Lousy Poem Wednesday

For whatever anyone (including myself) may/may not think of my writing, I am not a poet.  I love poetry, but don’t know anything about the various forms, never studied it or felt compelled to do so. Of course, when I was a teenager and young adult, I wrote plenty of angsty poems.  All free verse, because, of course, I didn’t know what I was doing.  Attempts at rhymes resulted in the love children of elementary roses-are-red and the man-from-Nantucket, and I abandoned poetry for short stories by the time I was in my twenties.

Once in a while, though, like once every ten years, I have an urge.  I went to the beach with Art Child the other day.  Took the train out to Brooklyn to “my” beach, just beyond the shadow of the elevated train tracks.  Brighton Beach isn’t what anyone would call paradise, or even clean–truly, you have to shower off the layer of dirt and grime before determining whether or not you got any color– but I love it. It feels like home, what can I say.  When we were walking to the water, I noticed chicken bones scattered in the sand, probably rejected by seagulls.  Those bones, complete with bits of batter and gristle, stayed in my mind. image

Past the end

down and down the steps

up the ramp

splinters of before

push through


Sun soothes, empties the cells

Look Ma! No cancer, Vitamin D–

except skin

Pleats and furrows pulled taut by kelp flies

pores opened by the heat

for sweat to drown the fleas


wider to swallow

shell fragments

broken beer bottles

chicken bones


And the salt

taste it

on the breeze

in the water

against the scummy layer of coconut oil


Grains of could-be

meld into

Squishy mud of


and I dive.


Vintage: Not Frost Free

Vintage Refrigerator

Vintage Refrigerator (Photo credit: SanFranAnnie)

I’m in this strange in between space.  Between waiting and doing and deciding on the waiting and the doing and the deciding.  This leaves too much time devoted to thinking.  And remembering.

This morning I was talking with a friend about my love of the beach.  Now pretty much limited to summer time, when I was young I used to go year round.  In fall and winter I would sit on the rocks of that Brooklyn beach with my radio (and then walkman), spiral notebook and pencil, and write poor, angsty poetry.  Of course then I didn’t see it as poor or angsty.  But yeah, it was.

Strangely enough, though I don’t write much poetry anymore, when I do it’s still poor and angsty.  And when I do, I still enjoy the process.


a lousy poem, by Mrs Fringe

Unplug that old Frigidaire
with the frayed cord
and the rusted coils
Coffee, screwdriver, gin

Words of frost six inches thick
trap the right phrase
only the wrong fits
Flathead now an ice pick
   Chink clunk

Ice drips, words melt until
The pan overflows
with gray sentences
Seeping through
asbestos tiles


Happy Friday, everyone–and an extra special Friday it is, spring break starts this afternoon for my girl.

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