Break Through

They call it breakthrough bleeding –

There’s a leak in our bathroom sink
and I’ve had a fan blowing for two days,
as my aunt’s fancy kitchen towels brine in musty water.
It blows a brisk breeze on my bare calves –
my skirt billowing out around my ankles,
puddled on the floor,
with my berserk little hormones
borrowing into the floor under my feet.
My breasts hang low and drag across
the peel and stick tile
until my bloodshot eyes finally focus
and find the bleak little ray of light –
shining simply because it’s switched on.

They call it breakthrough bleeding
and I know it means I’ve lost you somewhere in this dilapidated bathroom.
You have scattered your cells across the pad floating,
on the floor between my feet.

They call it breakthrough bleeding,
but it’s really a leak
and the floor’s gone soggy,
so one wrong move
and I’m tumbling down with you.

© Laura A. Lord, September 2018

Thank you to MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie for their prompt.

Magic Trick

I learned early to avoid your gaze.
Survival comes from looking down at my feet,
amplifying every stretch of my ankle,
angling my body to the side,
as if the mere act of shifting myself for you
would give you enough space to ignore my existence.
I would agonize over my bangs,
drag them down to cover light, almond eyes.
Hiding in plain sight was always an arduous process.
I used my skin, an atypical artifice, as a Halloween mask
and abracadabra –
I disappeared.

© Laura A. Lord, September 2018

Thank you to MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie for their prompt.


I have new soap that makes my skin slick,
makes my hair smell like some trip through an orange grove
or a bottle of Pin-sol spilled under the bathroom sink.
I have new burgundy nail polish
and I have propped my foot up on the table
and stretched across myself to bend
and I have swept the small brush across each and every toe
except my smallest one
where the nail is all but gone.
I have applied some shimmery, toning lotion
in hurried, circular sweeps
under each dark-circled eye.
I am covering the void in my heart
with a Younique eye pallet.
I’m hiding my empty virtues
with a smoky eye and Snow White’s red apple lips,
because this is the generation of the selfie
and I am only 83 photos
and three filters away
from beautiful.

© Laura A. Lord, 2018

Thank you to MindLoveMiserysMenagerie for their prompt.


Creative Commons

The bright light of morning crept through the cracks in our curtains,
shattered across your skin in an astonished display
that outlined the deep blue of your nightgown.
It broke a pattern of light and shadow across your face,
and I let my fingers wander to the lacy edge
draped along your thigh.
Morning’s red rose lips kissed the snow white skin,
there, on the soft spot at your wrist.
For a brief moment, before the light slid heavy and thick
up to completely illuminate your sleeping eyes,
I found myself afraid.
Afraid of what the night had left, scattered about my bed.
Afraid of what the light had shown;
and that somehow it would disappear.

© Laura A. Lord, 2015

This time of year makes me think so much of people who are no longer with me. I remember this woman, from entirely too many years ago. It didn’t last long, but I always wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t been so afraid of commitment back then. She was beautiful…

Thank you to Six Sentence Stories and Three Word Wednesday for their prompts this week!


Original: Creative Commons Design:
Original: Creative Commons

She could generate a laugh
from the tarred sacks of her lungs,
from cholesterol clogged veins,
from the empty pockets of torn jeans.

She could say,
“I’m broke,”
like the rattle of a car
spitting black fumes
and popping loud shot-gun blasts.

She never dreamed of escape,
a way out.

She never reminisced
or stirred ancient ghosts with her running mind.

She walked forward –
one step.

She slid on her pants, one leg at a time,
from the stranger’s bedroom floor.

She was so alive they envied her poorness.

She was a feast to behold –
starving inside.

© Laura A. Lord, 2015

Thank you to The Sunday Whirl for their prompt this week.

Fida Islaih: Featured Poet

A to Z Poetry CoverLet’s give a warm welcome to our next featured poet, Fida Islaih.

Her Olives CoverFida Islaih is the author of three poetry collections, A to Z Poetry, Her Olives, and Hugs & Kisses. She is working on a fourth collection. Fida’s collections focus on her faith, her experiences and emotions along with her love for nature. Her upcoming collection remains untitled with the hopes to be published late fall 2015. It focuses on the places and people that she has rooted herself in. Split into five sections, this collection explores the beauty and struggles of two countries, of sisterhood, the beauty of words and time. Here is a sneak peak from the upcoming collection:Hugs & Kisses Cover

She was tall and graceful
she glided through
the streets of our village
her long, black hair flowing
in the wind
along with her thobe
she always had a smile
as she carried
a basket of bread on her head.

© Fida Islaih 2015

You can find this poet at the following places: Blog   Twitter   Instagram   Facebook   Tumblr   Amazon Author’s Page   Goodreads

There is still time to sign up for our Poet Hop! Click here for more info.


The River

I don’t remember the way I loved you,
but it is seared in my mind,
that image of you at the edge of the water,
long strands of river algae curled around your legs
and clung like sticky tentacles on the muscle of your calf
water rolled in languid drops down the swell of your breast
dangled teasingly from the arched tip and fell,
a dramatic end to catch the sun’s glint.
I watched my reflection scatter and break in the droplets on your skin.
I think that’s where the problem was.
I think I saw myself too much in us.

© Laura A. Lord 2015

Mutant Babies and Free Stuff

Yesterday I had an appointment with the doctor for an ultrasound and blood work and all those wonderful things.


Yeah…it basically went like that.

babyBy the end of it though, we got to see baby and find out that everything looks good. Baby is healthy and active and looking just right for 12 weeks.

I showed the husband the pictures and he laughed and said it still looks like a mutant. I told him that he wouldn’t be very pretty stuck in water for that long either.

Silly man.

In his defense, the 3D images of the baby were relatively frightening (hence why I am not posting them). Baby will be beautiful…in a few more months when it gets here and we can dry it off and dress it and such things.


You want me to be one of those women who “Ooo” and “Aahh” over little grey film of something I still need help deciphering as to what part is what of this amazingly ever-changing little being?

That’s not me.

I’m not even the happy pregnant type.

I’m the…give me my baby and let me get on with the mommy thing type.

It drives me nuts to keep saying “baby.”

I’m ready to say a name. And we’ve got names picked out. So let’s have some fun with this, since I can’t find out for six more weeks if this is a baby Lily or a baby Tommy.

I want you to guess!

Leave your guess in the comments below and in six more weeks all those who guessed right will win a free ebook copy of my newest book, Perjury.



You Have Such a Pretty Face…

I was a tween at a friend’s house for dinner. It was my first time there. I was painfully shy and always relied on the good manners that my Mom had instilled in me. We were having dinner around an actual dinner table, which we never did at my house. So I was already feeling awkward.

I can’t remember all of the dinner, except for this one point. The meatloaf was so dry and terrible that I was drinking soda to choke it down. I didn’t want to insult the Mom by not eating it, so I forced it down my throat.

Then the problem of seconds came up.

She leaned over with the pan and her spatula ready, “You want some more, right?”

“No thank you,” I said, flashing a smile, having put my flatware down on the plate like I’d been taught.

“What do you mean you don’t want more? Just take more.” Her voice was sharp and I felt it cut into me. Everyone had stopped talking and was watching this unfold.

“No thank you,” I said again, looking down at my plate, hoping that a sinkhole would just appear underneath me.

“Well look at you, I know you eat way more than that,” she snapped and plunked more food on my plate. “Now eat it.” I felt so ashamed and embarrassed. I was overweight and therefore equivalent to a human garbage disposal. I never went back to that house.

I’ve always been a bigger girl, having a growth spurt before everyone and then I just kept growing (up and out). I’ve grown used to my curves, even learning to love them. I’m more comfortable as a 30- something-year old woman than I ever was as a teen, which is generally the way it is, right?

The trend of being disrespected or assumptions made about me and my eating habits didn’t stop there. I’ve noticed throughout the years that women were more likely to tell me negative things about my body. Always the first ones to pass judgment.

unnamedShould you really be wearing a skirt? Your thighs are so big.

You would be so cute if you would just lose some weight.

If you can find a boyfriend…then I should definitely be able to find one!

It’s so brave of you to go to the beach in that. I’d never be able to if I…you know…look like…you…

I even had someone leave a comment on a Facebook pic from my birthday. I was wearing my new favorite dress, I was with my favorite man, and we were going out for dinner. My b-day cleavage was out and about like they were dessert. My grin was shining. The comment was, “You know there’s a time and place for everything…” apparently pointing out my breasts. I don’t think she would’ve left that prudish comment on a slimmer girl’s photo. It would’ve been more on the lines of, “You go girl!” What bothered me the most, was that put a pall to my evening. I felt like the 12 year old being forced to eat more food. And it made me a little sad…and pissed me off.  Then I shook myself and reminded myself that I like this tig ole bitties and not to let someone else’s words ruin my night.

The worse is of all of these is the “You have such a pretty face,” which is usually accompanied by a sad smile and even a sympathetic cluck of the tongue.

I also have a huge ass. When I sit down, you can almost rest a beer can on it. It is unapologetic as it shimmies and shakes behind me, threatening to brush up against everything that stands in our way. My thighs complete my hour glass and unapologetically display the curves of the divine. My hair is a thick and lustrous thing of gravity defying beauty. The bigger the hair, the closer to God. So we must be next door neighbors. My lips have made grown men cry and whisper pleas for ecstasy that I can bring. My stomach is soft and round, reminding me of Gaia. The world lives there. My hands can soothe, stimulate and gives me access to my life’s love: the written word.

And it’s ok the some people will never see that beauty. To them, I’m a slobbering mound of gelatin-like flesh, little more than Jabba the Hut and a reminder for them to not eat carbs. Fine.

Just shut up about it.

I’m tired of women trying to tear me down, and make me feel bad about myself. Do not try to candy-coat your disdain for my perceived bad life choices with some ill-conceived effort to help me to “snap out of it” and lose weight tomorrow.

My fat is here. It’s a part of me. I’m not just someone who is “unfortunate” to be saddled with a pretty face and has nothing else going for me. I’m a woman who doesn’t have to change to suit anyone else’s expectation. This isn’t a post about nutrition. This is a post about loving myself where I am today. If I lose weight in the future, then I hope to still love myself then. This is about acceptance, and self-love.

I’ve never understood this tendency for women to tear each other down. We should stay by each other, pillars lending strength to keep moving forward. Every time I’ve befriended big-bootied women in the past, I’ve tried my damnest to get them to love that big ass. To find clothes that fit and make them feel beautiful.

Why spend time hating; yourself, a body part, your voice, your hair (and the list goes one.)? Accept it. Find peace with it and then find the beauty in it. In yourself.  Your body is amazing. You are a thing of wonderful. Own that inner power and run with it. Be body positive. It feels good to be free.


unnamed (1)Tamara Woods was raised (fairly happily) in West Virginia, where she began writing poetry at the age of 12. Her first poetry collection is available at Sakura Publishing and Amazon. She has previous experience as a newspaper journalist, an event organizer, volunteer with AmeriCorps and VISTA, in addition to work with people with disabilities. She has used her writing background to capture emotions and moments in time for anthologies such as Empirical Magazine, her blog PenPaperPad, as a contributing writer for the online ‘zine Lefty Pop, and writing articles as a full-time freelance writer. She is a hillbilly hermit in Honolulu living with her Mathmagician.

You can also find Tamara here: