Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Asking

asking for patience
              hurriedly
blessings
             for a half full cup
guidance not followed
             to follow me
forgiveness
             for what's left undone

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Thursday, May 17, 2018

Magdalene

Melpomene-Simmons-Highsmith-detail-1.jpeg

Detail from mural depicting the muse Melpomene (Tragedy) by Edward Simmons, 1896

All of my favorite witches were staked and burned to bones.
This red dress is the best of the cottonmouth curses
from those pale, open mouth orchids - oracle tongues
in nightshade knots.
All gods work in threes -
a thrice dyed sleeve slipping to bare
a shoulder -shapely, shaping, shape 
shifting - maid, mother, crone.
I have strayed, skipping, from the straight and narrow and learned
to love the log in my wandering eye.  My Magdalene side
makes merry with forgotten gospels and dreams
of a desert man.
A desert man with strong, laborer's hands.
A man who knows that water is for walking,
but weddings call for wine.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Sunday, May 6, 2018

Silence

Silence is the blue note,
the only honest pitch.
I think I hear it when I'm dreaming,
but, awake, I can't seem to pry it
from my hateful head.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Friday, May 4, 2018

An Elegy For Absolutes

"I am my own muse.  I am the subject I know best."
 - Frida Kahlo


Dreaming is waking is dreaming.
I am a small world - my own animal -
unnamed -
Adam's twisted tongue.
I once stood as a pillar of salt
curse your transgressing eyes!
and prayed for rain 
to melt me back to mother,
but drought showed me her back -
I had to break
to be a woman
and burn
to be a woman
and bleed the best of me
with every moon.
I suckle my second finger
like a child and do not wince
at the taste of old ore.

Reality rests before my eyes, always
colors of prayers
white washes of skin
greens of my own growing.
I have swallowed the common
sight and spit sweeter 
visions into these hands,
these little gods.  They are tireless
at creation.  They give form
to my face.

For Susie's prompt at Real Toads

Sunday, April 29, 2018

When Dog Is Done

When dog is done
night eats day
to full
the moon
or so
wolves
say

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Friday, April 27, 2018

The Book Of Dog

5th grade, 10 yrs, Dog


Reading from The Book of Dog
these verses from The Book of Dog:
A prophet is a sleeping dog
curled eternal O.
Partaking of The Book of Dog
to remake man as The Book of Dog
trains he can.  From The Book of Dog:
Ye shall know him by your nose.

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads

Thursday, April 26, 2018

Blood Of Summer

Blonde sun in a blue-eyed sky.
Long legged days stretched
from neck deep
to night's full abandon -
consummated by stars.

The earth spins
towards the moon's touch;
the crescent
shining tongue kiss
on the throat of a river -
warm as a willing girl.

But I
have the taste of mud in my mouth.
The form of a man, of woman, of hound.
I killed fire with spit
and spread the ashes around
where I stood
in the blood
of summer.

Black sun in a sky of ice.
Days
lock jawed and trap snapped -
time is a fiction
stars tell to children.

The earth slumps at the corner bar,
her spin spent -
in her glass,
the last of her rivers.
Rare
as girls.

And I
have the taste of worlds in my mouth.
The form of a man, a woman; I howl
to kill fire with will and spread the ashes around
where I stood
in the blood
of summer.

A bit late and rough for Midweek Motif at Poets United