This side of the dirt,
alcohol splits purple skin.
Words drill tender skulls
that become DNA.
This side of the dirt,
home is where the horror is —
Rhythmic screams become lullabies.
Walls remember what the wounded won’t.
This side of the dirt,
Memories fade with bruises.
Forgiveness blooms in a good day.
Muscle memory elicits laughter.
This side of the dirt,
I bury my name
beneath the porch —
it can’t echo when they curse it.
This side of the dirt,
Roots grow from stupors —
They hold me still and loyal,
never safe.
This side of the dirt,
I write on skin with blood —
he learned to hit
beneath the clothes.
This side of the dirt,
they speak kindly of the dead.
Kindness was a language
he never knew.
This side of the dirt,
they eulogize a missed man —
wish him peace.
Peace fled every room he entered.
This side of the dirt,
I cried over his coffin —
my soul screamed
in relief and exhaustion.
This side of the dirt,
they plant flowers on his grave —
I plant silence in my throat.
It blooms each time he’s called “beloved.”
Category: Poetry
Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!
We got a party going on here!! There are some aesthetic changes and new pages here for my new media class, which is a very interesting class about expanding one’s online presence and creating a website. If I mentioned all this before, I apologize. I already have my site, but I never had a WiP page or author page. Okay, this all seems really familiar…
Anyway, sadly, the pink font had to go due to being hard on the eyes, so I chose yellow and I don’t know if it’s better, as bad, or worse. It doesn’t bother me, but I read what I write in the WordPress editor in black and white. White is just too “blah,” so I can do a super pale yellow if I need to. If it’s hard to read, just drop me a comment!
I’ve named my second poetry collection, and I think it’s a catchy title! I also created the cover, which I really like except the title may be hard to read as well. Color me autistic, but somebody who followed me on Threads commented on my first poetry collection and asked if I minded telling my readers where I got my cover art (Canva, purchased from the artist, btw – which is awesome and an indie author’s dream). I said, “No, why would I mind that?” They didn’t answer me, so I don’t know what that was about. Maybe don’t ask if you don’t really want to know 🤷. I’ve been busy getting in trouble, which is a lot easier and more frequent when you don’t look autistic and your filter is no longer alive, so that’s been fun.
I begin my last term in a couple of weeks, and I have the same guy who (falsely) accused me practically every week of using AI. He was “reporting” me to the school, but since he was merely on an AI witch hunt, like a lot of the professors since AI became public, and I do my own work, nothing came of it except I don’t like him now. People can and do write one way in forums/discussions and another academically in papers and projects. Duh. I emailed my advisor and told him I really don’t care if I graduate if it means I have to take his class. I am already suffering from major college burnout, and I don’t know if I can tolerate eight weeks of him again.
Adam’s next classes are intermediate poetry workshop and context of writing. I didn’t like the context of writing one because it’s query letters and drafting an author bio, but it wasn’t too difficult. I had a crap teacher for the workshop but I had the teacher I liked for the advanced workshop after that, so I was cool. If it’s not noticeable, I hold grudges, even though I don’t mean to.
~*~Stormy Nights~*~
I feel the floor vibrate in time
with the rolling thunder,
like standing in the cab
of an idling semi —
I don’t like it.
I hop onto the bed with my Bernie.
He takes me in his arms,
covers me in kisses —
pauses to receive kisses to his nose.
His breath smells like cat poop —
his favorite snack.
Lightning bathes the room in white —
a flash photo of utter calm.
There is talk of a severe thunderstorm —
Alexa always knows these things.
The bed vibrates —
lick, lick — smooch, smooch — snuggle, snuggle.
It’s going to be a long night.
I wrote this poem while it was storming one night, of course. I have sensory processing issues with sound, among others, but I’m not a fan of lightning, either. Mom always thought it was weird that I hate thunder because the lightning is the stuff that can be dangerous, but I don’t choose disliking loud (or repetitive) noises! Before Adam moved into the bedroom, I would get on the bed with Ollie and we would cuddle while it stormed.
In the Garden of Remorse Free Preview
Check out the poems titles and read my introduction for free! Also, if you have Kind Unlimited, you can read the entire collection!! I would also be more than happy to sign any paperback or hardcover copies.
I’m Published! Grab Your Copy!!
Well, after a big snafu, my first poetry collection, In the Garden of Remorse, is available on Amazon! I accidentally published it while trying to order a proof copy 😫. A dear friend from California purchased the version with some formatting errors, but he said he would treasure it, warts and all. All versions are available right now, including Kindle Unlimited!
I did not know independent authors still got screwed on the royalties. I had to price my paperback to a ridiculous price (especially for new authors) just to get a little over $5 per sale. I think I get around $3 per sale for the ebook. That would be fine if I had a following or could do decent marketing. No one follows me or cares what I have to say. Oh, well. I’m not doing it for the money, but it would be a great perk. Due to unpopular demand, I’ve decreased all prices 😒.
I hope I make a sale that isn’t family or friends 😂. I need a hype man!
~*~Influencer~*~
Radiate the skin and multiply the melanin.
Smother the pores with powder and oil.
Line the lips and eyes like a practiced cartoonist.
Grind the teeth down and cover with synthetic ones —
fake teeth for fake smiles.
Walk on tiptoes with calves at full attention.
Self-medicate to eradicate the hate.
Compress the organs — sway the bones.
The camera adds ten pounds —
best lose 20 or 30.
Minimum mass for maximum exposure.
~*~A Fish Named Henry~*~
I won a goldfish at the county fair.
Poor goldfish — seeing that ping-pong
ball looming toward his home like Apophis.
His golden body glistened in the sunlight
as he swam in a bowl won from the dime pitch.
With the pride and confidence of any fish parent,
I changed his water at the sink — and watched
in horror as his slick orange body
slid from the bowl and down the drain.
The horror! The absolute tragedy!
Propelled by child’s logic, I fled
the house and ran down to the creek bank
to tell my brother and neighbor what happened
and asked if they saw Henry swim out of the pipe.
My brother deciphered my mucoid blubbering,
then promptly laughed at me.
Weeks later, our neighbor told me,
whilst fishing, he saw a big goldfish
swimming around and looking happy.
It took me a few years to realize
the truth, but when I did, I didn’t
appreciate it any less.
~*~The Oven~*~
My brother says something from the top bunk.
What did he say?
I pop my head out and look up.
Bam!
I see red —
Mom!
Feel warmth gushing —
Dad!
Do I cry?
I should cry.
Into the tub I go.
The water turns my favorite color —
I’m lying in Barbie water.
My brother burst my strawberry —
My birthmark.
Am I dead now?
Is that how it works?
Mama called the doctor
and the doctor said —
She’s fine.
But what had my brother said?
I ask him.
I was telling you to watch out.
~*~Colors of Death~*~
Death leaves a mark
on those left behind —
A tattoo on the soul,
a rainbow of lines.
The deep green of envy
for those who’ve not lost —
Blissfully ignorant of
what love really costs.
The anger burns white,
much hotter than red —
It courses through the chest
and leaves a lingering dread.
Yellow is the fear
to face the world alone —
A fear of being lost
in a world of unknown.
Blue is the calm,
a serene, soothing haze —
Not one to remain,
it hits us in waves.
Red is the love,
the one thing that’s real —
It’s something to cling to
while we try to heal.
~*~Bertrand~*~
Acrostics are a really cool form of poetry and can be fun and challenging to write. Bertrand Russell is a well-known philosopher and I have always loved a certain quote by him.
~*~Bertrand~*~
War.
Does it
Not help you
Determine who lives and
Who dies? Tell me who
Is arrogant enough to believe he’s
Right about who deserves to live, and
Only the chosen ones will remain on Earth.
Who was born into such hatred, and who
Is able to sleep at night knowing the ones
Left will surely spend the rest of their lives broken?
Cari R Esta 