Always working,
the wind grumbles
about juggling too many kites.
The rain relieves him
of this data,
but not today.
I hang from my own
clothes line.
My daughter attaches
my umbilical cord.
I am ready to fly.
Tag: poetry
Time
Agnostic calendars
are great for those
whose lives are spiced
with regret.
On the cutting board,
her right arm.
Home is smart.
Weather is dumb,
beating the bones
out of what already dies.
Scattered,
the months refuse
to coalesce into a year.
She wants what she
can’t have—
a private train.
Her old job
encased amber.
Dirty Poem with Christmas
Found poetry on my phone.
Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.
Technology Poem
Omens are not good for me to get to see them again and again. Women writers and their bodies are wrong to say no. Insufficient information about myself is a very small community of the world. Skin needs a break. Feet of Christ are the hours of sleep. Originally published by Beard magazine and a half century fox, the history of women who have lust issues is on the rise.
There is so much to parse here -women and their privacy. Women and their needs. Christ as respite from the demands the world makes.
Predictive Text Poetry
I am using predictive text to write poems. I pick the word to start with, and then I choose 1 word from the 3 that are offered. Let’s see how that went.
The moon was so burnt out it was my favorite place to be. Corrosive bacteria can cause cancer or even three weeks of birth. Red light is always welcome in our churches. Feathered hair is silvered like a great idea and a great night.
Journal
This is a photo of one of my poetry journals. I often like to order pretty washi tape and add it to the pages. And of course, glitter is life.
Deer
The whiteness of deers’ fear
behind the wheel of the car
I stole.
Deep in the woods,
whispering moss.
The direction the road takes
is determined by the path
families will take.
On their way to an
end made of synthetic light,
hurtling metal.
Husband and Wife
I am a well he drinks from
as he spends his seventh day
wandering the desert.
I’ve camped in waiting
And know the roughness
of the terrain,
the burning banality of work.
He built our home by hand
and like a bird I added
shiny things to reflect
the sun a thousand times
to guide him home.
My body is his haven,
the end of a chase
and the beginning of a pursuit.
He lays his head on my breasts
slides his hand down my belly.
The well will never run dry.
Old
After fate untwisted,
she left a trail of
disastrous death in my driveway.
I need an incantation
to summon the voice in my
hands.
Sprawled lazily across
the concrete,
hieroglyphics bleeding
with age.
I drew them.
My people ran down
the lane years ago
to hunt the sneaky beast.
I am the only one left,
struggling to clutch my ochre
with broken hands.
Tongue
In the noon glow,
the thrill of intimacy
while she maps me with
her tongue.
She knows my hips and
my secrets.
I know her shoulders,
her navel.
On the table,
my thoughts
on her sweet, moisturized skin,
my senses.
She has one finger in my world,
then her tongue on my secrets
polishing them.
Miniature Moon 