Saturday, November 25


I'd rather be jealous
I'd rather want what you have than have what you want
I'd rather the world look down on me than me look down on the world
When you're on the bottom, you're looking up
When you lack, you strive for more
But when you have everything?

Monday, April 24


Let them all down
Let them all drown
You don’t have to go anywhere
 Slip to a frown

Let them all scream
Destroy all their dreams
Vain repetition, why do you care?
This isn’t your scene

Fly away, fly away and be still today

Shared at dVerse Poet's Pub for their Monday Quadrille challenge. To view more 44 word poems or to participate yourself, head over to the Pub. 

Saturday, April 22

Mi Young Lee

The beauty of you lies in your symmetry
The equal portions of grace and disdain
The balance you bring of sane and insane
I like your troubles as well as your triumphs
A masterpiece in cools and hots
The beauty you bring to the ugly of me

This poem was written in response to the poetry challenge at Imaginary Garden

A plague on all our houses

Dear Diary, 

The sky was dark again today. It reminds me of an impending storm, and sure enough people walk around with umbrellas, as if they expect rain to come pouring down. The truth is, it's been many years since anyone has felt a cool drop fall from the sky. There is a storm that hangs overhead, but it is nowhere connected to water. Soon the frogs will fall-a plague upon all our houses. We were warned before, but did anyone listen? I tried to leave the city, but the clouds just followed me. An ever-expanding blackness, promising to stretch out until the ends of the earth, so I turned back. Better to face the unknown from the vantage point of home. The worst part is waiting. Waiting for that first disgusting “plop” which you know is coming. Maybe the umbrellas do provide protection. 

This piece of micro-fiction was written in response to Saturday Mix at Mindlovemisery's Menangerie

Thursday, April 20

Crow on the shoulder of the road

The crow on the shoulder of the road 
stood unmoved by the roar of the car 
a car that had traveled the world with 
a man marred and afraid of his past 
the crow flapped his wings in the wind,
hopped two times in pursuit of the car
but the man never knew about the crow.

This poem was written in response to Fireblossom Friday and shared at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. To read more crow inspired poetry or share your own crow inspired work, head over to the imaginary garden. 

Sunday, April 16

Poetry for Sale!

This past week I found myself stranded miles away from home without my wallet or a penny to my name! I did however have my dear notebook and pen tucked away in my purse which made me wonder if I couldn't write up a few poems and sell them to those in passing. While I never worked up the nerve to try this theory out, I did write a "Poem for Tourists." I'd like to imagine that someone would have paid a quarter or so for this memento.

Poem for tourists:

Sarasota sweetness
salty water laps my feet
as I walk the coastal miles
of sandy white beach

I wave away the weary
I get rid of all my fears
and let myself sink
into the paradise which is here

Sunlight bathes my family
the ocean plays our song
I grasp to keep this memory
in my heart forever long

Thursday, April 13

That's Cool

I have a love-hate relationship with couple puns. You've probably heard them before or maybe seen them printed onto the novelty t's at your local Target. "You are my butter half", "olive you", "you'll always have a pizza of my heart!" Sure, they're cute, but they're also pretty corny. As I've gotten a little older, I've learned to appreciate a little corny, but there was a time when it was all about the cool.

You know the days, I'm sure you suffered them too. The teenage years when rolling up your pants the wrong way could have a detrimental impact on the complexities of the fragile teen-popularity hierarchy. Other than making sure your hair was parted the right way, your eyeliner was drawn on perfectly, and your sarcasm was pitched in the correct tone exuding the appropriate blend of mock and contempt, it was elemental for you to associate yourself with the right kinds of people if you had any chance of being considered to be anywhere even near to a degree of cool. Luckily, being a member of my high school marching band gave me a head start to this sacrosanct achievement as it opened up the door to becoming friends with the sort of people who had just the right amount of cool and swagger to elevate me above the social pariah stratum. Come on, you know the band geeks were the best!

One friend, in particular, really helped lift my "cool" levels up. Andrea was an upperclassman and yet she spoke to me. Better yet, she asked me to hang out with her, at her house, with her cool older sister and sister's friends who were in- college! Can you imagine a pimple-faced high-schooler shooting the breeze with some sexy intellectuals sipping rum and coke? I tossed my hair a bit while Andrea stood, leaning on the kitchen counter at just enough of an angle to convey that cool feigned disinterest that made her look wiser and more sophisticated than what you'd expect from a 17 year old girl.

Andrea let me into her world and for a time we were inseparable- two peas in a pod, you might say.

It was Andrea who I turned to whenever high school love broke my heart. It was Andrea who I called whenever I had a great idea and needed a sounding board. She was my peanut to my butter, my star to my burst, my flip to my flop. And the feeling was mutual. Andrea opened her heart to me. She shared her deepest fears and greatest secrets.  At this point, cool had nothing to do with it. We had seen the best and worst of each other. There's nothing cool about snot and boogers running out of  your nose when you're sobbing about your parents' divorce. You abandon cool when you're scared and afraid of the future and all you want is a friend who'll be there and tell you "it's gonna be ok," We lifted each other up in genuine sisterhood and friendship, but then it all stopped.

Andrea dropped out of my life like a rat fleeing a sinking ship. She graduated high-school, moved on to college, and didn't want to hear from me ever again. I guess I wasn't cool enough for her anymore? At first, I made excuses. "She's just really busy". "She'll come around". But then I'd run into her and the amount of awkward in the air was enough to suffocate the elephant that was surely standing in the room silently laughing at my attempt to bring things back.

Eventually, I let it go. Things change and you move on. You accept rejection to avoid humiliation. A friendship that had seemed so cool, cooled to the point of suffering frostbite, breaking off, and leaving nothing but a painful memory in its wake.

Friday, January 6

Falling in Love

Image result for tainos

She was the daughter of a caquique. Her hair, dark and flowing against her smooth bronze skin, smelled of honey and cassava. He had no hope of catching her eye as a naboria, a member of the working class, and yet, as sure as the ocean beat the sandy shores of their island, his heart beat for Ayita alone.

He had first seen her in the light of the morning sun. He was bent down, retrieving a smooth stone he had dropped, when she appeared, illuminated by a ray of light cutting through the thick canopy of branches. Her body was stark, yet she stood confidently, inhaling deep the scent of the woods. She was to him the first woman created and his heart whispered a pledge to her. From today until the end of time, I will be yours.

Kaiman picked up a gourd and brought it to his mouth. What could he do to improve his lot? He felt shame for his desires. God would punish him for his greed. Everyone was at peace except him. He could have any woman for a wife, but he wanted what he could not have.


Ayita rose from her hammock. It was early enough that most of her family still slept silently in the comfort of their large caneye. Her father had 30 wives. He was a great caquiqui, wise and handsome. No one suffered lack in their village and his astuteness had protected them from raids from the neighboring Caribs on more than one occasion. She raised her arms up in a gentle stretch before making her way through the maze of sleeping bodies and woven mats laid out on the earthen floor.

On stepping outside of the caneye, she heard her mother call to her, "Ayita, come help me make this bread." Her smile was wide and her eyes shone with joy as she regarded her only daughter. Ayita knelt beside her mother and embraced her warmly. "Good morning, Bibi."

"What plans do you have for today?"

"I wanted to play batey with my brothers. Naniki said she wanted to play too,” she added, mentioning her younger half-sister.

"But won't you get in the way, my butterfly?"

Ayita hugged her mother once more, laughing as she nodded her head. "Of course we'll be in the way!"

"Ah! You mischievous child! Here, you better take some of this cassava  bread with you then," she said, wrapping the bread in a bundle.

"Thank you, Bibi." Ayita smiled, taking the bread.

Tuesday, November 8

Election Day

Ok. So I think I am falling into a pattern this month... one day I write fiction, the next day I write truth. I can work with that. Now, I should state that this is simply an observation and that I make no promises. I might write a shitty haiku tomorrow. I. Don't. Know. Whatever.

Today was election day. I woke up early, selected a dress which I deemed patriotic, and went to exercise my freedom to vote. I found the whole experience to be exciting and a little nerve wrecking. Walking around with brown skin sometimes feels like a hazard. It went well. Nobody harassed me, unless you count the woman who was practically on my heels, behind me in line, or a snobby look here and there. Microaggressions like that don't really count, since you don't really know whether you're just being extra sensitive and if maybe its all in your head. But even if they did exist, I voted regardless. Take that!

Monday, November 7


I usually don't go for a second cup of coffee. The first one is necessary, but the second goes straight to my nerves. Yet, here I sat, nursing a tall caramel macchiato at the Starbucks near my house. I tried hard to concentrate on what he was telling me.

"Your fiance, his family had money, no? I believe this is the reason they took him."

"Wait, what? Liam and I were not engaged. And what do you mean they took him?" I asked.

Anthony chewed on his knuckle, eyes red, looking like he was going to cry.

"They took him. They had to. I didn't want to believe it, but now I know it is true."

I tried to make sense of the situation. The truth is, while the time Liam and I were together had accounted for the most blissful and romance filled 8 months of my life so far, we had lived in this sort of alternate universe. A place where no one interfered in our love, our romance, our euphoric seclusion.

We had met in the most unconventional way-our orders had gotten mixed up at a taco truck and rather than get pissed at the owner, we sorted it out ourselves and had an impromptu first date. We exchanged numbers and started a thing-a good thing which may have blinded me of the number 1 reason for dating: getting to know someone.

What did I know about Liam? Handsome. Well-spoken. Romantic. Thoughtful.There wasn't a single police-report worthy fact I could jot down. What an idiot! I smacked my palm up against my forehead.

"Miss, I know you are upset, but please, you must be strong. I know we can get him back."

I let my eyes see the man in front of me. Who is this Anthony? The only time Liam had talked about him was on his way to the bus stop. "I hope Anthony's on the bus today," he'd say. "Gotta talk to Anthony," he'd mutter. And yet, I felt compelled to trust him. For Liam. Yes. For Liam, a man who I wasn't even completely sure I really knew anymore.

"How can I help?" I heard myself say.

Sunday, November 6


I'm pushing myself to write today. There's a feeling of dread. Does what I write matter? Am I just repeating myself? Am I just repeating myself? Is there anything worth writing about? All my inspiration seems mundane and monotonous, but I promised myself to write every day for the month of November, and so I will. Yesterday I wrote a short scene. It was fun to write and easy. But today? Today I'm pushing. I don't know what I want or what I need to get over this hump. I just know "this too shall pass."

Saturday, November 5


She could hear the police sirens in the distance. A sound of alarm and warning, but it did not disturb her. It was just one track of sound in the symphony of cacophonous noise which was her daily playlist. Children shrieking, dogs howling, blaring car horns-nothing out of the norm. And so she poured her coffee and began to review what tasks lay ahead of her that day. Pick up the dry-cleaning, call Hong Kong, get her eyebrows waxed. If there was time-drop by the post office to see if the package had arrived. In one fluid movement, she swept up her mug, hung her purse squarely on her shoulder and stood to leave. There was no sense in lingering in an empty apartment.

The apartment hadn't always been an empty burrow for a thirty-something woman to come rest her head each night. Three months ago, it was a sanctum of peace and love. A place where two lovers united daily to comfort and assuage themselves from the terror of life. But now that was gone.

Tock. Tock. Tock. Marielle clicked her heels on the concrete and checked the time. 9:13 am. Her heart skipped a beat and she quickened her steps. The bus arrived at 9:15 am. Maybe he would be on it today. She had always seen him on the route 40 bus this time of day. Maybe he would know something about Liam. She pretended not to care, but Liam's absence was driving her mad.

They had argued one night about nothing in particular and everything in general. Vague accusations of heartbreak and neglect were made and after reaching emotional gridlock, the words, "just leave!" escaped her mouth, in direct opposition to the clamor in her heart.

The bus came to a stop, just as she turned the corner. A tall, thin man wearing an over-sized black hoodie bolted out. It was him. "Hey!" she called. The man looked her way and widened his eyes in surprise. "You!" he shouted. "Where is Liam?!"

"I-I don't know," she stammered. "I was hoping you could tell me!"

"It's worse than I thought then," the man said. "Come with me, miss."

Friday, November 4

Pushing the Envelope

Never try to think when you are tired. Your mind will deceive you and you'll conclude the most preposterous things. It's like being drunk-I think. I've never been drunk before.

Anyways, avoid trying to delve into anything deep, important, or noteworthy when you are half asleep. It's like there's a little devil inside you trying to trick you into picking the wrong answer while you are convinced that it is right. Make sure you go to sleep and get a good night's rest.

This probably all sounds like nonsense, and maybe it's because it is Friday night. I'm writing nonsense at the end of a long week, and at the end of a long day. But it's not. I give you solid advice not to push the envelope when you're so tired you're not even sure if it's an envelope you have in hand.

Thursday, November 3

The Cat

It was late at night and my husband and I had been asleep for some time when he wakes me asking, "do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"I think there is a cat inside our room."

I sat up, confused, but craned my ears to listen. We don't own a cat, but there are several strays in our neighborhood. I pondered the possibility of one of the strays slipping in to our home some how.


"There it is!" he shouted.


"The meow, I meant. I didn't see a cat."

"Well, turn on the lights," I directed.

My husband moved to turn on the bedside lamp, but the room remained dark. "The bulb must have burnt out."

"I'll turn on the bathroom light then," I offered and swung my feet to the floor. When I went to stand, however, I did not feel the cool of the ceramic floor. My feet grazed upon something soft.

"Ah!" I shouted, taken by surprise. "I think it went under the bed!

By this time, my husband had reached the bathroom and was attempting to turn on the light.

"Jess, the bathroom lights are out too. There must be something wrong with the fuse."


"Ugh, let's go look at it then. We'll never find the cat with the lights out like this."

My husband and I ventured downstairs to where the fuse box is, but when we got there, there were obvious signs of obtrusion and tampering. Concerned for our safety, we exited our house and called the police.

When the police arrived, they went in the house and searched the premise. While it appeared nothing had been touched, in the bedroom they made the most unusual discovery. Beneath our bed was a bearded dead man. In his paltry, stone-cold hands lay a knife and the police identified him as the beard-face burglar who had been terrorizing the local community in recent news. Most unusual of all was his cause of death-it appeared as if a small, cat-like creature had mauled the man to death.

Wednesday, November 2

I didn't think I'd get on here tonight. While some might consider it still early, starting to blog at 8:47 pm is cutting it close for me. I am not much of a night owl. It is the morning sun that I live for, much to the chagrin of many of my coworkers. I practically bounce into work each morning, no matter what the day promises or threatens. I love mornings-they are full of hope. 

Hope. That's something we are all a little short of these days, isn't it? Without it, we are filled with dread. You can either hope for the best or dread the worst. I choose hope. I hope tomorrow is an "easy" day-little worries, no friction. I hope our next president doesn't bring on World War III or something worse. I hope my life will mean something to someone. 

Well, that's enough for today. I think I'm building stamina. Maybe tomorrow I'll write a bit more. Tschüss!