Thursday, November 30, 2017

Being Born

I don't remember being born,
my mother's face, or my father,
barely old enough to shave.
I don't remember being lifted
into sterile space -
my toes without nails,
my tenderest openings undone.

None of us is truly finished.
The cut umbilical cord
slowly regrows itself
like a lizard's tail,
and what lizard's tale has ever
had a happy ending?
None of us

remembers being born,
the child faces of our mothers,
or our fathers, barely old enough
to shave.

linked to Open Link Night at dVerse

Sunday, November 26, 2017

Rushing

There is rain on your breath when you lie
in the shine of my silver tresses -
bankrupt bones, but beautiful

and rushing

into my muscled arms and silence.
I am your house of ill repute
on the banks of your river, bankrupt,

but rushing.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Saturday, November 25, 2017

Capsules

I'm afraid of these capsules
clattering in my gut.
I'm afraid they won't work.
I'm afraid they will, but

will dissolve me

from the inside out
loosen my limbs
and loosen my mouth

to a trumpet vine sounding
nothing but Taps

choral,
clipped,
and flat.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

The Strangest Rain

It was the strangest rain
that star fall night

mare galloping.  Hooves
churning and hurling

hunks of the black
eye sky.

Blind, it left me, blind;
my tongue forked with wishes.

Goddess bound and blind -
bridled to ride.

For Midweek Motif~Meteor Showers at Poets United

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Dumbo

An elephant is Dumbo.
A tiger is a Tigger.
A clownfish is a Nemo,
until a child grows bigger

and is sent off to a teacher
who schools the proper names.
Elephus maximus is correct,
but it doesn't feel the same!

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Sunday, November 12, 2017

The Thing

It's not the thing,
it's the description.
Sun squint amber eyes.
A tangled mane,
thick and coarse.
Muscle and roar and fire.

It's not the thing,
it's the description -
the sweet, savanna sigh

of a lion
or the lie
of a man.

For the Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

The Revisionist

He cried for Lee in Carolina.
Appomattox an afterthought.
He spends his nights in crisp white sheets;
his nights hooded like a hawk.

The revisionist lives and breathes his history
and dreams the South will someday rise
again; till then, he stands a rebel
monument to misplaced pride.

For The Tuesday Platform at  Real Toads