The Riverbank, Part Two (My Pillowcase)

It is things like my pillowcase

That send me back to when I curled up by the riverbank

Black tears clouding my vision and corrupting my heart

Although I built a bridge and conquered the waters

I am not a magician

The bridge remains there and so does the river

And I am scared that something will frighten me

Into running back over the bridge

And that this time I won’t have the courage

To overcome the inky waters

The worry swirls in the head that rests on my pillowcase

The same head that holds the eyes

That shed the tears

That poured into the river

And soaked into my pillowcase

Through the eyes of someone else,

It is just another dry, colorful, pillowcase

The washing machine washed out all the memories

But I see my pillowcase,

And if only for a moment,

It takes me back to the riverbank


The Riverbank, Part One

For the longest time, I just sat by the riverbank

Too scared to swim across

With each tear I shed, the waters grew larger

Every shaky breath I took turned to wind

Inky black tumultuous waves

Black from the mascara I wore to hide my unhappiness

But with every tear, my shield dripped away

Consumed by fear, obsessed with the water

Riveted, terrified, depressed

But then my hand slipped out from the other

Unlocking my knees from my chest

Touching something that felt familiar

The soft lushness of thin blades

Emerald grass grew for miles, I found

As I began to look at my surroundings

Vibrant colors I hadn’t noticed

Green grass, the scarlet flowers that swayed

The sky was blue, so very blue

And I wanted to kiss it for saving me

Trees soared above my head

Solid like I wished to be

They knew my wish, so they gave me their branches

And I built a bridge over the river

When I finished, I walked across it

And I saw, looking back, that the water was still there

But somehow,

I was no longer afraid

Strangers – An Alphabet Poem (Daily Post Response)

This post is a response to: It’s a bit of a pathetic poem, but hopefully, you’ll enjoy.

Strangers – An Alphabet Poem

At first, everyone is a stranger

Because you

Can’t know anyone if you

Don’t try to talk to them

Everyone is an unfamiliar

Figure. You just have to work up the

Guts to go

Have a conversation

If you don’t know what to say, make a

Joke or share a fact you


Laugh a little. Laughter is the best

Medicine, after all

Now, the hard part is

Over – the first impression. But

Please don’t worry if you didn’t get it




That will happen

Usually, it’s not fatal. Many a friend have met with

Very terrible first impressions. It’s just

Water under the bridge now. So don’t have


You’ll soon learn that if you don’t try, you’ll have

Zero friends. So don’t be afraid of talking to strangers.

So, for all of you writers or poets out there looking for inspiration, I would recommend trying this book called The Pocket Muse. It’s full of ideas and inspiration for writing, and I adore it. There’s actually two different books, one and two, for those of you who want even more ideas. I know you can order them off of amazon, that’s where I got mine. In fact, this poem came from a prompt in the book: Write about the first time you conversed with a stranger. I varied a little from that, but I stuck with the stranger theme. I thought I would tell those interested, because it really is a nifty little book. Thanks! 🙂

A Recipe For Me

This post it a response to:

It’s a poem/recipe that tells you how to make me…but not really. It was really fun to write, and I hope you enjoy.


A Recipe For Me

A recipe for me?


Talk about a recipe for disaster.

But, very well, since you asked. (You might want to get out a pencil.)

Let’s see…where would I start….ah, I know.

To begin, you’ll need a spoon,

A hollow book, a knife

And a whole lot of patience.

Patience! Oh yes, that should be the first ingredient.

Makes for a wonderful foundation, it does.

Oh no, wait, I almost forget. I’m making me.

Start with love. Roll it into a little ball, nice and hard.

How much? Oh, I don’t know.

With me, things are never as exact as I wish them to be.

Now, around that little ball, just jab in a few choice words

Oh, it doesn’t matter which, I love most words

Now set it in the book

Next, you’ll need some confusion, just pour it all in

Mmm, smells nice….or does it?…Oh, goodness, no, it doesn’t…what is that?

(Just hold your nose during that part if you need to)

Next, you should grab your spoon and dip it into a jar of modesty

Dump that spoonful into the book

Don’t bother trying to make it even, it’s normal for it to clump in places

You should also toss in a lot of salt water,

Because this recipe tends to leak a lot

Even when it tries not to

Now, the next part you have to do really fast

No reason, really, just for effect


A handful of dreams,

A dash of fear,

A love to dance

(But no skills here)

A pinch of this,

A drop of that

Throw it in and

Watch it splat!

Now close the book

And start to shake

The sloshing means

It’s ready to bake!

Now, that was fun, wasn’t it?

(It helps if you turn on the radio really loud

And dance around like crazy while you shake)

When you open the book,

After shaking for a few minutes,

You should see something that resembles a cake

          Sort of    –

Grab a brand new jar of niceness and kindness (any brand will do)

Smell it to make sure it’s fresh

Then put some peanut butter in the jar

Stir it a little with your spoon

What’s that you asked?



Peanut butter makes everything better.


Then spread on the mixture with your knife

Nice and smooth, make sure it covers everything

Garnish it with a sprinkle of patience,

Maybe a few pencils,

Now, you’re almost done.

One last ingredient

And, it’s the most important, of course

So don’t be shy with it

Really, just pile it on there

Mm, smells nice

The ingredient that holds it all together

A big heaping of hope.


His eyes are wide, wet


Black holes boring into mine

He makes no noise

Yet his scream echoes in my ears

A second too late

I wish to stop my hand

The shining, silver dagger

But I can’t

I watch

The dagger plunges into his chest

Sinking as easily

As if his skin were butter

I watch his chest heave

His face twitches

The light behind his eyes flickers

Stop. No.

I stare, unable to move my eyes

As the light burns out

Leaving two, empty

Glass eyes

I can feel his soul rise up

From inside him

And a thin sheet breaks off

Resting on my heart

So I will always

Feel the burden

Of the life I took



My heart beats faster

But the pressure never leaves

I wrote this poem about two years ago, and came across it when looking through my flash drive. Thought I’d post it 🙂

The Poetaster


He is the sore thumb,

The thorn on the rose

His rhymes are appalling

But not as bad as his prose

His sonnets reek of amateurism

His limericks are offensive

When he walks down the street

All the people grow apprehensive

He hasn’t got a name

He’s not a poet – more like a disaster

His poems are the worse

He is – The Poetaster

Poetaster was the word of the day yesterday on, and it’s now my new favorite word.