Thursday, August 31, 2017

August

August was a monster.
It twisted us all into strange fruit.
It cradled the worst of us to saggy man tits
and twittered nothings with two mouths.
August fattened itself on black shrouds
and the freshened bones of old corpses.
Then, it groomed itself and bloomed, whorish,
into a full, fetid swell of shame.
August was a monster
in an America
made great again.

A rough draft for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Mother Wichita

Old Mother Wichita wets with twilight.
Blackjacks bruise purple but for the green

lichen half-rubbed away hip-high
to an old bison's itch.

A rich robe of Indian Blanket sways and drapes
the hill to hollow hovered

by a red-tailed hawk circling
in the blue becoming gold becoming thick

with cicadas, fireflies,
and mockingbird song.

Summer light dies slow,
lingers lazy and long.

Then she sighs herself into a star
for night to wish upon.

For Midweek Motif~Nature: Her Words at Poets United

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Egg Hunt 1978

hand me down     mary janes
a size     too small
- pinched toes
and panty hose
          bunched up at the starting line
in the field     behind the church
half-melted chocolate eggs
sticky as the mud Julie pushed me in

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Dance


I only dance
with other girls -
suns with coronas
of swirling skirts

or younger men -
moon blind
and easily eclipsed.

My dance
is a bellied beast,
a planet
panting drums.

I dance
till I'm slick with stars
and here gives way
to there.

For Susie's prompt at Real Toads

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Things Found When I Wasn't Looking

The Hanged Man in the spokes
of the paper girl's bike.
A tin cup
salt ringed like Saturn.
Wings without wounds
shed in favor of walking.
A key and a memory
of trees.

For the Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Fair To Say

I guess it's fair to say
I grew up
oil field trash.
Never knew a man
to wear a suit
except the preacher.
Every Sunday
I put a quarter
in the collection.
Oh, Lord, may I
wake one day
with wings.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Thursday, August 3, 2017

Starfish Quilt


Great-Grandma stitched
this old starfish quilt;
she never saw the sea.

Not with barns to build,
Mason jars to fill,
and children to feed.

I never knew her, but I've heard tell
she slept every night with a shell
held to her ear till she fell
into a salty dream.

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

The Green Corn Rebellion of 1917

In the Age of Lynching

a Working Class Union

was the Green Corn Rebellion

of whites, blacks, and Indians

draft dodgin' trash

saw a rich man's war

hid up on Spear's Mountain

and swore to resist

with dynamite and guns

all the way to DC

till a thousand man posse

hungry for justice

come to Seminole County

in August of '17

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads