Throne

My throne near the top of the willow tree

where I could oversee

my kingdom that resounded

with mournful train chords

and springtime robin red-breast

Thin the veil between worlds

Of retrospection cursed not blessed

It’s like a perpetual bloodstain

With solidly placed blame

Thats removed quietly with disdain

Where “It’s just how they are” to

Invisibility of me to an entire crew.

But I’ll not allow their foolishness

Not in my kingdom where I am best

Where I’m more than bone deep

Better than the company they sheep.

Blues for Children

I've heard their tired voices arguing about who's right or wrong.
Blue Table

I wear our Blues to the table that tucks my knees against the underside

Because I’ve witnessed what we’re leaving for them, legacies of lies.

I’ve sat at the table, the children’s table, minding them for far too long

I’ve heard their tired voices arguing about who’s right or wrong.

They are not my future, but they are yours without a doubt.

You should sit and listen to the children’s table, so change can come about

They see blue as hopeful, I think, but only as hopeful as the Blues

We have gone and lost them a costly sum of what it means to choose.

The Fragile Human

Be gentle with me,

for I am but a fragile human

whose eyes may not see

the expression of your sexuality

as a sign of repressed individuality

because I may be jaded by my misogyny.

Be gentle with me,

for I am but a fragile human

and I am terrified to be

the openhearted embracing destiny;

to stake my claim on my personal history

as one not bound by mainstream society.

Be gentle with me,

for I am but a fragile human

I am unafraid to be

every breadth and depth of clarity

a shining hope against disparity

standing human by human in equanimity

Be gentle with me,

for although a fragile human I be,

I have stepped outside of me

the one they knew can no longer be

because who I am, I was born to be

And I can no longer hide

I AM FREE!

Holy Water

pitcher

I have a Baptist church pitcher of holy water on my counter

I don’t know how many Sunday’s it witnessed

(Can I get an amen, brothers and sisters?!),

but I celebrate the holy water it gives and they gave me.

The preacher arrived bearing a coffee cup filled with good will

opening their church home to me with an invitation

I accepted.

I didn’t accept because they were giving me something

I did, wanting to find a church home, with loving heart

Sunday arrived as did the parishioner to cart me to redemption

There I sat in a church so big, cold, overly puritanical

The ceilings dripped chandeliers over the congregation

I sat through the service where the nice people smiled nicely

I sat through bible study which didn’t feel much like home

I hugged while exchanging pleasantries

with a half-promise to return and a Baptist pitcher in hand.

About a week later, the pastor, accompanied by a scary believer

showed up just in time to help unload my chicken coop.

We shared our views where we sent one another away in love.

But I think of them every Sunday when I nurture my plants

as well as every night when I set the coffee pot with holy water

The Emotional Child

When you still wore stardust,

before you discovered this plane

When the galaxies danced at your whim or will

still then, nothing remained the same.

You wept when a planet was born or died

Your diamond tears descended as rain

Your divinity moving in and out the tides

Why then, my beloved, do you think these gifts arcane?

Now is the experience, like any other ride,

only now the power is that of indigenous hurricanes.

Historic Healing

The sugar cookie pink dogwood sprinkles bridal paths;

creating instant asphalt chapels.

The scent of innocence found in clover and black walnuts

admire the buttercups, grape hyacinths, and forget-me-nots

I inhale the pastel afternoon of 72 degrees, skirt weather

rising sun peeking the treetops looking for reflections

The yellow skin blanket warms the earth,

nurturing the robins, crows, and a fashionable pair of bluebirds.

In the dark margarine yellow window boxes,

purple pansies assort themselves presentably.

There are four square pillars looking like an estate;

updated but settled into a routine of security.

A squeal of young girls holding a picnic at the curbside

interacting by taking turns instead of having a leader.

They worked in tandem, familiar with their abilities.

A nap in a hammock sounds incredibly plausible, but

I return to the silence of a squeaky cat and gentle spirit