Sunday, July 21, 2013
Friday, July 19, 2013
Jack in Fiction365
Published on ---> Fiction365
Today's Story by Susan Marie
Jack
I greeted the day curled up in the back seat. Spending the night in my car was not what I had in mind when I agreed to take this job. It was only supposed to be for two nights. It is now going on day five.
Damn her, I thought.
It was still dark outside. I lit a smoke and cranked down the window whistling some Dylan tune. I saw lights on in a window up the street. Hopping into the front, easing into the driver’s seat, I cursed her for leaving me in this town.
Then I saw the note. It was lying on the dash, her usual manila envelope with thick, black scroll on the front, my name, what she liked to call me: Toni. I tore it open, thinking how much I loved and hated this woman.
Toni, my love,
Get something to eat, wait for my call.
Love,
Jezelle
There was a twenty-dollar bill inside, crisp and pure. Like Jezelle. I snatched the smokes and headed up the street to Bobby’s.
Nobody stared at me when I strolled into the diner. A good sign. I could really use a drink, I thought. There were five people that I could see, not counting who might be in the kitchen or getting their jollies in the john. Two men in the back booth, an old man at the counter, and a girl in her teens. She looked new. You could tell by the way she sat all hunched over looking cold. She held her cigarette as if she were posing for a picture. I had to laugh. That was me three years ago. I felt sorry for her.
When I turned my gaze from the girl, behind the counter stood Bobby. God, how I had missed her. She smiled. I headed for the bathroom. I took off my coat, gave my face a quick rinse and stared straight ahead.
Nothing scarier than staring into your own eyes.
When I came out, Bobby already had my coffee ready, black, as usual, and a plate of toast. I pushed the plate away and sipped the coffee. The elderly man mumbled to God. Egg yolk dripped down his stubbly chin. I turned away, focusing on the two men.
This is how bad it’s gotten. Two men in a diner, a twenty-dollar bill and a half pack of smokes. So this is where it ends. I couldn’t even drink my coffee thinking of the grimy hands that would soon be groping my breasts.
Bobby nodded. It was time. I choked down the cup and took a shot from the pint in my coat. Nothin’ like ole’ Jack to give you a hug when you need it.
I sat down next to the blond guy and whispered,
“Hi, I’m Toni. Jezelle sent me.”
They both grinned and the mulatto slid in next to me. Bobby quickly pulled down the shades. I wanted to scream.
The white guy rubbed my thigh and I closed my eyes.
I thought of Jezelle. I always thought of Jezelle. And at this moment, it was her lips upon mine, her hands on my body and my eyes searching for her, once again, in the darkness of Bobby’s diner.
——-
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Wednesday, July 17, 2013
every waking thought
every waking thought
is the flight of a monarch
before each bud that blooms
she gathers
from both hemispheres
left and right,
like her wings
birthed twins,
where every waking thought
begins
- as a first breath
- and the last gasp
where dreams become life
in the dank cloak of midnight
gaining momentum
churning the vortexes
of hurricanes
such raw passion
complicated
never simple
a thought
is the genesis of energy
the beginning of understanding
a means to communicate
the subconscious of the artist,
insane
writing words such as this
solely to prevent the skull
from bursting,
spewing bits of memories
and rivers of tears, endless
that never run dry
a place where angels reside
sitting upon clouds
of sentences
the most holy poets -
sending telegraphs
to the chosen.
© Susan Marie 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
promise yourself this
promise yourself this
no matter how utterly
hurtful
something may feel
when words are hurled
towards you
even direct
and sometimes
on purpose
like a tornado
an earthquake
like Mother Nature
breaking,
and when all the dark chasms of this Earth
break, open
and the plates of this planet
you were born onto
crash into one another
birthing molten lavaand the plates of this planet
you were born onto
crash into one another
that spreads upon your heart,
molding an ashen sculpture
and even as the beasts that exist in the void,
oh, such evil winged creatures,
begin flying above you
as your spirit lie
breathless, exhausted, wasted
and the last atoms
that are left
create
a
nuclear
reaction
promise yourself this
that if one chooses
or does not even know
that they are releasing
all of their insecurities
angers
hatreds
confusions
afflictions
desires
passions
and eventually
all of their love upon your very soul
as your spirit lie
breathless, exhausted, wasted
and the last atoms
that are left
create
a
nuclear
reaction
promise yourself this
that if one chooses
or does not even know
that they are releasing
all of their insecurities
angers
hatreds
confusions
afflictions
desires
passions
and eventually
all of their love upon your very soul
promise yourself this
please
simply
forgive.
© Susan Marie
Thursday, June 13, 2013
the perfect poem
On audio HERE
the perfect poem
is without words
it is heard within the cries of lovers
legs entwined
like trees
limbs reaching roots
climbing vines
towards heaven
it is the sun dappled dawn
rich and vibrant
like cheeks rising
as apples, ripe
it is the laughter of children
encrypted within chalk lines on sidewalks
where no words are spoken
and no language exists
it is the heart, racing
through atriums and ventricles
pumping blood to breath
so your eyes
show laughter
through your tears after rainfall
the perfect poem
is you
perfect,
poem
it is the presence of love
and the breath of angels.
is without words
it is heard within the cries of lovers
legs entwined
like trees
limbs reaching roots
climbing vines
towards heaven
it is the sun dappled dawn
rich and vibrant
like cheeks rising
as apples, ripe
it is the laughter of children
encrypted within chalk lines on sidewalks
where no words are spoken
and no language exists
it is the heart, racing
through atriums and ventricles
pumping blood to breath
so your eyes
show laughter
through your tears after rainfall
the perfect poem
is you
perfect,
poem
it is the presence of love
and the breath of angels.
© Susan Marie
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Creative Writing I, II & III with Susan Marie [Buffalo, NY & Virtual]
Geared Towards Teens, Young Adults, and Adults
You only need to bring your imagination. This is not your typical creative writing workshop. This is all about the creative process as a whole, reaching into yourself, finding what is in there, and bringing that out to the world.
All 3 workshops are virtual [live & recorded due to timezone] and in Buffalo, NY at Main Studios. http://mainstudiosbuffalo.com/
INFO:
Buffalo Workshop: $25 per workshop, discounted price for all 3: http://mainstudiosbuffalo.com/
Virtual Workshop : $15 for all 3 workshops, info here : http://mainstudiosbuffalo.com/
DATES:
I: June 26th, 6-8/9PM : Creative Writing I : Intro: Breaking Creative Writing Barriers also with guest speaker Jim Petretta on Storytelling
Jim will talk about a few things he learned about storytelling from his mentor, Prof. Max Westler, St. Mary's College, South Bend (Sister to Notre Dame), read a short excerpt from his book, hold a Q/A session, and offer the Kindle versions of his book for any interested persons --> http://www.
II. July 31, 6-8/9PM : Creative Writing II: Expanding on the Creative Process also with guest speaker Ken Feltges, writer in residence, Mount St, Mary's. [educator and performance artist --> http://www.mt-st-marys.org/
III. August 21st, 6-8/9PM: Creative Writing III: Reading & Recording Your Work and Publishing Tips/Suggestions also with guest speaker Janna Willoughby-Lohr aka MC Vendetta, performance artist, musician, educator --> http://www.facebook.com/paperc
DETAILS:
There are countless free things for all attending to be listed. You will end [if you wish] with a spoken publishing credit, recorded, archived and promoted by me. If you attend the last workshop only, please be prepared to have a piece to [perform, read, sing?] then record. I will assign during June & July to prepare for August. Your final recording is 100% up to you. Virtual attendees will need to record this and send me the mp3 or wav file.
Sponsors:
1. Jim Petretta : http://www.
2. Perry Nicholas: www.perrynicholas.com
3. Jennifer Campbell : http://www.pw.org/content/jenn
4. Randy Rumley: https://www.facebook.com/randy
5. Loren Keller: http://eres.medaille.edu/libra
6. Ken Feltges: http://www.mt-st-marys.org/
7. Just Buffalo Literary Center/Barbara Cole: http://www.justbuffalo.org/
8. Poets & Writers.Org: http://www.pw.org/
9. Theresa Wyatt: http://www.sevencirclepress.
10. Big Marker : https://www.bigmarker.com/abou
11. Susan Marie [my ebook/book of poetry/prose "knots'] http://susanmariepr.blogspot.
12. Janna Willoughby-Lohr aka MC Vendetta.http://www.facebook.
13. Think Twice Radio: Recording/Editing/Archiving of Spoken Word : http://www.thinktwiceradio.
14. Hany Ghoraba/Delizon Publishers : http://www.delizonpublishers.
15. Publish America: http://www.publishamerica.com/
16. MAIN(ST)UDIOS :[Erica Eichelkraut-Zilbauer] http://mainstudiosbuffalo.com/
MORE TO COME!
Monday, April 29, 2013
Poetry Metagenics at the Pulitzer Center
Original article here --> Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting
Inspired by the serendipitous algorithm-generated poetry of the New York Times Haiku, we're hoping to feed our own award-winning writing through a concept of similar but more human design: the staff and readers of the Pulitzer Center website.
Our resident poet, Jennifer Nguyen, got the ball rolling:
@jen_vnguyen
A dividing line
of walls, mines, wire, land and men,
unites Korea.
We write on behalf
those who may risk death for words
this Poetry Month.
When given the "choice"
sick, ailing Cambodians
prefer HIV.
What is a haiku?
Haiku is poetry in three short lines using a 5-7-5 syllable structure. Typically haikus contain strong sensory or synesthetic words and images.
Poetry Month: Telling Untold Stories:
Haikus about international untold stories help interpret global issues for a wider audience.
in and of shadows
the stateless stumble, ever
the nowhere people.
Bones emitting truth
stack, one atop another
collocating flies.
Poetry can help us reflect and see things we might have missed in everyday life.
Poetry can be a call to action or, as Pulitzer Center grantees Eliza Griswold and Seamus Murphy found in Afghanistan, a way to express dissent when self-expression is dangerous.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Jack
I greeted the day curled up in the back seat. Spending the night in my car was not what I had in mind when I agreed to take this job. It was only supposed to be for two nights. It is now going on day five.
Damn her, I thought. It was still dark outside. I lit a smoke and cranked down the window whistling some Dylan tune. I saw lights on in a window up the street. Hopping into the front, easing into the driver’s seat, I cursed her for leaving me in this shit hole of a town.
Then I saw the note. It was lying on the dash, her usual manila envelope with thick, black scroll on the front, my name, what she liked to call me: Toni. I tore it open, thinking how much I loved and hated this woman.
Toni, my love,
Get something to eat, wait for my call.
There was a twenty-dollar bill inside, crisp and pure. Like Jezelle. I snatched the smokes and headed up the street to Bobby’s.
Nobody stared at me when I strolled into the diner. A good sign. I could really use a drink, I thought. There were five people that I could see, not counting who might be in the kitchen or getting their jollies in the john. Two men in the back booth, an old man at the counter, and a girl in her teens. She looked new. You could tell by the way she sat all hunched over looking cold. She held her cigarette as if she were posing for a picture. I had to laugh. That was me three years ago. I felt sorry for her.
When I turned my gaze from the girl, behind the counter stood Bobby. God, how I had missed her. She smiled. I headed for the bathroom. I took off my coat, gave my face a quick rinse and stared straight ahead.
Nothing scarier than staring into your own eyes.
When I came out, Bobby already had my coffee ready, black, as usual, and a plate of toast. I pushed the plate away and sipped the coffee. The elderly man mumbled to God. Egg yolk dripped down his stubbly chin. I turned away, focusing on the two men.
This is how bad it’s gotten. Two men in a diner, a twenty-dollar bill and a half pack of smokes. So this is where it ends. I couldn’t even drink my coffee thinking of the grimy hands that would soon be groping my breasts.
Bobby nodded. It was time. I choked down the cup and took a shot from the pint in my coat. Nothin’ like ole’ Jack to give you a hug when you need it.
I sat down next to the blond guy and whispered:
“Hi, I’m Toni. Jezelle sent me.”
They both grinned and the mulatto slid in next to me. Bobby quickly pulled down the shades. I wanted to scream.
The white guy rubbed my thigh and I closed my eyes. I thought of Jezelle. I always thought of Jezelle. And at this moment, it was her lips upon mine, her hands on my body and my eyes searching for her, once again, in the darkness of Bobby’s diner.
© Susan Marie [TBC]
Friday, April 12, 2013
Reading Billy Collins Watching Billy
When I taught my son to read,
rather, when he grasped the written word
his lips pursed so slightly in time
with the crunch of his brow
And his eyes registered each character
churning and bouncing inside his head,
like atoms dancing -
as a Gentleman and his fair Lady,
bowing gracefully to the other
before a waltz.
I do not recall hearing words
fly from his mouth,
yet saw behind his eyes
trapeze artists leaping across synapses,
jolting ancient clocks to spark
holding ages together,
strands of DNA.
Nothing more than the woolen scarf
I once wrapped snugly around his chin
before we ventured out
to make snow angels.
© Susan Marie
Thoughts While Sleepwalking
On Audio --> here
it leaps and bounds
love
climbing vines towards Heaven
zinging past stars, galaxies
meteors flashing
supernova stargaze falling embers
like a waterscape canvas
melting nightscape backdrop
settling upon blooms
springing forth
from each bud
an electrical buzzzzzzzzzz
resonating
a bumblehum
of drones
leaving the air
thick and heavy
like buttercream frosting.
If you look to the sky, you will see the energy
electrical lines quake and quiver
a sonic boom
like static
traveling down one arm
to the fingertip
that touched Gods' own
on the ceiling of the Sistine.
Michelangelo knew about love.
Aboriginals knew.
They needed no speech.
They felt the Earth
pull their chests
outward
magnetic
a throbbing ache
of telepathic temple
told presence of
Mother Earth
God
Buddha
Muhammad
The Great Spirit
Yahweh
The bum in the gutter
has knowing eyes.
I bet you never took
the time to see.
Next
time
look
closer
the iris
reflects
the freedom
of knowing
the same crazed stare
of a driven soul
escaping through
tunnels of poetry
waiting to flood
the city streets
and drown
the foolhardy.
The Genesis
of an Apocalypse.
© Susan Marie
to sleep, to dream
Oh, to sleep to dream
of completion,
genesis ascending
from each clavicle.
The beginning of flight.
Towering two feet above my crown
and one foot above the ground,
my spirit would no longer suffer
the torture of good versus evil.
They would be glorious, my wings.
Perhaps, they will serve
to thaw my frame when I become chilled,
meld into arms when I am lonely,
and turn, quick and sharp
if crossed, to smite one
who did not respect their beauty.
Oh, to sleep to dream
within the room of my son.
I collect his feathers,
delicately lain across his nightstand.
Plumed obsidian, magnificent.
As that of a raven.
We picked them together, planning to create a headdress
yet now,
I place them upon his back
heeding the fate of Icarus',
and stand sentinel, mesmerized
by his sprouts of tufted down.
And before dawn,
we search for a willow tree
to nest in, perhaps -
away from the bloodstains
and stench of the city.
Our hands clasped
as we take flight.
Together.
© Susan Marie
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
the most beautiful songs
On Audio --> Here
Sometimes
the obscurest birds
sing
the most beautiful songs.
Like a child,
placing blocks,
worn,
letters faded, atop another.
Oh . . . so carefully.
Or in the kitchen,
where one woman,
beautiful,
with her hair tied back,
cooks
and silently hums to herself,
her family, waiting,
in the other room.
And the man,
viewing his child below him,
placing worn blocks with such intent
then shifting his gaze to the back of his wife,
in the kitchen,
standing.
And there is no music.
No words are spoken.
It is simply understood
that sometimes
the obscurest birds
sing
the most beautiful songs.
© Susan Marie and Shivpreet Singh
*Shiv said to me, "Sometimes the obscurest birds sing the most beautiful songs."
Sunday, March 24, 2013
starshine
On Audio
Strange
the moon
she only shows her face
sullen, yet bright
after the dusk of each day
beautiful
she is
setting the purpling velvet sky alight
waking constellations from deep slumber
causing them to sparkle and dim
lighting the way for us all
our wretched poor souls
wandering and lost
beneath
starshine
© Susan Marie
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Amber Tan
I find myself missing you
and it ain't that bad
I find myself missing you baby
but it don't leave me sad
You helped me pave that rusty road
a line from you to me
It was always give or take
and never in between
I find myself thinking
about your eyes so amber tan
I see them shine then fade within the light
like a stone held in my hand
They lit up in my doorway
a refuge from the street
And it was always give or take with me
and never in between
I wonder how you're doing
if your feeling on the up
Saw your ride driving by
wished to stop and take a look
Because it was always give and take with me
and never in between
You helped me pave that rusty road
a line from you to me
You set me alight
let me fly right from your palm
I can't describe this desire
this void you fill, my soul to spill
inside this empty skull of mine
inside this empty skull of mine
This bird flies solo
especially tonight
I can find my way home
but it's lonely on this road
and I just sigh
turn up the radio
tell myself that life,
will come and go
they come and go
but you . . .
you touched me in places
people never dare to search
you placed your palms together
your words are inked forever
branded to my soul
Cuz it was always give and take with me
and never in between
You helped me pave that rusty road
a line from you to me
© Susan Marie - written for an extremely dear soul, a song of sorts . . .
inevitable death
a single
breath
is as profound
as each subtle vein
engorged
upon the skin
of solitary leaf
it parachutes
to an inevitable death
a tightrope artist
tripping on time
calling skyward
eyes upon branches
half naked
hanging as harlots
awaiting their own
slow descent
to madness
jackdaws mimic
silent cries
waddling through masses
of fallen bodies
in emerald forests
never comprehending
the descent
the death
the breath released
mid-air
never to be caught
and held
© Susan Marie 2013
Feathers
she moves slow, languid
the silhouette from the night sky
frames her breasts
the curve of her thigh
her wings are lovely
she knows this
they are silver gilt
and woolen white
they rest upon her back
and come full circle
cradling her as an embrace
turning her head once to the right
she listens close
someone is calling to her
she sighs, nods her head
knowing full well
what she must do
walking to the dresser
she lifts the lid
the wooden box creaks
ever so slightly
it has been ages since she has had to open it
and places within
her heart
lying on the bed
she smooths her chestnut mane
and speaks to God
who shows her the future
every single time
it is she that has to let go
not them
they think of her and smile
yet this is what she is
a harbor
a bridge
a port
she must not do this again
she has told herself before
never
again
yet inside
she is so full of wonder
so full of wonder
so
full
of
wonder
it is not a bad thing
she thinks
to simply
love.
© Susan Marie 2013
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Defining Breath
To define breath
is like trying to write
poetry
Poetry is the wind
she is the ocean
lapping waves
smashing against rock and slate
dirt and Earth
She is the native tongue
of those who have come before us
who have fought and died
who have written of struggle
beauty
life
and death
simultaneous
To attempt to catch
a solitary drop of rain
as she cries, the sky,
as eagles clash mid flight
scrying words
in cirrus
falling in ecstasy
is poetry
It is the ultimate sacrifice of the spirit
the selfless giving of the heart
the utmost altar
upon it
a cup of poison
To attempt to define
breath
is like writing
poetry.
© Susan Marie 2013
[Thank you Theron]
Friday, March 8, 2013
I Am Kashmir
On
The News Tribe [Pakistan]
We Speak News [India]
rat
a
tat
tat
ya hear that?
another round
locked, and loaded
where boys,
are forced to be
men
and women
are raped
and children,
throw
stones
until a bullet hits the skin
piercing within
the gentle flesh that God made
My skin is worn
my heart,
heavy
and my mind,
must constantly evade
the darkness
Yet I am light
and my spirit
it IS strong
it flies with the midnight moon
chasing stars
supernovas
faster than the speed of light
stronger than the wind
more powerful than the sun herself
shining
celestial majestic divinity . . .
Aged.
I am
Kashmir.
© Susan Marie 2013
* CNN yanked this off of my professional media profile today. This young man, Shaheed Tahir died in Indian occupied Kashmir this week.
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