Tag: poetry

Civilization Undulates

Pretty talking like

soft sugar in the air

like snow while wind admires herself

in the mirror.

 

Space sparkles kindly on our undulating cities,

the land groaning with the weight of buildings

that rise and fall with generations,

 

while our beloved build

and we try to furnish our vainglorious homes

with ourselves, diminutive,

wispy, fleeing from the thoughtless force of the wind

Untitled

The Glitterati is at my doorstep.

Did I know I was a star?

Yes, I admitted,

Because I am always burning

And everything is so dark.

 

But look at the sunshine,

all your sparkling!

 

Around me the air is still missing,

and my soul died trying to fumble home in the dark,

so I say nothing and close the door.

Scrapbook Page

Scrapbook Page

 

They beam summer red

dribbling on her mini thigh

while the nurse checks her labs.

He is her comforter

a teddy bear when the catheter comes.

 

Tiny text. Fair font.

A spray of sea.

A wash of greenery.

 

His mouth opens crazy

eyes bulging

to make her shriek

with gladness

 

Outside each frame

I sit rigid behind the lens

frayed

frazzled

grateful that my miniature joy monster and I

are never alone.

Love

A bush with two roses –

one grousing grouchy.

Grungy soul like the nineties sat on it.

Gray clouds seep slightly,

a spray paint making skin more clear

through coverings.

 

He cut me and I bled green

because I was young.

Because he removed a thorn,

I shook down to my roots.

 

With his pocket knife he smoothed me

from heel to head and I became a rose

the envy of every other rose.

 

Number Jungle

Number Jungle

 

5 has keys. 5 jangles.

Closes cabinets with hips.

 

9 slithers up the glass windows,

copulates on the roof.

 

2 lives

in the succulent old birch tree,

sipping insipid syrup leaking as though from a sieve.

Trees hear each other cry.

 

 

Fighting with a chipmunk for nuts is 4.

4 with big teeth and base instinct

who made the terrain with his little claw year by year.

 

 

3 is a sucker for Romance languages,

estuaries that burn the thirsty livid.

 

 

See the gators muscle through the delta

unaware he watches hungry.

 

7 churns in the puddles

bites mosquitoes til they welt

 

8 carves slices of watermelon beyond the fence

 

spitting seeds

into

a

hole

in

the

ground,

listening to them nest and

fight,

content without toys

 

1 sings high in the breeze,

perched on a cell tower.

Unattainable music,

sweet sweat dripping from him

a rain of sugar.

 

 

Red Rhapsody

A melancholy running over the world,

trampled rows of arthritic wishes

trying to dust themselves off and carry on.

Dust feasts with minute teeth on a handbag.

 

God is a diamond, multifaceted, sparkling

rainbow colors, knife sharp, hard cutting.

And red He let loose in the world

to give us one drop short of enough to drink,

 

to leave us one inch short of His height

requirement, roiling within ourselves,

connected by an energy that knows us.

 

Melted and Poured

“You Look Melted and Poured”

 

I am melted and poured

into a sheath dress with lace overlay,

my scars making it look like a cookies and cream filling

has been poured to fit a sexy mold,

but with maybe 20 pounds too much filling –

the molding bursting at the seams.

 

Too often I have been too rich for my wallet

Too free for my cage

Too fat for my shell

 

But now I shimmy,

break open the mold

let the skin sing electric under a sunlight sick

of being filtered and blocked.

 

I am free.

In a bedroom deep in the jagged heat of Georgia

I am a queen and I need no molds,

cages will not hold me,

And my wallet is not the only language I speak.

Perseverance and Suicide

Quarrelsome boas cannot decide who will

take my inner drive

and so it is passed back and forth like a dish rag.

 

I once did the dishes all the time but hid from the stove.

Now the stove, dusters, sewing needles all hide from me.

 

I remind my back to stop bleeding.

It is enough the knife slowly turns.

Don’t advertise it.

In that house we gave nothing of ourselves,

because we admitted to nothing.

I am a fish still alive in the pot.

 

Temperature rising.

Temperance gone.

I hope the hag cooks with good wine.

 

No.

I refuse to breathe the water,

absorb the wine

I am a woman for whom jetted tubs were made.

I step out of the vat

not even naked

with all the shame heaped on me,

and I strangle each snake for laughs.

 

Here is my drive

on the floor tired and pitiful.

But here is me.

Knives removed,

stripping naked,

drying off.

drying out,

deciding drive is not enough…

and I have more

Form is Function

She steals steam after the summer rain,

rolling it off the asphalt as a carpet

she will lay in her den.

 

She was named by the tesseract

snarling in the backyard.

Instead of her period each month,

she turns blue

and Inspiration knows she is fertile.

 

You are so cuttingly engineered,

designed with impure

perpetual function in mind.

 

What does it mean that your gears shudder

torturously

at the turbid passion chewing a gash across her left hip?