Category: poetry

Christmas Poem

Among the Christmas scented pines, my good deeds burning with the rest of the greenery in His all consuming fire. How paltry is my finest, purplest day next to one second of God’s goodness?

Salvation comes from the womb of a girl with a blue soul, blue as purity, as truth. Salvation that begins and ends in blood, in pain, in unjust humbleness. Beauty sprouting from dust, just as it always has. Just as the camelias jab their smiling faces through sheets of doleful ice to lend the dead world their color.

  • This poem is in progress. I am still refining it for the church Christmas celebration

Victim

Heavy happenings stain me like ink. When the clouds tease me, they rain just enough to mist my hair. I can never quench my thirst or rinse the shine from my skin. The world is a foil sparkling in my kitchen. Darkness darkness everywhere and not a drop to drink. The crashes out on the train tracks are daily now. I am a victim not yet assigned a death.

Salvation…a Vision

Christmas is a plot line in a novel I sew with the soft pink silk of my lungs. How God, as vanilla voiced as He is, could write a letter of love to a spider with a breathing addiction is beyond me. But I’m grateful. I wear my garnets to the foyer of Bliss and reconfigure my name. When the lightning bug veers too close to me, I cut him free, and I bleed.






Oh Yellow!

The grass is so unfair, blemishing the earth with shades of antipsychotic and anesthetic green. I long instead for flowers. Flowers mailing a parcel at the post office. Flowers mending my broken spirit. Flowers mining the sun for smiles.  Purple flowers purr fancifully. Pink flowers harvest at the vineyard. And yellow flowers! Oh yellow! Toying with my tresses and my head, leading me down alleys of lust.

Light’s Hostess

With stinging precision, the words running riot (wearing their little purple pelerines) ran me through with sharpened criticism. I have been lax with the water lately and with cream. Festooned angels wait for my better judgment to kick in like a geriatric song on a scratchy record player.  I have neglected my responsibilities as Light’s hostess. Mahogany fog fills me in with an inauspicious and anticlimactic anticipation.

Growth

Soft static reaches her fronds toward an insatiable earth. Growth is a capricious master. I lick the salt from the rim. I lick the luck. Ferocious, fecund februaries try desperately to mate with the various Mays and Junes in my autobiography. My book of life written in rose for an audience no one knows. Snow can not long fellowship with sun and her recalcitrant rays. On the farm in my mother’s diary, sheep raising men.