Ginger Boy

I’m in love with a rosy-hued, blue-eyed, freckle-faced boy. He loves and laughs and he loves to laugh.
He’s pure and he’s kind, he’s mischievous…inevitably mine. He’s shy and he’s smart…he’s my best piece of art. That boy of mine has all my time…..even when we’re apart.

Transfer

I touched my fingers to the page
My thoughts appeared in fits of rage
I closed my eyes, whispered a prayer
Just like magic…the words were there
Bold and bright, in flurried flight
They appeared with rapid might
I knew not how
I knew not where
I knew I only did not care
The toil of the writer’s mind
Is never painless, never kind
Grateful that my words were clear
Grateful I did not have to steer
I touched my fingers to the page;
my poem was upon the stage.

Disverse

I command their presence, like soldiers on a field.
Hoping that as my words march on, they will remain in order, structured, attentive.
Eventually, though, my thoughts meet my heart. My intentions, however masked, are revealed.
My verse is turned over like rolling down a hill, and my words disperse in disarray.
It is then that I am.
For I am least myself when I am trying to be me.
And my words are not pure when I am trying to set them free.

Stretch

I stretch quite strenuously sometimes.
I try to trick my body into thinking I am actually made of elastic.
An ambitious goal, I acknowledge.
My arms encircle myself once, then twice, then three times.
I become so entangled in my own limbs that I must wiggle and shake all about to free myself;
Side stepping an arm here, hopping over a wrist there, careful not to step on my fingers.
Then my arms hang loose and long at my sides for weeks, ridiculous and rubbery looking.
But each time they snap back…I feel a little stronger. And my arms feel a little longer.
Closer to reaching you.

Side Saddle Rider

For my mother who showed me
How to swing my leg.
For my grandmother who told me
Women never beg.
For my sister who taught me
Always demand respect
And for the first woman who rode forward facing, and erect.
Thank you; a side saddle rider, I am not.

The Last High

One last drag
My soul will soak it in
These days weren’t meant for dreamers
Tomorrow I will wake up and be one hundred.
But today I am an artist. An Artiste.
Today, tomorrow I will wake up and be whoever I want.
Today I write the words
My lungs reject what my soul imbibes.
But I’m not one hundred yet.

Kill the Message, Not the Messanger

I wear these poems like a bullet proof vest
Swearing you will not get through, find your way in.
Swearing they are mine.
These poems are yours, though, really.
You permeate their essence.
Weaving here and there.
I make an escape but there you are, toeing the line back again.
I‘ve decided that you can have them.
No one else will want them when I’m through.
But me…someone will.
I shed the vest with your bullet marks everywhere. It did a proper job.

Green Brown Eyes

Green is such a lovely shade.
It recalls the songs of nymphs and forest knaves
It stained the emerald city
Your eyes, your green brown eyes, never made sense to me
Green is life giving
Brown is death
Green is beautiful
Brown is feces
Green is clovers, and trees, and Irish holidays.
Brown is ash.
It ain’t easy bein green, I said.
You concurred…brown eyes. And stuck to those things brown knows best.

Notice

The letter was taped on my door.
I felt it in my soul.
I ran my hand along its smooth surface, knowing that not the texture but the words would cut through me.
I opened it cautiously.
4 words:
It’s for the best.
You had evicted my heart for the second time that year.

Taken

Peace enters through the backdoor.
The same way it exited.
The peonies crowd the entryway with excited anticipation.
Warmth resides here once again.
The winter of these chambers is resolved.
And the beat goes on.

Suit Up

My deepest sleep happened with your hand on my arm.
With shallow breaths I slipped into oblivion as you slipped into my skin.
In my dreams you wear me like a suit.
I see with your eyes and the world is a different place.
But your heart is still my own.
The beats create a synchronized duet.
With my free hand you reach up and run our fingers through my hair.
It feels like silk against our skin.
I never want to wake us.