Trista Hurley-Waxali is the author of the poetry chapbook Dried Up. Her work has appeared in the journals FORTH, Enclave, and Street Line Critics, well as in the Procyon Short Story Anthology 2014 (Tayen Lane Publishing, 2015). She has performed at the O’bheal Poetry Series in Cork, Ireland and in a Helsinki Poetry Connection Poetry Jam TransLate Night Show. Trista lives in West Hollywood, where she is working on her first novel, At This Juncture.
Her poem, “Placement,” appeared on the site on September 23: https://disarticulations2015.wordpress.com/2015/09/23/reader-poem-trista-hurley-waxali/
Each month of dis•articulations 2015, we invite readers to submit poems based on the monthly prompts, fevered writing or dis•articulations poems. Every month we select our favorite Reader Poem and award a $25 prize.
Trista Hurley-Waxali wrote this poem based on the September Poetry Prompts:
Before he’d say,
the nectar was too sweet for him to enjoy.
But that changed after Samantha left.
Seasons came and went as he’d roam,
leaving her to nest in their range of land.
Rumor was that she never got over her first love—
the buck who lost,
that she’d walk the border, hoping to pick-up
So when Carl came home that night
and saw his doe was no longer there,
we all knew where she went.
We watch him now, grieving the loss,
unsure of her death,
unsure of her life.
Moving the petals with his cloven hoof
trying to frame the floor-bed
they once shared.
Trista Hurley-Waxali wrote this poem in response to the prompt “Home of child goddess unshaken.”
Response to Home of child goddess unshaken
When i imagine the four walls full
of memories, I think of the various hotel
rooms that I’ve stayed at.
No where exotic comes to mine, really just all of them.
Some would be local to where I’m living or want to live, the cliche, near
and far, expensive and cheap.
Where my memory feels like a strung together set
of room charges.
Where the sense of being anonymous for even
a weekend becomes addicting.
When the rest of week I work hard to
hide away from my past.
I would steal the hotel pens as a reminder
of my journey home. Where now each one rests in my
pencil case on my desk. I use them as I note escape routes
and throw them out when they run dry.
Like the fear held in the one time prison in
my past. The very room that I actively enter and redo to make space
to hold new memories.
These rooms are starting again starting to feel like home.
Somewhere between the duvet and the 24 hour room service.
Maybe it’s when I started booking them under
my name with a joint credit card. A card that has the funds to
payout the $9 M&M’s and the half bottle of champagne.
Trista Hurley-Waxali wrote this reader poem in response to one of February’s prompts:
Dying shouldn’t be so brutal:
Dying is worth exploring as something
beyond sad. Something that reminds us of the
boundaries we create to keep our minds
and hearts at ease.
Death gives us an ability we take for
granted, for it teaches us to grieve and forgive.
Acceptance can be reached anywhere
if you open your mind to the truth of your surroundings,
that nothing is forever.
This ability is forged so we don’t crumble at the sight of blood.
To rather keep standing next to friends who lose
family members. A strength we fence together,
rather than self-loath over
illnesses or the sudden act.
For in nature there are accidental fallings of bugs into webs
and raccoons splattered on asphalt. Each of us
have a fate that lies within the walls of life.
So it is time to build up and stay emotionally safe and sound:
within the confined area.