The Thing

It's not the thing,
it's the description.
Sun squint amber eyes.
A tangled mane,
thick and coarse.
Muscle and roar and fire.

It's not the thing,
it's the description -
the sweet, savanna sigh

of a lion
or the lie
of a man.

For the Poetry Pantry at Poets United

The Revisionist

He cried for Lee in Carolina.

Appomattox an afterthought.

He spends his nights in crisp white sheets;

his nights hooded like a hawk.

The revisionist lives and breathes his history

and dreams the South will someday rise

again; till then, he stands a rebel

monument to misplaced pride.

For The Tuesday Platform at  Real Toads

Rapunzel, Rapunzel

Woman with Long Hair

Man Ray (1929)

Tress the tower gold!

I will save you by your hair!

calls a good by grounded man.

He seems harmless standing there,

but he hides scissors

     behind

          his back.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

November

These blind November days,
these layers of brick and bone!
These nights of slow stars and stones
skipped across the water of the moon -

Remember June?
The full throated songs
of summer carried on a breath,
the blood sun burning overhead -

Death is next.
All that's left of the roses is the thorns.
What will keep you warm when your heart turns on itself?
What will keep you warm when its November and nothing else?

For Get Listed at Real Toads

A Saint's Heart

bleeds
without ceasing
wetting the trinket box
its locked in and hallowing
the ground.

for Father Stanley Rother

Submitted to Midweek Motif ~ Saints at Poets United