Category Archives: Poetry

New Moon

New Moon

New Moon

Will you come spiral a dance with me

without your shoes or dress

on the naked earth

with a smile and a blush

your only adornment

under the dark of the moon

or the lavender of twilight

gleaming highlights of stars

on the curve of your knees, hips, and breasts

while the lungs of summer exhale

its final breezy breaths

until the wheel has come full circle?

Will you surrender to the rhythm of night

embracing the cicadas and crickets

as the treble notes of the living dark

while the thumping of our feet on the dirt

rustle leaves like the skirts we puddled

at the edge of the clearing

where the last of the season’s fireflies

beg for a mate to relieve their lonely hearts

while we build momentum in the cooling air

wildly sacrificing modesty for our natural state of being.

These Are My People: Carrie Jones

Always!

Love is an active participation one to another.

It is a tribute to those who taught us

who moved our spirits

who shook up our souls like a snowglobe scene

we kept dusty and hidden on a shelf that we don’t remember building

but suddenly are embarrassed to realize was there all along

Love is an active embrace of warm energy

It is an honoring of those who taught us

who helped us realize our worth

who took our broken pieces scattered everywhere

and meticulously hugged each one until we learned

until we believed that we were worth the love they gave.

Love is an active bond between two spirit kin

It is an abiding reminder of those who taught us

who helped us understand what forever means

who took the disappointments and broken promises

and ALWAYS loved us no matter what.

Love is Always.

Always love is the greatest gift I can forward

because it is given to me every day for always.

Propaganda Unbound by Jimbo Slice

Jimbo Slice is my friend’s fiance’. He writes poems and hides them on Facebook. I told him he needs to put them up for people to experience. He gave me permission to post the poems he writes that hit me in the guts. This is one of them.

Here in America

we are taught to believe

that we all can make it

we all can succeed.

Happiness, fame,

Luxury and greed

Is ours for the taking,

If only we believe

that we are

what we’re worth

and we are

what we need.

 

Here in America

we are taught to believe

That we’re nothing but heroes

But we’re deceived.

We’re not a collection

Of objects and things,

Of clothes and music,

Of power and bling,

We’re misled

and deluded,

shallow and fake.

Our money is made

For the wealthy to take.

 

Here in America

As impoverished, we cling

To the lies and illusions

That as children we sing.

Our myths and our dreams

Are nothing but words

Fodder for poets,

Politicians, and birds.

 

Here in America

We were all taught a fable.

But it’s far, far different

When we see the table,

minus the bread of the truth

and the fruit of our dreams.

Propaganda unbound

Of thee, I sing.

TAMP: A.S. aka The End

I’ve heard it said

many a time

if I would have known

that it was the last time

I’d ever see him

then I would have hugged him tightly

Kissed him with a lover’s kiss

whispered in his ear

that I loved him.

I’ve heard it said

many a time

that it’s the little things I miss the most

the tilt of his head

the way he smelled of grass

and just him

a burst of giggles or

a gust of laughter

or the silent conversations.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again

I knew it was the end

of every promise never broken

of every dream deserted

of match-strike passion extinguished

I knew that because of my fear

there would be no returning to what was

I KNEW…and I did nothing.

The End

The Shamed Undone

Cross-bones

Cross-bones

I loved my darkness as much as my birth

My humanity imposed upon my divinity

With mild impunity or dire consequences.

The pixel width line of temperance

United with my poor balance of judgment

Toppled me into temptation

But my deliverance from the Shamed

Came when I opened my spirit

But kept my flesh firmly attached

To the bones that threatened to break

The bones that are now, nearly,

Washed free from my repugnant regret

With a redemption I didn’t deserve

But am ultimately worthy of having.

I strive now, at the knees of wisdom

To fulfill my obligation to the Light

because the alternative…

…Is an inky hate that tastes horrible.

…Is a tar sand of volcanic corruption.

…Is the destruction of my own construction.

…Is laying in wait to assassinate me.

I wait no longer than necessary to stand.

I wait no longer than necessary to defend.

I must balance. I have to. My soul depends on it.

The Dead Among Us

Nobody guards the living dead.

That wander around among us.

We can no longer smell their decay

Or witness their festering pus

The stories you’re told protect you

Against the sacred forever sleep.

Work harder than you need to

Pray your soul for them to keep

I hate mourning the living dead

That can’t remember the words

To the songs that living humans sing

To the tunes of the cawing birds

The crackling fear that reaps us clean

Of dastardly deeds and acts unseen

Retrieves us back from comfort one

At rising dawn or setting sun

I hate that the fear leaves things unsaid

That fear that the coffin will spring open

like a jack-in-the-box’s bouncing head

 scaring the life out of your heart

as it sucks you up in one whole part.

 Yes.

 Nobody guards the living dead.

Ancient Tomes

dustybooksThere is a mummified shroud

unraveling in our spirits
that are delivered with gusts

of gauzy breaths
revealing chapter, verse,

the context and content
of our lives lived
by the turning of our pages
to reveal
the chapters of our hearts
to one another
in labored, birthing, unity.

extend humanity outward
like a library of reciprocal knowledge
donate your gifts to fill your coffers
 
Teach from the trenches

Learn from the quarry
Bloom from the crap
Shine from the darkness

Believe from the silence

Joy from despair

Triumph from resistance

Freedom from oppression

Meaning from Understanding

Wino Confessions

After a bottle of wine I like to confess things to my husband.

I like to tell him of how I felt when I first laid eyes on his face;

how my heart raced, how my eyes teared up, how I forgot to breathe.

I like to tell him how I didn’t want to believe that he existed

because then it would mean I live surreal.

Even now, I feel shy putting this down from my fingertips.

The same fingertips that have traced every inch of his body.

The same fingertips that he’s kissed when I burn them on dinner.

The same fingertips that smooth out his blankets when I make the bed.

The same fingertips that boop his nose to see if it still works. (It does.)

I like to tell him how I’d follow or lead or walk beside him anywhere.

I like to tell him that he’s the funniest man I know,

that he leaves me breathless with laughter and breathless with love.

I like to tell him with great earnestness that he brought me to life

even though I thought I already was, but not in this way. Not in this time.

I would still be me without him, but not the same me I am now.

I’m a better human with him nearby. I’m able to freely explore the world.

After a bottle of wine, I like to confess to my husband; my always, truly.

Lost Sunday

Go away.
He sat in the back seat using his hands as a rosary
praying to holy mother Rosemary his sin not be discovered.
The violation of my air space undetected by his stealth
suddenly had air raid sirens blaring loudly,

“HOW DARE YOU?!” upon my radar screen
while I drove away and prayed the guards were adept.