Tag: Poetry

the first tulips pop cream with coral-orange flames dagger petals raised to the sky “We are here, notice us! and take photos to remember us by when you have flown south where you must content yourself with cacti and dahlias and we will be the only thing you miss...

cherry-mahogany reaching down my back siren-signal calling out “touch me” —to men— or “hate me” —to the hags— Don’t tell me short hair is fashionable: I don’t follow trends —trends are for morons— shorn sheep bleating rationalizations Never cut your hair. Do not fall prey to the matriarchs who...

swimming, gliding simple luxury made difficult and distant while the sheep bleat for more kicks to the ribs I’ve long since written them off simple-minded souls following orders and I am an unwitting invader in a hostile land that I long to flee And when will we cut the...

freshly fired hair —bloodied— always wary of its power will it bring me my mate? or just fresh headaches? attention at all costs whether I’m ready for it or will hide again too soon to tell the more I shrink the more I grow into my own skin and...

english daisies their stout heads fringed white and red stuck up into the frigid wind racing along the bank the daisies don’t care clinging to secure soil and greeting the rising sun tenacious yet tender early, waiting for the daffodils to catch up and nod their heads along with...

the rain has stopped leaving only the furnace hum droning on in the dark waiting for the taps of fresh drops from the sky and I wait for ideas words falling tapping on my brain as if I don’t already have more than enough to say to you...

The great Babylonian whore always got her man and knew her value written in the stars —and with them— seven jewels and that just for a start. Seven gates seven veils seven points on her very own star. Yet I was taught never to be like her. Stay quiet....

the ever-present bed draped in velvet and faux-furs a wild kingdom for your talents —your real talent?— or perhaps your ever-present need enticing luring tempting innuendo that if the price is right and the time is right in stolen moments you might invite me —or any of a million...

rhinestones melting in the desert fire the customs of our (lost) nation destroy destroy burn few precious relics saved to rot in a museum that future generations might someday wonder at our grace that we threw away like so much garbage as we defile our history and ourselves...

Little yellow torch-buds raised high without pitchforks a crowd waits to protest and drive away the frost by their defiant unfurling...