connections 

mother folds the rug back 
while father sweeps

mother stirs the pot 
while father fixates
on a crack in the ceiling

anything but the way
my shoulders jackhammer
while i am begging him
in some devastated tongue

to see me in some light, any light

they say a mother’s love knows no bounds
but what happens when your own mother
is so broken she cannot lift a hand
to see the way it looks so much like your own?

i am screaming with my mouth shut
and i’ve run out of bandages
to keep my bones from breaking
in one fragile swoop like some cheap trinket

i am grasping at straws made of sand
they turn to dust in my grasp
like this mirage that tries to
tell me i have a family

i kneel behind my son in damp grass
wrap both hands around his waist
point at whatever wonder the day is bringing

and i think: i’ve done this, haven’t i?
i’ve been on the other side of this
hands around my waist, so small
somewhere in the fog of another life.

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Sandy Crimmins Prize for Poetry

Hello out there! Remember me?

I’m still writing furiously, but keeping things under wraps in hopes of being published means my creative well is drained by the time I get around to blogging. So it goes.

I’m popping in to encourage you to submit your previously unpublished poetry to the annual Sandy Crimmins Poetry Contest, run by yours truly.

Now get out there and write some fabulous poetry.

Details here: http://www.philadelphiastories.org/poetry-contest/

xoxo,

Nicole Marie

 

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steven

tireswing

[https://fineartamerica.com/featured/tire-swing-darren-greenwood.html]

steven was a boy

with a name like butter

on my wind-chapped lips,

like marbles in the

pit of my juice box stomach,

like heat between thighs

just old enough to

straddle a poorly hung

tire swing over filmy lakes

in august heat

 

and

 

I bled for the first time

at a sleepover

somewhere between the

singe of burnt popcorn and

the nineties television

we played whisper-down-the-lane

as my innocence clung to my thighs

 

three girls in polyester

nightgowns

all differing shades of pink

thin hair, thin lips, thin minds

stuffed tissues in their

training bras while I

shifted on my pillow seat and

thought of him.

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Hi World!

figrootpressissue5

 

Hope you’re all well. ❤

I am very pleased to announce that my poem “Bloom” has been published in Issue 5 of Figroot Press.

 

Please, go here to read the amazing poetry I am proud to be surrounded by in this cool little publication: http://figrootpress.com/2017/07/01/issue-five-july-2017/

You can buy a copy via Amazon as well. Ahem. 🙂

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poetry

 

you ask how I’m managing

but you cut your ears off

 

years ago

 

fingers smooth as

tree bark touch my wrist

 

there are daisies where your

eyes should be

 

you’re all I write about –

did you know this?

 

don’t be flattered

 

it’s easier to

write about misery

than it is to

write about love

 

to write about love

is to try slowing the

beating of your heart

to match the pace of your fingers

 

like holding a moth

in cupped hands

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Written by Jacob Ibrag You love circles, at least that’s what you told me. You draw them without ever finishing. Open ended because, ‘what’s sadder than ending up in the same place?’ I gave you a ring and you hesitated because, ‘I don’t know if we want the same things.’ Photographer Unknown

via Circles — Eyes + Words

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Looking Back…

Hi!!! ::wipes dust off of blog::

I hope everyone is well. I’ve been writing, writing, writing…but secretly. I am trying hard for a chapbook, have been lucky enough to read at TWO poetry events in the last few months, and have also had two pieces accepted by publications (both forthcoming). I am feeling very creatively blessed at the moment, and am so excited to share those poems with you when they are released.

I’m stopping in to share a piece (I was fortunate enough to have Freshly Pressed) I wrote back when I was big and happy and very pregnant. My son will be two this Friday, and I am a big ball of emotion right now. What a whirlwind it’s been since he entered our lives. I couldn’t ask for a better life. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me and I am proud to be his mama.

 

Here’s a link to that piece I wrote before I got to meet that precious boy: a poet to her son

Wishing you all well.

 

xoxo,

Nicole Marie

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mother is a snake

eggcage

[https://www.artmajeur.com/en/artist/arvydas-butautas/collection/selected-artworks/1503886/artwork/egg/7916323]

and I am flailing for cover

done up Easter egg bright

she can find me by barely

trying, I am just too passionate

 

and yet she goes.

 

someone else can do it

snakes always say

no time to talk about feelings.

 

my bones crack and

suddenly there is sky

 

I crane my neck

for a better look

call

 

mother, mother

 

but only the clouds roll in.

 

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Hi

I’m still here

I’m still writing

 

Motherhood is all consuming (and the best thing I will ever do)

 

I see you all! xoxo

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family dinner night

 

husband hides in kitchen

with our baby son stirring

the same pot for therapy.

 

sauce is sauce is still sauce

bubbling, burning at the edges

 

I am tangoing in our living room

in some other-world with my family,

but what does that word mean: family?

 

not elbows on the table passing

baskets of warm bread, butter

coffee on, television off, talk

heavy with plans for the new year

 

those are thoughts for daydreams.

 

my son drinks milk from a bottle

and I am kneading our livelihood

nearby, adding sprinkles, making shapes

 

only my husband sees, smiles.

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