Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!

Best Famous Chris Tusa Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Chris Tusa poems. This is a select list of the best famous Chris Tusa poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Chris Tusa poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Chris Tusa poems.

Search for the best famous Chris Tusa poems, articles about Chris Tusa poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Chris Tusa poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...

Written by Chris Tusa | Create an image from this poem


 My grandmother’s teeth stare at her
from a mason jar on the nightstand.
The radio turns itself on, sunlight crawls through the window, and she thinks she feels her bright blue eyes rolling out her head.
She’s certain her blood has turned to dirt, that beetles haunt the dark hollow of her bones.
The clock on the kitchen wall is missing its big hand.
The potatoes in the sink are growing eyes.
She stares at my grandfather standing in the doorway, his smile flickering like the side of an axe.
Outside, in the yard, a chicken hops through the tall grass, looking for its head.
Written by Chris Tusa | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Gumbo

 after Sue Owen

Born from flour anointed with oil, 
from a roux dark and mean as a horse’s breath, 
you remind me of some strange, mystical stew 
spawned from a muddy version of Macbeth.
Only someone’s replaced the spells with spices, the witches with a Cajun chef.
Maybe you’re a recipe torn from Satan’s Cookbook, a kind of dumb-downed devil’s brew where evil stirs its wicked spoon in a swampy sacrificial hue.
Maybe God damned the okra that thickens your soup, the muddy bones that haunt your stew.
Maybe this is why, when we smell the cayenne, we’re struck dumb as a moth.
Maybe this is why everything that crawls or flies seems to find its way into your swampy broth.
Written by Chris Tusa | Create an image from this poem

Snow White to the Prince

 after Susan Thomas

Truth is, my life was no fairytale, 
that afternoon, I lay, a smiling corpse
under a glass sky, a rotten apple
lodged in my throat like a black lump
of cancer, your sloppy kiss dying on my lips.
Did you really believe a kiss could cure the poison galloping through my veins, as you stood there, with your ugly white horse, the voices of dwarfs buzzing like flies in the apple-scented air? I wish you could see me now, how I take to the sky, a witch without a broom, an empty black silhouette with stars for teeth, spooking deer into briar patches, swallowing the shadows of trees.
I wish I could slip into my beautiful white flesh, just once, my pretty white feet stuffed into black slippers, my poisoned-breath fogging up the smiling mirror.
If only you could see the light pouring from my skin.
If only you could hear the songs my bones sing.
Written by Chris Tusa | Create an image from this poem


 She looks rather pathetic, really,
leaning against the black air,
the three mangled fingers of her left hand
clutching a yellow purse,
her right arm raised over her head
as if to shield herself
from the silver shower of stars
raining down upon her.
Her mouth is a crack growing beneath her nose.
Two dimples open like holes in her cheeks.
A pink ear dangles from her chin.
Looking at it now, it's clear.
But who could have possibly know then the dark shades of meaning lurking in the shadow of her face, the quiet relevance of the pearl necklace swimming around her neck, the orange birds drifting above her like question marks? Or that twenty years later it would all make sense- the way her eyes roll toward the sky, the way my father stands behind her in the crowd, arms waving in the wind, as if he's slowly drowning in the black sea of faces.
Written by Chris Tusa | Create an image from this poem


 Marie Laveau, a colored woman who eventually became
known as the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, often used
her knowledge of Voodoo to manipulate and acquire power.
--Enigma In one quick lick I waved my mojo hand, made the Mississippi’s muddy spine run crooked as a crow’s foot, scared politicians into my pocket with lizard tongues and buzzard bones, convinced the governor to sing my name under a sharp crescent moon white as a gator’s tooth.
Now my magic got the whole Vieux Carré waltzing with redfish and rooster heads, got Protestants blessing okra and cayenne, Catholics chasing black cats down Dumaine, even got Creoles two-stepping with pythons along the banks of Bayou St.
They say soon my powers gonna fade, that there’s a noose aloose in the streets looking for a neck to blame.
But I’m just a lowly colored woman and ain’t nobody gonna blame a worm for scaring a catfish onto a hook.
Written by Chris Tusa | Create an image from this poem


 Maybe it’s Emphysema, a shiny black jewel of phlegm 
humming like a clump of bees in my chest.
Perhaps a tumor crawling in the crook of my armpit, a blood clot opening like a tiny red flower in my brain.
Maybe it’s too early to show up on an X-ray, a kind of cancerous seed planted deep in my intestine, something like Leukemia’s ghost haunting my hollow bones.
The doctor says I’m fine.
But even now, deep in the dark holes of my eyes I can feel the cataracts spinning their silver webs.
Even now, in the bony cage of my lungs I can feel the heart attack’s prologue, the opening words of some prolific pain like a bird stabbing its incessant beak into the ripe red meat of my heart.