Create a Creature, Katy Comber

An excerpt from the Dictionary of Criminal Creatures from the Observations of Metabiologist Art Keycomb

Parasiticalli

-P-

Politicrump

Par-a-sit-tic-alli she twirls pirouettes in the sun’s bright rays among the mourning and shades of gray golden hues are all she wears she claims a blindness to any fears she dines on heads of the dandelion, and caramelized verses sweet of Byron   she is The Parasiticalli	Pla-giar-is-myst-ic she navigates the world to requisition designs by others’ labor and cognition she takes these babes from composers’ breasts and tattooes her pen on their flushed chests she dines on the ashes of a stolen flame perpetually starving for more to claim she is the Plagiarismystic
Pass-ser-be-ing meandering in shadows cast by resplendence, he’s armored in scales of dark transcendence his eyes, ablaze forever confounding, notice only flaws in his surroundings his diet strict of olive pits curdled milk, and satiric wits he is The Passerbeing	Pol-lit-tic-rump bellowing rhetoric for applause, he stands behind curtains of emerald gauze he leads his people as a shoe leads a pebble his only leader is heaven’s fallen rebel he dines on the hearts of fresh-born youth and the brains of those who desire truth he is The Politicrump
Per-fect-tion-ist-cary cowering in a tower near, he is muted, his voice unclear balladry and harmony grasp his tongue but fear renders art unsung he dines on pages of dictionaries worn and thoughts of pure, unmasked scorn he is The Perfectionistcary

An excerpt from How to Use the Dictionary of Criminal Creatures from the Observations of Metabiologist  Art Keycomb, A Guide: “Warning: Utilizing this dictionary may cause the reader to make false associations with humans who may display some or all of these characterizations. These creatures live in the universe of fiction. All familiarities are a coincidence in diction. These creatures are breath or breathless with the swipe of the pen; thus, less dangerous than real beasts walking in the guise of men.” (Keycomb, 2)

Final Night in Maryland, for now.

There is something poetic about laying down to rest with an ache in my bones after days of working diligently, manually. Knowing this will be my last night in what I referred to as the hobbit hole on Kenny St. Waiting to see what's next for us, and if people can go home again. 

Get A Grip

A grip on reality

arthritic hand 

slicing 

rare steak

sloshing 

slipping
blood off the plate

onto the mothers' lace 

table cloth

A grip on reality

feral cat in a 

toddler's arms

squirming to return

to its nature

terrified of domesticity

of love without conditions

A grip on reality

purple crayon

on a cook an egg
on the sidewalk
kind of

day

wax dripping 

down the hand of the 

artist attempting to

free her thoughts

in scorching sun

attempting to

get

A grip on reality

I, Woman

This poem was inspired by the event/transformation of Caitlin Jenner. When she was Bruce, the commentary featured athletic/business accomplishments. When she became a woman, the focus entirely shifted to her level of attractiveness. So, I thought how wonderfully liberating it would be to begin a poem with a female narrator stating the most controversial statement a woman can make within our society, "I am not beautiful." 

I, Woman

I am not [YOUR] beautiful 

I am not pretty, tied up neatly 

I am not the standard 

I am not above/below

I am not number 1-10; 2-32

I am a woman

I am not a saint

I am not a pure heart

I am not a martyr

I am not in need of rescue

I am a woman

I am not gracious

I am not manic pixie 

I am not adorkable

I am not sweetheart honey

I am a woman

I am flesh

I am blood

I am large and small 

all.at.once 

I am a woman

and that'll have to do.

Compliment Sandwich

A publisher might like it

She says.

Her bite is lost

within the charming 

taste of the hypothetical 

Really? I croon, suckle

--eager for more

Sweetness 

But.

this is a

Compliment Sandwich

burning horseradish 

sour, pickled onions

wait under that 

warm yeasty promise.

Yet, the only ingredients with an aftertaste are those hiding in the middle.

We Are Here!

This poem is a result of parenting two children and attempting social consciousness. Inspired by Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss this is an interpretation of the outcry of those who crave justice, help, and awareness: We are Here! as performed at Zed's Cafe December 5, 2014.

We are here!
We are here!
We are here!
Small voices cry out from

a pebble carried by one hand

connected to a jewel encrusted head

its shallow body

jauntily costumed in Lady Justice’s robe

lackadaisical with the scales

that tilt and sway with whimsy
The blindfold a flimsy gauze
Vision affects reason

We are here!
We are here!
We are here!
The pebble falls from the quaking measure
Onto a neon floor
Stomped on by a

free thousand dollar

heel glittering ruby and tall

reminding the masses

of what it means to yearn.
The voices falter

drift in the wind
until inhaled, shot up, by a lone figure

standing gray bleak, shivering cold
Out of place in a technicolor world

confused by pleading voices

just wanting to be known.

We are here!
We are here!
We are her!
We are him!
We are you!
And I! and us! and them! and
We are here!
The figure takes his brush
paints the words
on sidewalks, skyscrapers
rooftops, railroads
trains, taverns

only to be seen as

pollution and visual noise to be
ignored. Until a picture is taken
and shared and quoted and tweeted.
Until the owner of the glittery shoe
Stops and says, "Guys. This is serious. They are here."
Until the swaying scales tilt so far they break and ruin and a small chip reminds the owner of the rock it once carried.
Until the bleak and lonesome becomes a fascinating celebrity recluse.
Only then it is known
that We are here.
Then, when the
proclamation is cried
through out the world
everyone knows
We are here and heard,
will the listeners stop
to question what
it means when
voices cry out
We are here?

If not, the voices will fade.

A chick will snicker and roll her eyes

at a girl with the charm

stamped with the reminder

We Are Here!

cause that was so last year.

The cries will become displeasing,

old, and worn.

Then, years later when the we are gone, someone will whisper

Remember when?

We are here!

We are here!

We are here!

Now.

Obit

Paper creased down
so only her face, her story,
her left loves
were the soybean
sulfur characters
embalmed in paraffin
to be seen and copied
by a blinding light and
easily jammed paper

As Figurative Bob
(the imaginary character with wiry comb-over hair and stretched, tucked in, missed-a-button-down over his pregnant paunch--the sad reminder that these are not his glory days--produced to represent stereotypical cliched corporate structure as comfort in times of non-concrete circumstances)
references
the other Bob[Marley] with a
silky chuckle and reggae tune[again and currently unaware of the irony behind the "jammin'"]

I shut up his sing-song voice with a blink and a shake of my head

and considered the life
on the other side
of the folded
ignored by us
but copied and mourned by other
lost loves and words we would never know or care to
not out of lack of empathy, but by the inability
to soak up every loss and make it our own
too many characters clutter plot lines

I considered my world
words, all words
and names (God, to be named and owned)
the beginning was the Word
we end in words
stories told
printed voices
the ink of our obituaries
fade, haunt the archives
as swimming souls dressed as microfiche  
just words and the sentences
for we are not built to last Here
no guaranteed extended warranty
on our parts, hearts, mentalities
only in
stories drenched in hyperbolic
kind falsehood truths
do we remain
so pass us down honestly
our words
our worlds
make us legends

Recognition

My voice scattered 

among your ash

your charred bones

my brittle sound

entangled

Indistinguishable
Fragments

Even my fingers

wrapped around a 

kind shovel

initials SH

worn thin and deep
into the barrel

are heavy, soaked[in a]
sorrow drawn marinade-- 

How now, dear maddening prologue,

did you come to be 

recurring through later chapters? 

The Objection

They look at me
whisper/wonder
Sweet, so sweet.

the label, a concrete slab gripping my feet. 

Sweet. I drown. gulp for air
under the tides of assumption (crashing interruptions and denials of my corruption)

that I am a Rose, thorns stripped away by society's hand

When, really, I am just a dandelion in disguise. 

but all they see are these wide green eyes.
as my truth scatters away in the wind
leaving me chagrined,
bald stem, with unwanted roots.

The Caution of the Implusive

I do not dare

dig with my pen in winter when

seeds of saplings nest and hide

in a heartless hearth yet hoping 

and it's too dim for ideas to breathe

under the care of my cynical thumb 

Except,

Two unruly rosebushes wild; admired  

by impulsive gardeners

daring belief in sweet golden light

everything'd be just fine, just right. 

No, I do not dare (Not often anyway)

Want

Craving hits
The kind that spits
until satisfied
unjustified
Just there.
though I am unaware
as to why

Desires strikes
shooting spikes
into the soul
never leaning to lull
numb, or dissipate
changing the fate
of my direction

Continue wandering
to tunes whispering,
me to you
among the throngs of 2x2
in persistent perfection you sit
as I clamor to fit
through the eye of a needle

Revisions after a Published Work

Tonight I’ll pray to dream of you
so we may ponder a verb or two
in eleemosynary silence and still 
cursing final edits in the Bill
Then noticing after some reflection 

lines that needed editorial protection

with abandoned  schemes of rhetoric and rhyme 
awkward metaphors that weren't given the time
fragments everywhere grammar damned disgraced
Your words. Mine. They all were laced.
Despite the dream, heaven's hosts may be bold
our drinks will be plentiful; black and cold 
When the reading's over Act II will have yet begin
That work is still ink and quill the author has to pen. 

Steps to Productive Writing

Creative Writing Step 1: (with kids, if sans kids Congratulations! Skip to step 2 and replace the word "movie" with words: doorbell, over-sharing gaggle of women in coffee shop, etc..) Find a good movie for the kids on Netflix.

Creative Writing Step 2: Find good headphones that will drown out said movie.
Creative Writing Step 3: Take a picture as evidence that you are indeed ready to start writing by completing Steps 1 & 2.
Creative Writing Step 4: Post picture on Social Media sites to prove that you are productive.
Creative Writing Step 5: Write witty status
Creative Writing Step 6: Open document, type 1-3 sentences.
Creative Writing Step 7: Check Social Media sites to see if anyone appreciated picture with witty comment.
Creative Writing Step 8: Repeat steps 6 & 7 until movie is over OR kids are revolting/setting house on fire in order to get your attention.

Twirl, Love, Twirl

Once before our time--when the moon stood still,
the sun whistled when lowered over the hill,
there lived a little girl named Twirl, Love, Twirl.
Home was land where even weeds would not grow;
landmines were the only seeds men would sow.
Despite a secure 12 inches of land,
Twirl, Love, Twirl knew it would get out of hand.
Sonny Baby lost footing, Listen Sweet
lost her mind, and despite all his gloating,
One And Only left only tears behind.
The field grew dark; shadows gulped out the light.
Her eyes adjusted until darkness was bright.
The rain stopped quenching her raw, hungry thirst;
she gorged on Nothing 'til her gullet burst.

Shepherd came with his flock sweetly bleating.
She waited for the inevitable, heart swift and fleeting.
Instead, he beckoned and called her by name,
threw open the shadows; skies burst aflame.
Shocked and blinded, control leapt from her hands;
Twirl, Love, Twirl tripped into the weaponed lands.
Sparks flew and scarred her, bombs tore chains unknown,
as she tumbled broken, but not alone.
The man smiled, wept, cradled her as His child;
yet when she glimpsed Prison, a yearn grew wild.
One place called home she had to leave behind.
Shepherd saw her grief and replied in kind,
"Do not glance to hated comfort and stray;
you will see everything for what it was on Redemption Day"

So, to the gates He carried her as the celestial beings cried.
Back home lilies grew, elements defied.

Recovering from the Tempest

you are my prologue
deemed unnecessary
in my novella
but scrutinized
by scholars in my epic

you are my prologue
pages that can be ripped
torn like the curtain
split from the ground up
words that made me be
plotted, charted, drafted
words before I could see [that]

you are my prologue
grains of salt before
specks of earth before
restored sight
soil within bellies of worms
before vineyards before
that last sip of wine
seeds planted before
future saplings before
the cross that made
all things restored,
after the Fall that dropped
the Earth and let her shatter
into pieces called World,
so that you could be
just prologue skimmed
as a note from critics
as a skipped producer's cut
for the 90 minute feature
you. are. just. prologue.

Missing Socks

Only 30, maybe older,
and I am tired
of sorting truths:
patches for a quilt
sown by generations

mismatched socks
content without brothers
jumbled wires attached
to broken ear buds
rusty screws thrown
into an old coffee can

hapless attempts
to organize the
mess, the tangle,
that will just get
muddled up again.

How I crave
for one story
a cipher
a compass for this
ever-changing labyrinth

For Mickey

"Pink sky at night,
a sailor's delight;
pink sky in the morning,
a sailor's warning,"

She whispered Wisdom
into my ear over summer sounds:
the creaking porch swing,
ice cracking in our jelly glasses

Trucks whizzed past, now and then,
we would wave until they blasted their horns
my little arm bent at the elbow
pulling an invisible string up and down.

"Somebody's in the kitchen with Dina.
Somebody's in the kitchen, I know.
Somebody's in the kitchen with Dina,"
Her voice shook with that final syllable

My contagious giggles lapsed
into a contented sigh and
I wondered about Dina
I wondered about Somebody

Did Somebody love her
was Somebody welcome or
just another body to shoo away
and out of a kitchen for one

I imagined Dina. Her hair, her dress,
those apron strings tied like a sloppy afterthought.
At times I could smell Dina's corned beef hash and rice
& maybe collards and black eyed peas for good fortune

The porch swing kept creaking and I
snuggled secretly hoping against
her resolution to reduce the padding
under her bedazzled purple t-shirt.

My eyes adjusted to the fading light:
pine needles dry and rusty brown
fire ants working on the mounds I kicked moments before
white paint chipping on the front porch railing

Hairs of my lashes popped in and out
of view as I forced them open
not wanting to miss the Finale
of frogs and crickets rivaling owls

as they rehearsed, never quite in tune,
their song inspired fireflies--
joyous sprites in tutus
twirling to their own choreography

My porch swing companion, like the bullfrog opera
and tiny iridescent winking lanterns,
could be flawed at times, but
perfect in familiarity, simplicity, and love

Unquenchable

breaking my resistance,
a burdening hesitation,
my lips brush and dip into
the offering

a sip reveals
my brittle bones
my craving skin
my regrets over
abandoned flakes
under the nails
of dreams and idols

one sip, and i drown into You.

The Body sighs, satisfied
One sip uncovered my thirst
One sip covered me, wrapped me, loved me
One sip made me Yours.

Haunted

Five drafts of work are haunting me. Pleading, as their shackles pang and pound inside my brain, "Work out our aching feet, feed us, and then introduce us, the richly fattened dancers, to your society."  Like selfish first borns, they pout as I attend to others. Sorry wee ones.

When Life Flashes: in memory of those who passed too young

When life is stolen

rather than

regret, wonderment

decision, invention,

the happenstance

of one’s creation

is the Flash composed

of years supposed

in a panoramic dream?

Child and parent visions gleaming

milliseconds and lifetimes of weaving

puzzles treasured and kept despite

the missing pieces, for

the cover art

the beautiful and haunted map of where

the fragments were to fit

the image capturing

the intended:

resumes and graduations,

rudderless shenanigans

jukebox decisions, wedding nights

obligation’s grip and lovers’ fights

dark and light; life’s sweet symphony

a once jumbled cacophony

lightened by survivors

scavengers and divers

into the sea of possibility in

the land of Should Have Been

Life supposed seems the choice of visions

Hope, however, brings revisions

behind those lids fluttering gently

the Flash loves them differently:

the smell of coming snow

counting cars, crouching low

imagination set ablaze

in secret passageways

mommy’s healing kiss and kind answers to “Why?”

daddy, the superhero, lifting oh so high

Then angels cry, sing, and greet

life before it’s bittersweet.