house

as a pile of amber ashes I’ve been sifting

through since birth. I’d cup some in my hands

like cool water, lace up my insides then knife all

the seams in one breath, watch them drift to

the rug like black snow and begin to cool.

 

I’d wade under the rusted aluminum overhang

with my father, peek through faded pink

lace curtains on the windows. She’d offer me a Sprite,

I’d sit on a foot stool in the basement and stare at

old photos while she enlisted him to help her

navigate the present, run an errand or two.

 

He always looked ready to run, my father,

seated on the corner of a chair with his hands

folded in his lap. Every visit I’d sweep some ashes

into my pocket, take them home and

press them in my diary until I had enough

to decode the tension in my shoulders, the stones in my chest.

 

I studied the message for days, ran

my fingers over its veins. I took

our sharpest kitchen knife to the pages

and threw a party with the white-lined

confetti, then I cupped some in my hands

like cool water, swallowed every piece and cried.

 

 

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HE WOULDN’T ACCEPT MY COMPASSION

Nicole Marie:

In writing about my wonderful grandfather, I was blessed with the realization of just how selfless this man was, even in his final moments. I miss him more than words could ever say.

Originally posted on hastywords:

Today I am truly excited and most honored to host my favorite poetess Nicole Marie from Words and Other Things. Today’s compassion story is honest, raw, emotional, and I should warn you a box of tissues might be handy to have.  This post is sure to touch everyone’s heart.

 BeFunky_Elizabeth Lindhag.jpg


HE WOULDN’T ACCEPT MY COMPASSIONby Nicole Marie

compassion
[kuh m-pash-uh n]

noun
1. a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

As I am writing this, it has been eleven days since I lost my grandfather. Eleven days since something jolted me awake at 6:39 AM, just moments before my phone rang, as if a part of me already knew. I think it was him, telling me before my mother could.

Our son is due on his birthday, the…

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Friday in Philadelphia

Nicole Marie:

Poetry Saturdays!

Originally posted on ERICKA CLAY:

(http://decaturmakers.org/hopscotch-prototype-build-and-maker-faire-planning-meeting/) (http://decaturmakers.org/hopscotch-prototype-build-and-maker-faire-planning-meeting/)

Eight years old when I watched a man

beat another with a baseball bat just

feet from out front door, both shirtless

in late summer heat up against the old

public school.

Neighbors flanked us like friends at a bonfire

and I saw blood for the first time without a

television screen, painted on the concrete

where I hopscotched, kick-balled,

where I grew hips.

My father forced me back inside

and I stayed up all night

seeing the second man’s face,

counting every drop that had

made me a little bit older.

Morning after and I ate scrambled eggs

like my last meal, kicked open

the screen door before they could

tell me not to go over there, stay away,

it hasn’t been scrubbed clean yet.

I was quiet as an ant, surprised by

how far the stains reached out across

the pavement, and soon two friends

had joined…

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This is How You Grieve Him

With aging photos, phone calls planning dinner,

with the same story of the same diner pancakes

on countless Sundays that you never finished, but

were allowed to order anyway.

 

With your great aunt in the hospital hallway

being selfish as usual, with your father in the

hospital hallway with circles under his eyes

the size of dinner plates, dirt in the brim of

his baseball cap, sipping coffee and watching

his father die.

 

You grieve him with the counting of his breath

like the anticipation between lightning and thunder,

with laughter you managed to scrape from the very

bottom of your lungs.

 

With yoga, with a glass of milk, with quick,

quiet crying in the cereal aisle of the supermarket.

 

You line up sympathy cards like paper trinkets

on the mantel, and you grieve because they grieve for you.

 

You grieve without sadness too, the first time you’re able

to say you lost him without hunching your shoulders.

 

With every look at your rounding belly,

the shape of some new world without him in it

except he is, in the still unknown face of your son.

 

Over coffee, over breakfast, over a good book,

watching your favorite television show, paying

for an ice cream, kissing your husband goodnight,

brushing your hair.

 

You grieve him in any way, in every way, in light and dark,

your grandfather.

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PREORDER NOW – Unkept, a novel by Ericka Clay

Hi, friends! I wanted to pass along an epic opportunity for those of you who own a Kindle. My friend and fellow booze lover Ericka Clay has a novel coming out! Preorder your Kindle copy of Unkept now, and it will automatically be delivered to your Kindle on March 2nd.

Via www.erickaclay.com:

Ericka Clay is a published novelist represented by Robyn Russell and the author of Unkept.

She’s also a major foodie, yoga newbie, overall health nut and the founding editor of Tipsy Lit.”

Book description, via www.amazon.com:

“As the live-in manager at her father’s funeral home in Burling Gates, Missouri, Vienna Oaks has succumbed to the mediocrity and abject loneliness of her life.  Her days are suspended between the mundane and the misery of her clients’ throttling grief, of changing light bulbs, and encountering strangers as bereft as she. But after orchestrating the funeral for a little boy named Parker prompts a severe panic attack, she finds herself at a personal crossroads in which she is forced to confront the pregnancy she’s been hiding, her childhood nemesis, the boy she never stopped loving, and the deep-seated secret surrounding her mother’s death more than a decade before.

In another part of town, Heather Turnbull has just learned from her estranged father that her mother, a lifelong recluse, has died.  When making arrangements for her funeral, Heather chooses Oaks Family Funeral home, where she comes face to face with Vienna – the woman she tortured throughout grade school, the woman who has recently had an affair with her husband.

Together, Vienna and Heather navigate through a makeshift friendship born of circumstance and devised to assuage their ambivalence towards motherhood and their tenuous relationship with reality, discovering, in tandem, the art of forgiveness and the will to go on.

With humor and poignancy, Ericka Clay’s debut novel, Unkept, explores the thorny landscape of childhood trauma and the ferocious politics between little girls — and the adults they become.”

Click here to order your Kindle version of Unkept today!

xo,

Nicole Marie

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Heirlooms

You left us quietly,
    an open window, a love note, a door ajar.

Mother called and I was already waking
from a half-sleep, when she said it I tried to
keep from biting down on the bathroom tile.

I won’t know how long it took you
    but it was
         two minutes
for my hair to all turn gray,
my bones to turn to ash in the sheets,
my husband to sift through the mess and find me,
pull me close.

I curled like paper to a flame,
    tied a silk ribbon around my lungs and
tried my best to keep the night quiet.

I was searching the ceiling expecting to see you there
like some death novel, a holy farewell before
you were smoked out like a criminal.

In the hospital I held your face
                  like an heirloom.

You kissed my cheek
like I’d done good and I felt
me grow a little older.

I am wearing at my fingers
    like skipping stones from our mountain days
so I won’t forget
how your skin felt in my hands
with life still behind it.

I’ll keep busy,
learning to tie knots in my heart
                         to fill the void,
                         to keep from aging.

Promise me

you’ll pour a glass and
open the curtain
     from time to time
if only to check,
if only to whisper hello
with a smile.

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