Ode To A Guinea Pig

She was an illustration
of  twin deadly sins;
sketched black and white,
then filled in
with a furry fountain pen.

Round as a world,
she was gluttony hinged
to a bellows gut that blew high,
whistling notes of malnutrition

at any hint of empty.

And sloth?  Such stillness
should shame death to slow its pace of decay!
But we loved her anyway;

our pretty fat pig.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Update: I have 3 new poems in the June issue of Sugar Mule!

Naughty Lola

Naughty Lola naps
like a tigress who knows
no enclosure can hold her
if she chooses to go.

No leopard can best her,
no lion contest her;
the goddess has blessed her
with stealth in her soles.

Note: Lola the tiger escaped her enclosure at my local zoo and promptly picked a fight with a leopard.  The zoo was locked down until Lola could be recaptured.  Fortunately, no one was injured (including the leopard).  As you might imagine, the tiger enclosure is undergoing extensive renovation.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

A Beat Of Butterfly Wings

Your shirt slides
to the floor -
a beat of butterfly
wings.  In Florence,
David shatters.  In Tibet,
a poet dreams.  A Montana
bird turns stone, falls, and is found
by a blonde locked girl.
Here, I am still as stone myself,
as your shirt
slides to the floor.

We each reach
for the infinite other
closing the distance
from star to star.
The sky kisses
the open mouthed sea;
far is near and near is far.
You kiss me; I taste
salt on your tongue,
salt and something more -
the silvery skin of a butterfly's wing
as my shirt
slides to the floor.

for Bjorn's prompt at Real Toads

Water Tower

We couldn't fly.
So we climbed into the Oklahoma sky.
Didn't matter
that the water tower ladder
wasn't welded tight.
We couldn't fly.
So we climbed.

We couldn't leave.
Both of us were just shy of sixteen.
You'd spin me round,
and I'd point
to some spot out on the prairie.
We couldn't leave,
but we could dream.

We never fell.
Though a time or two we thought we might as well.
Gettin' through
the growin' up
sometimes felt like hell.
We loved each other,
but we never fell.

For Shay at Real Toads

Lullaby Creek

Artist: Rachel Pentergrass

The birds at Lullaby Creek have blunted beaks

from pecking the eyes of dolls

dumped as trash in the south side ditch

just where the land drops off.

Their nests are strands of flaxen hair

woven with lavender lace

and lined with strips of plastic pulled

from Sippy Susie's smiling face.

By day the creek is silent -

not a single bird finds a song.

But when it gets dark on the Lullaby,

birds cry Mama all night long.

Revisiting Dolls Revisited for Play it Again at Real Toads

Chasing Butterflies

When your days are more flies
than butter,
you must be quick with the click
and the shutter.
But when I saw that monarch flutter,
I forgot to focus at all.

For once I let go
of the urge
to capture; I just observed her.
A fleeting thousand word moment -
mine, then gone.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Hawks

Not even hawks fly
when the summer storms like this.
Still, I watch you sleep.

For Midweek Motif ~ Birds at Poets United

Fine As Fireflies

If I snake myself around your staff,
Doctor -
will you let me pet
my thought-fed dog?
I've seeds of spells beneath my skin;
it's harvest time again,
and my handfast hands are yours -
if you just unfasten this lock.

You can't tell me how to purge the evil,
Doctor -
that curls inside my gut;
a cautionary tale.
Give me a borrowed constellation,
a bit of strange Sapphic sedation,
and I'll be fine as fireflies.
Doctor -
say I'm well.

A rough draft (I've got some WICKED writer's block) for The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

Secrets

Here comes confession!
I'm a dog collar priest;
call my coffee
holy
water.

You're still giving head,
but you've stopped eating meat,
and your daughter
your daughter
your daughter

completed parole;
now her life on the pole
is good.
I've got pictures; they're recent.

Little has cost me
more peace and quiet
than the rumor
that I can keep secrets!

For Midweek Motif~Secrecy at Poets United

Chapter And Verse

Alone
with a book
beats out
in a group
any day of the week,
any day that I'm weak.
When I can't bear the strain
of interacting, I'm safe
any day of the week,
any day that I'm weak

from cradle to hearse
in chapter and verse,
chapter and verse.

Cradle to hearse.
Chapter and verse.
Chapter and verse.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Ugly Places

Lots of pretty girls end up in ugly places;
me, I'm worse than most.
I've got push pins in my pilgrim's map
for all the dark bends in the road.

It's not accident or error;
just a belling in my bones -
every ghost needs a house to haunt,
and every haunted house needs a ghost.

55 words for Kerry at Real Toads