Category Archives: Love

Polka Dot Salmon (Fish Ladder Blues)

Fishing the Grand River

I was born in your arms

cradled but not protected

shunned, rejected, refused

a starving babe to river’s teat.

I cried colic at your shores;

survived despite your abuse.

Like a battered lover, I, escaped

ONLY

to believe your honeyed promises

to desire your rushing waters

to climb above my station against odds

to find my true love begetting fruition

to linger too long where love dies

I avoided your calls

I dodged your temptations

I surpassed any lack you created

I became, am becoming; power

Infuse me at my request

with the Grand Rapids river’s ravishing rush

pour your shores to return my blood

reunite my spirit with yours

Let’s embrace intimately

passionate with endearing lust

so we may fall in love, again

on my terms.

Wealthy Street

I was a beggar on Wealthy Street

where I was accused of being vibrant

arrested in my quest for murdered time

charged with being an artist

convicted of faith in more than I do

as an accessory after the top hat

In my sidewalk cell,

I became an advocate as a willing-faced pauper

begging for change on Wealthy Street

Commemoration

It seems so long ago since yesterday

when you grabbed your toast,

shined your sunshine smile through the clouds

and scooted out the door because you were late.

I followed you, halting at the doorway

You dropped your toast on the sidewalk

You cussed, waved, shouted “I love you”

got in your car and vanished.

I didn’t have police officers showing up at my door.

I didn’t have alarms screaming

I sat on the back porch watching the sunrise

with a hot cup of coffee in my hand

your words warming my heart.

“Hey, doesn’t he work at the Towers?”

called the neighbor over the fence.

I didn’t even realize they’d been talking to me.

“What? Oh, yes.”

“Why aren’t you watching the news?”

I didn’t understand. I thought it odd.

I waved with a friendly wrist making my way to

nothing

Cold pillow. Cold toast. Crystal blue sky.

gone

Gutting of commerce, ashes of hope, lost

It’s years later and it still seems so long ago since yesterday

But I’ve never forgotten your last words to me

Every morning I walk out to lay toast on the sidewalk

Every morning I sit on the back porch and drink coffee

Every morning I watch the news

Everything a sacrament commemorating your unintentional sacrifice.

Not as it appears

Peace on Earth Love Thy Neighbor

Peace on Earth
Love Thy Neighbor

You are merely a distraction

meant as a detraction

from the deep dissatisfaction

of a dying way of life.

The marionette strings you’re dancing

are pulled by those amassing

obscene amounts of financing

with your divisive strife

You are the sleight of hand

given up as sacrificial lamb

with back-room deals grandstand

back-stabbed by Judas’ knife

I am not to judge your place

or spit into your unwitting face

as you spout you’re in god’s holy grace

while playing at Lot’s wife

I hope that what you’re saved from

in total and in sum

bring you to a better place to rest your bum

with a small bit of advice

Matthew 22:36-40,

and although it may feel a tad bit warty,

is what Jesus said while commandment sortie,

Commanded not once, but twice.

Inspired by Joel

I’m sure you’ve read some authors that really stick in your craw. Artists of the written word that cause you to think, cause you to get pissed, cause you, most of all, to feel that sense of uncomfortable that comes from a raw, exposed nerve. There are several of these talented people that float through my reader. Some I am avid fans of, others I take out in the dark of the moon and peruse with witchy thoughts abiding because they require, by default a place where the blood of their story can mingle with mine.

Joys of Joel is one of those artists for me. Joel lives in the Philippines. I’ve never met the person, but when I read the words, like those of Shawn L. Bird, E.I. Wong (really funny in a twisted way HAHA!), and UP!:::urban po’E.Tree(s), I am moved to places I’ve visited but, perhaps, took for granted.

In the latest poem (at this writing) by Joys of Joel, they write: Don’t wait for me; Ours is not a love story. (Find it HERE), I am compelled to remember lost loves of my own. I am to take that path rarely traveled. I mean, what’s done is done, right? Or what’s over is completed. But. It reminded me of a poem I wrote a while back which also reflected on a powerful moment in my life when I realized I’d just made a massive mistake. I knew I’d never again see that person though I treasured every moment I spent with them. It was my fault.

I’m re-sharing this “These Are My People” poem because of that line. You can find it here: The End.

The Conquering Spirit

Air, Fire, Water, Earth, and Spirit

Air, Fire, Water, Earth, and Spirit

I heard the winds of petitioning change howling ‘cross my floor

With courage bound beneath my wings, I opened up my door

The zephyr stole the tendril rooted as a graft for something more

Then whispered inspirations of hope to lift me up to soar

The torch of passion lit a match within my questing flame

to engulf the hearts of lovers true so they would know my name

The fuel that sparked me from the hearth that offered me fair game

has rallied blazing scars of power, on which to stake my claim

I felt the waves of transitional change sprinkling on my skin

The enterprise crashed over me, before I knew to swim

The tidal pools they pull me down beneath the spiraling spin

But the riptide it allows me surf; to shore it brings me in

My feet were planted firmly down beneath the molding clay

which were planted in the sanctioned soil that sent me on my way

The rocks beneath my nomadic feet gather no moss today

The earthen field I stand upon gives gardens of rosy bouquets

Acroamatic

They leave offerings at her altar, never seeing past her face

They vie shamefully for her affections; peacocking their disgrace

Like a Mother Mary statue she abides their adoration

They, the faithful worshipers, fall scantily in prostration

She rarely extends her fruitful bliss, suffering their confusion,

When they realize her trinity is akin to holy communion

Home slice

Many closed doors

Many closed doors

I arrived empty handed near my old stomping grounds

where I learned to hate myself due to disapproving frowns

It’s where I learned that to survive is to run freedom unbound

Yet here I am a-haunting my past which I’ve long since outgrown.

I have been with rings on my fingers and bells on my toes

I have been ground into dirt and from the grave rose

I’ve stepped through the portal, forsaking the spirit world

For now, I must reinvent this stronger, stranger home-town girl.

Through the gate

A bunny in a garden

A bunny in a garden

The military straight fence posts stand sentinel against wildlife.

It amuses me when the rabbits squeak through to indulge in

the abundance of ripened fruit dripping from the vines

Ripe tomato juices blooding the hand-crafted stairs with their offerings

while the green beans are green together, envious of size

The wind sculpture shifts in time to the darkened rolling clouds

it startles the rabbits back through the gate to another buffet

I wonder if this is what beauty looks like when it is no longer imaginary.

I wonder why the voice I spoke to every day feels absent.

I wonder if I remembered to pack it or if someone else did it for me.

I wonder if it will return with barrels blazing with razzle-dazzle or

if it will slip in quietly through the gate to show me a different way to be.