Hasn't Hurt Me

Bryson has two mommies.
It hasn't hurt me a bit.
I once pissed in a stall
with a girl born Paul
on the other side -
and I lived.
I've kissed a girl and liked it.
I've kissed boys and liked that, too.
And I'll be damned if I deny myself either
just to pacify a bigot like you.

For Midweek Motif~ Social Stigma at Poets United
Also submitted to The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

My Shadow

Stretched tight -
the umbilical
between my shadow and me.

I fetch light
for the coming night.
My shadow, I feed

bits of sun
till morning comes
to keep her here with me.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

I'm Like That

Put a cricket
in a skillet,
and he'll sing hot and fast.
I'm like that.

Lord, I'm like that.

I like my bridges burning
off the straight and narrow path
and my cats

bony black.

Don't try to be the bushel
where you think I hide my light.
Don't come dragging in the day
or dragging me from night.
You'll end a hollow haunting at the feast
while I swing from lean to fat.

Yes,

Lord,

I'm like that.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

If you have a minute, I have a poem in issue 8 of Firefly Magazine.  Check it out!

The Last Tarot

Crown of thorns.

Celtic cross.

Empty pocket eyes.

You can fill them with your future

for a shiny, silver dime.

She lays the circle, lays the staff

with quick and calloused hands

and whispers, "Would you be a god tonight,

or leave this place, a man?"

For The Sunday Mini-Challenge at Real Toads

Blue Door

Behind
the blue door -
the blue-lipped crone
I'll be
I am becoming.

Behind
the black door
the black-eyed girl
I'm bound
to leave behind.

Behind
the red door
the angry voice
of truth
a dream / a drumming.

Behind
the green door
rest, a self
caress -
want sanctified.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Choctaw Road

I.

Yesterday, I drove my daughter out west on Choctaw Road
just to show her the country mile I came from.

I wanted her to see the sunset that has sustained me -
the scissortails on the telephone wires,

the ponds her Papa wrestled from the red dirt,
the back porch where her Grannie churned ice cream.

I wanted her to see the little blue house
where my Mama loved my Daddy

and they both loved me.
But I barely recognized the ruined

orchard, crowded out by a double wide,
the prize winning pear tree, gaunt as a graveyard gothic,

or the cottonwood where all us cousins had carved our initials -
now, lightning split and leaning,

with our scratches burned away.

II.

I didn't know what to say to my little girl
to bridge the awful before and after.

What could I do but try to pick
a flower from the wild, weedy overgrowth of my history,

talk it real to her as it is to me?
What could I do but reach

back as far as I could reach to where the old stories sleep
unrusted and shiny as a night's first firefly?

What could I do but try
to trap one in a Mason jar and spill it

into the tender cup of her hands?

A very rough draft for Fireblossom Friday.

The P(l)ath

While I sleep,

Bell Jar Buddha

whispers in my ear,

There is no p(l)ath to happiness,

happiness is the p(l)ath.

In the gas hiss of the coven

of the oven,

I can hear,

You cannot walk the p(l)ath until

you've become the p(l)ath -

and a lamp

to burn bright the p(l)aths

of all the other Mad Girls.

For Midweek Motif~Path at Poets United

Also submitted to the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Renewal

I want to renew myself
like a magazine -
nine ninety nine for a fresh new year
with special offers
(just check here) -
free tote bag
included.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Down The Rabid Hole

A novel-tea party.

All is down the rabid hole.

Eat me.

Drink me.

Like me - go

and vote.

Bloated heads swim through crocodile tears 

to drought facts and fan fears;

hacking circular paths for a cock/ass race 

that no one wins but Koch.

The Pantsuit Queen is sane enough,

but breeds scandals like White House rabbits.

Years of questionable habits

wiki-leaking like Russian rain.

While the Mad Hater with the wild March Hair

dares us to do our worst.

Where there's bigger walls, there's smaller hearts -

he's a whiny little . . . curse.

Is there no haven from this writhing mess?

Time is punishing us all, I guess.

I'm tired of all this riddling

and fiddling while we burn.

I can't eat this shit and call it cake.

I don't like the smell; I don't like the taste.

This is the dumbest party ever.

God, won't we ever learn?

everyDay Of The Dead

I haven't seen her headstone, but
I'm told it's beautiful.
Being there for the burning
killed any interest in the ashes.
I can cry anywhere -
why go to a piece of granite?

Still, my own ghost
pulls at my skin.
My name is listed
beneath hers.
Daughter - will you come
early too?

I suppose I could wander
through the plastic flowers and angels
looking for the tree
I vaguely remember -
the hearse cutting to the right
to back in -

until I admit defeat and give up.
She will be missed
Beloved Mother
Another angel in heaven
Grief repeats itself
stone to stone,
so what's the difference?

When I was fifteen,
cemeteries were a place
to smoke pot and drink.
We'd dare each other
to venture outside
the halo of headlights

and tempt the spirits.
There was a grave that was said
to glow when the moon
hung right, and all the kids
swore it was haunted,
but I never saw

a thing, despite looking long
and hard into the dark.
Maybe I wasn't quite high enough.
Or maybe, the haunt
was waiting for me
years away in a different place -
a different graveyard -
a different grave -
stone glowing
when the moon hangs right.
Daughter - will you come
early, too, and soon?

For Midweek Motif~Day of the Dead at Poets United

Holidaze

It's HalloweenThanksgivingChristmas.
I'm grateful for the ghosts and gifts
brought by the 3 wise zombies -
turkey, pumpkin spice, and brrrr,
baby, it's cold outside.
Deck the halls
with spiderwebs
and Christmas lights.
What child is this?
Trick or treat!
Carolers at the door.

In honor of hearing my first Christmas carol of the season YESTERDAY.  Seriously?

Submitted to The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.