diaric, poetry

’23 a pity to stay the same

Photo by cottonbro studio

don’t you know/
‘twould be a pity to stay/

the same. there’s no time/
for that. busted. old. moot./

when you’re looking for Justice on streams/
but not time yet. when lake como is in the algo/

but not (why?) yet. and her mirror had pink waves/
framing it like the building with its hem lifted/

like a secret peep, a winking ankle at you/
and that was the doorway./

when the sun is in my commitments/
and your values get the shine/

when it’s analogue plush and dizzy bird digital/
– i’m the siren – the way you’re mine./

xoxo,
now you know.

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diaric, poetry

’23 raining rubies run the roses

when it’s a rain run,/
when you’re welcome, hop on in my woodie/
my chariot plays again the Butterfly Lovers on violin,/
when there’s a lost wolfhound crossing the road,/
so you double back but dog gone;

when a teenager hangs out the car window
when it’s almost warm enough outside
and just beyond the stop
he shouts <<i love you>>
to the skateboard kid on the sidewalk
he calls back <<what?>>
when they laugh calling back and forth
<<i love you!!>>
<<what??>>
<<i love you!!>>
<<what!>>
when until their voix dissipate in the distance

if it hurts, let it hurt.

pay more for the waves that rise and blot your book
pay more for it is luxury.
For this city lived a thousand years
For this sinking has already commenced.


Dame Darcy Queen Alice Tarot

supper clubs, movie stars
winning the contest
(not caring a whit for the outcome,
caring only for fun’s plaisir)
above all, inner fulfillment
this elegant pearl shows contentment

The Wish Card

two tea parties in one day
all the cups end up on the floor

Find greater heights.

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diaric, poetry

I’ll quote myself this time

the soundtrack to my waking was j’ai été au bal
my night viewing is a nightingale luring a fox.

this afternoon, the historian referred to the wantons as rams in spring.
this afternoon of the phlebotomist’s atrocities.
blaming a baby for your carelessness. how dare you.
“her veins are too tiny”; you didn’t even give her bandages. how dare you.
you gave up halfway. on each arm!

stories in my stack: the moors, wives & children, cassettes of a growing voice
there’s an offer on the table.

when invitations are for the giving and the taking.

there are clues and you cannot hide them.

Photo by Shubham Dhage on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

’23 Morningside Heights

When it’s her time./ when the first check is here&deposited in savings,/ When it’s her time./ when the pin drops through the camera lens,/ When it’s her time./ when it’s jockey in the mail,/ When it’s her time./ when I just want to listen to Nina Simone./ When It Is Her Time.

when it’s an ice storm,/ no power for longer than you can stand,/ when the verse is a nest, it must be/ to confess./ when i got a line out;/ bloodsworth and Proserpina./

It is her time./ It is her time./ It is her time.

Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

‘23. your ship is sunk, my friend

when i remember my own tipping point.
when you chalk yours up to
a generation’s desolation and clawing for
something resembling
control. weight. A carrying. 

You are underneath, darling, now what
can i do to help? Have a cookie.
Have two.
Get mad. Madder even. Loose the still. 
I became a derelict
—that’s fine, i accept—
by not keeping their ship
afloat. I surrender, you’re asunder.
Oh I must be so powerful.

Even now, I swim the same
sea—yet vast, yet oracle;
skim the surf
while at bottom,
the sands, the deep, and theirs eat
the planks, the convoluted halls,
the mezzanine. A clinic
of leisurely reign.

In so deep you have to remind yourself the water is moving.

Photo by coco tafoya on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Wars, Dynasty, Rules, Gifts

Saw this poem coming from a
mile away.
Had me in its sights.

That guitar—neck snapped right
at the base.
Heavy gauge strings now
heavy gauge coils.

I broke it. I snapped. 

Here you go, have it
back.

Oh, this feels good—a sink
into the warm bath.

You did bargain for this
whether you
know it or not.

An elegy; I best be on
my way.

broke meter
Maestro of form so above
it all, neglected yours.
Pithy thing. 

Don’t take that tone with me.
Watch what I
do with it. 

When it’s time for
The Grandest Scale.

You woke me up, dammit.

The runway. I’m on it
like a bonnet. 
You betcha. 
Okie doke.
Here lies.

Photo by Camille Brodard on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Do! Something! Fun!

Wrap it up, man. Wrap. It. Up!

when the pointlessly joyous day FINALLY arrives.
when it’s been so dark.

when you recognize other ways you’ve been abusive.
when you are brave and cauterize the wound.

when it’s time to party!!!!
and do I have it in me?

when the swan bled.
Fought first. Fought again.
Then bled quietly away.

When I’ve been burning all year.

Photo by Svitlana on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

Station note

Hello gentle readers—

A bit of news: I had the honor of submitting a poetry manuscript to Driftwood Press’ Adrift Chapbook Contest this year, guest judged by thee Carl Phillips. Carl Phillips wrote one of my all-time favorite poems, The Swain’s Invitation; the idea that he might read some of my poetry, when I have long and lovingly read his, thrilled me to the bones.

I placed as a Top 10 finalist. I am so grateful for this opportunity and to have been read. Thank you, Driftwood Press.

Congratulations to the contest winner, Derek Annis, to my fellow finalists, and to all my fellow poets who entered.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

With lots of love,
–K

this is a screenshot of driftwood press adrift chapbook contest winner announcement: winner Derek Annis, guest judge Carl Phillips, top 10 finalist Kate Carsella
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diaric, poetry

Sometimes you gotta cry

Sometimes you gotta cry, baby.
I know. I know. It’s okay. I understand. You go on and cry. We all gotta cry sometimes. I love you.
We’re almost there.
We’re almost home.

When you are suspicious, and yet, …it is catchy. Damn it!
But that doesn’t relieve the tension of my mistrust. What is your deal?
… oh, hell. it’s not similarity, is it???

When he watches the movie for the first time,
and says, what. a. Psycho.

When your murky undulations epiphany—I don’t have to
say it like it’ll start a fight. cuz it won’t. he wants it, too.
(Your soft has a nestle here. You built it. Well. And he cheered all the while.)
In fact, he’s hungry for it.
That beautiful twinkling hunger he has
with the devouring undertow.

When unraveling keeps popping up.

Photo by Trevor McKinnon on Unsplash
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diaric, poetry

On This Day

this week: for what it’s worth & tomorrow 2
when you need an emergency meeting of the midday society
and tooth 7 is coming in
and i shall know the glories of those sock sneakers Balenciaga
—you mark my words;

who knew?
when pruning and weeding in the morning
—sunsplash soothed—
i didn’t realize that my favorite morning glories
are invasive! … Do I mind? I do mind their throttle
of the others.
I give the purple blooms and snaking vines a talking-to
as I tend my garden.
We can’t be doing this, my love. You know that.

When it’s all moving so dreadfully
slowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
treading water for a month
makes you remember calm and hoping it’s true
—the trust of unfolding—
and then you remember the hold Orpheus had on you then.

Photo by Bogdan Todoran on Unsplash
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