Tag Archives: writing

I have some exciting news to share!

Hi guys! Remember me?

I know it’s been quite a while…but for good reason, I promise.

I’ve been keeping most of my writing under wraps because I’ve been working on my very first chapbook, and I am excited to announce that it is finally finished, and available for purchase on Amazon in both print and Kindle e-book form. I decided, at least for now, that self publishing was the best path for my work. The cover art was done by my great friend and tattoo artist, and I am over the moon with how it turned out. I can only hope the poems inside live up to the beautiful cover.

If you’re interested in purchasing a copy of my debut chapbook, all these things that haunt you, just head on over to Amazon!

Or, click this link.

Thank you all for the support you’ve given me on my blog over the years. I really hope you enjoy this chapbook; it’s been an exciting ride putting it together, and every piece is near and dear to me. Some you may have seen before, but most are brand new.

And if you do choose to purchase one, don’t forget to leave me a review on Amazon!

Thank you again. I’m looking forward to taking a breather and delving back into WordPress for a while. See you all around!

 

xo,

Nicole

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Filed under Uncategorized, Writing

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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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. 🙂

2 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized, Writing

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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Filed under Uncategorized, Writing

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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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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did she (part III)

 

clasp cold hand

over cold hand

over mouth

 

fingers like

branches

search for the

telephone but they are

catching on all the edges

 

and we are

unraveling

unraveling

un

rav

el

ing

.

 

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did she (part II)

a pink sun rises and her heart

beats in rhythm with the coffee that is

drip, drip, dripping in the kitchen.

 

she is warm, she is unknowing

still for minutes more, one foot

dangling casually from bed to floor.

 

someone puts the bacon on,

fat cracking fireworks from the stove

while news drones on from the television.

 

did she notice the birds

in their perfect V formation

ripping across a November sky?

 

slip the back door open just

a bit more, the dog, burly as she is

squeezes through and runs, runs, runs.

 

I’d guess they don’t look down,

from way up there it’s all just

noise anyway, it’s all the same

 

all the same.

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did she (part I)

 

put on the coffee first?

pick up the metal measuring cup,

a twenty-six year old wedding gift

counting in her head:

 

one

 

two

 

three

 

or was the back door cracked

just enough to call her to it?

 

the sun was rising just as

brilliantly as it always does,

 

just as

 

unforgiving

as it always is.

2 Comments

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