She who has no name 

Wife, 1920. 


Reminds me of a doctor I used to work with in a teaching hospital. A resident would put their hand on the patients bed. He would snap at the resident to stand back. If he had a ruler he would have likely snapped it upon the residents wrist. Years later I saw this doctor with his wife outside of the hospital at the airport. Naturally I said hello. His wife smiled sweetly. I extended my hand, she accepted. He said smugly, “This is wife.” 

Was he rude? Was he on the spectrum of autism? Was he socially awkward? Who knows? I was not fulfilled with this answer. I said, my name is Keri… I’m sorry I didn’t quite get your name? She replied… but now the name is lost in my memory. 
This is wife. 

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Stolen work

Well as hard as the truth hurts A LOT, I recently found on Instagram today that my work had been stolen by a more popular poet who has been published. It’s my own fault. I never did any copywriting. Still it stings like a bitch! So this website will only be for my own thoughts on others work, posts of work I like, and thoughts on other things. No more of my poetry, nor stories until they have been published though for my own protection.

and lastly…

Fuck you to the guy who blazingly stole my work. I never realized you took pieces of my poem and posted it on your Facebook claiming it to be your own. Especially since a woman had what was “your words” tattooed on her. You’re a phony…and those were actually a woman’s words to begin with… not a mans.

Nobody likes a thief.

Just goes to show. Protect your work people.

I apologize to any follows who liked my poetry and/or stories in the past. I will keep you all updated on any published work in the future.

With love,

-K.K.Powell

The audience.

Three fat sausage fingers slide up and down her shoulder.

His pony tail smooshed to the back of his head…shifted to the right.

He didn’t have time between his nap, and the show.

Too much pot he smoked before the show.

Shewp, shewp, shewp, shewp.

My eyes grow wide.

Fuck…I am stuck next to these two for the next hour and a half.

Schhhhleeeeerp

As the man on the other side sucks his spit through the canyons of his teeth.

The pulled pork threads sit locked and loaded

I want to hear the speaker speak,

I consider asking these annoying people to stop with their annoyances.

Shewp, shewp, shewp, shewp.

Scratch, scratch, scratchity scratch, scratch, scratch.

Scccchhhhleeeeerp.

My upset and overwhelmed brain begins to force my eyeballs out of my head.

I point a my index finger to my left ear to the incessant arm brusher.

For fuck’s sake.

Is the public display of attention THAT important.

Stop that already!

I visualize a mad man lunging toward him.

Grabbing his fingers, and chopping them off one by one.

Wait, is this a nervous tick?

Am I being a dick..?

My tiny index finger is this man’s saving grace.

Sccccchhhhlerrrrrp.

Please?!

Just go get some fucking tooth floss you indigent!!!

Nope, don’t say it.

Don’t be rude.

You drove a long way to hear this man speak…

The speaker speaks.

I fumble in my chair uncomfortably.

His voice rises just enough to muffle twiddledee and twiddledum.

A girl giggles nervously.

Another howls like she used to at a 1980’s arena rock concert.

My name is Ashley…

I’m thiiiiiirteeeen.

As she kisses her nineteen year old boyfriend on the lips.

Slips the tongue.

A french one.

We all know about THAT one.

I snicker.

He speaks, and reads me a tale or two

Then yawn

Lightning strikes from the rugged dark blue and grey clouds above.

His voice carries

as the thunders roll through the purple hills.

Crisis averted for twiddledee and twiddledum.

-K.K. Powell

 

Writing on a rainy day

I use this blog more for poetry, but today I am writing something a little more personal. It is about the process of being a writer. Starting, stopping, being welcomed, being rejected, and that awful day of accidentally losing all your work.

Have any of you ever lost all your work writing?

As it turns out, I was not so great about keeping my work backed up. Two years of research, and writing of ideas… gone. Poof. Smoke bomb. Gone like the wind. The dust has settled now.

What I didn’t realize is if there is too much music stored on a Mac Book Pro, that it will literally wipe out the writings on Scrivener. That is exactly what happened to me. Luckily it was just research. Luckily I write my outlines on paper, and there weren’t too many projects already started. So after some research, and re-writing the good ideas I can remember…I have started again. Where some folks feel bad about my loss, it actually isn’t that bad. It just tells me what I already know. Time to actually jump on an idea.

So I am looking at this as a fresh clean slate. The days are getting darker, and my writing is getting better. At least I think it is? I still continue to write poetry.  I still paint. The idea is… never give up. Today I started writing a new novel. I could not be more excited about the twists and turns it will take. My trusty sidekick doesn’t sit too far away in my apartment while I write. Sometime she grumbles at me for a head scratch, or a ball toss which is a much welcomed break. fullsizerender-4

Lesson learned. Back up your work, before it goes bye bye. Stop being weird. Stop thinking nobody wants to hear your story. Stop being fearful of the judgement. Just finish it, publish it, and the universe will do what it will with it. These novels are just my brains way of painting a picture. More for me than the general public. There is a certain vulnerability displaying your imagination to everyone. It is much like the feeling of standing naked in front of someone for the first time. It can be exciting, and terrifying all at the same time.

-K.K. Powell

The creative process

“if it doesn’t come bursting out of youin spite of everything, don’t do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.” 

-Charles Bukowski

There are times when there isn’t anything coming into my head. No witty quotes, funny stories, creativity, nothing. Just a blank slate. The truth is… How can you force it. It’s like taking a shit. You can’t force it, or you are bound to get a hemorrhoid. The forced stories/words also coming out being total… You guessed it….shit. So instead of feeling bad about a lack of inspiration, and wanting to pound my forehead unto the table out of frustration… I wait. I read. I look at art. Drink wine. Nap. Keep working the day job. Learn from others… and take more naps. Because if I don’t think it’s great, I certainly won’t put it in my novel not my blog. 

Thank the heavens above and below for Charles Bukowski… and the soft vices which won’t kill us…too quickly. 
-K.K. Powell

Your cheating heart

This isn’t anything new. A lot of us women have been dealing with this bullshit for a long time. Hell this song is from the 1950’s, if that says anything. Meet a man, have some fun, and then find out he has a girlfriend, or a wife later. In some cases, some of us just happen to have the poor luck of being the wife who is being deceived. It’s certainly happened to me on both ends.
Nobody wants to be a home wrecker, and ain’t nobody really wants to be a part of deception. There really are no rules to this dating/relationships thing, but there has to be a mutual understanding, or even at the very least a common decency to respect the person you’re with. It’s called clear communication, owning your shit, and being an adult. Be strong enough to say quit when you got to quit. Save yourself the trouble, before you drive your woman crazy. Because that same woman will stop giving you sugar, and in turn dump some very different sugar in your gas tank.
-K.K. Powell

– It wasn’t God who made honky tonk angels… –

As I sit here tonight the jukebox playin’
The tune about the wild side of life
As I listen to the words you are sayin’
It brings memories when I was a trusting wife
It wasn’t God who made Honky Tonk angels
As you said in the words of your song
Too many times married men think they’re still single
That has caused many a good girl to go wrong
It’s a shame that all the blame is on us women
It’s not true that only you men feel the same
From the start most every heart that’s ever broken
Was because there always was a man to blame
It wasn’t God who made Honky Tonk angels
As you said in the words of your song
Too many times married men think they’re still single
That has caused many a good girl to go wrong
 -Kitty Wells