#altheapoetry

Instagram photos and videos

#poetrycommunity#altheapoetry#poetrygram#poetrywriting#poetsofinstagram#silverleafpoetry#rhetoricrush#write_o_mania#thegreyscene#veinheartartisans#bleedingsoulpoetry#ypvweeklylive#heartofpoets#untwinemealice#bymepoetryamerica#untwinemeusa#doortooursouls#theliteralscript#packpoetry#bymepoetry#poetryisnotdead

Hashtags #altheapoetry for Instagram

80 years ago (okay, it was four days, but I’m driving the drama train), @s.f.levengood tagged me for a #hemingwaychallenge hosted by @lana_spreco. The challenge is to evoke emotion using 5-8 words (yes, the first one is 9 words—let it be). It was definitely a challenge since I’m so naturally wordy, and it was fun! Hopefully, it’ll get me out of my funk. Swipe to see all three, and feel free to join in the fun! ♥️
.
.
.
.
.
#altheapoetry #womenwhowrite #poetrycommunity #poetsofinstagram #writingcommunity #poetsofig #poetrygram #poetrywriting #spilledink #womenwhowritepoetry #lovepoems #heartbreak #ilovewriting #writtenword #writingcommunity #poetryisnotdead #wordporn #poetryporn #poetryofinstagram #bymepoetry #bymepoetryamerica #untwinemealice #untwinemeusa #rhetoricrush #avoicefromfaraway #poetryprompts #veinheartartisans #write_o_mania


9

Featuring the amazing writer @althea.poetry .
.
“vodka syrup”
.
I wrote this one at 17 when he brought me home an hour after curfew, and we waltzed to the front door giggling and tipsy and drowning in love, only to find my mother in the rocking chair waiting for us. And because my mother did not mince words, she said, “I’m just thrilled to bits you two have had the time of your lives, but curfew is curfew, and you won’t miss it again,” and with a look in her eyes like I had never seen before (and never saw again) she drew herself inches from his face and whisper-yelled, “If you ever even think about drinking behind the wheel of that goddamn truck while my daughter’s in it, that will be the very end of you, young man. I can see by your eyes you understand me clearly, but if you forget, may God almighty have mercy on your soul because I will not. Now, call your mother. She’s worried about you. I’ve made a bed on the couch, and you’ll stay here until your father comes to collect you, which may be in an hour or in a year, but he’s mad as a hornet with a little boy’s hand in his nest, so I suggest you start preparing your chorus of yes-sirs right now,” and I sat upstairs in my bed writing and listening for his daddy to pick him up and take him home. He was there within the hour. I was right, by the way: we didn’t make it, but I love him still. .
.
.
.
.
Follow @zoneofpoetry @wordsofthronex and tag us to get featured on the page.🌻


2

“vodka syrup”
.
I wrote this one at 17 when he brought me home an hour after curfew, and we waltzed to the front door giggling and tipsy and drowning in love, only to find my mother in the rocking chair waiting for us. And because my mother did not mince words, she said, “I’m just thrilled to bits you two have had the time of your lives, but curfew is curfew, and you won’t miss it again,” and with a look in her eyes like I had never seen before (and never saw again) she drew herself inches from his face and whisper-yelled, “If you ever even think about drinking behind the wheel of that goddamn truck while my daughter’s in it, that will be the very end of you, young man. I can see by your eyes you understand me clearly, but if you forget, may God almighty have mercy on your soul because I will not. Now, call your mother. She’s worried about you. I’ve made a bed on the couch, and you’ll stay here until your father comes to collect you, which may be in an hour or in a year, but he’s mad as a hornet with a little boy’s hand in his nest, so I suggest you start preparing your chorus of yes-sirs right now,” and I sat upstairs in my bed writing and listening for his daddy to pick him up and take him home. He was there within the hour. I was right, by the way: we didn’t make it, but I love him still. .
.
.
.
.
#altheapoetry #womenwhowrite #poetrycommunity #poetsofinstagram #writingcommunity #poetsofig #poetrygram #poetrywriting #spilledink #ypvweeklylive #wepoetswrite #doortooursouls #womenwhowritepoetry #heartofpoetsbloom #globalagepoetry #silverleafpoetry #herheartpoetry #yourheartbeatsstrong #untwinemealice #bymewomb #bymelove #lovestory #bleedingsoulpoetry #veinheartartisans #rhetoricrush #subtlepoetz #lovepoem


33

“are you fine?//Letters to my Mother, 4”
.
Swipe to read, or check out the full text below⬇️⬇️
.
.
.

The air outside breathes cool,
the pavement blistering my feet—
had I known they were bare
when I left?—
the lady across the way
is looking for you in me—everyone
is always looking for you in me—
It dawns on me when she rises
to speak that she
hadn’t heard,
didn’t know,
missed the memo of you
because the words leap from her eyes
with her judgement of my bare feet
before they cross her uneven lips—
“I haven’t seen your mother for a while.
How is she?”—
and I wonder if this is what it felt like
when you were crushed, lying on those
crinkly, industrial sheets because
my insides have folded into
themselves and exploded
simultaneously—I know you’ll argue,
but I don’t mean it for metaphor—
and after too long I answer,
“she’s fine” and walk away because
“dead” isn’t a word I say,
and “I’m not sure” seemed implausible—
it was just us for so long,
now it’s just me forever—
and as I traipse off
wondering if I’m right––
are you fine, really?––
she says, “tell her I say hi!”
which is why I’m telling you this now.

Also, I’m sorry
I went to bus station barefooted.
I know better. ––Althea
.
.
.
.
.
#altheapoetry #womenwhowrite #poetrycommunity #poetsofinstagram #poetsofig #poetrygram #poetrywriting #spilledink #ypvweeklylive #wepoetswrite #doortooursouls #heartofpoetsbloom #heartofpoets #bymepoetryamerica #untwinemealice #bleedingsoulpoetry #bleedingsoulbuds #globalagepoetry #globalagetyro #griefjourney #silverleafpoetry #artlixirfresh #yourheartbeatsstrong #herheartpoetry #veinheartartisans #subtlepoetz #rhetoricrush #penguinpoetrynyc


25

On Sunday @amykaypoetry posted a prompt that had 20 steps, and it was an absolute blast to write, even though I ended up with sheer nonsense. .
Full poem below⬇️⬇️
.
.
My heart is the moonlight
warmer than afternoon sun;
.
our conversation starts as a pale ring of smoke from a Lucky Strike floating up from the back of your pickup, stale and flavorless and smelling like home, the hush of your breath against my silence, the silky air cools the ashes dropping on my knee caps; everything is perfect—
.
finally, we can laugh about Frank from San Francisco with his high waisted khaki pants and attempt at an authoritative squeal—we smile,
but nothing’s okay anymore. .
Just yesterday on our walk, you picked me
flowers with such virtuoso I told you to quit your day job—
.
I carried my umbrella to ensure it wouldn’t rain,
all Lord-willing-and-the-creek-don’t-rise,
so you can thank your lucky stars it worked. .
You presented me with the blooming flowers of love, and
my heart wilted with giggles.
That evening we swam the length of the Atlantic,
and though she’s shorter, Red beat you by a mile. .
This will be my final grieving victory over you. .
I have loved you without loving you at all,
mon doux amour,
like those giddy flowers tied up in rings of smoke. —Althea .
.
.
.
.
#altheapoetry #poetryprompt #poetryprompts #poetrycommunity #poems #poetsofinstagram #poetsofig #womenwhowritepoetry #nonsense #poetry #poets #poetssociety #spilledink #spilledthoughts


9

This poem is my own #whyididntreport and I desperately wish we lived in a world where that didn’t need to be a hashtag. Swipe for all three slides, or read the entire poem in the caption below. .
“he raped me, he raped me not”
.
At 3am, when my sternum splits,
I ask myself what everyone would:
why didn’t
you say
anything?

And I know, but
I don’t know. The way
the bee finds the flower
but doesn’t start his journey
knowing where she’ll be. I
knew there was nothing
to say but everything to spill,
so I cataloged in
my mind, and I update the list daily,
even now, like counting flower petals,
because he was older,
and I was eighteen and
his comment didn’t mean anything.
And later, wasn’t I in love?
If we could share a toothbrush,
was there consent to be had?
Because no one said any ‘yes’
last time, and that had been fine.
Because he knew about the
boy before who made me nervous,
and would he say
I was the common denominator?
Even I could see that I was.
I heard about that lady
who lied, and I was not sure she
was not me. Had I said ‘no’ at all?
Had I said anything?
Maybe he didn’t know,
he didn’t realize. Also, had I been
drunk or just tipsy? I think that
matters, right? My dress was tight
and short, my heels high.
And how could I say it was
just like always
but not?

Because I cannot make my
list be anything other than
eyes and sore wrists and counting
shapes on the ceiling,
how I can’t speak,
matted eyes in the morning
and waking up in the middle of
the night for the rest of my
life with a hammer on my chest,
and he made breakfast in the
morning with a tender smile,
so was there really anything
wrong? —Althea
.
.
.
.
.
#altheapoetry #believewomen #believeyourself #poetrycommunity #poetsofinstagram #ypvweeklylive #poetrygram #poetrywriting #wepoetswrite #globalagecaption #globalagetyro #bymepoetryamerica #bymewomb #untwinemeusa #untwinemealice #herheartpoetry #silverleafpoetry #yourheartbeatsstrong #doortooursouls #herheartsreach


22

“remember that tree and be most of all free//Lessons from my Mother, 6”
.
Swipe to read the whole poem, or read it in the caption below.
This one is hard for me because anytime my mind drifts back to the morning under that tree (yes, the one in the picture), I’m shaken and hollow all over again. 🌳♥️
.

Remember that tree, bitty girl,
the one in Ghana with her arms spread
wide out of the dusty red earth
and surrounded by patches of green feathers
sprouting from the ground,
where there’s nothing but big,
blue African sky and all her baby
trees around for miles,
and the leaves rustle only when the wind
carries her secrets elsewhere ?

And remember sitting beneath that tree
the morning baby Mercy shut her eyes,
and we’d been with her all night,
with her mama and her daddy,
and the way Stephen’s cry was so hollow
when he carried his gone little girl out of that hut
as the sun rose?

And remember while we were sitting there
recalling how to breathe and be
we watched that colony of fire ants
go about their business like a little
angel hadn’t just been swallowed up
in a mosquito bite?

Listen, you’ll be all of those things one time or another,
my precious girl, so hold on—
sometimes you’ll be Mercy, struck by some danger
you didn’t see flying in from the distance, something
that wouldn’t kill a person halfway across the earth
but has killed you just the same.
And sometimes you’ll be Stephen with your
chest cavity empty, carved out, with room for nothing
but your sorrow, your cries.
And sometimes you’ll be us, experiencing hell on
someone else’s behalf, lungs full of smoke and wrath and sadness,
and god forbid, but sometimes you may very well be the mosquito.
And sometimes you will be the fire ants, too, or the dust or
the green feathers sprouting from the earth.
Most of all, though, be the tree,
make that choice—arms wide open,
shelter for the weary,
praising peace, face and fingers to the sky—
and plant your feet into people and passion,
be grounded, be rooted,
be most of all free. .
.
.
.
.
#altheapoetry #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofinstagram #poetsofig #poetrygram #wepoetswrite #ypvweeklylive #globalagecaption


13

“I love you irrevocably”—
see full poem below—
• • • • •
You might think it was
the end of our fifth date,
your hand in mine,
a twirl and kiss goodnight
before I led you inside instead
or
that four hour phone call
on your big business trip
into the wee hours of the morning
or
the time we got lost
in Muir Woods,
a light rain falling,
trading our best childhood stories for each other’s laughter
or
the first time you referred to us as
we,
which took my breath away
and you crossed the kitchen
and kissed me back to life
or
maybe you think it was
when you first told me––
do you remember?––
we’d had a little spat
and you left the apartment,
slammed the door,
while I sobbed in the kitchen,
until I heard you screaming my name,
and when I drew the curtain
from the window,
there you were on the sidewalk
in the pouring rain
yelling,
I love you. I love you irrevocably.
but it wasn’t even then that I knew.

I knew I loved you
when I came around the corner
at that gallery opening on 3rd
and heard you talking
about me to perfect strangers,
you called me majestic and
you meant it
and
it was the time I forgot
to replace my empty
shampoo bottle
and discovered mid-shower
that you had replaced it for me,
though I hadn’t even mentioned it
and
it was when you ran up the stairs
after declaring your love for me
in the rain
and said
it’s okay, don’t say it back,
you don’t have to know yet or ever,
just know that I know for sure––
I’m yours, and all I want in the world
is for you to be mine.
Really,
it was that you left me free
without leaving me
that made me know for sure—
I love you. I love you irrevocably.
.
.
.
.
#altheapoetry #poems #poetrycommunity #poetsofinstagram #poetsofig #poetrygram #poetrywriting #ypvweeklylive #thegreyscene #write_o_mania #artlixirfresh #bleedingsoulpoetry #heartofpoets #silverleafpoetry #newcopoetry #poetrytribe #yourheartbeatsstrong #bymepoetry #bymepoetryamerica #abodeofpoets #doortooursouls #rhetoricrush #bymepoetrylove #globalagecaption #bymepoetrylovespeaks


10