Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Welcome to the updated Finley's Poetry

NOTE: This page was formerly found at:

The following poems are original works by Monique Finley, Copyright © 2014

Creative License

Enjoy them. Ignore them.
Quote them, blame me.
The choice is yours.

If you choose to read them,
check back for latest additions,
as this page is under maintenance.

~Monique Finley

Finley on Matter Press

Finley on Yahoo! Contributor Network

I. ) An Awakening; II.) A Reckoning (Or, Scientifically Poetic Motion) 

I.) The Butterfly Effect

Fluttering begins at the tip of nervous
consciousness where heat and moisture
spread outward, tides rolling, soaring
with wings wide gliding up the diaphragm
under the ribs, pulse increasing as the wave
and wings float on by, up into the throat
a frog croaks before its tongue flicks out
hoping to taste the flutterby as it bypasses
arteries pumping fiercely keeping oxygen
flowing in a brain seized with imagery
of life unlived and moments un-seized.

II.) The Doppler Effect

Preceding then receding as you
pass me by,
oscillating the frequency of we,
as I come
in contact with your emissions and
how I long
to halt the effect, to catch within
your eyes
all of the eternities that make up
you and me—
one in place, the other in flux—
as we entwine
ourselves in the ether of our passions—
a physical entanglement of our movements.

3-24-2012 (part I) & 5-7-2012 (part II)
~Monique Finley

Finley's Poetry on
***Note: has gone "Read Only." The site will close in December 2014. Between now and then, I'll be moving the poems listed below to Yahoo! Contributor Network. Stay tuned for link updates***

Inspired by Hollywood, California

Inspired by Key West, Florida

Inspired by San Diego, California

Inspired by Galveston, Texas
My Best Self

Good Times

Dark Moments

Walk and Run

Up and Down

Shout and Whisper

On and Off

Maestro Danny

Sodium Drops

Happy and Sad

Good and Evil

Empty and Full

Old and New

Clean and Dirty

Add and Subtract

Heavy and Light

Long and Short

Nuclear: Sticks and Stones

Millions of lives lost
pursuing ultimate weaponry
deigned to end all wars.
That mythological compass points
to eleventh hour greed,

as the Armageddon clock ticks
evangelically. Seconds tocking,
knocking, locking in
with moments to spare
before the final act.

Curtains twice fell
as 'shrooms rose over
the shockwaves of infamy.
My poor Nagasaki, were your loved ones
in Hiroshima when that fat man
and little boy came calling?

All these years later,
how much do you hate us?
And, the guilt never truly expiated,
though we seemingly learned
our lessons well?

Already, too many arsenals
online, those sweaty thick fingertips
like itchy triggers baulking over little red buttons.
Gotta stop 'em, lest streaks of mean fill the sky
causing the globe to implode.

Better to use sticks and stones.

~Monique Finley

Skint Knees and Bruised Alter Egos

Although, I’d rationally prefer shades of decay
to the unreality of immortality,
I have to wonder: how much longer
must I face mortality as an image
in the foreground, blindingly inappropriate,
like too much yellow in a bad design? 

Ever stare too long at the sun?
Those brilliant spots persist long after 
lids close and both orbs have wept for the intensity
achingly, penetratingly, numbingly,
burning an afterglow into the soft pink
underside of the protective membrane
located just under one’s rigid brows.

How I long to leave the seed of mortal
comprehension on some other farmer’s field.
Let another plow insecurity, uncertainty, and disparity
(if they so choose). I haven’t the time. You see,
I prefer the outlook of youthful naivety,
the far-reaching implications of infinitesimal time,
and abundant playgrounds waiting
for skint knees and bruised alter egos.

Who ever wanted to relive ever-lovin’ puberty
must have forgotten the pain of growing,
those so-called “growing pains,” that stress,
while purportedly “building character.” But,
what character does one build when introduced
to institutionalized induction by birth, raised
by teachers outnumbered 35:1 on a good day?
With backgrounds and perceptions as snowflakes,
uniquely owned by the essence of being being right, 

I much prefer to just be.   

~Monique Finley

‘Ello Samhain

All Hollow’s Even. Halloween. Samhain. All those
assimilated kids runnin’ roun’ in costumes,
I wonder where they’re goin’, dartin’
every which way while hollerin’ like maniacs
what lost the guards some ways back?

They could be anyone later on: ain’t that a scary fact
we all gotta live with as we fatten’em up
and sit back growing dim watchin’em?
Teach’em to disguise dey’seves, hide’em from
the ghosts of days gone by. Maybe then

they’ll survive the other 365 or so,
if we just let’em loose once a year,
stuff’em full of candy, and parade’em
in masks and sheets and war pain’.
Cain’t you see’em marching with their scary

little pillowsheet purses, leadened with the tears
of smaller kiddies’ trophies collected by part-acting pirates.
There’s always a couple of’em who really get into it,
the game of dis-guise that is, that secret agent urge
that sends spies forth to defend their countries

and I wonder what the future holds for each one of
these little goblins destined for the Goblin Market.

~Monique Finley

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