Yeah, I write poetry.


Aside from writing about my life, the stuff I most dread sharing with others is my poetry.  People either like poetry or hate it. (Most people like it without realizing it, or they would never listen to songs that contain any words.) I consider myself a poet first; that’s my preferred genre. If tunes materialized in my brain, I’d probably enjoy songwriting because I’ve written lyrics to existing tunes and to one tune that came to my brain in high school. I think in images too. I process in metaphors. I love symbols and depth. Poetry is for those who want to dig deeper beneath the surface. Sometimes when I write poetry, I deeply conceal myself within. Other times, the meaning is intended to be straightforward. Another reason I am first a poet before any other type of writer is that I love word play, in person and on paper, and I have even more fun when people follow what I’m saying and volley it back in kind—that’s a rarity to meet people who do that (Thank you to those who have entertained me with witty banter; we had lots of inside joke-type moments).

The poetry I’m including here (6 total) is a mixture of poems that are very old, a few years old, and almost two years old. I could write something right now, but I would rush (and it would suck).

I also have a story in the works (in my mind). I was given a challenge, so I decided I would take it up (I write better when I’m given a challenge or asked to write something).  I also just started back to work last week (I’m a teacher), so my schedule and my energy have been yanked out from under my sandal-wearing feet. I’ll try not to be too sporadic about posting; I like posting weekly, but there will be times when it won’t be possible…but I’m a writer, therefore I will write! As Jeff Goins says, “The only person who gets to decide if you are a writer is you.”

And now, the poetry! Enjoy!

Corner of Quiet

by Christine Flower

Calmly, tea speaks peace to my wounded soul;

confusion slowly dissolves, and I’m still.

When I listen, chaos leaves, and I smile.

Contentment overshadows me; I’m full.

Gamophobia (the fear of marriage)

by Christine Flower

When I was three, I wore

the red plastic sunglasses,

with the figures on the sides.

I walked up and down the airport with

the grin of Jesus on my face, and the

red plastic sunglasses on my eyes.

“See my red sunglasses! See my red sunglasses!”

was traipsing through my mind.

Your little girl was the center of attention.

When I was eight, I went

on a field trip with the kids in my class.

I brought you, Dad.

We went to ASU’s Museum of Science,

and we got stuck in the elevator.

I became scared;

tears fell down my face.

With stern words you grunted,

“Quit your crying.”

You didn’t know

that your little girl needed to cry.

Now, I’m eighteen; I have

a bedroom at home,

vacant and quiet; it waits for me.

On the telephone we talk:

“Heather’s getting married!?

I can’t believe it! Wow.”

And with the subtlety of a father,

you frightfully say,

“Now you enjoy your freedom.

Don’t be anxious to get married.”

Your little girl tries on

her mother’s white high-heeled shoes;

they fit.

Like a Plane Crash

by Christine Flower

It’s falling out of control,

and I brace myself as I


the crash.

Like an airplane ,

falling out of the sky,

my mind races,

heart beating,

nerves trashed,

stomach sick,


Never-ending, yet at lightning speed,

I’m waiting, for this plane to crash.

What will the damage be?

What will become of me?

What is the next step?

Can I catch my breath?


by Christine Flower

The waters are rising,

escalating to suffocation.

The grasses embrace my ankles

as if to help,

until they ensnare me

like the undertow.

I am drowning.


by Christine Flower

Exhausting surprise

a ligamental mélange

healing normalcy

Laundering Love and Money

by Christine Flower

What if I loved you

and hid it in my pocket

like a secret piece of gum?

What if it stayed there,


and with a dollar bill for a friend,

the two intermingled in the laundry?

Faded money and love everywhere,

who would clean it up?

Would I toss them out

like an old pair of jeans?

Would I let them sit there

like a hippie awaiting world peace?

Would I still love you?

Or would I just be

poor and broken?