Tag Archives: weariness


College 101

Categories: Poems, Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

holdosi / Pixabay

College 101

Modern Dance, bodies in rhythm to Van Morrison, Enigma.
Great in History. Strongly encouraged to publish all the
spilling words, heartaches, confusions, anger, dreams, worries.
A magic wand in a pen. Alleviate destruction. The destructive.

Nursing an infant while writing essays, studying dates & names
& practicing steps in the apartment hallway. Be somebody, be
somebody, be somebody, hear the beats, not beatings.

Assistant manager, tired eyes, how to get away quicker. Forget
Teaching, MFA hopes. 2 year program ought to do it. Dance, dance,
Keep dancing. Forget the yelling. The handed-over paychecks. Crazy, unrepentant eyes.

Perfect score on Case Brief. Great comments. Mock trial won. Who’s
Mocking you now? Only Him, Time. You’re pressing & pressing against it, that red clock on the wall. Mother given 2 years, won’t take meds. Elmo keeps smiling & Pampers keep piling. Storybooks & tears. Night terrors. Gotta leave, gotta go, can’t stay.

An artist paints you. You run into his arms on a rain-washed night.
So, this is what being made love to is. You think he must be unreal.
After some time, you deliver yourself instead to demons. Grandmother scolds you for leaving, running, learning LOVE. No one is glad for HAPPY.
Except your mother who says Yes, Him. Say Yes to him. You watch him drive away, miles upon miles out of your life. Things collapse. You see
an old college friend, beautiful, smiling, working for some firm. You

Imagine she will marry a lawyer, or become one. You keep thinking poetry, da-dum da-dum da-dum. Drumbeats & heartbeats & fuck the world is always spinning too fast or too slow.

Years pass. Plans unraveled. Maybe a 1 year this time. Appreciate Art, Appreciate Music, your son singing Sinatra with you, how you read from Shakespeare together, whom he calls Shakesbeard. Then you homeschool. He chooses Sylvia Plath from the bookshelf, finds a copy of Anne Sexton’s Collected Poems and brings it home to you, so proud to hand it over. He learns about those women- says “Mama, you won’t ever kill yourself, will you?”

Medicine. Boring. No poetry there, but you make the Dean’s List. You hang your certificate like a rag doll on a coat rack. Everything feels out of place. Hours & hours of studying terminology. All you remember now is Sarco means “flesh.” You stare at your arms & think about it. This makes you remember your RX is due for a refill, as is your life.

-Heather Lenz
March 17, 2016


ab irato

Categories: Poems, Tags: , , , , , , , ,

ab irato

I try not to listen, or remember.
Each thread of you spools around my heart,
tightly wound so that it swells. I dream
of a rib, bruised. Mind follows; a dark speck
against the backdrop of years.

Whatever you meant to destroy, you
succeeded. Always a shadow in your midst,
silent & hungry. A girl on a wall, looking to
escape the empty hours.

Nothing ever changes
for long.

A seagull flies above, not concerned
with its kind, or their whereabouts.
I imagine, like me, it must have found
the waves

too intrusive & cold. All the noise
& hypocrisy


You smirk like a dictator
who has divided & conquered.
You look at your reflection

with the sort of satisfaction
that only your kind can know.

Nobody suspects you of anything.
How utterly charming you are.

– Heather Lenz



Categories: Art, Poems, Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

photo credit: Heather Lenz

photo by: Heather Lenz


Who are you to tell me
what I need or who I am? Point out each
supposed flaw

When I am a tree, still & quiet–
barely alive among your wreckage.

You pick my fruit when I feel warm &
leave me barren. It is always winter
when you sit on your throne in my shade

like a winning god who fools everyone. &
you devour all that is left of me, even the sapling,
that once grew beside me.

The lightning in your eyes severs my
branches, those that once reached
toward numerous stars & gathered
windswept rain.

I’ve become rooted in your
corroded soil. I am full of rust now,
stories & wisdom too painful to name.

You go about your days feeding
off the last of me. Soon
I will burn to the ground.


& few will know or understand
what started that fire. They will
shake their heads & say

“A damn shame about that odd tree
that stood for so many years”

Then they will probably shake your hand
give their condolences,
& walk away.

-Heather Lenz
Feb. 2016



Categories: Poems, Tags: , , , ,


What's it all about......351/365

Always guessing at the wings of birds.
Mediocre existence- Piled-up, dropped down,
Splayed as if feelings can be neutered.

Give me the passage to God- no more
bowing to men, to end up in the gutter.

All those young whores in spandex,
Needle-hurt by life, all the praises toward
False gods of commerce.

Let us swirl in the paint & drown,
Cry for lovers lost, wounds open, seeping

like light at the corners of our eyes
That fade with dissipated dreams

Gone bereft-
Tired of everything.

~Heather Lenz


Dismissing Spring

Categories: Poems, Tags: , , , ,

274/365 - Storm's Brewing

These days, not much to be heard
But sighing. Paint dries in tubes, the blank

canvas quickens with dust. Does not even echo
a name, or ask for light to dance.

Here is a handful of weariness-
I can’t even find a moment
to plan its demise.

Too much reality, too
out of focus to even cry.

And who gives a damn
how many sunsets burn my

Or stone-death frail trembling
arms. Neruda is dead and smoke is

around my head,

Broken halo.

~Heather Lenz

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