Category Archives: poem

Terms of Bereavement

That side of my bed is cold as death.

It fills me with such emptiness.

The lingering scent of absence

haunting the corners as if

they had a right to be there anymore.

I stare at the dreams we once

shared together

as they drift like chipped paint

on a breathless breeze from my ceiling.

I lose the fragmented pieces

as they get swept up each Monday

on chore day.

I recognize the longing for the echoed laughter,

the heat of your kiss,

the flesh of our creation sweating drops of love

onto my flesh on a Sunday afternoon.

I remember that night I stayed up

soaking your t-shirt with rejection

that you soothed with caresses of forgiveness.

I roll away from death

even as I reach my hand to grasp the pillow

that no longer smells like you

even though I’ve not changed the fabric case.

I’d hoped that it would imprison the thoughts

that made “we” an

unbreakable, indivisible, apocalyptic force

to be reckoned with in our unity.

I pull the blanket your mother made for you

(on our fourth Christmas wed)

over my head

tasting the salt of my regret

that I didn’t know that was the last.

That side of my bed is coffin cold.

It fills me with such emptiness.

NaPoWriMo: Finger Licking Good

PUERTO RICAN RED RICE

1 Tbs oil
1 pkg Smokey Links, sliced
1 lg onion, chopped
1 green pepper, chopped
1 6oz can tomato paste
1/2 lg jar salad olives
1 teas garlic powder
1 1/2 teas dry oregano
1Tbs cumin
1# (2 cups) rice

Heat the oil and the sausages medium sliced,

Onions, olives, and peppers add as they’re diced

Not yet for the paste, but add in the rice

Cook until it’s brown stirring it twice.

Add the rest of the ingredients, mixing well

Three fingers of water over, allow yourself to smell

The aromas as they blend

Cook until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is ten-

Der.

This makes me think of Demi, the lady from where this comes

She used to live upstairs from me on Caufield where I’ve from.

She taught my mom to make this, and it’s still a fave of mine

I think of her when I make this dish, each and every time.

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NaPoWriMo: I, Tree

The north eastern tree

Brrrr! Yah nasty wind, ye stripped me clothes off!

Ye made me blood retreat from my trunk

Burying me roots in the frozzzzzen earth

Unlike the kiss of your wetted white,

I will return to shatter your deaf silence

With barbaric spears of buds piercing yer with renewed life

I will return!

 The southern tree

Hey, ya’ll! Check this shit!

I was jist standin’ here by the sod of ‘his her road

An dis nassy smillin ting came at me bro!

Flippin me a nasty finger cut uppin der

Ya see that scar? Loss tree branches in a wind storm

Still stannin.

 The South western tree

Wwwwwwaaaaaaaattttttteeeeerrrrr

Fuck you nestle

 The north western tree

I am paramount to the indigenous people

That…HEY! Cut that…bad choice of words

STOP THAT! HEY! That’s my history! HEY!

YOU! LUMBERJACK!

TIIIIIIMMMMMMMBBBBBBEEEEERRR!

–thud—

The Midwestern tree

So ya see, I get used for maple syrup

Vermont thinks they have the major bunch,

But we’re really number one

Except for Vermont

 The plains states, middle America

Come on baby! Let’s do the TWISTER!

Whoosh! Caught me a trailer home!

OH! And a car! Roll the dice, weather,

Papa needs a new pair of 18 WHEE!-lers.

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NaPoWriMo: Coffee or Tea

Ode to Kawphy

Kawphy Thyme is my Bapa's brain child. It is a truly magical experience when done properly.

Kawphy Thyme is my Bapa’s brain child. It is a truly magical experience when done properly.

The dawn blooms silver-pink, barely lighting my path

I climb the high hillside, filling my lungs with thinning air

With burlap in hand, I carefully select the dark red ripest

They drip from the fruited tree like tiny whiny grapes

I don’t cherish the fruit as much as I covet the seeds

The dawn heats water per the dictator’s striking hand

I am in Kenya, Ethiopia, Costa Rica, Sumatra, Timor, New Guinea.

I am roasting in the sun. I am cool beneath the shade.

I am the Sabbats and Esbats wrapped in the Holy Grail

I am the earth which collects my offspring

I am the water that nourishes my roots

I am the air which determines my wealth of ideas

I am the fire on which my ovaries are brought to life.

I am the spirit wrapped in each element,

Indulged with a noisy slurping morning prayer,

“Ah, nectar of the Gods.”

I am Kawphy, not the coffee you seek.

I am the commune of commiseration

I am the lifeblood of the creators

I am the dreamless sleep of the catatonic believers

I am the dream of the hillside, delivered for a tithe of glazed donuts.

I am to be honored as family, birthed to live among emotions.

I am the power to move the world from my small hillside tree.

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NaPoWriMo: Flying Out of this World

The Owl and the Jamie Lopez

I was walking through the Otherwhere, picking dreams to put in my pocket

Like a deer in the headlights I stopped frozen in my tracks for there you were.

I’d seen others before in this place I travel to, but never as intensely as that moment.

You smiled, your blue eye flashing a secret code of knowledge to my spirit

I tilted my head perplexed because I’d never tried to talk to the people I found

I usually just witnessed their activities but didn’t interrupt their travels.

But you, you blinked again, your golden eye flashing beneath sunset pink hair.

You gestured gently to pick up what you were trying to share. I couldn’t

You frowned, your sapphire hair obscuring your lemony eyes. Your heart smiled

THEN

You pulled the stitching around the edges of your heart and allowed me to dive

It was mystical and cosmic as you showed me your walking place. I wept, you smiled.

You took my hand and helped me over the threshold, panting with wildness

I could see the owl. The golden dance of blacks, oranges, browns, and wisdom

Refreshed, invigorated with passion. This time I smiled my rainbow smile at you.

Your aqua hair flashed silver fins of water splashing brightly as you disappeared

That moment was exactly when I knew, I could enter different paths. You showed me.

With permission from myself and the others I meet, I can go anywhere I need.

Only in the Otherwhere can I hear the Divine voice of creativity that calls my name intimately.

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The Eyes of Heaven

The eyes of the heavens looked into my beaten soul

With darkened lashes flashing seas of green

I was commanded to surrender to the bow

As the arrowed kiss pierced me in cosmic explosion

Birthing worlds anew with feathery curls

Desire painted the skies with lustful sunsets

Stunning the world awake with a flip of longing sunrise

Each blink of those intensely exquisite eyes

Made me worship my own demise with ecstasy.

NaPoWriMo: Fifteen TRIGGER WARNING

TRIGGER WARNING: You had no idea

By this time, I was already being taught horrible things; I was six in this picture.

By this time, I was already being taught horrible things; I was six in this picture.

I don’t think you could possibly have meant

For me to return from where I rose my ascent

I was broken, abused, nearly destroyed

All because my father didn’t want to take away my “new toy.”

I held secrets so dark that nobody could love me

Not that way, not no way, not even the slightest possibility.

At fifteen I had not recognized the horrors I’d seen

At fifteen I hadn’t even realized it was safe to breathe

Although the constant abuse had stopped a decade earlier

It didn’t take much to re-abuse me, just be a little squirrelier.

I ran around raw as if chained to a razor blade

The slightest momentum and I’d dive back into my shade

The fears that accosted me, drove me wild with anguish

It took me a quarter century, those demons to finally vanquish.

No, I don’t think you would have, if you’d known what it means

To return to the age of fragility, loss of innocence, the unclean.

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NaPoWriMo: Valued Activities in My Poetry

Experience, Embrace, Enjoy

Southern Spring

Southern Spring

The winter haints poke billowy chill
In the clouds that pass my window sill
My sight obscuring by the white washed flowers
Coaxed from sleep by rumbling showers
I release my heater from whimpering to silent
As the spring rains come with stormy violence
I creep my window up inches by foot
Dependent on if the weather is good
The dogwoods bark perfume
As the red-buds come to bloom
The lazy flowering magnolia trees
Smell like Southern backyard orgies
I heed the spring promising summer lawns
With the haints of winter fading
Now
Gone.

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TRIGGER WARNING: Spousal abuse is no joke

The First Husband

April is Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Awareness month (among others). I am a survivor of Domestic Violence.

April is Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Awareness month (among others).
I am a survivor of Domestic Violence.

I felt the wash of rage strike through my stomach when I saw you there

With a ONETWO punch of viciousness, I cringed as if it were a physical blow

Violence flashed before my blackened eyes that have long since healed

I remembered in crystal clear detail the fire you created

That burned my possessions forcing me to be your possession

That charred my childhood into echoes of musical damnations

Removing the blessings my mother gave to me

On sunny afternoons in the plant room of my childhood home

And you, with lighter fluid in hand, me begging forgiveness

You tossing key upon key into the blaze despite my please, thank you.

There you were, glaring your judgement on my friend

Turning your nastiness towards someone I love

Every bit of forgiveness I thought I could give was erased

“I think you’re just being vulgar for the sake of vulgarity.”

Fuck you! You’d still have the wife you pledged to protect

If you wouldn’t have pulled her gun on her, or slapped her,

Or pushed her, or punched her, or threatened her, or raped her

Or abused her, or took her love and threw it like your smelly shoes, away.

You no longer are allowed access to me, you son of a bitch.

You are denied access to love from me or my tribe.

You are rebuked and are denied absolution from my heart because of your actions.

Lie all you want to the people in your life now, but we both know what happened.

We both know you are not the “Christian” you claim to be.

We both know what you’ve done.

The door is closed, return to your own hell.

NaPoWriMo: Poetizing the News of 1913

The assignment is to write the news poetically, from 1913. I express that I do not believe every cop to be a representative of his brothers and sisters. I believe there are good cops as much as I believe there are good people everywhere. If this strikes your conscience, then perhaps you need to evaluate where you stand on race. I, personally, stand on the side of the Human Race with love in my heart. I do not condone the use of violence that seems prominent in law enforcement (admittedly it is reported because it riles up the masses) currently. It was in 1913 but for a different reason even if there are strong similarities.

Negro and Phagan

Negro and Phagan murder trial headline

The Knights of Mary Phagan

The Knights of Mary Phagan no longer wear robes of white

Instead they put on the shades of gray, wear badges in broad daylight

The Knights of Mary Phagan were making “justice” of perceived wrongs

While now the blue badged brothers sing the same lyrics of the lynching song

Mary Phagan was a 13 year old girl, found murdered on an April night

When the nightwitch discovered the heinous crime, reported it forthright

Battered was her death, filthy with dust her face,

Her childish life void of life or innocence in grace

Her neck emblazoned with her own petticoat, her childish body ransacked

That the responding officers were convinced at first their victim to be black

But she was Mary Phagan, just shy of turning 14

just trying to get her paycheck, instead her labor demeaned.

Leo Frank, a Jewish man was accused of committing the crime

The evidence said he’d dragged her face down, which caused the face of grime

But yellow journalism sensationalized the slightest breath of truth

The state of Georgia ran amok chasing stories like the fabled golden goose.

After Leo Frank was convicted and sentenced to life in prison,

The Knights of Mary Phagan, refused this coward judge’s give in

They stormed against the “who cares” guards and took Frank to the lynching tree

Where they made strange fruit of the Jewish man just like they would a darkie.

Over a hundred years have passed since street “justice” faded to shade

But now we’re shown it differently, yellow faux journalism with failing grade.

And we’re told, to look over here while the story is in plain sight

So we can’t tell the difference of 37,000 days and nights

The Knights of Mary Phagan no longer wear robes of white

Instead they put on the shades of gray, wear badges in broad daylight

The Knights of Mary Phagan were making “justice” of perceived wrongs

While now the blue badged brothers sing the same lyrics of the lynching song

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