Rumple Stein tapped his cane
on the dusty floorboards,
gathering the children in the
mansion's dark parlor.
"Long ago, this very house
belonged to a hunchback
goblin named Quasimodo, "he
whispered, pointing up.
"He had ears like a bat, feet
like a duck, and a crooked
back shaped like a giant
potato."
The grandfather clock
chimed midnight, its heavy
ticks matching the rhythm of
the children's racing hearts.
Quasimodo didn't want to hurt
anyone, Rumple Stein grinned,
he just hated people making loud
noises.
Suddenly, a loud, scraping
THUD- THUD- THUD echoed right
above their heads from the
dark attic stairs.
When the kids don't clean their
rooms, he stalks through the
halls and hides their favorite
toys!
The children gasped, looking
nervously at the dark corners
of the room as the curtains
rustled.
"He is watching right now,
waiting to see who leaves
their shoes on the floor
tonight."
Rumple Stein chuckled softly,
closed his book, and said,
"Now go clean up before
Quasimodo finds you."
Messy? A child at home word.
Not this crone's, outside.
Whose own litter, leaf ,log-felled
When least by repelled.
Whilst strewed with shrieked delight, not
Demented fury!
And heard, laughed for us, as sore;
Kicked through; and jumped o'er!
Messy dark hair or mischievous eyes,
it could be my bite on your cheek.
Pluck that’s one in a million
tests all your self control.
A ‘Follow me’ smirk
so compelling
is a spell
to crave
me.
Start with the fracture -
the splintered thing lodged in your ribs
that no cough can dislodge.
Call it "inspiration" if you must,
but know it is just hunger
with a prettier name.
Next, the bones:
a rhythm tapped absentmindedly
on a diner table,
the half-heard melody
of a stranger’s laugh,
the way your childhood home
still hums in your teeth
when you say its name.
Now, the bloodwork -
verbs writhing like minnows in your palms,
adjectives that stick like burrs to your sleeves.
(Here is where you’ll bleed.
A poem is not a wound,
but the salt rubbed into one.)
Arrange the fragments on the page.
Watch them refuse to fit.
This is the part where you learn:
a poem is not a puzzle,
but the hand that shakes
as it forces the pieces together.
Finally, the lie -
the smoothing, the sanding,
the pretense that this
was always the shape
you intended.
Sign your name at the bottom.
Walk away before it cracks.
melting ice cream cones
chocolate covered faces
a mother's cleanup
How do I miss a face
I’ve barely seen—
just photographs,
never flesh,
yet I know her
like a dream that refuses
to stay asleep.
I once killed the art of dreaming.
Nightmares came hungry,
intentional,
sharp with teeth.
I starved them of my mind
until silence swallowed the night.
But tonight a spark slips through.
Impulsive.
And for a heartbeat
I am happy.
I deserve this—
the glimpse of her,
unspoiled.
My dreams haven’t touched her yet.
Let them stay blind.
I won’t feed the dark.
I imagine it cowering,
still on guard,
waiting for a job
I never asked it to do.
So why do I miss
the photos of someone
I’ve never met?
Because beauty moves closer
every time I look.
Because she notices,
thinks the same,
and distance can’t keep
what’s already inevitable.
Tonight I bar the nightmare’s door.
Tomorrow I open my heart.
We both deserve love.
love already knows.
two milky way wrappers
how long have they been sitting here?
the paint has worn off the c and the v on this keyboard
wedged between keyboard and monitor is a small roll of toilet paper
I am such a pig
there is the washing machine oxygen powder
I wondered what happened to it
three notebooks and a sketch pad are propped up next to my typing fingers
three pairs of readers lollygag around here
I am such a pig
In her messy jalopy, she made a bit of room for me
had to pick up empties; I counted twenty-three
I said, “You really like cream soda, I see”
She gave me a nod and thumbs up, my friend Vee.
We gave been comrades for a while, have shared history.
She has never been a neatnik like her mom or sister Bree.
Her car looks like it has been well-loved, lived in totally
I adore the unapologetic casual messiness of my friend Vee.
I need butter to be spread on my bread
I need wool worn lies pulled over my head
I need to be able to hold myself high
And see your face when I look to the sky
I need to know that you know that I’m here
I need the truth to be held everywhere
Never should children hold back their tears
I need you to know there's nothing to fear
Buried in your world is your life
I need you to know there’s more than one way to strive
I need to hold a hand instead of holding tears
I need color to be everywhere
Red sheets stained with blood
From once you wouldn’t ask for help
Pink mirror to love yourself
Now no longer said enough
Yellow paint smeared on your hands
Leaving their marks on all your friends
I need your heart to beat with blood
I need your tears to come in floods
I hope someday you find the guts
To paint the world and spread your love.
Is my hair messy? Asked the fish with a swish.
Apparently, this was not the fish’s first wish.
For on his face, he was wearing red specs.
He stretched his muscles, giving me a flex.
I could not get past the glasses, did not notice the hair.
It is okay, I said, which was a stretch of me being fair
How did you like the glasses? The godmother asked with a tee hee.
They were really something, I replied. Can you get some for me?
pomegranates aren’t messy.
there quite a few
who don’t have a clue
of how to handle the delicate fruit
so it doesn’t spew
They take one look
And determine its some type of crook
don’t even take a moment
To observe its unique tidiness
They take a spoon
And don’t wait to gut it
To make it messy
And leave it until it’s uncleanly
they don’t take the time
Out of their lives
To hold it steady
And make sure it’s ready
They take and take
The red color staining their fingers
They wipe it on a towel, maybe a few
Going on with their day
Still not having a clue
Pomegranates aren’t messy
your poetry just sucks
Because if you take
What one offers
You’ll see it’s unique tidiness
One it rewards to those who
Don’t rush
And take the time out of their lives
To hold it relentlessly
So no, pomegranate aren’t messy
They just need to be handled gently.
A fraction of home,
Can she come to me? See?
Ignore the useless bodies,
They can’t have what’s mine.
Can’t even tell what’s a lie,
What is living? (Living, living, living.)
Why do you come back?
Dread is all it is,
It can’t hurt me, but my home SUFFERS
My hands are gross, coincide with my arm,
One is insecurity, the other is selfish.
Do you drag? Do you wait?
Why do you stall?
Sometimes, I physically feel unable to clean my room.
Not because I’m lazy, or disorganized.
Rather, because as I’m sitting cross legged on my floor, with various papers, trinkets, awards, and possessions around me
I just can’t find anything worth discarding.
My pink monkey plush, it’s stuffing spilling out?— no, that was the plush he gave me.
My frayed bracelet, adorned with beads representing each of the seven planets?— no, it’s a representation of the best point in my life.
Each item serves as a trophy— a prize I’ve unlocked for every chapter of my life.
I want to lock it up in an exhibit, for others to curiously peer into, attempting to connect the dots of my life using a broken hair tie, a crumpled two dollar bill, and a big green teddy bear.
Persnickety fussbudget never had a mess
Raised two daughters – Wilhemina and Tess
They both became hoarders by age seventeen
No lie, I am not attempting to insult or be mean.
Their mother had spent years throwing their treasures away.
They hoard everything since they are emancipated and now have a say.
If she would have let us keep any of our trinkets for a little while
We might not have become so opposite, Tess said with a smile.
When the fiesta
comes to the a total mess,
rats have their party...
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