Prose Poem: Winter

Winter

Plastic over the windows, a Superman blanket strung up between the kitchen and the dining room.  Fingers red, pain when you touch anything, impossible to type.

The cats come inside and as time wears on, stir-crazy they go to war.

We play board games.  The school leaves the doors open on the swimming pool and our complaints mean nothing.

Scraping clear the driveway, nose running, face flushed with blood.  The dog disappears in the white expanse, too small to keep her head above water.

Tunnels dug into hillsides, sitting on the furnace, nightgown billowing around me.  The cat knocks the tree over again.  Pine needles fall like rain, and we sleep under mounds of blankets; the wind whips at the windows, but we won’t let it in.

Inside, the winter cannot catch us.

Poem: Everything On Red

Everything on Red

By Meghan D. Coates

I’m not a gambling man--

I’ve hedged my bets since I was small,

I don’t take risks or put things on the line that I don’t want to lose,

But you make me want to gamble.

You make me want to drink

And go for twelve AM walks through the city,

Make me want to throw caution to the wind

(and hearts, too)--

I’ve never asked someone for their number

But I’m asking for yours.

There’s a lot I could lose--

I’m not a gambling man,

And it scares me, giving this power over,

To you,

To fate,

To God--

But we all have to learn to lose control sometime.

I’d rather choose when

Than gamble on fate picking the right time,

Place,

Man--

So I’ll gamble on you,

Here,

Now.

Dear Dealer;

Everything on Red.

--Published in 2016 by Eber & Wein Publishing

Poem: Thirteen

Thirteen

by Meghan D. Coates

Originally published by Eber&Wein

You fall in love

when you're too young to feel,

With a boy

who doesn't know which you is real,

And you'll like him for ages,

sure as you love him for hours,

And your diary pages

like compressed dying flowers

Will speak of your conviction,

of addiction and pain,

A childish obsession

That sours and fades.

You fall in love

when you're too young to feel

And you use it all up

(but it’s not even real)

4/13 Celebration Poem: Moirail For Sale

Happy 8th birthday, Homestuck!

As a fan-to-the-death, I've taken it upon myself to offer up some Alpha Rose/Dave poetry in celebration. To any Homestucks still out there: May your pesterchum accounts never be deactivated and your strife deck be ever of a deadly kind.

Moirail For Sale

There are many Daves,

But you are not mine--

There are fewer Roses,

And I am not yours.

It’s just how things have always been.

It’s a fact,

And nothing more.

And yet,

you are close.

More than anything I want my Dave,

But I would play your Rose

If you wanted--

I would offer up my comfort,

A moirail-for-sale--

Ha!  What a pitiful mop I am for pale,

All my diamondic trysts drift apart

Or turn from pale to pail--

Only when our friends were there to stop me did I keep from wanting you.

I should disclose these things to you;

It would only be fair.

But I don’t want to scare you off--

The only Dave I’ve met who tastes the barest bit like mine--

So I lie.

Through omission.

If you call that lying.

(do you?)

...

Moirail for Sale:

A slut for pale

Whose Diamondic desires always turn to the pail.

Morail for hire:

I’ll dampen your ire

And seal every kiss with a sharp lack of fire

(I am, after all, a wonderful liar.)

Valedictory

    I was the Valedictorian of my graduating class, so I figured I'd post my speech.  Here you go!





ValeVictory:

There are a lot of things that I have been

Which I can be no longer;

There are a lot of challenges I’ve overcome

And each has made me stronger.

“Away, away,” the world is calling,

The breeze rebirthing flame;

I go either to sepulchre,

Or glory; legend; fame.

Like flowers we have spent our lives

Bending toward the light

But now like eagles spread our wings

And hasten to find flight;

It hurts to tear our rooting up,

We struggle and we bleed,

And yet we try and try again

For we were never weeds

And our dreams are so much larger than our vascular mistakes

Thus we tear ourselves apart so we can piece ourselves together,

No longer fields of lilies but instead birds of every feather--

There are many things which we have been

Which we can be no longer;

We have been hurt and maimed and killed,

But each death has made us stronger.

So the world calls us away

At the shattering of day

And to answer is to know that we must leave our grief behind

And say goodbye to all we love as ourselves we seek to find.

There will be hunters we must fell

And prey that we must heal--

It’s never been enough to speak

When there was nothing there to feel

And to Roosevelt we owe no debt

Yet we take his words for real--

Yet speaking softly never helped a single bird to rise

So sing your heart out every time you protest some demise.  

But remember here your childhood,

It never really died--

It only faded to a whisper as it curled up inside

The roots which after flood and flame

Should be destroyed, yet still remain.

So there are things that we still are

Which we can be no longer

But there are things that we will be

And one of them is stronger.

Away, away, we fly today,

The eagle still a flower--

We count the months, the weeks, the minutes and the hour

For our minds are gone already from the place where we were born

A foot in this world and the next,

So happy--so forlorn.

From our tearing roots we fly,

Touching wingtips to the sky--

We beat the air with aching hearts,

As bittersweet and dulcettart

We cannot fight the truth--

(And friends, this I must remark,

With a very heavy heart)

With a victoriously vicious cry, sing--

“This is where we start!”

Friends--this. is where we part.

Poem: Youth

And she thought she heard love

Whispered on the summer tongues of lilly-pad foxes

With padded feet sleek and wet with the danger of their safety--

But lies do sound so sweet so smooth like milk like honey,

Only Mount Saint Helens erupts with a viscous

Pyroclastic flow that looks so sweet so smooth so beautiful this

Harvest-mooned orange that calls with harmonies she thought that she could sing;

And the Icelanders they walk on lava like the silver Gods we make

Alone like the ice that burns on a planet

A galaxy away--

Yes, she thought she heard love

Whispered on the burning tongues of green pine-cone foxes,

But silver Gods have neon tongues

And there is folly well as beauty in those creatures we call

Young 

Poem: Tracing the Curve

Two women meet at the crux of the stairs,
The younger goes up as the older goes down
And they share a glance that's neither smile nor frown,
Just recognition,
Just chance.

Now they go on their ways,
Drifting slowly apart
As one descends into sleep
And the other loses her heart.

Poem: The Problem With Friendship

     To be published in an anthology entitled Beyond the Sea, with Eber & Wein publishing.



And I could take or leave
Anyone, Anyone else,
No tears, no shouts, no call;
But all you have to do is falter
And I will
Fall
     Fall
          Fall
               Fall
Until there is not falling left to do
Or cruel Gods drunk off my dependence
Lead me falling back to you.

Poem: Blame, Published in 2011

Note:  I've decided to start posting bits of my writing every so often (I'm kind of hoping it'll prompt me to start blogging more consistently since I Have A Problem).  This is the first poem I ever published, from way back when I was 13.  Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey,
What would you say
If one day
I sat you down and let you know
That all my insecurities,
Those ones I can't let go—
You are the one for whom they show?
What if I said
That the reason my soul is almost dead
Is because you shot it twice in the head
Then rolled it out of bed
Just to put it to rest
And put my body to the test?
Hey,
What would you say,
If one day
I took you aside
And said you were the reason I hide,
The reason I'm dying inside?
How would you react
If I said it was you who forced me to make the pact
That would sign over my soul?
Memories don't fade
Even when light is tossed in the shade
Of darkness, I've turned renegade,
My honesty shattered by way of grenade.
Memories will never die,
No matter how hard we try,
I'll always be spitting out a lie,
Maybe a sigh,
And the truth is I'll never touch the sky—
And I can blame you all I like,
From the failure of the hike
To the puncture of the spike,
But I'm just running from the truth.
I'm running from the veracity
Of how in everything I see,
No matter how much I peg you with this culpability,
I always have to live with hefty self-affixed fee
Of anger and frustration, and the responsibility
Of the knowledge that the culpability
Can only be affixed to me.