On The Swallow’s Tail

Wide antic eyes, Salvador, you are your brother
dead, but better. Do you rest on his grave and
tell him about 17th century moustache and
Gala, everything he misses out on.
No need, he sweeps your bones when
they need to grow.
He plants ideas and colors in Spain
where people steal your dreams.

I will give you hopeful fruit
that can be nailed to a wall,
make it my four walls please – a trapezoid leaning in
like egg yolk – protein for my absent
skill. If I had yours,
if only,
I would be she, your catastrophe theory,
feeding you death on a spoon.
I could be your nervous system, taking your wishes
from your guts.
We are not “in fact or intention”
We are surrealism
and I know this because I live inside you,
inside your brother.

Looking For Bloggers To Review My Chapbook

I am currently seeking bloggers to write a review of my small collection of poetry, Some Things Ache In The Dark, that’s just been released through Writing Knights Press.

If you are interested, please email me at: maggiemaeijustsaythis@gmail.com with a link to your blog!

Thanks everyone ❤

XOXOXO

~MM

Guess What’s Being Printed??!!

Hey everyone,

 

I’ve been waiting FOREVER to tell you all that my first chapbook, Some Things Ache in The Dark, is being printed!! It is going to be available VERY, VERY soon!!
I cannot tell you all how truly grateful I am for the continuous support and suggestions and guidance from sooo many of you! You guys are fabulous people and I love getting to know those of you who I’ve had the opportunity to get to know.

For those of you interested, I’m going to have the links up just as soon as they are up on Writing Knights Press website!!!

XOXOXO

~MM

Ripples: Friends In Verse

Hey everyone!! I wanted to let you all know that I have a few pieces in a new anthology called Ripples: Friends in Verse. You can read more about the anthology here.

All profits from this 300 page  anthology will benefit the charity “Operation Smile”.

There are many talented writers from around the world compiled in this limited edition anthology and I am very honoured to have had the opportunity to be involved.

 

Thanks everyone. If you get a copy, let me know what you think!!

 

XOXOXO

Maggie Mae

Old Books And She

I entered her
last night. Through parted limbs, then
parted.
Forehead.
Chest.
Hard back books watching.
We wrote a story for them.

I told her that I never saw them
read. The ancient people.
I bore holes in their heads while
they
bailed strong hay fields
and
branded our hamburger.
They could remove sexual organs
by blood asphyxiation,
dry fruit in plastic air,
grow meat in sloppy hog mud,
they did it.
They did everything with books
but listen to their stories.

She came down from composition.
Pink panties, black casual,
laughing
about my pork fields and grease.

One day, we will be ancient. Will the books
remember us?
Will we be decorated in hard backs? 

We laid, backs hard on thin, white sheets.
Skinny lips impressing lit
cigarettes, kissed wet from
brick liquid.
We drank for the moon we remembered.
The pale one that danced with
us
before we lost the Others.
The brunettes.
The scrappers.
The pretty little foster kids.

5am lost the luster. So, we stopped.
I chose blue for my tears, and left.
She chose white sheets
sprinkled with biography.

The Book

There is a book that you do
not know. Hard bound.
Gummy.

It was a long trip.
I took a machete to its ink soaked
dress, paddled through
its mysterious
sea of
bad clams. But he wrote it.

He with his ego gala hidden
underneath his racy
beard. The claps,
the bouquets of fraud that
come calling
when a new page is written,
sealed.

The rules are boundless, without
architecture or
makeup.
There would have been a beefy,
apple pie house
but
a pig’s pen
stamped itself onto Arch’s A-E.
From the start….
crippled pages held compact in
iron arms.

The Charge

Hard back

pages, stained with time and
an aged aroma.

1915. A battle is painted.
Acid slashing,
spitting.

Direct eyes leap from a tiny cliff
onto young bodies. Bloodied. Abandoned.

Somewhere, some mothers stand as sharp
as shrapnel,
bullets piercing their wombs,
their children’s supple homes.

Trembling hands
find a gun
and
a buddy. A soldier. A boy.
Death has no time in
these fields. He is hurried.

Frontal attacks sweep
unprotected spots. Blurring instinct.
Blinding the Earth with a scarlet bath.

Burying dirt with
young boys,
men.

1915. Hard back pages, stained with
memory and
the scent of suffering.

And this….
just the beginning.

*About The Charge by W. Douglas Newton.