LOOKING FOR

SOMETHING?

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©2018 by Mary K Gowdy. Proudly created with Wix.com

Notebook and Pen

Miscellaneous

Poetry about family, politics, beloved characters, and more. Most of these poems I have either published in a literary magazine or have no intention of publishing them myself.

A Middle-Aged Southern Couple Reacts To Ice

When the sweltering South was struck with cold
And Dad dripped the pipes, the dangers of ice
Made us realize that my parents are old.
“Take your iPhone with you” my mom advised
So she’d know to save him before he dies,
Sprawled on the driveway like any well-bred
Southern man over fifty. Bundled head
To toe, Dad waddled out to Hell’s ninth ring
While Mom watched out for any frozen threat,
And I observed what affection time brings.

 

a dizain

originally published in Better Than Starbucks (Nov. 2017)

The illusory stillness
of the night sky in a timeline
that won’t stop moving.

a haiku

originally published in Better Than Starbucks (Oct. 2017)

The Five Stages of Crushing Grief

I go
Through crushes like
Experiencing the
Five stages of grief. Seriously.
No joke.

Denial

 

I could
Never be in
To a guy like that. He’s
Too [insert bullshit excuse here]
For me.

Anger

Ugh! Why?
I hate having
Crushes. They’re stupid. Guys
Are stupid. Why can’t I stop these
Feelings?

Bargaining

 

If he
Doesn’t look at
Or talk to me today,
Then I’ll stop crushing on him. I
Am done.

Depression

 

I have
A crush. *Tears*. He
Doesn’t like me and he
Never will. I should just move on
Instead.

Acceptance

 

I like
Him. I really
Do. Maybe if I talk
To him today, it will lead to
Something.

Denial

 

He did
Not say hello
Today. He doesn’t like
Me—well, I don’t like him. . .And so
it goes.

a series of cinquains

originally published in Better Than Starbucks (Nov. 2017)

Executive Order 13769

Marginalized and anxious, we lift
Our voices up from the rift
Into the echo chamber of our man-
Made Christian nation to ban

Those unlike us from being with us.
Yet we praise He whose love was enough
To will Him to become like those
Unlike Him–to make whores His betrothed.

Safely preaching of a sterile sacrifice
Molds the bread we ship outside.
How will they look on the priests
When on the road we lie undressed?

If these words are true, then my sorrow
Is merely a drop of His that could bleed
From the Whirlpool cross, covering galaxies
And the Pale Blue Dot in the same red glow.

Suited

Hearts and spades in body and temper, you flip
like a card. On one side a welcome white with
faces. Turn away, there’s a cold rigid wall
like the braid down your back.

a sapphic stanza

The Metal in the Symphony

Sol is beloved by all,
with hair like strings of violins
and a voice that lilts like a piano
and curves like a cello.
To escape
from their tedious attention, she
relaxes by the
pond, stroking the surface with her
toe. In-between her
fingertips, she twirls a leaf, flipping
it back and forth
like an eyelid, when
a man drops by to
drink from the river.
His milky skin and inky
hair give him an enticingly mysterious demeanor
that Sol draws closer to, and he, Nox, finds her composure
and melodic voice equally alluring. As they grow closer, their
spirits fall together, blending chords, hooking around each other,
neither able to resist the temptation from within. As Sol’s peers
start to sneer at his loud manner, she forces them to meet at
night in secret, and each time they part, Nox wishes on
the night for her to let them meet openly. Sol,
feeling discordant and fearing disapproval,
leaves him for her admirers, back to the harmony
she had once enveloped herself in. But it is not enough
anymore. She can not storm through her sorrow as her old life’s
blandness sickens her, and she longs for Nox’s electrifying spirit to
fill her heart and ears. Unable to handle another beat without him, she surges
back into his heavy arms, their bodies near, kisses blurring as they mix into the
night. Now open, their love is amplified into great streams of passion, spilling
over into songs, so epic a symphony. Their love is the balancing of scales, light
and dark, beastly and beautiful. Their love is the soft and strong ocean,
the sway of opposites, curling around each other, complementing
the other, and carving a new path.

The Seven Deadly Cinquains

I.
You, get
this one thing: I
don’t need pity or cash.
I can handle this by my own
merit.

II.
Content
with nothing. That’s
what they tell me to be.
But they don’t appreciate what
they have.

III.
I am
claustrophobic
in tense muscles. Choking
on the smokey ruin you razed
in me.

IV.
Food. Clothes.
Shelter. ‘Help us’,
you cry. Leave me alone.
Meeting your pleas is not worth the
effort.

V.
They’re safe.
Over my dead
body will I let them
get my treasures. I can’t let go.
They’re mine.

VI.
Moist. Lush.
Tasty pleasure.
The best sensation is
a full stomach. They say less; I
say more.

VII.
Scratching
a mosquito
bite makes it worse. That’s how
it feels with my perpetual
desire.

a series of cinquains

Ode to

"Untitled Self-Portrait"

Guardian of Gotham, garmented in enigma,
Cloaked in swagga; noir is my insignia.
Luxury is my life, but blackness my remedy.
Lord Vigilante, I am my land’s legacy.

a droighneach

Hello, My Name Is

Good Cop

I’m your friendly neighborhood police officer,
keeping Bricksburg safe for everyone, including
you, Mister. I know it may not seem so, but I’m looking
out for you, buddy. Just, would you please slip
these handcuffs on? I promise they won’t hurt a bit.
We’re only going to walk you down to the local
precinct as a precaution. You have nothing to
worry about. Sir, would you please come now?
Everything will be easier if you do–BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T
I’M GOING TO WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE, LITERALLY.
I’LL TWIST IT AROUND SO YOU’RE ALREADY PERMANENTLY
FROWNING AT HOW YOUR JAW DOESN’T WORK–

Oh, I’m so sorry. Please excuse my twin brother. He can
come off as quite abrasive. He’s always been like that,
ever since kindergarten. But don’t worry.
I’m absolutely positive that he will
warm up to you.

Columbo

In a rumpled coat
with cigar in hand, he knows
that you murdered her.

a haiku

P.S. We're Not Finished Yet

If this doesn’t cause hysteria, I’m using you
in my criminal confession. I’ll cry all about how you
made me do it for the sick pleasure you
get from it, like the poetic high you
get from villanelles. Just wait till you
see my dramatic show. You
know me. Attention whore right here. You’ll
only hate me for a little while anyway. You
always do. Then we’ll be back to you
spilling your dark secrets and me
not bothering to reply to you.
So, if the people who see me
hovering pigs between life and death and you
ordering your clones to do your part for you
don’t go insane and make my
day, then there’s something wrong with you
and me
as a team.

a poem made from text messages

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