Note To Self / Don't Forget The Milk

Don't forget the milk -

the way it filled you
at her slightest sound
and tender rivered to her
as she butted and nuzzled
like a calf at the udder.
Don't forget how every other
thought fell away until she lay
sleep sighing against you,
her tiny hand curled around your nipple
as you rocked little and long
to the sing-song of the oldest
prayers and incantations.
You were becoming,
and you were patient.

Don't forget the milk.

Vaticide / Murder Of A Poet

I hate you less today
than I did yesterday
when I first read your poem -

the one that rained perfect words
like shards of glass across my thin skin
leaving a thousand cuts of covet

and me
rocking disconsolate in my chair,
my mouth filled with the taste of fungus and failure,
and my hands itching for vaticide.

I hate you less today
than I did yesterday.

But, not much.

Miss D'Meanor

Call me Miss D'Meanor.
I'm the method and the measure
between the girl who eats the apple
and the girl who bakes the pie.

Never wholly wholesome,
but less than average evil.
Call me Miss D'Meanor;
I'm how the middle makes a life.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Eccentricities

I collect my eccentricities
like seashells and bones.
Shine them
till the hollows glow,
then hold
each one to my ear
to hear oceans all my own.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Paradise Says

The day is a priceless gift.
Unwrap it.
Then, play with the box.

Rosie

A gathering murder,
a murder of girls,
with flesh feasting tongue beaks
and shrill, shredding words,
ring around Rosie -
pebble posies to throw.
But, Rosie couldn't fall down;
we wouldn't let go.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Pinwheel Dress

I was a pigtailed girl
in a pinwheel dress
when Mama met a man
with thigh-high hands
and problems.

There are things that you don't talk about.

When I'd balance ballet
across the cattle guard,
he'd peel me like an orange
with his eyes and suck hard
at my tender segments.

There are things that you don't say aloud.

I felt so dirty
in my pinwheel dress;
with downcast eyes,
I'd run as fast
as I could, but never fast

enough.

There are things that I still dream about.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

In Trade

I'll trade you a kiss
for the key to the cellar.
I hear that there the darkness keeps

its paper dolls
and fractured children,

and I think that I'd feel
more at home there than you.

I'll trade you a kiss
for the leash of the monster.
I hear the rumbling growl in its gut

for paper dolls
and fractured children,

and I think that I'd feed
it far better than you.

I'll trade you a kiss
to lock the door behind me.
I've heard it said that I'm not safe

around paper dolls
and fractured children,

and I fear
that I cannot be trusted with you.

Post Its

At night, I dream

of house fires

and milk,

of empty jars of Noxzema,

and of sandwiches

with the crusts cut off.

During the day,

I don't dream at all.

Gentle Reader

Don't leave me stuck here
tonight -
crushed against your bookmark
and buried 'neath the blanket
of the facing page.

Don't set me aside.
I have words still left to whisper
to the tender tip of your finger
as you keep your place.

For Kerry's challenge at Real Toads

Camera Eyes

Fearing that I love you,
I craft camera eyes
to zoom in nearer,
focus clearer;
macro
and magnify.

But, I still
cannot see your insides.

So, fearing that I love you,
I stitch scalpels on my hands
to open you,
explore you;
dissect
and understand.

I'll put you back together
if I can.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Thanking A Veteran

If you'd stand against war
like you line up for iPhones;
if you'd make peace the platform
and not just a plank;
if you'd only spend soldiers
like a miser spends money,

I could be the last veteran
you have to thank.

Note: I am not a veteran.  This is just a bit of idealism in their honor.

Submitted to Poetry Pantry

Etude / My Daughter's Recorder

Skreek, squawk, hiss, hoot all crazy.
Weep, whine, whinny, and groan.
Bleat, bray, blat, shriek, and waver.
Quaver, keen, cry, and moan.
And, to each tone
I say, "That's lovely, baby."

For the Mini-Challenge at Real Toads

When He's Gone

When he's gone,
I take the air
deeper.
I unfold to fill
my natural space.
I reclaim my shadow.

Untamed

"Though little fire grows great with little wind,
Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all.
So I to her and so she yields to me . . ."

--- William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew

Red cedar trees,
drought dry
and tinder tight,
arc sparks
into the smoke stained sky
to be caught and carried
by the Oklahoma wind
and kissed to fiery blaze again.

So I to him and so he burns for me.

What She's Gonna Do

She's gonna do what's she's gonna do.
She's a train wreck on the tracks.
She's a labor of love that breaks your heart
and breaks your back.

It's nothin' to do with you.
Her wrongs are rooted damnation deep.
Sickle through them like so many weeds.
Harvest her black and blue.

She's gonna do what's she's gonna do.

All That's Left

All that's left
is right in front of me.
All that's left
is to write it down.

Teacups with shattered saucers.
An unblinking doll in tattered dress.
A penciled map thrice folded,
twice followed,
and both times misread.

All that's left
is what's been left to me.
It's only right
that I should write it down.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Texting

I take myself out
4 coffee,
then text myself
2 look important
& less lonely.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Just Beneath The Skin

image by SueAnn

Just beneath the skin of sleep,

I am bird bones fleshed and feathered.

I am stubborn, skyclad branches.

I am silence in full throat.

Just beneath the skin of sleep,

fruit embraces seed

and want mates true with need

and both

sides of the pillow cool my face.

For Poetics at dVerse and Poetry Pantry.

Pictures

I keep a camera
close at hand
through the day's best light.
I frame.
I photograph.
And, at night

I dream
myself
into the pictures.

Just Friends

I have a fragment
of full moon
on a chain
and a breathless
beatitude
stained
berry black
on the small of my back -

otherwise, I'd just forget you.

I have a snippet
of verse
in my shoe
and a bottle tree
ready to bloom
between your house and mine.

It straddles the property line

where you end
and I begin -

just friends.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Places

I keep my spiders in a jar
and my matches very far
from my gasoline.

I keep my redbirds out of sight
and let my blackbirds fly at night.
When they come back to me,

I ask them what to do with you.