From the Asylum

This asylum was named for some do-gooder priest.
I bet he buggered boys and balanced the bones
on the tip of his nose, sucked them white
as these walls.
I'm a headstone, now,
in this graveyard.

Did you think I'd silent myself in this graveyard?
Or, confess myself clean to some sniveling priest?
You should know me better by now -
from heart beat to bones,
to the flesh you took - unbroken as these walls,
firm, bride white,

and willing.  Yes, bride white,
but shillings short of your station.
Tell me, is it somewhere unmothered within these walls,
or was there extreme unction by some paid for priest?
Where are they buried, those poor bastard bones,
those tiny fingers and toes sucked white?

I do not love you now.
I've had years to watch my hair fawn white,
and my bones are stiff as stones
in a graveyard.
I've outlived the buggering priest
and counted every crack in these walls,

the cockroach crawl of days across these walls -
time is short now.
The new, apple-cheeked priest
offered me paper, crisp and white,
so that I might write to you -
a letter to your dusty bones.

Well, what have I to say to bones?
I've already written it all on these walls,
the years of longing and love and loathing for you -
but it's been painted over.
Everything is blind, unremembering white, now,
blank and clean as the conscience of a priest.

Finding voice again.  For all the Toads in the Garden.

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