Dangerous Compassions

soup poem

Hey, I laid out a little poem about soup.

soup poe

Could anyone but me care about this soup poem?  I hope so.  I looked at other poems, on the #poemsofinstagram hashtag, and they are mostly really boring.  Poems you would expect.  This is a weird poem, I guess.

I write the poems I need to.  Really I don’t need another poem about kissing somebody, how depression feels, or flowers, probably.  Poems about soup are more what I need, today.  How about you?

Probably you don’t need poems at all.  Or maybe you’re a word lover, which is why you’re here.

I have these ideas about how an art will take your hand and lead you through it, helping you learn something, and leaving you a different person from when you entered it.  The art will teach you how to experience it.


Submitting poems for publication, years ago, I had very little success.  I think most editors blew through them–“What is this?” and threw it in the trash.  Maybe my project was not immediately comprehensible, so it was misunderstood.

I spent most of my life illegible.  Lately I’m doing more to be understood and seen, which has to do with self-love, being photographed, and more extroverted-type choices, but also marketing, packaging, and putting myself out there.   I wrote a song about that.  “I was always this beautiful–you just didn’t notice.”

Also I’m accepting that the world is as it is.  This is the world I have to work with.  I can change it in small ways, but mostly, the World As It Is is the boss!

I can change me, over the years.  What I do today affects what my life is today, but also tomorrow.  Much is out of my control, but I find a lot of choices I can make.

I’m lucky to have demographics that I am not found threatening.  Riding my trike through our neighborhood, cops don’t care much about me.  I am an unlikely suspect.  Fat white woman on a trike, with middle aged Asian person, their eyes can skip over.  I don’t have a reputation, apparently.

new scarf

An old friend I barely know knit me a scarf.  I’ve sent her zines in the mail, off and on, over the past decade.  The scarf came in a box in the mail.

I cried and cried–how sweet, how beautiful.  The pink, and my mama.  My mama was a master crocheter.  When she died, that’s one of the hundred things I lost.  My scarf-hat-blanket supplier.

This scarf is warm.  It tells me goodness can come out of the blue, what my mom gave me is still in the world, and if I share kindness with people, something will come back to me.  Not in the same form or the same amount, but better than I could have asked for.

new poem recording

I recorded myself reading this poem, this morning.  I thought you might like to hear it.  It’s called “Letter to Myself as a 20 Year Old” and is telling past me to keep living.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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