After The Flood

There is no dove,
no olive branch,

just mud.

Sucking, slurping,
sludge to shovel

mud .

Murky water, mosquitoes, mold,
and mud.

The meek are drowning
in their earthy
inheritance.

For Houston and The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Flashlight Tag

Like a mannequin
in the marigolds, still
as a statue.

Let the flashlight circle of sun      pause,        then pass you by.

Don't laugh       run fast
for the streetlight.

Flying braids and bare feet -    Tag!  

Too slow     this time.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

August

August was a monster.
It twisted us all into strange fruit.
It cradled the worst of us to saggy man tits
and twittered nothings with two mouths.
August fattened itself on black shrouds
and the freshened bones of old corpses.
Then, it groomed itself and bloomed, whorish,
into a full, fetid swell of shame.
August was a monster
in an America
made great again.

A rough draft for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Mother Wichita

Old Mother Wichita wets with twilight.
Blackjacks bruise purple but for the green

lichen half-rubbed away hip-high
to an old bison's itch.

A rich robe of Indian Blanket sways and drapes
the hill to hollow hovered

by a red-tailed hawk circling
in the blue becoming gold becoming thick

with cicadas, fireflies,
and mockingbird song.

Summer light dies slow,
lingers lazy and long.

Then she sighs herself into a star
for night to wish upon.

For Midweek Motif~Nature: Her Words at Poets United

Egg Hunt 1978

hand me down     mary janes
a size     too small
- pinched toes
and panty hose
          bunched up at the starting line
in the field     behind the church
half-melted chocolate eggs
sticky as the mud Julie pushed me in

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United