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What’s In a Name

I did this exercise for the Gotham Writing Workshop and I wanted to share this draft because it was fun.  Here goes: Amy. Such a short name–a simple name. A name reserved for a sun-bleached blond girl who fishes with the boys and wants to hook the worms, curious about the guts of dirt. Amy,…

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A Sarcastic Ass and a Poet

Well I am on a spree of sleepless nights (I wasn’t on my adhd med for a week and then took it late the other night–I’m all fucked up) so I thought I’d write to you about a few things: ADHD, a little on the moods in bipolar, a little Ptsd, destructive behavior, and sex. …

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For Mike, a poem

How many nights have we spent with our faces to the stars your words are often poetry and I, the writer, lean back and listen, or both of us so eager to talk just like when we were kids. I have a history with you like no one else– of dreaming and defining and seeking…

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Sunburst (for Emma)

While I was watching she didn’t do a slow dissolve on the canvas of what I’ve painted. I waited for it. I waited for the oils to drip down and blur the dark strokes, the blood wine moons and negative stars sketched in reverse, the sharp intakes of my past slashed, an untitled piece I…

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Sexual Identity

Sexual identity is what’s happening with me in my life right now.  I’ve never felt more free and “normal” about my sexuality and desires.  I’m learning I have a darker side, but it’s not as bad as I had feared it would be.  I don’t recall ever desiring a man this much in my life. …

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The Elements of Loss

I don’t hear you say my name as you ask why it is I let no one love me. I feel something stir and I laugh. This is my way. There’s no room for clumsy. Take me or leave me, I say I’ll give you one chance when I know I won’t give you any. Best to shield before they want to leave. But deep in the infection of my gut I’m saying love me, love me. After my father’s funeral my mother gave me back all the things I’d made her as a child. I sit at home and…

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Vapor

This body’s breath caught sharp and held I hold it and like water it escapes my fingers and spills over my toes when I am thirsty asking too much from my body when I am not enough I give it tea and fruit and poisons I exhale the fumes of the vices herbal or smoky…

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Hamsa–The Hand of Fatima & The Virgin Mary

FOR THOSE OF YOU THAT KNOW MY WHOLE STORY, THIS WILL MAKE A LOT OF SENSE. in high school I had reoccurring dreams of a symbol–a hand with an eye on it.  Dreamed it all the time.  I had no idea what it meant, but it remained with me always.  A few years later I…

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So I Wrote an Erotic Poem

to be touched say it–”touched”– an intimate kiss when he says my name, his voice seeping through me, pooling into my caverns and curves every drop from him a fine, careful sip– fingers trailing across my skin– the rise of the heat the pulse thudding mouth to mouth lip to lip thirsty across my tongue across my breasts and at last eddying down to that secret opening; he intoxicates me, lusting and loving and licking between my thighs– giving and giving until I see those pink sparks behind my eyes and then it’s dark–slipping into that void only he can…

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A Trauma Theory

A TRAUMA THEORY (published in FRiGG Magazine) Amy J. Sprague   It was my third year in college when I first heard the term string theory. I remember moving forward slightly, waiting anxiously for what he’d say next, and as the professor strolled over quantum physics and how this theory could explain all the forces of…

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Dear Virginia

I would have met you at the water if I were then without a daughter; I would have held your hand–my lost keeper. I would have decided on the hour–on instinctual impulse–when the lower haze of swaying moods sends me down. I would have called you I bet, and the moon would’ve been full and…

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Starry, Starry Night

It was a clear October night.  My sisters and I piled into the old red Chevy with our stepfather Dan, and headed outside of town for the hospital where my mother was in the mental ward.  None of us spoke; we hardly ever spoke in those years.  Dan kept his eyes on the road, chain-smoking…

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Poem of the Day from Oscar Lush

I found this poem at the blog, Dead Beats.  It’s written by Oscar Lush and I feel it deserves the Poem of the Day. Enjoy.   FLOWERS IN THE WATER   Out of some human sadness, pale faces bloom like roses.   The ones you once loved stumble like children, drunkards, from carnivals come Autumn–…

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Looking for My Father

“We believe in one God, Father the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth…” I was raised a Roman Catholic. I have painted my old Reeboks white so they look new; they’re stiff as I walk downtown toward our apartment. The steeple from my school and the lake behind it disappear behind the run-together row of…

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Some Love Poems

DECEPTION You bought my illusion at first, didn’t you as if Lady Day had kissed my skin and I sang– how I sang to you–my idea of love a passing summer’s day. You wouldn’t go away–so serious of the illusion you bought or so I thought–No, I’d tell you when you slept No, I’m too…

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Powerful Beyond Measure

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.” This is where I’m teetering–between believing in my greatness and believing that I’m no good. Rocky Balboa: “But somewhere along the line you changed, you stopped being you. You let people stick a finger in your face and tell you you’re no good, and when things got hard, you started looking for something to blame, like a big shadow. Let me tell you something you already know–the world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows–it’s a very mean and nasty place and I…

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Borders

My Prayer BORDERS The pop and snap of prescription pill bottles, swallow, light, inhale, scrape of the chair, cluster of tap-tap-taps on the keys, a silence— beyond this room, beyond this wall I can almost hear you—the soil sifting, seeds spreading out, dry in your palm; folds of light robes around you like birds’ wings—your…

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Matters of Time (sketch/lyric essay)

He is standing at the end of the dock with a cigarette hanging from his dry lips.  When the sun rises soon, it will warm his bare feet on the planks of warped wood–just inches above the soft water.  His spirit belongs to older generations–an ancient part about him that sent him away from cities and busy people, never trying to chase or capture time.  Maybe it was because of the rheumatoid arthritis; he had it since he was seven and now, almost thirty, he’s found where he belongs–taking each day slow and steeped in chamomile, never knowing or planning…

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The Elements of Loss

I don’t hear you say my name as you ask why it is I let no one love me. I feel something stir and I laugh. This is my way. There’s no room for clumsy. Take me or leave me, I say I’ll give you one chance when I know I won’t give you any.…

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Ode to Louise Gluck

I’m writing an ode to my favorite poet, Louise Gluck.  To join in the fun, come and celebrate the three year anniversary at d-verse poets pub! I’m writing this poem based on my favorite poem by Gluck–“Mutable Earth.”  I carry that one with me in my wallet.  Rosanna Warren has described Gluck’s writing, for one as–“her–power is to distance the lyric ‘I’ as subject and object of attention” and to “impose a discipline of detachment upon urgently subjective material”  William Logan from the New York Times described her work as “the logical outcome of a certain strain of confessional verse–starved…

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Phenomenons

Originally posted on Boston Poetry Magazine:
by Joseph D. Reich For those who have suffered years of emotional and spiritual abuse and neglect (tormented by sleazy manipulation and treated like a possession having your identity and ego stripped from you) it comes really as no surprise and something of a perverse psychological phenomena as well as lifelong reality to feel like you’re always on the run (watching your back in a state of constant paranoia and on the defensive) while strangely enough parodoxically like wanting to swim back to the shores of alcatraz in the hopes to feel (a part…

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