Tag Archives: poem

“Serial Girl”—erasure poem from the Beatles’ “Happiness is a warm gun”

“Serial Girl”—erasure poem from the Beatles’ “Happiness is a warm gun”

She’s a girl

acquainted with velvet

on a window pane;

with multicolored mirrors

On boots,

Lying with eyes,

Working overtime.




I need a fix

to the bits I left;

I need a fix, I’m down.


the gun;

Superior gun.

Happiness is bang, bang.

Happiness is shoot, shoot.

Hold you in my arms,

Finger on your trigger;

I can do harm.

Because a warm gun

Is Happiness

Bang, bang.

Don’t you know?

Ryobi Nail Gun from Home Depot

The next toy for my tool box.


“Nothing Gold Can Stay” by Robert Frost–Poetry in Motion

“Nothing Gold Can Stay” by Robert Frost. Images by me. This was originally part of a project for my poetry class, but since this poem fits the transition in my life and the lovely spring weather here in Germany, I thought that I would share it with you.  Hope you Enjoy!


The Viewing of Miss Saigon


Theatre is filled with buzzing,
people talking in low tones,
as we greet one another
and talk about the show.

Crowd assembled in anticipation
of what they soon would witness,
will it be better than Madame Butterfly?
Hush falls over the crowd.

We marveled as the lights fell.
the orchestra begins to play,
The stage looks like a battlefield,
so detailed in every way.

We watch intently, emotions whirling,
as the story unfolds before our eyes.
Vietnam Veterans restless, uneasy.
They know. They Know.

House lights rise and illuminate
tear streaked faces, tissues in hand,
Vietnam Veterans hang their heads,
collect themselves and rise.

We relieve ourselves and re-fill
with wine, beer, and martinis.
We file into the theatre,
eagerly anticipating the finale.

Will he live? Will she find him again?
Vietnam Veterans know the end,
They lived this story.
They know. They know.

The crowd watches, unable to breathe.
The fight is intense.
As one the crowd sighs with relief,
the hero lives.

The room vibrates and hearts race.
In awe the crowd looks above,
from the ceiling a helicopter appears,
thunderous blades whirling.

At the chain-linked fence she screams.
Miss Saigon, papers in hand,
Begs, pleads for freedom granted
Only to be shoved away like garbage

We watch in anger, heartbroken.
Vietnam Veterans shed tears.
They lived this nightmare.
They know. They know.

The house lights rise once again.
The crowd rises, slowly, solemnly.
No one speaks. We do not dare.
Now we know. Now we know.


Bright screen glares at me
While prompt flashes annoyance;
Simulated white page is blank,
Like the edges of my mind.

Words do not come, do not flow;
Sentence making fails me.
Just one word is all I need
To begin the story.

Characters have no voices,
These poor mutes have no life.
They wait like spiders
In the corners of my mind.

No silk to weave a web,
These blank characters wait
For a word to begin
A word to begin their story.

Advice givers say:
“Start at the end”
“Start at the beginning”
“Start with one word”

My champions say:
“you can do it”
“you are a great writer”
“I have faith in you”

With advice givers and champions
Inside my head,
Tuning out all else,
I sit. I stare. I put fingers to keyboard.

The simulated white page remains blank.
The cursor flashing angry now.
I cannot find the word.
I do not have faith.

Then suddenly it appears
Like a flash of lightening
Seen out of the corner of my eye
A word.


So I type the word
It is not the web of a story
It is not the voices of my mutes
It is my voice. My story.

Slumber of the mind, of the soul

Rage and darkness greet me.
Failure reflected in the light of day,
Peace granted only with slumber—
Slumber of the mind, of the soul.

Stream of consciousness frightens
Anyone who dares to love me,
As the rage consumes and darkness
Crowds my weakened soul.

They say there is light at the end—
Light at the end of the tunnel of darkness.
With blindness I grope for the light
I cannot see or feel.

Darkness consumes me, and rage
Is my only avenue of existence.
As my soul retreats further and further
Into the depths, hate is all that’s left.

Sadness does not touch me,
A soul is required to cry—to feel
Anything besides hate and rage.
Pity me not—pity the one who loves me.

Love I cannot return in kind,
Rage and darkness are all I am,
Peace granted only with slumber—
Slumber of the mind, of the soul.

With every sunrise my soul
Retreats further and further into
The depths of the person I once was,
Leaving me in shadows forlorn.

They say that God will heal my soul—
A soul embraced in darkness and hate.
With blindness I grope for His healing
I cannot see or feel.

This God can only heal a soul
That exists, mine I fear, is in an abyss.
An abyss of darkness and hate—
Where there is no faith.

Despondent and desolate I concede—
I fight no more against the rage,
I welcome the embracing darkness,
And slumber of the mind, of the soul.