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.”
Tag: Poetry writing
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 be more than happy to sign any paperback or hardcover copies.
~*~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.
~*~Behind Windshields~*~
At the end of the driveway, we waited.
I was still chasing after my father —
a man who never wanted to carry that label,
who wore his defiance like a well-tailored suit.
He was my town, adorned with a
shimmering crown made from
razorblades and lies.
Their brake lights shone like nebulae
frozen in a night sky — long forgotten,
yet so desperate to remain seen.
She told me not to come,
banned me from his home.
I shrunk from her emerald gaze,
turning a mirror in place of
the other cheek for ten years.
Never a word from them —
No calls —
No cards —
No contact —
as it had been my entire life.
I could not approach my dying father,
but he would wave to me.
Wave to his only daughter,
the only one who defended him —
Out of love —
Out of fear —
Out of shame —
to hide that she was undeserving of love.
With tears dripping off my cheeks, I waved —
each of us behind windshields.
A final wave through distorted panes.
A silent goodbye to years of pain.
A silent hello to years more.
~*~AuDHD~*~
I learned a while back that people in other English-speaking countries pronounce Adidas much differently than people in America (the States). Here, it is pronounced Uh-dee-duss, while in other countries it is pronounced Oddy-doss. I found that interesting. Most of the time, when I see or hear Adidas, the only thing I think of is All Day I Dream About Sex 😂. Iykyk. Anywho, I am here with another poem 🙂.
~*~AuDHD~*~
Divisible by 5
Is how it should be
The volume for my music
And the TV
It doesn’t stop there
I have to confess
The passage of time
Is part of this mess
At 1, it’s all good
And I feel alive
Then, utter chaos
‘Til it’s 1:05
2 units of insulin?
That won’t work for me
I’ll skip it altogether
Or add another 3
But that’s not all
That goes on in my brain
The mental gymnastics
Could drive one insane
My ADHD
Pops up to say “Hi!”
There are too many rules
And it wants to know why
Dinner needs washing
The laundry needs cooking
A treat for the puppy
When no one is looking
Now nothing is finished
And it’s time for bed
But I must get some work done
I’ll sleep when I’m dead
I’m still not happy with either of my instructors 😒. Poetry lady says I have “a lot of lyricists” on my reading list. Well, duh. I told her in the first week that I do not read much poetry. My last instructor was just fine with that. Lyrics are poetic; poetry can certainly be put to music if one so desires. Many, many folk songs were poems before songs were even born. But I held my tongue.
Then…I emailed my Shakespeare instructor to ask about thesis statements (she wasn’t happy with mine) and she replied that I need to address her by name in emails and to mind my tone 😡😡😤. Mind. My. Tone. I am autistic, I literally cannot “mind my tone.” What you see is what you get. I would understand if I was rude or pissy but I write how I speak and that is how it has always been. I honestly do not know how to be otherwise.
Forgiveable, perhaps, if I had not disclosed being AuDHD in my first post as I do with every class. I do not have an intentional tone and since Mom’s gone, I don’t have a filter because I would speak through her, and now I do not have that option, which would not be an option in school, really, unless I asked her to read stuff before I submitted it and she suggested changes. So, I sat there and cried for an hour or so and kept myself from replying, which was a very hard thing to do.
She also gave me a low grade on my discussion post because my answer was “vague.” I need specifics if you do not want me to be “vague” (according to you). My husband knows this, so if I am vague when I ask him something or answer a question, he lets me know or asks me questions so I can elaborate and/or explain myself. At the very least, she could have responded to my post so I had an opportunity to appease her. I am a straight-A student and a junior; I know that all my other instructors were not just handing out A’s willy-nilly and letting me coast. I am literal. I can seem obtuse or sarcastic when I am not being either of those things. I spoke to my advisor about it so at least he is aware. Work with me and I will work with you.
Cari R Esta 