no 3. an earlier poem

something forgotten

i wrote a song,

yesterday in my living room

when the sun was shining in.

i picked up my mother’s guitar

and with four chords

imagined myself a troubadour.

i wrote a song about the usual:


forgotten, wished-for, anticipated,

unrequited, dreamed.

no paper at hand

i kept rolling it over and over in my mind,

satisfied that it wouldn’t be left behind.

hours later, it came back to me as i lay in bed.

i was too drowsy to rouse myself.

in the morning, much like that love

wished-for, anticipated, unrequited,


it was forgotten.

(written 13 april, 2016)


mundane musing the first

so this blog is titled “(re)imagining the mundane,” and that is one of my main intentions here.  as such, i will regularly post poems that explore this theme; it will be my pet project, so to speak.  and here is the first of who knows how many.  perhaps you’d like to suggest a topic?


The plates in my kitchen cabinet

Number forty-eight:

Sixteen saucers, sixteen bread plates

sixteen dinner plates

All different

I cannot bear them,

They make me weep with the

Sadness of meals gone awry

Leftovers uneaten and composted

All I wish for is a simplicity

Of crockery

A tracery of refinement

A modicum of taste

But all I am allowed is the

Imperfection resulting of

Poor planning and miserly sums.

I did not inherit good taste

I came to the kitchen with no

Heritage of propriety

Just a dream of something unattainable

Which I now shatter without remorse,

Piece by ceramic piece.

(written 6 december 2017)

no. 2: speaking with walt

the conundrum of anachronism

oh, mr. whitman.

what have you done to me?

it seems that even my firstborn

(however unintentionally)

bears your name.

i cannot help but think of you

each spring, when lilacs

fill the air with their aroma,

forcing me to abandon my

anhedonia along with

my frustration with

revisionist history.

with equal measures of

longing and fear

i wonder at our imagined meeting,

you laughing at

my fan-girl posturing,

my bookmarked copy of

leaves of grass.

were you really

the man in your poetry?

basted in your love for

the human experience?

roasted in the fire

of the civil war?

i read your biography on


you would dislike, disavow me,

would not speak to me,

would not sing my body electric,

if you passed me on the street.

(written 2 october 2017)

first blog post, also known as no. 1

hello out there. yes, this is my very first post here, i think. however, as novice as i’d like to feel, i’d be lying if i said this was truly my first blog.

i may (i will claim plausible deniability as to the details) have tried to write a blog (quite unsuccessfully, i might add) many many years ago, when blogging first came about and all was novel with such pastimes.

what is my reason for making a second attempt, aside from the multitude of really attractive-looking do-it-yourself blogging formats? writing. that’s the reason. i have been recently plagued with the desire to write, mostly flash fiction (what a sexy moniker) and poetry. and a plague it is, especially because it comes to me at all unacceptable hours of the day and night. i’m not sure, but i would wager a guess that this is the way many writers feel, and i’m keen to make acquaintance with those lucky individuals.

but as much as the urge to write can be a malediction of sorts, it has served as a blessed outlet for the inner machinations of my brain, which has lain partially dormant for an embarrassing number of years.

and i will not stand for that any more. not one more moment.

and so it begins.

i will endeavor to place entertaining bits and pieces here, illustrated by my own trial-and-error photography or pencil drawings. it would please me greatly if you would:

read. enjoy (as the spirit moves you). perhaps write a bit of your own (on your own paper, of course).

and as i’m a closet rule-follower and stickler for a modicum of tasteful and polite commentary, i will give consideration to pertinent discussion, constructive criticism, and even (gasp!) complimentary statements. needless to say, anything unfitting or inappropriate will be removed.

and as they say in my little corner of the world, welcome!

mariah (aka hupsutupsu)

…not my first go-round

and probably not my last.

my hope, my dream, is that this will be the space, the place

for my attempts at poetry and prose.

i extend an invitation, i shake your hand in both of mine

(yes, one of those over-confident, extroverted handshakes),

i exhort you, my hoped-for reader,

to read my poems and prose gently.  but be assured

that i am no push-over, no sad-sack awaiting denigration

or conversely, exaltation.

i welcome your polite (even critical) conversation

this is not my first go-round, and i fully intend

to enjoy this ride for the both of us,

letting the words flow as they will, perhaps willy-nilly,

for our mutual entertainment.

inspired by…

…so many poets, from so many eras.  but recently, i came to a realization that shattered my illusions about the poetry of the past. the classic poets i read as a child and young adult would not have been writing for someone like me.  keeping this in mind, every once in a while i am going to sift through the sands of literature to find one such poem and have a conversation with it.

you can see the first one here.

and the second one is here