Category Archives: Poetry

Left-hand turn

The loneliness isn’t in the silence, it’s in the absence of commentary.

My “Silent but Deadly” litany chants in my head

“Don’t open your throat, let the demons be fed”

I want to reach out. I want to be heard. But…

Reality isn’t where I want to be disturbed

My brushes lay colorless, lifeless as corpses

My observances from the corner, bodily divorces

I’m running like hell hounds know my name

The bridges start smoldering in fingers of blame

and they all return to me. Their rejection is plain to see

If I’m not them, I’m never good enough as me.

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.

Not Old Enough

Turbulent Life

I won’t mourn you while you’re still here making choices;

choices of where you’ll breathe last when the time comes

decisions that are yours, and only yours, to make. Always.

I will, however, laugh with you until you can’t any more.

I will support your choices, defending your life at its last.

You’re not old enough to go, but I know that’s not up to us.

I won’t mourn you while you’re here, but I will love you,

my friend, brother to my sister-in-heart, brother of my brother.

Publicly Primal

A bonfire of hatred emblazoned within.

I want to violate you by releasing my raw primal rage

A bonfire of hatred emblazoned in my silent chest awaiting birth

The “Flesh your heart” punishment of original sin, raped

The mundane act of typing the violation of my rights

as a human. as a woman. as FIFTY ONE PERCENT of totality

while you prognosticate fodder for the war machine

I defiantly consider all acts of subjugation as Slavery of Women

When I’m no longer terrified of how I will sound unrestrained,

You will no longer exist other than in history as bad apples

bitter seeds of spill on the dirt floors of the prisons you built

for me

but will not hold this.

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!

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.

The Curtained Room

In a room with one window,

colorful curtains against the dim

holiness was born anew

as a breathy release prayed again

suspended between tender bruises,

indulgent heart, and reflections mirrored

in cultured ceremony, societal grieving,

a confusion of emotional hymns

sung toneless to the dim, enraptured heart

refused warmth or comfort, only respite

in a room with one window.