A Love Poem Is Waiting

A love poem is waiting
on the other side of the stars,
but I haven't the heart
to hurry
through night's humid hush.

Why must we rush?
Let's just stay
awhile in the porch swing's sway
and let silence have its way
with the two of us.

For Bjorn's prompt at Real Toads
Also submitted to Poetry Pantry

Dread And Fear

If nothing else, I've learned this year
the difference
between dread
and fear.

Fear is the "maybe"
and the "might"
that gives shape
and shadow to the night.

While dread is steady,
sure, and certain -
a beast
that is, itself, a burden.

Fear lends itself
to faith and prayer.
Dread is proof
God doesn't care.

Flood a fear with light;
it might not last.
If it does, it's dread;
fear come to pass.

This still needs a lot of work, but I just couldn't miss Fireblossom Turkeyday at Real Toads.

People

People are interesting,
but only at a distance.  Too close
and I can't see
the forest for the me.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Stranger

painting by Rubens Peale

I come as a stranger.

I come as a thief.

I come as a magpie

in search of a sweet

something to swallow

instead of my pride.

I come as a stranger;

will you let me inside?

For The Mag

Needle And Thread

Push me pull me
like a needle and thread.

In and out of your life.
In and out of your bed.

Used to be fine fabric.
Now it's wearing thin.

Nights spun of whole cloth
don't mean nothin' when

I can't mend you.

So love me leave me
like you always do.

Chase the star shine
see where it gets you to.

Compass rose
let her spin and spin.

Where you go
doesn't matter when

I can't go with you.

A relationship poem (Kerry's Ingrid Jonker challenge) for Play It Again at Real Toads. Also submitted to Poetry Pantry.

The Cat

When she died,

I had to arrange the funeral,

sort stuff,

and find a home for the cat,

the goddamn cat

that chewed through oxygen tubing

and slept like a cockleburr on her chest;

the mean-ass cat

that had nothing but claws and teeth

for anyone but her;

the wretched cat 

that I couldn't keep

and couldn't keep out of the shelter;

just a fucking cat,

but her cat.

And I mourn it like a second death.

For The Mag

Small And Fine

Small and fine
we grind the days.
The best, the worst of everything
all fodder for a deepening
love, true and persistent.

And when darkness brings its gentle weight
(creaking these old mattress springs),
mouth to mouth and thigh to thigh
small and fine
we grind the night.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Migration

The migration snakes and meanders
in search of generous mouths.
Our lips
are thin, white,
and morgue stitched shut.

The walls we've built are slick
with brains and blood.

We are unaware of angels and too fearful
for Jesus.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Wish We Were Dead Poets Society

Remember that spastic thing you used to do when we were out scaring civilians?

I'd smoke, and you'd swear -
leaves caught in our hair
and graveyard dirt
on the cuffs of our jeans.
We were the Wish We Were Dead Poets Society,
you and me.
Embarrassingly, endearingly earnest;
certain that the world was about to end
and churning inside to write it all down
right then.

Can't go back again.

When I told you that I'd become a teacher
(all these years later)
it was if I'd confessed to hosting a game show in hell.
Sell out, sell out, sell . . .
unsaid the Burning Man just back from Burning Man.

I understood.  But, understand . . .

I still poet and rage
just like the old days
against the sorry state of this world.
I'm the same/not quite the same girl.
It's just that everything
is not personal
anymore.

Remembering for Karin's prompt at Real Toads.  Tough exercise!  I'm still not quite happy with this, but maybe it'll clean up later.

The Bridesmaid

The Bridesmaid

Oh, how my mind is frolicking!

Lord, give me a good walloping

should I forget     the groom's roaming hands

are soon shackled by    gold wedding bands!

For Susie's prompt at Real Toads

False Dawn

Peace is but a false dawn

in the endless night of war.

Foxfire for forgetting -

just letting our tombstones settle before

a bugle call

sounds "add more names to the wall

and more poppies

to the fields."

For The Mag

Founders Day

I guess I'm not really grown,
cause I still dream
of setting the Founders Day picnic on fire -
the bandstand burning,
apple pies charring,
Mason jars of Everclear bubbling, becoming

bottle rockets ready to fly
straight to the socket
of a mascaraed eye
I still wish to hell
I'd blacked
way back then.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

God's Country

We grieve with casseroles and pies,
celebrate with parted thighs,
live between with Sooner pride and Cowboy up.

Saturday - might drink a few.
Sunday comes; we're in the pews.
From your outside point of view, you call us dumb.

But when Jesus comes      back again,
he'll grin and call it heaven.

For Kerry's Eye of the Beholder prompt at Real Toads

Cost

If I hadn't gone here and here and here,
I would have never been there or there or there.
How could I bear

such loss?

But because I went there and there and there,
I never got here or here or here.
It's clear

there's cost

everywhere.

My slightly off kilter take on Izy's prompt at Real Toads

Feelings

From the garden,
from the orchard,
from the little corner store;
a bag, a bag, and one bag more
to feed my feelings.

For my Christian sense of duty
that clings like a case of cooties
to a second graders hair -
a pear.  Of course, I'll share.

For my unrequited lust,
my lady parts that gather dust,
and the dreams that wreck my slumber -
a cucumber.  I wonder . . .

And finally for my friend,
my boon companion till the end;
for my Fear when nothing's scary -
a big raspberry!  Thbpttbbt!

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Terrors

My terrors
are familiar
as a black cat on my lap

kneading me,
needing me,
claws unsheathed - that

is a love
that fits me
like a black with buckle hat

calling
to coven
to cairn.

A bit more Halloween for Poetry Pantry.