Patchwork Poetry

I’ve created a new personal genre/cure for writer’s block!

The following poems are entirely composed of randomly generated ‘statuses’ created for me at

Jealousy is the fine art

There is an animal instinct.

It’s been given, made to be

Cos’ this is a lightening,

no two feelings are more synonymous than you

and it is fantastic.

Love you perfectly, love, these are the thoughts which run through me.

Death in several hours straight, I finally received my awakening

and you felt like you,

and I have a soul.

Kill me to bed.

Snow means happiness; But the Fall.

Why can people say it was bad day—

all of them doing something else yet

not enough to survive it.

Now, however, reality sets in.

It’s been wishing for the chance to see tonight

And I wish I was rather anticlimactic,

but we forgot to see tonight.

That moment when we’re on our darkest day

and you took a look at it,

looked the long half-mile down my spine and

I always feel when we find my actual train of thought

it will feel like a schoolkid who needs sleep.

So long, home

It’s been a while since I just discovered the world actually,

all of it,

this is it.

Home in this horizontal plane creates an ocean,

but it’s still home—

home in front of your harvester of the wind

we are all

watching the scales tip back

to fall off.

Life is an artist ;

sometimes God leaves us

a clean canvas, a picture to the world actually

But it’s technically still one out of your masterpiece…

just keep remembering that.

I humbly accept this is us

I tell her what I’ve been telling myself for months:

We each have

sidewalk chalk and an excellent question.

Do something fascinating and enlightening here and then

rest easy, in my only hands;

seeing, listening and hearing, breathing and now

going back to where the Wild around you

lets the adventure.

Love you perfectly

Life is your family as you

and you can tell them anything you wish

in case anyone missed everyone’s lives.


The juxtaposition of untruths, your family discoursing on the pouring rain,

which can wake the neighbors,

get the trees to clap their hands in the yard—

if I hear them I’ll recognize them.

Poor souls, they were made for rain

and all in all I think I’d rather be the sun.


(c) Marie KR 2013



In the North Pacific

scientists have discovered a baleen whale

who swims alone,

singing at a frequency

unrecognized by its own species.

To this one,

the world is nothing but an empty ocean

he is calling into—

a broken record

waiting for echoes.


And then, there’s humans.

In this information age,

we broadcast everything.

We move through a sea of radio waves,

wakes spreading behind us—

echoes of a world screaming

“listen to me!”

Everyone is trying to be important.

Filtered information

expelled as proof of our value:

               an opinion, a story, an argument

               anecdote lesson scripture prayer


               a suicide note in 140 characters.

We are learning that if we cannot entertain,

society does not want to hear from us

so why try?

Scream all you want

but outside of our atmosphere

it is still silent.

Turn on all your lights

but the universe will still be black.

If everyone lives with a fear of being forgotten

all we can produce is dead noise…

we are told to just stop talking

but for some of us it isn’t a choice;

we are writers who brew words like tea

and the pot is boiling over—

here is my handle,

here is my spout,

tip me over and pour me out

for I am nothing more than a vessel

which cannot empty itself

nor stop the overflow

when whatever is held within

has nowhere to go but out.

We remind the world

that despite the loneliness,

that one whale keeps on calling

and we will do the same.

We do not scream,

we sing!

We are whales,

sinking ever deeper into the music in our heads

flukes curving in a last, glorious farewell

before we dive in.

Do not try to silence us.­

(c) Marie KR 2013

Noise Pollution

What was the first word spoken

under today’s sun, I wonder?

The first yawn or

bark of a dog—

the first noise unfurling ribbon-like

from tongue or television.

Did today awaken with piano chords or discords?

It matters because

that first sound

broke the silent dawn

and billowed off on the wind

like a runaway kite.

But it does not stop there;

how much noise can we make in a day?

Every breathe, every word,

all our music,

all our hearts (muffled but still dully thumping)

dropped objects giving cracks like


automobiles moaning on the motorway

the never-ending noise

and it all rises.

Chains of sound

rising on the heat waves

and filling the sky

until she expands

like a blue balloon over our heads

so heavy with sound

that it swamps our lungs

and sinks the birds.


And then, it rains.

If you ever stand out in the rain

and listen to the cough of water on pavement

you are hearing the atmosphere

spitting our words back at us.

(c) MarieKR 2013

Romance is Overrated

Wouldn’t you agree?

Ahem, allow me to correct my statement: teen romance is overrated.

I stand strictly behind my opinion that teenagers (though there are some exceptions) say the word ‘love’ far too soon. When I finally have the opportunity to tell a significant other “I love you”, I want to be quite sure that I’m saying it to the person I will later marry. Call me old-fashioned, but as a writer I like all of my words to have significance.

Unfortunately, every day I watch young couples of my peers around me claiming love on the second date and breaking up a month later–face it, if you find it necessary to celebrate a one-week anniversary, it means your relationships have seldom lasted much longer than that. I still can’t decide if it’s depressing, disappointing, or demented.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it is nice when you notice a special individual who makes you feel all happy and silly and bubbly inside, and I won’t deny that I’ve had several aptly-named ‘crushes’ before, but isn’t it worth more to find one exceptional partner as opposed to a string of placeholders?

Think it over…


In my dreams

I lay my palm against your chest

as if to capture

the arrhythmic beating of your heart

between my fingers.

The doctors call it a defect,

the mood swings of a

radical organ—

good thing I’m not a doctor.

I see your heart as a writer,

too fond of twist endings;

a painter dragging your


in erratic loops across the canvas.

There is something creative

inside of you

playing tricks and riddles,

making up the words

to a song as it sings.

So let it ramble on.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

‘Tis Only the Beginning

This afternoon, whilst digging through the dusty archives of the MacBook, I found an old poem! Well, what a surprise! I do remember the process of writing it several months ago, but can’t quite recall the specific experience which inspired it. Apparently I never posted it, and the poor thing was just lingering in the basement of ‘My Documents’, waiting to be remembered. Sniff, so sad…out of pity I have dragged it out and dusted it off a little bit, and turns out it’s actually a worthwhile piece!


Coasting home on the lonely drift of Route 523

around a curve my headlights pass over

a murder scene

on the shoulder.

It’s just a glimpse

but even today I can see the carnage as if it is

plastered across my windshield.

A hit and run.

Her body is cradled in the sharp metal arms of the guard rails,

legs bent and twisted against the bed of asphalt,

face pressed into the oily grit.

Her mouth hangs open,

tongue tasting the earth

Head, thrown back to expose

a long column of throat

stained gray with dust and death.

But the eyes are the worst.

They stare into my headlights

and for a moment flash in imitation of life

but it’s just a reflection.

She is trapped,

her torso forever stretching toward the other side of the road

an unreached destination in sight

of blind eyes

and I feel her confusion

as my own,

a life cut so quickly

that she’ll never know what ended her in mid-step,

in darkness,

in glaring lights and squealing tires and nothing.

She is helpless and she is dead

and I should stop

tell myself I would stop, want to stop

and see if I can help when nobody else will.


I’ve been taught that when it comes to animals,

we can forget that we have a heart.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

This is a topic which frustrates and confuses me to no end; the way that humans treat animals as if they have no consciousness, as if they feel no pain and that their lives have no worth. Someone else sees a deer on the side of the road and thinks “There are too many deer around anyway”, but I agonize over wondering if it’s still alive, if it understood the pain, if it was afraid. I seem to be cursed with an overactive empathy gland, because this is my typical train of thought in most every situation: how well can I understand what that living thing is experiencing? It’s terrible and painful and maybe silly, but I’d rather think like that than just brush off a life because I hold myself superior to it by intelligence or size or species.

But I realize that the title of this post needs an explanation. I’ll assume the incorrect fact that many people are daily checking this blog with bated breath, hoping for an update. Well, you’re all in luck! This post is only the beginning of a series of poems I’ve been working on for a few days and which should be ready for sharing very soon. So, don’t give up hope! There is more rambling to come!