How did we get here?
This place so full of ugly
Overflowing with unhappiness
Afraid of change
Unwilling to compromise
Apathetic in our misery
We stop trying
To get somewhere
To be someone worthy
And we grow fat
Within our complacency
Unable to give of ourselves
Not even willing to take
We lose our taste for joy
Forget how soft skin feels
And the sweet taste
Of a kiss.
Image by: Koan ( http://mrg.bz/Rfm05E)
Marked by interesting
or exciting events.
plagued by the never
ending soiree.
Music spilling
tumbling over me.
My skin.
Where I feel the
softness of violet
taste the sweetness
of a faultless harmony.
It is we who are
full of these events.
Clutching them in
our pockets like an
old napkin with a
number and a red
lipstick kiss.
Walking softly, Issa crouched low and pulled the dagger from her sleeve. The lights ahead were bright and the door to the tavern was open. The city was silent and the hair on the back of her neck stood at the the eerie thought of a silent tavern. Continuing on, she approached the courtyard and stopped. Scanning the distance between her and the open doorway, Issa drew in her breath and waited.
I see her, walking
sunlight kisses her bare skin
Her skirt, made of silk and dreams
brushes the back of her thighs
skimming and sliding over her.
Her hair falls in a cascade
of opposing angles and curves
it catches the light
and moves it inside.
Hips that swerve and sway
hypnotize and entrance me
I begin to feel a familiar thing
deep in the bottom of my gut
and I imagine what
she feels like on my fingers
how soft she would make
my hands feel.
I watch her and take her in
my hips moving with hers
my hair falling in waves.
Flashing lights in the growing darkness let Detective Inspector Robinson know where he needed to go. No less than five police cars surrounded the path head that lead down the hillside into the valley. Showing his identification to the officer on duty, he moved quickly past the trail head and began his descent.
At the bottom, where a small clearing began to widen out from the path, a team was investigating the scene. Tall trees lined the trail on either side as he made his way to the clearing. Yellow caution tape surrounded a tent off to the side of the clearing, almost inside the tree line. Robinson headed in that direction, nodding to a few officers he recognized as he passed. Removing his hat and putting it under his arm, he pushed the heavy tent flaps aside and entered. Right away, he saw Detective Inspector Warren speaking to the Coroner. Robinson moved further inside the tent, catching Warren’s eye who motioned her head toward the body on the ground.
The victim was a young man, perhaps in his mid twenties. His dark hair was matted with blood. His eyes were open and staring but his face was at peace.
“What a terrible accident.” Robinson crouched near the victim, lifting the young man’s lapel with the tip of his pen to inspect the wounds. Blood was thick on his flannel shirt, clotting already, though he had overheard the Coroner’s initial estimate putting the time of death at just under 5 hours ago.
Detective Inspector Warren crouched down next to him, gloves covering her pale hands as she held the jacket open. Her eyes were shining with excitement. Despite her morbid fascination with death, and perhaps because of it, she was the best homicide detective there was. She viewed the body silently, her mouth moving slightly as she worked herself through the scene and the final moments on this man’s life.
Finally, looking up at Robinson, she smiled a grim smile. Her pink lips lay on top of each other in thin, straight lines. Her pale skin shone in the waning light and tendrils of her strawberry blond hair framed her face lightly freckled face. Blue eyes examined his face as they always did as if filing away his expression for future reference.
“It was no accident, it was deliberate. The strong slashes. Downward, as if the victim was already on the ground when the attacker struck. Vicious, downward strokes, over and over again. 17 times he was stabbed.”
As she spoke, she moved blood soaked cloth aside so Robinson could see the slashes, deep wounds that began with a large slit at the top and became thinner as they moved downward, indicating the killer was already removing the blade for another stroke as the blade sank into the man’s flesh.
The inspectors were silent as they imagined the man’s last moments.
“Surprisingly,” Warren spoke again, startling Robinson from his reverie, “there are no self defense wounds on his hands or arms. Perhaps he was already out cold when the killer began her attack.”
“Her?”
Warren blinked up at him. “Yes, the killer was a women.”
“How do you know that?”
She grinned and turned her attention back to the body.
Velvety smooth petals
shaped like crushed tear drops
richly colored as lust
rubbing it against
my cheek, I remember.
The smell of new beginnings
and promises made
with every belief they will
come true, be kept, remain alive.
Blooming under the sun’s gaze
much like me under yours
stretching and basking
straining to absorb every ray.
Smooth stem peppered with
Sharp, prickly thorns just waiting
to hurt, to surprise, to fail
so expectations fall and
walls go up, clouds
to block the sun, the love
and then will come the end.
Billy Collins, born William James Collins in 1941, is one of America’s most celebrated poets. He has won multiple awards and honors over his lifetime career as a poet, teacher, author, and anthologist.
Among his many accomplishments and bragging rights are these:
Personally, although I have a deep love for really good poetry, I had never heard of Billy Collins until recently. I was doing some research and came across ‘Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins’. I was floored. Here, in print, by a famous and celebrated national poet were my exact thoughts and feelings on poetry.
So often, when we hear the word ‘poetry’, we think of pages and pages of boring stanzas about love and Shakespearean phrases that are hard to decipher and understand for most. A lot of people are turned off from poetry because they’ve read something like what I’ve just described. In my early years as a writer I wrote drivel like that! I was only 8, but still. As I grew older, my poetry found a life and form of its own and though I loved it and every poem was my soul on paper, I found that most who loved ‘traditional poetry’ were not fans of my work.
My poetry is free form, sometimes parts of it rhyme and sometimes it doesn’t. It could be a metaphor for something, but most of the time, it is what it is and there is no hidden meaning or agenda. I’m a pretty straight forward girl, and so is my writing.
When I discovered Billy Collins, I devoured every poem of his I could find to read online. I was in love with his easy style, his free formed words and visions. I couldn’t believe that someone who wrote this way could be so famous for writing that way! His work is amazing. He is a truly gifted and passionate man and I am so lucky I found him. Or maybe his work found me.
If you haven’t yet heard of Billy Collins or read his work, I urge you to do so right away. In fact, there are some links to get you started at the end of this article. Read these two poems and if you’re not a fan from these, you never will be. You also have no soul, but that’s an issue for another discussion.
Collins is known for leading the reader into the poem with humor and nimbly twisting it somewhere in the middle, spitting you out at the end somewhere far from where you thought you’d be when you started the journey. If you read some of Billy’s work, leave me some comments and let me know what you thought. You can follow Billy on his Facebook page also, so make sure to check that out and give it a Like so you can read his work on a regular basis without any effort.
Happy Reading!
Billy Collins Links:
Tip toeing down the hallway, Magda could see light pouring from the keyhole near the end of the hallway. She chanced a quick glance behind her to make sure she was alone before she crept slowly, slinking through the shadows cast by the heavy drapery on the other side of the passage. Her slippers made a gentle scraping noise as she slid her feet through the dust on the side of the hallway. The drapes were always pulled shut in this part of the house and it was obvious no one ever cleaned here. As she neared the door, the blue light shone bright and Magda wondered if she would be able to see through the light to what lay inside.
For months Magda had noticed her father disappearing down this hallway for hours at a time and had raised the nerve to follow only the night before. Now, creeping toward the closed door while her father was out, Magda was sure she would discover the reason for her mother’s constant tears.
Crouching to her knees, her skirt brushing the floor, Magda took a deep breath and pressed her eye to the keyhole. Gasping, she pulled back and looked down the hall. The sound of her father’s footsteps echoed off the walls. She knew she would not get a second chance to see what was beyond the door.
Magda took a deep breath and pressed her eye to the keyhole once more. The footfalls got louder and she heard him call out her name and begin running toward her. She blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted through the light and focused on the figure of a child laying on a pyramid shaped bed. Her dark curls fell over the side of the bed and trailed on the floor. Magda fingered her own dark curls and touched her face. It was the same as the girl on the bed.
Her heart was pounding as her father’s hand fell on her shoulder and pulled her back from the door. Magda blinked up at her father, the hall’s darkness in sharp contrast with the brightness behind the keyhole. Finally her eyes focused on her father’s terrified face as he waited for her to speak.
“Is she asleep?” Magda finally managed.
His shoulders slumped and he lowered himself to the floor beside her.
“No.” He said. “She is not asleep.”
Your hands
reaching out
connecting with
tender flesh.
Wide eyes and
panting breath
heaving and sighs
escape parted lips.
lights turned up
don’t wanna miss
anything. Everything
is bathed in light
I’m thinking hard
that I just might
lose my mind.
I look and see
that it’s not
me you hold.
If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you know I used to post a lot of writing resources, open submission opportunities, contests and more on here. If you missed my post a few months ago about my new website ReadingAndWritingTips.com, here’s the information again.
I wanted to keep my writing and the resources separate, so I created the companion website as a way to keep my writing and the resources separate. That way, if you’re more interested in the resources, you can visit that website and get only that information. If you love my writing, you can continue to follow me here and you will get poetry, fiction, and articles here every Friday. If you like both, you can follow both and get the best of both worlds!
Reading and Writing Tips is also where I will post contests, book reviews, free ebook notifications, and continually add to the resource list over there. Reading and Writing Tips will also have YouTube videos where I give book reviews, talk about submitting your work for publication, do some interactive writing exercises and much, much more! I’m just getting started over there and I would appreciate a follow.
Let me know if you have any questions!
Reading and Writing Tips website link
Eileen Maki 