Afterthought 251—Recycle Bin

Posted in triolet by maggie on 2015/06/10
I'll swing back later on to get my things.
But otherwise I don't expect to stay
beyond the morning.  I'm not into strings.
I'll swing back later on.  To get my things,
whatever you've not labeled waste.  It stings,
yeah, so what ... I knew I'd get sent away.
I'll swing back later on to get my things
but otherwise I don't expect to stay.


Afterthought 212—Hollow Holophrase

Posted in curtal sonnet by maggie on 2015/06/10
           holophrase: a word functioning
                as a phrase or sentence,
                as the imperative Go!     Go! It's what you've said you want to do but need someone to blame your quitting on. Don't let me keep you waiting. Goodbye. Damn! Unwanted guests don't do as told to when I bid them split. But you? You're gone before the word echoes my solitude. Why? Love . . . there, that's the word for you, for the one never-ending phrase I will know. But I'm fine left behind hearing no reply.                 You wanted this. Go!

Afterthought 221—Mad Fatigue

Posted in triolet by maggie on 2015/06/09
Like you say, if you had it to do over
again, you'd ditch me quick hard as death
same as then.  Who's chosen for your lover,
like you say?  If you had it to do over,
I'd best be warned to duck, go run for cover,
just leave you the hell alone easy as breath,
like you say.  If you had it to do over
again, you'd ditch me quick hard as death.

Protected: Afterthought 207—Cross Crotchet

Posted in crown of sonnets by maggie on 2015/04/21

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Protected: Afterthought 149—Double Figures

Posted in madsong by maggie on 2015/04/01

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Afterthought 130—Eldritch

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2015/03/22

"No," our mother cut short my brother's plea
to make the stop where for two bits we'd see
a live five-legged dog. The whole next hour
we got the lecture about how no authenticity
can be found advertized at so cheap a price
at some rundown farm in the middle of nowhere,
how that extra so-called leg was just a piece
of an old sock sewn on, how it couldn't stand
or walk or scratch its owner behind its ear.
And by the time we were leaving Georgia behind
I had learned two lessons that I have found
to serve me well ever since.  First, how much
is like that dog's extra limb was said to be.
And then, how a thing not so can still be known
by the needle and tread through which it's sewn.

Desultory dreams will make up for you being out
later than you said you would be back.  I doubt
we were both as drunk as I've been known to get
reminded how empty it can get here, nothing left
to stitch together into a new leg or extra arm.
Yeah, anyway we were the ones making our escape,
mother no longer swallowing liquor as an excuse
to risk abandoning her children to your abuse.
I can't help wondering the fuss that bitch made
when her five-legged son got so poorly displayed.

The numbers are wearing off the ruler I've placed
over fabric I'm cutting, as if they'd been erased.
Become nearly as useless as a forgotten friend
ridiculed as waste, shrugged off and abandoned.
I don't think I need a replacement, not just yet,
as long as its edge can be used to make the cut.

Seems I'm always getting told to remove free will
from the exhibit.  Like, "Just accept me as I am,
I had nothing to do with this fifth leg I sport,
and me biting at you isn't done out of any ill
except yours at fault not paying your just due
to let me be the fraud my mirror's calling you."

Our mother said we'd escaped you none too soon.
Our mother patiently taught us how the waning moon
is silent without its sun.  Our mother understood
about fire, about rocks and herbs, about blood.
Our mother taught at so cheap a price what's sold
will not last.  Eventually the seam wears thin
and the false will fall away, as if never there,
like a word one never learned to hear get said.
Our mother dies as if alive and lives as if dead.

Unfamiliar.  Unexpected.  Strange, even weird
enough to be photographed, that's an extra charge.
Things that shouldn't be, they should be revered
and thought of as meaning as they have appeared
to be.  If we pass up the temptation to diverge
from where we are, we never get to where we go,
so settle for pretending what's real as though.

Afterthought 128—Crone’s Turn

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2015/03/21

The crone mumbled just loud enough
to be heard beneath our coming in late
making ourselves at home the one night

before melting into her own stew's pot
as if seasoned to each individual taste
in the forgotten kisses of her first dance.

Afterthought 117—Principled

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2015/03/09

Oh.  What strange unexpected mystery
awaiting its creation as if nowhere but on your breath
and forgotten as quickly as a love that gave you no child
to carry you death after death after death.
    So, just one question: Does your father
    still tell you what and what not you're to see.

Ah, ah!  How this moment's magic moves
through word meant to hold its own, to stay
the night just long enough to whisper a forbidden name
to her own in the bed where her soul's mate lay.
    So, just one question, Does your father
    still keep you from your lives and loves?

Eh?  Exquisite metaphor!
The only real injury is that done to one's own self.
Which are the books taken with us when we go
and which the ones abandoned to their shelf?
    So, just one question: Does your father
    still come by to see how you are?

Tibb’s Eve 2014

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2014/12/23

Moonlight skates over icy outport roofs
on crisp wind off the bay, scattering
wanton stars past the black of tomorrow,

and I stop counting the treats and drinks
and smiles and kisses I have to endure
before you will be back home with us.

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