Trolls

The prompt for this was to write about a person/group/quality you feel  prejudiced towards. Interesting how in exploring my prejudice, I find empathy for the people who I experience as judging me. It's uncomfortable to look at myself that deeply, so that empathy isn't exactly reflected in this poem. Anyhow here it is, my prejudice.
~~~~~
Trolls

I don't even know you
Pretty sure I don't want to
The way you argue without
Truly seeing me
I should know better than
To read any comments
But I don't know
Better I scroll and once
Again I'm drawn in
Smoke precedes your
Burning fury
I am the moth
Who cannot resist
Tempted by the promise
Of light then routinely
Rejected    angry    ashamed
How can you function
In that vitriol
How has your burning heart
Not consumed
You fancy yourself a servant
Of some holy master and mission
Emerging unscathed
From an overlord's fiery pit
That halo shines bright in your mind
But in mine it's tarnished
A fire of your own design
Destroying everyone in your wake
©Amber Keating, 04.24.18

Millions

I have so many questions
When I hear numbers like this
Is it possible even to count one
Million of anything?
Or 10 or 100,
What does that look like?
How long would it take
To count this high?
A million heart beats
A million tears
A million hours
Worked or slept or dreamt
The American Dream
Nothing more than a lie
The multi-millionaires
Use to fill their coffers
They say our city belongs
To the angels
But perhaps it's more
Accurate to say it
Belongs to the banks
Even a million
Angels can't help us now
Millions of people carving
Out meaningful lives
With millions of pennies
Digging in the dirt
Finding simple treasures
While some shriveled white man
Pores over our lives
Replaced by numbers
Guarding the gate between
Us and property
©Amber Keating, 04.16.18

Nature's New Coat

Fire and fruit and rusty hinges
Of a long forgotten gate
Treasure hiding there
Crinkling leaves
To be raked with disdain
But later joyous dancing
Verdant forests fading
And holding in patterns
Between crimson and gold
Some would say they're dying
But it's only transformation
So I sit and enjoy zesty, juicy, 
spritzing in my face
Sweet and tart
Musky aroma of life
Meeting death in mystery
And ponder what's beyond
This corroded door
© Amber Keating, 04.08.18

Complicated

Soft rays floating through a skylight
Hum of commentary in background
Fleece so soft and warm
Light dancing off eyelashes
This scene in negative
Another part of the whole
Raging for family wounds
Bloody broken heart
Cracking open at innocent song
Endless well of tears and fierce hope
Love is complicated
© Amber Keating, 04.07.18

How a King Bed Saved my Marriage

A nightmare to sleep next to, my grandma said
Most kids are, but eventually grow out of it?
My psyche is the shipwrecked shores of Aruba
So much debris still, anchored and rusting
Forever waiting to enchant and terrify
Each night, I am swashbuckling ghosts along these haunted decks
Mayhem, plunder, seeking
Treasure and revenge among every shadow
Brutal adventure
Back in reality, the only one beseiged
Is my sleepless husband
Knee, elbow, toenail, hipbone
So many cruel edges thrown about
Shivering of limbs
Discord coming not from creaking timbers
But from my very own beak
Parrot screeching squawking
As if I don't talk enough in daylight
My nightstand a collection of torture devices
One pulls my tongue out
Another blocks all nasal transmission
There's even a facial strap to hold it all together
My dream time version of an eye patch
It's a wonder I sleep as well as I do
© Amber Keating, 04.06.18

Feeling Blue

I want to use words like cerulian
Because I feel fancy when I do
But you and I both know
That what I really mean is blue
This is poetry for me
Finding clever in mundane
So I'll share my favorite place
By way of favorite things
TARDIS teapot and string of
Lights in the hall
My favorite shirt with little
Straps and a bouncy flow and
Flowers as colorful as the place
I am dreaming of today
The necklace my husband
Bought because he knows my
Favorite stone is turquoise
A drink with Hawai'i in
Its name. And reliably blue.
The active light on my
Chargers I'll take
When next we go
Seems like never
Living in between
But 8 years is not never
It is finite, so there is hope
The day will come again
I see the beautiful blue
Of sky and sea as if
I were still there
Maybe we never left
In an alternate universe, we live
Out our days among
Sticky breezes and sparkling sands
For now, these blues -- street
signs, his shirt, my debit
cards -- remind me where I am
~ Amber Keating

Misplaced

I have lost so many things in this life. Phone, keys (why can't I keep track of keys?), pens, emails, texts, boyfriends, books, clothes, girlfriends, laughter, sleep. I could count my years by what I've lost. They are numerous, yet less painful by far than losing you. Though really I'm not sure I ever had you. Ever knew you. Did you know me? Did you care? You gave me body and breath. These dark chocolate eyes, bubbling laugh, and milkwhite skin. A dimple just there when I smile. Oh you stole that smile so many times.  See what you made me do? No. Never. Not anything will you be. Were you jealous? I know your own life was so hard and empty. It left your heart the same. You rejoiced when I left. Reveled in finding my car still half full of my things, stealing it away under cover of creeping fog. There was nothing the police could do. It was in both our names. So many things I never saw again, thanks to you. The quilt Grandma made. The doll bed Dad made. Things handcrafted just for me, when you couldn't be bothered to keep a baby book. There were more losses. Fear. Over shoulder looking. Caring for everyone but me. Jumping to please. The fake smile saying I was fine when I was anything but. They took longer to lose, decades. When the facade of your love was gone in an instant. Overnight and over years, I was changed. But one thing I am glad of, I could never lose me.
© Amber Keating, 04.02.18

Singing and Searching

I am from mix tapes, from Barbies, and pegged jeans.

I am from the nation's breadbasket, alive with color and blossoming with migrant farm workers.

I am from the orange groves, the endless sea of corn and cotton.

I am from weekends of slowcooked pasta sauce and alcoholism, from Cora and Lucretia and the Ross Family Clan.

I am from boisterous singing and always searching for things to fix.

From you'll never amount to anything and I'm your mother I'll abuse you if I want..

I am from Maranatha charismatics and disciplined Methodists.

I'm from a cracked golden center, people who hid faerie wings on trips through Ellis Island, from homemade Chicken Diablo and canned Beefaroni.

From women with perfect coiffures and screaming matches when they'd drink too much, from Dad's Bible stories, swamp cooler lullabies, and Sock of the Month Club.

I am from photographs torn in anger, as broken as our hearts that may never heal, from antiques piled behind polished wood and glass, from stories we've heard a thousand times and will beg to hear again.