How Did It Feel

How did it feel
the breath that you held
for heartbeats,
four heartbeats,
a sway hollow knell.
Rattling ribs
till they finally fell
apart - tell me, how did it feel?

And how did it feel
to swallow your tail
for a circle of venom
and snake oil to sell?
I've a Christian's attention
to the devil's details -
so tell me, how did it feel?

Ending with a question for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Snake

If I must
   be on my belly
      eating dust
I'll be a snake.

Linked to Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Please Remain Calm

All witnesses agree that the monster
wears a red MAGA hat.

Beyond that, descriptions are vague;
lurking, lumbering, white . . .

tiny, tiny hands.

The creature growls and groans,
but its only intelligible word

is WALL - delivered in a rabble rouse howl.
The very sound is maddening.

To soothe and silence the beast,
gentlemen are advised to softly croon
Tom T Hall's 1973 hit "I Like Beer"

(it makes him a jolly good fellow)

and slowly back away.

Women, just stay where you are.
The monster has an unexplained fear of vaginas.





For Izy's Out of Standard at Real Toads

Salt

I'm remains of the girl
who when she heard the horses coming
scraped a gravel grave
in the middle of the road

and beneath the hounds
and hooves,
loud as lungs would let her

begged "Salt,
Sir and Steed -
a bit of salt!"

But Judgement reined mean.
His malice touch drew blood -
"Copper for a coffin,
salty for the tongue!"

And drowned to sleep forever
in the middle of the road
she rots lucid and pleads

for salt.

For Get Listed at Real Toads

The Owl

"Who?" demanded the outraged owl,
and I
whispered of you.

Feathers fell, autumn, from her breast -
till I instructed
that tears were best

for broken hearts /her talons sharp
as shards
of a fairy tale.

Apart from that day
I can't say
that I've seen you -

it's just as well.

For Midweek Motif ~ The Owl at Poets United

Democratic Body

If mine
was a democratic body

you'd have a vote but it's not so you don't

you dared
put your hand on my mouth

now find out
how loud
I can scream

And I Vote

my senator has speculum hands forceps fingers and a rat bastard hard
on to regulate reproduction and legislate legs
open shut open shut like a woman's supposed to keep her mouth
open shut open slut a hearing
not to hear you but
metoometoometoo

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Home

It could be the petunias
blooming in blue baskets
hanging
and swaying
from the front porch eaves.

Could be the red dirt
sweetening from the evening's
watering
from the garden hose
dampening down the heat.

Could be coffee brewing
or a hint of her perfume.
Okra frying,
laundry drying -
I don't know.

Could be just my memory
playing kindly tricks on me:
a gift, a generosity.
Something smells like home.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Confessions Of A Confessional

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . .

Again with the coveting, Gwendolyn?
You're such a naughty girl!
All this longing
for the belongings
of another.

Day after day after day,
I scrub at stains of gray
knowing true black hearts
here
will never enter

Oh, go, Gwendolyn, go!
Go in peace, go with God -
secure
in your purity
and salvation.

Me, I'll be here
with my ready, wooden ear
to hear confessions
of man's lack
of imagination!

happy hour

god give me strength OR
a good stiff drink OR better
a good stiff bartender

Little Ease

in this place
  of
little ease we're bone
     to bone and
breaking

kneestochest
and chesttoknees
stealing breaths
-stealingbreaths-
___________
| like two cats|
        _______
        |bricked | 
                ________
                |in a wall|

A strange little effort for Bjorn's prompt at dVerse

Hymns Of The Birds

One god
must be good
as another -

the hymns
of the birds
never change.

Toe

I stubbed
my toe
on the mountain.

The sky wept
for the stone.

The Troubadour

Play quick when it's early
and feet are fresh.
Play loud when the drink
starts to flow.
Play soft as the candles
are all burning down.
Play a love song when it's time
to go home.

Lady Liberty

Lady Liberty,
come down
like Moses
from the mountain
and trade your torch and tablet
for a baby on your hip.
His tiny slip of a mama
left two dead kids
in Guatemala
a thousand miles behind her -
for this?

In cages and detention,
Lady Liberty,
can you see them,
beggars for asylum,
for the least that we can give -
the tired and huddled masses
need you now,
New Colossus;
come down
like Moses
and remind America
who she is.

Revelry

Death throws a lousy party -
every revelry the same.
Dim lights, dirges, and flat drinks;
black dresses, wilted bouquets.

Cold, lifeless bones in a coffin.
Cold cuts and cheese on a tray.
Death throws a lousy party,
but we're all his guests anyway.

A Babble

Thick with green leaves,
the pear tree's a babble
of mockingbirds, robins,
wrens, blue jays, and grackle!

Later

You once were a cloudburst -
no commas or breath.
Your professions of love
left me wrung out, but wet.
Now your Sappho is silenced
and the best that I get
is a peck
on the cheek -
Love ya, later.

It's Lust That Lays You Down

scratching and grasping at the headboard,
kicking grandma's quilt to the floor, and
untucking the sheets.

Then, after, laughs at the floral
skinprint
the mattress leaves.

Lust is in the body,
of the body,
and out of your head.

It's lust that lays you down;
love
makes the bed.

For Midweek Motif~Lust at Poets United

Dark

We mated,
plaited our hair,
and painted the cave walls eggshell white.

Stars rose,
fell,
did stints in rehab.

We constructed fine cathedrals
to house our candles -
let there be light!

Now,
we pine
for authentic dark.

You Are Beautiful

For six days there's been a boy
a delicious man/boy standing
on the sidewalk at the fuckiest corner
of my early morning commute.
He has a headful of thick, dissident curls.
His legs and arms are finely
muscled. Across his chest,  he holds
a big hand lettered sign:
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL
Drivers honk as traffic crawls
through the intersection.  I honk, too.
I wonder who he is and why he is.
I wonder if he'll be there tomorrow.
If he is, I might stop this car forever
and give him my face.

Asking

asking for patience
              hurriedly
blessings
             for a half full cup
guidance not followed
             to follow me
forgiveness
             for what's left undone

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Magdalene

Detail from mural depicting the muse Melpomene (Tragedy) by Edward Simmons, 1896

All of my favorite witches were staked and burned to bones.

This red dress is the best of the cottonmouth curses

from those pale, open mouth orchids - oracle tongues

in nightshade knots.

All gods work in threes -

a thrice dyed sleeve slipping to bare

a shoulder -shapely, shaping, shape 

shifting - maid, mother, crone.

I have strayed, skipping, from the straight and narrow and learned

to love the log in my wandering eye.  My Magdalene side

makes merry with forgotten gospels and dreams

of a desert man.

A desert man with strong, laborer's hands.

A man who knows that water is for walking,

but weddings call for wine.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Silence

Silence is the blue note,
the only honest pitch.
I think I hear it when I'm dreaming,
but, awake, I can't seem to pry it
from my hateful head.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

An Elegy For Absolutes

"I am my own muse.  I am the subject I know best."

 - Frida Kahlo

Dreaming is waking is dreaming.

I am a small world - my own animal -

unnamed -

Adam's twisted tongue.

I once stood as a pillar of salt

curse your transgressing eyes!

and prayed for rain 

to melt me back to mother,

but drought showed me her back -

I had to break

to be a woman

and burn

to be a woman

and bleed the best of me

with every moon.

I suckle my second finger

like a child and do not wince

at the taste of old ore.

Reality rests before my eyes, always

colors of prayers

white washes of skin

greens of my own growing.

I have swallowed the common

sight and spit sweeter 

visions into these hands,

these little gods.  They are tireless

at creation.  They give form

to my face.

For Susie's prompt at Real Toads

When Dog Is Done

When dog is done

night eats day

to full

the moon

or so

wolves

say

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

The Book Of Dog

5th grade, 10 yrs, Dog

Reading from The Book of Dog

these verses from The Book of Dog:

A prophet is a sleeping dog

curled eternal O.

Partaking of The Book of Dog

to remake man as The Book of Dog

trains he can.  From The Book of Dog:

Ye shall know him by your nose.

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads

Blood Of Summer

Blonde sun in a blue-eyed sky.
Long legged days stretched
from neck deep
to night's full abandon -
consummated by stars.

The earth spins
towards the moon's touch;
the crescent
shining tongue kiss
on the throat of a river -
warm as a willing girl.

But I
have the taste of mud in my mouth.
The form of a man, of woman, of hound.
I killed fire with spit
and spread the ashes around
where I stood
in the blood
of summer.

Black sun in a sky of ice.
Days
lock jawed and trap snapped -
time is a fiction
stars tell to children.

The earth slumps at the corner bar,
her spin spent -
in her glass,
the last of her rivers.
Rare
as girls.

And I
have the taste of worlds in my mouth.
The form of a man, a woman; I howl
to kill fire with will and spread the ashes around
where I stood
in the blood
of summer.

A bit late and rough for Midweek Motif at Poets United

Gratitude

I write
you read
thank you

A silly bit of something for Sherry in thanks for a truly lovely write-up at Poets United.
Spreading the joy at Real Toads as well.

Madding Moon

I fed my bird the madding moon
hoping that she'd sing in stars.
Now night to night and noon to noon,
she flings herself against the bars

of the cage I built for her by hand.
Its tiny swing that lies of space
and open air hangs limp - she fans
and bloods her wings against the gate.

I dark the bars in hopes she'll sleep -
may her ruffled flutter silence soon!
Then to hear the singing of the stars,
I served myself the madding moon.

A rough bit of madness for Kerry at Real Toads.

I'm featured today at Poets United.  Thanks, Sherry!

For Grannie

This world can burn, but as long as she
     lives, I'm still somebody's baby.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

A Short Census Of Sounds

Cherokee Chickasaw Choctaw
Seminole Muskogee

Kiowa Comanche Apache
Osage Shawnee

Kiowa Potawatomi
Kickapoo Ponca

Cheyenne Arapaho
Sac and Fox Pawnee

Canopy

When I was a girl, the boogeyman
scratched lightly at my window.
When I was a girl, spring young and sweet,
I let the boogeyman in.
Wild from winter wander,
he made canopy of the covers.
And the girl I was when I was a girl
was never seen again.

Inspired by my childhood fear of my canopy bed and written for Real Toads.

No Small Thing

Sinking deep into your skin
          spread across
          the hard

wood floor
          brokenness
          lives here

     It is no small thing.

The clock tick tocks
     the click of bones
bloodless.

We swap air
     from lung     to lung
the two of us.

Done
     undone
         and done

It is no small thing.

For Paul's prompt at Real Toads

On Balance

Live
sun sober.
Write moon drunk.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Imperfect

be wilder?
   bewilder?
a dull spot on the ear

haunted
   or haunting -
who's at the bottom of the stairs

smeared
and smarmy make-up
I cannot read the lips

my mirror
   is cracked
      imperfect
         imqɘɿʇɘɔƚ

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Rooms I've Left

Each a tomb
with a Sisyphus stone,
these are the rooms I've left.

The cheap motel room;
worn carpet
thick with tv glass.

The classroom;
slick tiled,
not even a window
to jump from.

The death room;
the rigor mortis
the I'm fine rictus
of grief.

Outside, my Mary Magdalene;
darling, where
have you been?

His Shirt

There's lavender,
I'm sure of it.
And a melt
of vanilla ice cream.

Leaves of mint crushed
between fingers of bourbon.

Smoke.
The first minute

of rain.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Monday

8:07 p.m.

I keep my eyes on our reflection.  I watch you touch me;
I watch me touch me better.  I am in love with my hands.
The arch of my back is a crescent moon.  You are the sky
I slice through to shine.  Orgasm is insanity, a dark-haired girl.  I know her from somewhere.
Her eyes are my reflection.  Delicious.

11:49 p.m.

I keep my eyes on the flutter under your eyelids, the shifting clouds
of consciousness; our reflection is behind me and beneath me, now,
my back is straight.  I slip into myself.  I watch my steps.
I am in love with my feet.  The sky is ribbons.

For Izy's "waiting" prompt at Real Toads

When My Man Comes Home

I dance for my man -
every bone a shimmy.
I spin myself around for him,
offerings in my eyes.

I come for my man -
at the sweet snap of his fingers -
my tongue liquid with love
for the giving hand.

I sleep with my man -
back to back and dream to dream.
Snuggled safe in my orbit -
earth dog and the sun.

Through the eyes of a dog for Sherry's prompt at Real Toads

Beginnings

To the sky,
dust.
Dead water
in my pocket.
Near my ear,
God.
A conjugal
in lace.
Dead water
sky.
Crow feathers
in my pocket.
Of tender meats the murder
gives my bones a face.

For Midweek Motif ~ Beginnings at Poets United.  Also submitted to Brandon's prompt at Real Toads.

Woman

Remember how it felt, woman,
deciding your shit for yourself, woman -
just letting it all go to hell, woman,
and putting the car in drive?
The weight shaking loose off your back, woman,
and scales falling free from your eyes, woman.
You spit the gag out of your mouth, woman,
and kissed as much as you'd cried.
Remember, so when it gets hard, woman,
you don't forget who you are, woman.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Last Night I Called

to the sun and the moon
to God and the stars
to the Goddess
and to my own mother,
long dead and buried.
Silence.
Not even the night breathed.
Worse than silence
I didn't believe
anymore.

Still, there was morning,
too busy as usual,
till finally free to commune
with my coffee outside
I startled a dove, and a feather fell

slow

as if floating
on the breath of God

slow

to rest
in my open palm

and I saw
I saw

just for a second

A true story for K's prompt Real Toads

Augury

Swallows scatter at my step
an augury of angels harping,
angry at my mortal marching
through the garden I had left.

Damn the nest that spilled the egg
now broken on the pebbles -
a yellow eye of devils
open, witnessing, and wet.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

The Cursed And Captured Highwayman

Give me the blindfold and the cigarette.
Bayonet my rib cage moon.
I'll open easy as a dark night
for you.

I was just another bastard on the highway
till I robbed that gypsy show,
and a bone in my throat turned brittle
and broke my silence.

Now I can't sleep for my own speaking
or keep any company for the truth
that comes spilling out -
in whispers or shouts-
oh, the violence words can do!

So give me the blindfold and the cigarette.
Bayonet my rib cage moon.
I'll open easy as a dark night
for you.

You can't help but hear my confession
unless you slice my tongue plumb through.
Just give me the blindfold and the cigarette
and shoot.

Originally published by The Five-Two

Unkind

Short tempered, stingy handed; still, I never thought myself unkind.  Small souled, that was a self I couldn't see.  In these years, I try to smile a little warmer and put a few extra dollars in the tip jar.  As if there is such a thing as making up for.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Hive (In Support Of Teachers)

The hive is quiet -
no life behind
its honeycomb windows.

Bells ring on the hour -
shrill, punctual, pointless
echoes in the hollowed halls.

The drones are gone.

Too many hours at nectarless flowers.
Too many gardens promised, but never planted.

The drones are gone.

On strike.

Because honey at half-price is bitter,
and a man, once stung, might better tend his bees.

A very rough poem for Marian's "School's Out" prompt at Real Toads.  Oklahoma's teachers are the lowest paid in the nation.  If legislation is not passed addressing education funding and teacher pay, our teachers will walk out on April 2nd.  They have my full support.

damned as dragonflies

we war for place
and space, waste
our fragile wings and do
the devil's darning

our mating
heated
and heart curled
but bloodless
in its grace

our children
our warped work
malinger
in the night

shade to see
the devil's face

For Paul's prompt at dVerse.  Also submitted to Real Toads

Dear One

for the (be)coming years

Dear One,

You were knit natural in the womb -
a Gemini
constellation
of bones and blood,
blessed
with the twin fullness
of creation,
born good, but, perhaps,
more at home
in the stars.

Dear One, this earthly life is hard -
unforgiving
as a mother
is unforgiving
of herself.

Hard
and unrelenting
in its condemnation
of any liberation
of the mind.

You are not made of common clay
for common hands
to trifle with.
You are not a collection of breaths
for others to spend
kindling fires
and burning time.
You are not even mine
to cage with my smothering love.

Dear One, listen
to my words,
hide them in
in your heart,
hear them
in the dark days.

Dear One, stay
natural as you were first knit
of strong stuff and star stuff
in the world of my womb.

Dear One,

find your tribe.
Find a girl.
Fall in love.
Naturally.
And never let
"ought to be"
stand in your way.

A letter for K's prompt at Real Toads

Silence

The only hope for a daughter
to silence her mother
is to tear her own tongue
                                       from her head.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Untitled

An erasure by fire

from her diary of ash

            it's                                                   

      better                  burn                         

                               a                            liar 

than  to                                                       

 drown            an honest                           

             rat                                                  

Or, the straight version:

An erasure by fire

from her diary of ash-

it's better burn a liar

than to drown an honest rat

A tanaga for Toads.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry 

Curtain Sky

half-moon
I've had enough
back and forth
and grasping
curtain sky
open wide
but dreaming
is not sight

For Sanaa's prompt at Real Toads

There Are Stories

In the pasture, dog harried horses hoove
the hollow ground.  The guts beneath the prairie grass
are gone.  The great alabaster bones creak and groan
like some old arthritic god.  These are the stories

my grandfather didn't tell me.
How the red dirt wind had teeth.
How it chewed holes in his mama,
leaving her a little crazy

and mean.  How any extra
food was left out at night
somewhere easy to steal
so as not to make beggars of men.
How malaria took chunks
of his childhood -ice baths and isolation
in a hospital no one visited
because it was too far off the farm.

He sang Yellow Rose
of Texas and walked
the floor with me cradled against
his strong, steady heart.
His hands were calloused
from days spent pulling
crude and beating the derrick drums,
but he always held me gently,
and there are stories he never told me.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Hate

Sometimes I wonder if you hate
yourself the way I hate
myself, but I don't
ask,
after all these years I still don't
ask,
I just don't
care
     enough.

A one-sided conversation for Real Toads

When A Girl's Without Wheels

That old rust bucket Chevy on cinder
blocks stopped running right around the recession.
I've been holding place ever since.
When a girl's without wheels,
time stops and stalls.  Her gears
grind the years - like a stick shift
with a bad transmission.  I'd like
to visit myself somewhere,
but walking's hard
on my knees.  I content myself
with the heat mirage shimmering
off the blacktop.
When a girl's without wheels
anywhere is a good place to go.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Vigil #30

A boy not old enough
to vote or buy a beer
buys a gun.
Another school
sick/slick with blood.

      #

Thoughts

and

prayers.

    #

Our hearts
go out

    #

Yes, our hearts
go out

until the next
senseless tragedy

thoughts

and prayers
we conceal
and carry      on


According to the Gun Violence Archive, 30 mass shootings have occurred in the United States as of February 14, 2018.

Note: the Parkland shooter is actually 19 and old enough to vote.  

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Fitfully

Fitfully, I loved.
Electric in my skin.
Above, the sky turned starless,
bloodless,
a tent

revival;
a preacher
spitting sulfur to the wind.
There, fitfully, I loved you,
and I would again.

For Love Hurts at Real Toads

Gravity Fell

Gravity

fell last night
and proved its own existence.

I hummed Freud and swept the bar
a pearl beneath my tongue.

My family's in formaldehyde
awaiting resurrection.

Septic with their shadows,
I'm 48 and dying Jung.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Cuervo Moon

Low and Cuervo
gold, the moon
is full,
but for the sips

that salt
and lime my lips -
a trace of stars.

Orion hums nocturnes and strums
his guitar.
I eat the worm -
an astronaut in a jar.

For Midweek Motif ~ Moon at Poets United

Blessed

I'm the taste on the lion's tongue.
Wild mother
of wilder young.
Sun, salt
sugar, sweat,
breasts -
blessed.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Lately I've Learned

that I
don't know myself
anymore than method
knows the mind of the madness
it hates

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Workhorse

Give me the weight; my back is strong.
I've done time in the traces, it's where I belong.
There is solace in knowing just what I am -
a workhorse plodding slow.
Plodding slow
and plodding home.

Look at my hands to see my true face.
They work wonders without waste.
This may not be the story I intended to write,
but this is the language of my life.

So what's one more brand new year unfolding -
I've got the same sweat on my brow.
I've bargained my penance and starved for forgiveness;
I'm fat with forgetting now.

A workhorse at the plow.
Fat with forgetting now.

For Get Listed at Real Toads

Getting Old

My bad witch
is fat
and contented.
She picks her teeth
with my good
witches bones.
Gray springs free
from my braid, but I've made

peace with the griefs
that I own.
I'm a Buddha that bakes and drives carpool.
I'm a shrew with hands full of hell.
The ways of the world can't shock me anymore,
but I still astonish myself.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

A Poem

for my mother's slow wasting
for pain blooming black
for girls full of ugly and spewing

for the nights I don't sleep
and the days I don't dream
and the mean honesty between

for something like silence
silence like something
vacant, vacant and aching

for my fears held close and dear
close and dear
as lovers

Previously published in Bop Dead City

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Dandelions

If the dandelions don't lie,
it's going to be a dry summer.
I let them cluster together
and talk about the weather
whatever the neighbors think.
We all drink the red dirt and grow
drought on our tongues.
We all build our fences and spit wishes
when the wind comes.

Originally published in The Cape Rock

Submitted to Poetry Pantry at Poets United

The Door

The door    speaks
in creaks
and sighs
a warped wooden soldier
eyes ever forward
locked tight

          out, I whisper
          where the grain hints
          an ear.
          I pound his lapels
          till I fear
          he may fall
          upon me

                         but, see!  The whole doorway
                         shakes
                         from my fists!
                         Still the damn door hold fast
                         if I wish
                         to enter I must break
                         myself small
                         so's to slip
                         past the dead
 
                                                                      bolt.

For Midweek Motif~Doorway(s) at Poets United