Hostage

I yell to be heard
over the running water
by the child just outside
the shower door.
I have taken myself hostage,
and I'm not coming out
without promises

of a hot cup of coffee,
an hour of silence,
a sharpened pencil,
and one pure thought.

She dutifully inscribes my demands
on the mirror in the steam.
She dots her i's with hearts.

This negotiation's over
before it even starts.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Your Umbrella

Old Bank Street, Manchester, UK by R.A.D. Stainforth

I want to dance

outside 

your dry, sane circle

and get wet

get wet

get wet

I don't belong

here

in your dry, sane circle

you've never

let me

forget

I'm a hayseed

daughter of the fields

I'm a half-breed

no matter how high my heels

I don't need

to be your white man's burden anymore

Dry isn't what the rain is for.

For The Mag

Love Looks Like

Hand printed pages
back-lit
by the sunset I missed
stitching
fossils and fur
and driving -
always driving
to get where you're going.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Spring Sketch

Heart locket leaves;
a silver chain breeze
that flutters and flirts

with the hem of my shirt;
bare feet in the dirt; every cloud
is a coin in my pocket.

A sketch poem for Play It Again at Real Toads.

Summers

We had the sun in a skillet
those well-fed summers.
Green beans, tomatoes,
and okra head high.
Wide mouth Ball jars
brim full of berries.
Cucumber vines.

I'd run through the millet
(cut and baled by late summer),
and my muscles moved long
and loose on my bones.
I'd run without worry
of what might be behind me;
I was fearless and strong.

Years trying to fill it -
the hole left by those summers
of sweat and squash bugs
and long rows to hoe
when I saw the world
through firefly eyes
as a garden to make my own.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Meers

There's a fault line by Meers,
and I blame the burgers.
Longhorn lean,
but big as a dinner plate
and weighty enough to shift tectonics,
this is no hold it in one hand Sonic special.
This is an unbutton the top button,
geological,
gastronomical event.
Finish one?
I can't.
But I'm willing to richter on and keep trying.
You know, for the advancement of science.

A small tribute to the legendary Meers burger for Karin's prompt at Real Toads.

Rough Draft

The first (word) is the hardest.
Closing the fraction between you.
Nose to the left?  To the right?
Write what you know,
know if you write
it feels less like flying and more
am I doing this right?
like a stumbling rush
of fumbling forward till
pen to paper
lips touch.

For Izy's prompt at Real Toads

Poetess

I Poe.
I Po-et.
I Edgar Allan Po-et.
I Edgar Allan Po-etess.
Now ain't I just a tell tale mess?

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Small

Your net is spun of sitar strings
To hold the griefs of gods
                             --- Wole Soyinka


The grief of god seems small.
I've buried my mama and several fine dogs.
It was an apple, after all.
Just a sweet in the teeth of a curious child.
Now sparrows fly and fall
watched, but not caught.  The grief of god
seems small.

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads

Seven Scents Of Rain

Toril "Wanna Play" 12 x 24

She came soft as the seven scents of rain.

Quiet as the bloom and birth of the hills.

I know she may not pass this way again,

but I'll belly down in the long grass til

I hear her breath, her careful red dirt steps

quiet as the bloom and birth of the hills.

I sleep under the stars and outside my head

open to the wind and bare to the black.

I can hear her breath, her careful red dirt steps;

then the trip, the scream, the snap of the trap

ripping and chewing and leaving her bones

open to the wind and bare to the black.

But I'll not be taking a fox tail home.

She turned to her teeth to tear herself free

ripping and chewing and leaving her bones

to taunt me.

Then she was gone like the seven scents of rain.

Fur in her teeth having torn herself free.

I know she will not pass this way again.

A very (very, very) rough draft for Margaret's prompt at Real Toads.

Guess what?  Last year, one of my poems was included in the anthology Oklahoma Poems . . . and Their Poets.  Today, I learned that the anthology is a finalist for the 2015 Oklahoma Book Award for poetry.  Since my small involvement with the book is one of the ongoing thrills of my life, I just had to share!

Amnesia

Sometimes, I fantasize about amnesia.
I see myself waking pretty
in a white gown world washed clean
and new; my cerebellum ironed smooth.
Born again without the bruises.
Just a small scar for conversation.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads