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