Tag Archives: poetry

National Poetry Month: Mrs. Winchester

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Originally published on Gothic.net, this poem has had a series of reprints. (It eventually appeared on my blog over 10 years ago.) It inspired a screenplay that’s been a quarterfinalist at Austin Film Festival and a finalist at Shriekfest. May I present one of my favorites…

Mrs. Winchester

I am always building
like Mrs. Winchester
my fingers ever reaching
steeple and strut
for who-knows-what
and all my doors open
to a sheer drop
as I blindly press my walls
heavenward
beyond the copper gates
and into the briny blankets
smothering the wind,
searching the breezes
for him…
for you.

Mine will be an empty house,
not for dwelling
but for touring,
lace and bed
roped off from their touch
a spectacle
my wood floor splintering
from their stares
under the weight of their wonder
for I’ve built a house
that even I cannot live in
and cursed I wander
the darker hours
from bed to bed
never resting
hammers sinking
nails of grief and fear
lips tasting
leaded glass
as if this frozen pane
were you
if only they knew
it’s your voice at midnight
that tells me where
to build each gable, rail, and stair…

Someday
I’ll drive them all away
before they discover
my madness
like the servant’s hall
is north by northwest
but until then
add another window
Mrs. Winchester
because when the oak doors shut
there will be
no more light.

National Poetry Month: Was an Ocean of You

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When I first started writing poetry in the late 1990’s, I discovered a vast number of online publishers. One of those was Pegasus Dreaming. They were the first to publish this little poem, which went on to be reprinted in other places, including Biting Midnight. I hope you enjoy it. (Photo by Joseph Barrientos.)

Was an Ocean of You

You trickle and vanish between my fingers
as your shattered shoreline burns into my bare soles;
You spray salt against my parched lips
as your moods crash against me;
You blister my brow
as your silence stares down around my shoulders.
Once there was an ocean of you…
But now
I whisper into the empty conch shell
that was your heart
So when the children
put you to their ears
all they will hear
is my roaring disappointment.

National Poetry Month: Sticky Winter Lips

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I wrote this poem with “Dirty Talk” and “Poetry” refrigerator magnets. It was published in my Bram Stoker Award-nominated collection, At Louche Ends: Poetry for the Decadent, the Damned, and the Absinthe-minded.

Sticky Winter Lips

Release me
Steamy spirit
Like moist
Breath
From hot whispers
And see my soul,
Lovelier than leather
And your god’s 
Blue love.
For I crave
Sublime black passion
Above poetry.
So
Swallow sweet  
Thigh fire and  
Desire dynamite, 
Boy, as you
Grind oral sex
Through whispering panties
With thy mouth and
Position your prick
To prance
In pentameter.
Until the  
Deep falling, let
Obsessed thought
Melt reason; for
Your rhythm
Rhymes with romance.
Look —
Lose her hairy hole.
Crave me,
Knight,
And leave loyalty to the
Bourgeoisie! For
Art alone cannot gratify
Flesh. Or heart.
You then kissed
This bottoming beauty
And said
Time won’t make
Forever bend.
So cry adieu to
Heart’s appetite.
Nothing more
Will heaven do.
But please,
I replied,
Please don’t leave.
And please don’t take
my moon skin…

Enough Sun.
I never want Summer
Or need Spring; 
Only your
Sticky Winter lips
And night rain.

National Poetry Month: The Resume

Posted on by under astrology, poetry

You don’t have to know anything about astrology to enjoy this poem. But as a long-time astrologer, I’m surprised at how seldom the art has influenced my writing. Virgo rules the 6th House, which represents work, and Venus rules relationships. Since my own Venus is in Virgo, I wrote this poem about it. It was a long time ago, but it still delights me.

The Resume: A Poem to My Venus in Virgo (Unaspected, Retrograde)

I called Aphrodite’s office today
and spoke to the guy
in her HR department.
(You know his name.)
I reminded him
he had my resume on file.

“Yeah, there are
a lot of people
out of love right now,”
he said.
“We haven’t had
an unromantic rate
this high in
quite a while.”

It doesn’t matter
I said.
It shouldn’t be
so hard
to place me.

“Let’s take a look
at your history,”
he said, squinting
at my resume.
(Yes, I could hear his squint
over the phone.)
“You don’t have any experience,”
he remarked with rue.

I told him
that’s simply not true.

“But these are crushes,”
he replied.
“They don’t count.
You can’t count anything
you’ve done on spec.”

But all I need
I said
is the right
opportunity.
I have skills like
communication and honesty,
dedication, compassion,
and, most importantly,
a Life.
Looks are not required
but since I’m often admired
I believe I have those, too —
at least
that’s what I’m told.

“Yes, that’s a bonus,”
he granted. “But still,
there are people
with way more experience.
In fact,
there are those
who are rarely
out of love.”

But those people
I explained
have Venus-Mars aspects,
or else they’re
Librans,
and that’s hardly fair.
(And being always in love
is not really healthy,
I added under my breath.)

He reluctantly agreed.

I don’t want to be
in love with just anyone
You see.
I have my requirements
although a bit high.
He’s got to have
— and want —
the same things as I.

“But a lot of these people
on your list of
romantic targets
have not had any openings
in quite a while.”

That’s okay
I told him
I listed them there
so you’d know my style.

He reviewed my skills
one more time.
“We shouldn’t have
much trouble placing you,”
he said with a sigh.
He paused, reading.
“Ah! I think I see
The Problem,”
He said.
“Look at your Objective.
It says:
To be in love.”

Oh, crap!
I exclaimed.
That’s my old resume.
It’s way out of date.
My progressed Venus
is no longer
in a retrograde state.
Let me email you
my new one.

Within moments
he got the file
where I’d made the change.
Objective:
To find a partner
someone with whom
to share my life
and, in some ways,
make me more complete.

This made him
much more cheerful.
“Okay, alrighty,
I got your new resume!
With all things considered
I’ll get on it today.”

I thanked him, but
when I hung up
I realized
I should’ve asked about pay.

National Poetry Month: 39 Regrets

Posted on by under poetry, Uncategorized, writing

In honor of the Lefty Award Awards (congrats to the winners!), here is my Hitchcock-inspired poem, “39 Regrets,” which was published in A Sea of Alone: Poems for Alfred Hitchcock by Dark Scribe Press.

39 Regrets

There is so much in life that I’ve come to regret
Yet old Mr. Mem’ry won’t let me forget.

That five cents I stole from my mother’s black purse;
And the lie that I told that made it all worse.
The bleach that I poured in my grandma’s fish tank;
And the woman I tripped up that day at the bank.
The night that I swapped my father’s heart pills
For the ones in the cupboard that cured paltry ills.
Not to mention the holes cut in everyone’s socks;
The times that I changed all the family clocks.
The anonymous note that I sent to Miss Gluvder
To make the plain thing think that somebody loved her.

I remember the Monday I cut the school’s power,
And poisoned our neighbor’s red prize-winning flower.
I’d stolen my uncle’s big shiny revolver, 
And used mother’s perfume as car paint dissolver.
Soon after I’d pushed that dim boy down the stairs
Whose sticky warm blood wet all his head’s hairs…

And then as I grew my regrets multiplied
When I met a nice man and became his shy bride.
We moved to a two-story house down the street
And gave birth to wee waves of regrets oh so sweet:
Becky, Scottie, Lina,
Norman, John, Eve
And Pete. 

I regretted it more when I ran from it all
And rented a room in a dusty old hall,
Taking up drink and dyeing my hair
Leading the men to my taffeta lair.
The dresses, 
Caresses
And late night champagne,
Were lovely at first, then drove me insane.
I needed more intrigue, a man who knew life
A fellow who knew what to do with a knife. 

I regretted the day that I met him at last
And regretted his murder to cover my past.
I then had to flee to another great city
And with a fake name, I joined a committee. 
I regret that I tried to adopt a routine
When really I shouldn’t have ever been seen.
Of course, I regret being caught by the law
I never denied that my plan had a flaw…

But my greatest regret — which some call my glory —
Was letting that fat man hear my life’s story.

(c) 2011 by Maria Alexander

National Poetry Month

Posted on by under disability, poetry, Uncategorized

It’s that time of year when the U.S. recognizes poetry and poets. I’ll try to post a poem every day this month. Most of them are reprints of poems from my Bram Stoker Award(r)-nominated poetry collection At Louche Ends, Poetry for the Decadent, the Damned, and the Absinthe-minded (the featured image in this post is from the cover by Katelan Foisy). Others are from my first collection, Biting Midnight: A Feast of Darksome Verse. But a few will be new. Since T.S. Eliot named April the cruelest month in his famous poem “The Wasteland,” that’s where we’ll start. With cruelty.

Without further ado, one of my first poems.

Pain is God’s Love

Pain is God’s love
he said
legs folded lotus
on the bed
of imported pillows
as he spoke to us
his spiritual students
Pain is God’s love  
I said
as the needle slipped into my wrist
into the nerve
and I called out
his name
the license plate
of his Mercedes
and the colors
of his silk paintings
in the third-floor hallway
he responded
by telling me
I was too self-absorbed…

God-absorbed and
nag champa blind
my mind went white
the nurse stroked my brow
as I shuddered
you’re doing very well
the doctor said
I smiled
I have a high pain threshold
I replied
tears in my eyes 
and I remembered 
I have eighty dollars
until the next disability check arrives.
And when the doctor left
the nurse and I talked
about Karma and fate
how nothing’s safe
and she said
spiritual security
is your only good bet
what a hard lesson that is
I whispered 
and she cried…

Here in my bliss
in my handless
nothingness
I say
Pain is God’s love
and I wish he knew
how much
God hated him.

(c) 2002 Maria Alexander in Biting Midnight: A Feast of Darksome Verse