I wrote this poem in September of 2025.
last time I saw her, she was on her 5th husband
she didn’t know how to be alone, stand up on her own
always needed a man by her side
and even as she aged and her looks waned
she had her aryan blonde blue eyed looks to get her by
it was a crystalized existence
something about her frozen in time
someone had never taught her that alone
she was enough
I wrote this poem in September of 2025.
pill popper with a vacant gaze, all of the money in the world
couldn’t make her happy
that big house, her gerber blonde toddler son
couldn’t touch the numbness she felt
and so she popped xanax and oxycontin like candy
didn’t care who she was hurting
all she wanted to do was escape
the suburban hell she was living in
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
the rocking chair tells a story about the white working class for the past 60 years
from grandfather to father to sons
from the greatest generation to the boomer generation to the boomer generation
and skipped all the way to the zoomer and alpha generation
(side note: the boomer knocked up a pretty little millennial thing in his late 40’s)
the rocking chair has seen the first man on the moon
to the alpha losing his shit when tik tok went dark for several hours
the rocking chair tells a story of the white working class from
breaking the generation curse of illiteracy to educational achievements
from factory days to caseworker days to bolton hall days
the rocking chair holds the dreams, the hopes, the struggles of 4 generations
of the white working class
This is a poem I wrote in July. I was angry when I wrote it. Lol.
celebrating a country that rips babies apart from their parents
and takes away rights from the marginalized
and makes anyone who’s not white and christian feel unwelcome
feels like the cruelest irony
it’s celebrating genocide, racism, prejudice, xenophobia, and white supremacy
it’s celebrating everything atrocious and wrong about this country
it almost feels like a personal violation of my beliefs
to celebrate the hypocrisy of this country
founded on genocide and slavery
who claims liberty and justice for all
but “all” is really white, christian and male
so I’m passing on this year’s 4th of July celebrations
because except for a small portion of Americans
no one can claim true freedom
or independence in this American Land
What is something you wish you could tell your 20-year-old self?
I actually started writing this poem sometime in 2017 and finished it in January 2020. A big part of my identity is being an immigrant. This poem was inspired by the hardships and struggles I’ve seen my parents and other immigrants go through. This poem was also inspired by the Trump administration and the xenophobia that was felt in my life during that time.
Here is an audio link to my family’s immigration story: https://www.mixcloud.com/rabbitbox/rb50-stranger-in-a-strange-land-immigration-stories-patricia-tacuri/
immigration leads to discrimination
of immigrants into this so called united nation
the ones with brown skin and dark eyes
justice to them is greatly denied
xenophobia is the driving sensation
their bosses sing a song called exploitation
and they hum along to it to live in this democratic nation
they leave their language and culture behind
to endure the american lie
but don’t quite fit into the gringo equation
Is their sacrifice worth so much separation
from their families, their language, and their nation?
Ah-America – the land of the free
yet none of them are truly free
living in a soulless and consumerist society
By starlight
I saw the brightness of the moon
As he sat next to me
Talking to me about nothing
And yet everything
All at once
By starlight
I saw the shadow
Of his large hands
And felt the roughness
Of them as he
Clumsily held my hands
In his
By starlight
I saw the silhouette
Of his muscular legs
As he nervously
Inched himself towards me
And I felt his warmth
By starlight
I saw the smallest
Shimmering of the stars
And felt his tender kiss
On my neck as he pulled my hair
And I felt the newness of love
An attraction that’s kind of close to me and would love to visit is the Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald Museum and I’d love to stay at the Zelda Airnb suite. It is rather pricey at $165 a night and I’d like to go there for a week and write and go to the museum among other attractions in Montgomery that Zelda and F.Scott went to and were inspired by. I’m hoping that I could also write the entire week. I’d drink champagne for lunch and read while taking long and luxurious baths every day. Maybe by that time, my blood pressure will be completely under control and I can eat my chili cheese fritos,tacos and partake in the southern comfort food that Montgomery has to offer. The reason I’d like to go there is because for a while I was obsessed with F.Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda. I’ve read most of his books and short stories. My favorite book of his is “This Side of Paradise” which ended up inspiring a few of my poems I wrote in 2019 as well as a couple of short stories. I think that maybe I’ve read “The Great Gatsby” three times. I hope to make this little dream of mine come true within the next two years.
Below is the link to the Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald Museum:
https://www.thefitzgeraldmuseum.org/
I wrote this poem in December of 2021. I was kind of angry. Lol.
Let’s hashtag the fuck out of our imperfect perfect lives
smile for the camera but make it look candid
this is for instagram after all-
we want to present an image of authenticity
Authentic needs to look put together and balanced
there can be no cracks in our suburban realities
no one wants to see tears and frowns
let’s continue to act like modern clowns
except our lipsticks presents a false smile
that hides our misery inside and let’s add a witty caption
that spells out live,laugh, love
and hashtags about #momlife,#gratitude, and #bestlifeever
depression, sadness, and anger has no room in our modern world
where we pretend to be perfectly imperfect moms and wives
with these amazing and perfect lives
let’s continue the facade of authenticity
even as we burn inside and want to die
we are not just okay but we are fucking fabulous
so honey continue to smile for that selfie
even as the expectations of modern womanhood
continues to burn us all up
If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why?
I wrote this in 2016.
Faulkner wrote about her ancestors
She stood like a pillar of strength between her mother and daughter
She stood strong as both of them held her arms that were their life jackets
as they drowned in endless sorrows
Tears silently fell from her face as her father laid in his closed home
And the reverend went on about him being in a better place
And her strength did not falter,
She let her loved ones hold on tight while she tried to blink away tears ,
She swallowed her pain and absorbed the pain from those around her
She wasn’t just strong for her mother and daughter,
but she was a goddess of strength among the mere mortals
around her that wept
I wrote this poem in 2006 about my Mother In Law and my second son. We lived with her for a year and she was enamored by him.
Almost frozen in her familiarity
Trapped by her body’s slow betrayal
Boredom and solitude embrace her tightly
Her unheard cries drown her
Forgotten, forgotten she was
Her world had come to an almost silent
Pause
Until
She saw him
With beady eyes as blue as hers
And skin rumpled as lover’s sheets
He was a heinous sight
But to her
He was splendid to her dying eyes
He became her last burst of joy,
Her last adoration
And her last breath of life
She was ending with his fresh scent of purity
And he was starting with her aged scent of experience
