the poetry nugget

10 pm The eyes of most young men glaze over her, yet tonight, he takes her in, he flirts with her. He is Stanley calling out Stella's name, Catullus stalking Lesbia in a lusty poem. It's crazy-sexy feeling... 11 pm Should she lie with this man and lie to her mate? Flesh pressed against flesh in the deep dark of night, but in the harsh bright of dawn? He tempts her with his heat, should she open herself to him? 12 am Too much alcohol, too many words without listening. Tales tumble, rough sex and women past. Romance&mystery drain, the chemistry distills. A hook-up? He doesn't deserve an answer. 

photo by author I  have written poetry on and off since high school.  I began to post poems on my fashion blog in 2013 and finally separated the poetry in 2015.   It was a strange path through my passion for fashion to my commitment to poetry, but I'm proud to say I am a poet.  I am a member of the James River Writers and the River City Poets, both based in Richmond, Virginia. I've chosen two of my poems to share with you and am open to your comments.  Big thanks to Tina for this opportunity. Sincerely, Judy

Clay, tools, brains - they are all working except the boy who never does. Hands into the medium, pounding, molding, sculpting, objects taking shape, efforts made. Four days of nudging, coaxing, asking, they are finally following the lesson plan, I will not tell them.

photo by author I dream of shooting stars, but my feet are mired in thick mud and the sky is far away. My reach too short, no words spun like a spider's web, to catch the reader in its deceptively strong fibers. Teased by its evanescence, it eludes me, leaves me earth-bound.

photo by author I feel my age upon me, the years heavy, each ache married to a pain, my memory from sharp to swiss. Once all was possible, now compromises to be made. I have a tiny thimble of years left,  I am determined to tamp it full of life.

Pastel colored chalk from the dollar store to write on the sidewalk as they talk about boys, no school for two weeks and Christmas wish lists. They are 12 year olds, middle schoolers, friends together on a warm Saturday night in December. Amiya's words unfinished. Two young men tuck guns into low slung pants, resting against their hip bones. They are high on adrenaline and testosterone, anxious to settle a feud with another 'hood. They jump into the car, bullets cut through the air, until they pull away. Amiya caught it as it flew, nameless, she runs then drops, her blood slick on the grass.  A woman holds her as her breathing changes, shallow, slow. Her friends cling to each other, wet with tears; sirens and blue lights, even the police off balance by the shooting of this young girl. At the ER, she is pronounced,  her mother told her only child is dead. ...

photo by author a voice missing ethereal/other-worldly/surreal the harmony off we are less without his inventive spark his unique view through eyes of different colors his artistry yet his spirit remains to inspire