#POETRY co-written by Tiffany Tang

I’d post a link to her blog but I can’t find it!
We wrote this on text messages back and forth.
We may add more later.


Death sits on the couch,
doesn’t like the drapes,
hates the furniture,
and wonders when his time will come.

Death sits on the couch,
contemplating suicide and thinking,
“Well, that’s just redundant.”

Death sits on the couch,
realizes that so many wait for him,
but never get beyond that thought,
and then it’s their turn.

Death sits on the couch
He watches me as I move in and out of her room
We eye each other
As I pass into the hallway
Is he here to comfort me?
He can’t
He’s too bony
Not a good hugger, Death.

a blog post a little #POETRY

My thoughts for the day:  I still stick my foot in my mouth, I just have learned not to chew on it.  This pretty much applies every day.  And it’s a little atrocious sometimes.  But I’ve also learned to keep my mouth shut and THAT actually helps.  A LOT.    Now here’s the Poetry, I’m behind 2 days so it’s 2 days worth:

Update on the Psychosis
I didn’t feel like
Writing shitty poetry
so here’s to crappy….
51 degrees
Light rain
Bus stop
No umbrella
Useless shoes
Ruined hair
Sopping wet
Bad cell reception
Missed call
Cancelled date
Wasted bus fare
Thunder claps
Lightening flash
Seek cover
Puddle rivers
Storm drain tsunamis
Lost shoe
Frigid toes
Coffee comfort
Card declined
No shoes
No service
Bus early
Kind eyes
Deep breaths
Kind offers
Wiped tears
Warm cup of tea
Grateful hands
Phone Frenzy
Sympathetic ears
Rescuer coming
Many thanks
Cold wait
Warm car
Comfort heat
Safety net
Homeward bound

#POETRY Happy Easter

Candy-filled, hollow chocolate bunny, peeps, rabbit-poop jelly beans.
Easter outfit. 
New shoes.  Dress. Usually floral.  Sometimes white.
Easter Hats.  New outfits.  Long sermons.  Boredom. 
Maybe sun.
Maybe rain.
Easter Egg Hunt.  Pretty hard boiled yuck.  Plastic-filled goodness.
Japanese Cherry-Blossoms.  Daffodils.  Pansies.  Easter-Lily.
Ham.  Potatoes.  Salad.  Easter candy dessert.
Childhood. Family. Rituals.
Liberation.  Freedom. Relief.
Forgiveness.  Release.  Absolve.
Into Something Else.
Phone Calls
I am not sure about you.
Nor sure why you are really calling.
But it is good to hear your voice.
But I hesitate. 
Blood relations are complicated.
And non-blood history makes it ever so twisted. 
But still, it is good to hear your voice.
Phone calls make it convienient for those who
Do not wish to traverse miles to see one another
And for those who can’t really bring themselves
Face to Face with their failings. 

#POETRY 6 of 30

In a strange mix of common numbers and fondness for all things verbose we intertwined.
You started showing me the shards early on.
A blanket of ocean sized love could not put out the fireworks that light up and burned the ground of a rational human being when the flint accidentally got ignited. 
These are the scars that don’t heal right.
This is the place where creativity and positive thinking collide with the reality of brain trauma and broken love that turns nuclear and lays waste to three hundred and fifty thousand miles of hope.
I, unfortunately, am not known as a quitter.
I, actually, know how to surrender. 
To put up a white flag and hope that someone else is watching.  Even when that someone else can’t be defined as an actual person or existence because, lord knows, no one can agree on anything including defeat. 
Surrender is not releasing the idea of hope
but rather leaving the idea of your definition of hope behind for someone to replace it with something better. 
This is not an easy task for the controlmonger.
Don’t let that idea sink in for a moment.
This is called claw marks scraping the sides of anything I let go of,
This is called taking a forty-thousand pound chest breath,
This is pulling eye-lids back and understanding that they may never grow back.
But for you, you broken-winged demon, determined to get back to hell, fire-breathing, raging ogre showing your best ugly,
All of which are also contained inside of me,
I see rain coming.
Sprinkling at first, then moving to showers.
Covering wetness to put out fires of unrequited pleas for mercy
soothing flares of sadness
putting to bed all of your unholiness that never were your truth.
I can’t promise you that you’ll forget hell,
But I can promise that you don’t have to live there.


Tonight is a lunar eclipse, I think, I’m not sure.
Dates are hard to come by and keep
when you’re out of your world or even in it.
They say you can sometimes see the man in the moon
but all I can ever see is the rabbit.
A rabbit with his head tilted towards the top
ears back, gazing up just like we do
when all our tears melted the ice
and drowned us in the rivers of our sorrows
we have no choice but to look up.
There are no free flights on this voyage.
Your frequent flyer miles will not give you a free ticket,
and while some of us may upgrade to first class
you will pay to check your bag and for your package of peanuts.

Tonight we speed through space in a traveling machine
that a human invented but most humans don’t understand
including me.
I don’t understand flight.
Planes, I don’t get it.
Cars I sort of understand.
Boats float.
And sometimes there are trains run by engines of steam
I sort of get it.
I’m not that kind of smart.
But what I do know is that we all travel on this thing together
no matter what method we choose,
wrecking on the highway,
full barrel four legs flight on a horse bound for no where,
two wheeled hot steel between our thighs.
Slow down open road
come slowly wind
arcs are necessary in this kind of hurricane
that goes too fast for scantily clad rabbits
hurrying to find shelter, comfort, warmth,
a place to lay down and die when the road is too much and the flight too long.
They missed me during beverage service.
I had to wait in line, got some drops from an empty can
but won’t wait for some perspective on why I drive,
drive, drive, drive, drive and drive some more away
from stained shirts, broken wheels and heart beats that stopped too soon.
Found behind prison walls, institutions and closed doors
of rooms contained in hallways of places that should be called hom
and what we’re all looking for
A little peace
A little quiet
A little safety
But we don’t always find flying on the freeway of broken dream bottles,
shards of ungranted wishes by grey-bearded wizards who never visits
but his words dripped by acid tongues,
too twisted to spell reason
too forked to speak truth out of either side of their mouths,
perpetuating tales that didn’t exist for anyone claiming to be related to love.
Love, the unrelenting and most powerful,
love, the most sought and least understood
the thing we all wait for but don’t realize
that when we look up
like rabbits
ears back
faces bright towards the moon
and we see the deep breathe of the rabbit,
shining back from the moon that,
like the light reflected,
so do we
like the moon reflects our light back to us
we can catch this and reflect it back to each other
we are what we’ve been waiting for
ears back
face up
lighting up the night sky
almost bright enough to outshine the sun.
@2012 Jennie Olson Six


Photograph by rps.net.

Tiny leaves come tumbling down the street
as if to warn me with high, sweeky voices
“The wind is coming! The wind is coming!”
And around the corner, the wall of you hits me
as if to threaten of things to come
and your potential for destruction
and like that you are gone
only to rumble throughout the trees
filling the air with the sound of your fury
and your possibility.