Ghosty Me In the ghost that was me there were more than a me. There were parts that are missing and parts that were found. Down silent hallways in silent rooms surrounded by stormy voices. Locked in closets, inside locked trunks tied down to floor ties and splintered wood, in splintered minds and splintered souls, …
Rearview Mirror If I had my way, this would all take place in the rearview mirror of a fast little gun metal gray Porsche, with those wide skinny tires. The past seems so perfectly reflected in a rearview mirror. Not like those trudged up memories of childhood you get on a therapist’s faux leather couch. …
Speechless Words need to be said yet since birth I have had a dog’s collar wound tight around my neck, choking each syllable into a cough, sigh or gasp unable to say the word – love. Thus my churning intestines are tightly bound round, twisting my innards out, where there were no words, only sighs, …
Hornet’s Nest Splayed open I had a heart, sweet meat my parents made a feast of. A chamber for her A chamber for him. They dined on it again & again. When devoured, in its place they placed a woody pulp honest nest. That’s always a buzz, never at rest. Alert. Anxious. Always. © SB …
Alone, the family jewel My mother has been dead years now. She loved to sit alone in the sun near a pool or beach, work on her tan, read her book. Forty years later, I am alone at the beach hiding under an umbrella, reading and writing, when my dead mother walks up to me, …
Angry river, you’ve blistered my veins You’ve belched out slashes with your flailing arms and gnashing fangs Sunk deep into my heart’s darkness, where I’ve been drunk on those scares for sixty years. © SB Joy, 2022 oh resentment, I’ve been drunk on your loving ways SB Joy
It was a blazing hot moon when the doorbell rang. It was a delivery guy dropping off a yellow square post-it note from my long dead mother. The note said: I am not the villain you portray me as. I turned the post-it over and scribbled: Not at this address, then handed back it back …
Sour Words streamed from my eyes pooling into a paragraph of tangerines, lemons & limes. Oh, how I wish I never tasted you, Mother’s milk. © SB Joy, 2021 mother’s milk gone soured. SBJ
Silence Fifty years plus, silenced & caged. To write is to free the golden finch, imprisoned at eight, by a man’s filthy hands, reaching where claws don’t belong. The golden finch’s songs ruptures the cage & silence’s song. © SB Joy, 2021 What song has trauma silenced in you? SBJ
Here is a video from Season 1 😂. Last year I did about 10 videos. This is short poem called Parents Love.
SBJ Studio 