Recently, I lent my poem, “This Is War” to the short film Mother by Brad Case. This is an arthouse film in support of women’s rights – and the poem describes the fallout of Roe Vs. Wade this summer.
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The neon pink hand beckons the night
as the clock sways to midnight blue.
His time has come to assume a disguise, puckering cherry
lips and setting the wig on his head. Glitter
dances across the golden ringlets, velvet
hugs his silicone bosom like a faery.
Jack piles more makeup on his face, with faery
eyes that shimmers night,
he grabs his red velvet
bag as he closes the door to the blue
feelings that he’s left inside. For the glitter
emotions dipped in cherry
wine and spread across pallid thighs, convert to cherry
cream resting on ethereal faery
wings that covet glitter
dreams of passionate nights
spent in burning bliss. The blue
tears no longer dripping on the velvet.
Drinking champagne from cupped hands, velvet
scarves pin his lover to the cherry
bed, until he begs for more. The blue
emotions disappear like unchained faeries.
Flying into the lusty night
dusting his lover’s eyes with Star Dust glitter.
Sensuous fingers trace over glittered
flesh, pouring scalding wax from velvet
candles. His lover whimpers into the night
as Jack toys with a candied cherry.
He now has the power of faeries
to kiss away the broken blues.
The clock has struck. It’s time for the blue
veils to fall upon the glittered
fantasies of his soul, his faery
wings have been singed, his red velvet
bag carries the remains of his cherry
pits, to remind him of sadistic nights.
The hour has come to assume the blue disguise until tomorrow night
When he can douse himself with glitter, fill his palms with cherries,
And transform into a lovely faery that whispers poetry in ears like velvet.
Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Bleed Like Me: Poems for the Broken
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I warned you near the brook.
I’ve seen her evil smile and piercing look.
The gushing of a red drop
That never ceases to stop.
She tastes of poison beams
Her scarlet passion steams.
Those brown eyes and locks of auburn
Causes your head to turn.
I’m sick of this neglect
You make me feel like a worthless reject.
She keeps diamonds in her eyes
Tries to covet secret spies.
Drink in her beauty and sacred stars
She’s bound to burst your mortal bars.
Have you ever hear of her woeful tale?
Of how she’s been left with a tormented bale?
Her lover killed her fragile heart
Leaving it to become a mass of tart.
She bears the crown of outcast queen,
But I’ll bet this side you’ve never seen.
Little Miss Perfection down to the bone
You’d never imagine how she feels so alone.
Stop trying to force her into love
Her past isn’t as pure as a dove.
Scars of former lovers adorn her shorn
Depicting just how savagely she’s been torn.
I warned you all along
She’s like a creepy Turin fog.
Don’t fall into her delicate hands
For soon, you too, will no longer stand.
She’s full of anger and violent stems
She wears thorns as diadems.
I will not ask of you to kill
As she most certainly will,
Your deepest purest emotions
To be replaced by her evil notions.
Runaway innocent boy, before you’re caught
For pretty soon she’ll invade your thoughts.
***
Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Bleed Like Me: Poems for the Broken
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Withered, wasted, wanted, but not for lack of sleep
This heart has known no trail but that of defeat.
Wanted, wasted, weathered in this place of self-loathing and despair
I know not what life has to offer me outside the joy of my own
Wallowing.
What have I given in this life?
What is the purpose of this strife?
Where is the joy that I wish to see in my world?
I have not yet given it life in this day, this week, this year.
I have donned a selfish fishbowl on the lenses of my eyes
And need neither my wants nor my selfish desires of the heart.
I need only love of self, of my neighbor, and my mother who supports my feet.
She is my foundation.
She is of earth and water and fire and water.
She is all I have longed for in my own desires.
How I have taken her for granted, this loving mother
Who feeds and clothes me and puts me to sleep
Each night under a blanket of stars and willowed darkness.
I have appreciated her with only half my heart but as I lie here
In this grass and count the clouds I am comforted by
The Love
I’ve never seen in myself
Reflected her skies.
Some nights I wish I could simply sleep soundly
Clutching nothing but your photo
But some nights
The fact that you’re only a photograph for me
Now
Is enough to keep me up all night.
Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Lost Girls Go Everywhere: Poetry & Prose on Amazon!
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Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com
Home, in spite of the house.
Home, in spite of the neighborhood.
By the fourth grade, the many homes I’d had
Could be counted on two hands.
Make new friends, be social,
Strike up conversations to be normal.
I talked with words,
Hoping to find another
Who would talk similar words at me
So we would have some words in common
To talk about.
Report cards chastised my love of words—
“She talks a lot.”
“She talks too much.”
“She talks in class.”
Little girl, hush!
Home, in spite of the city.
Home, in spite of the state.
The state lines blurred and swirled in my head
Class clown or introvert?
But the truth is, when the talking came
To a merciful stop,
That was home.
School bus rides spent in solitude,
Left to my thoughts.
An inconspicuous corner in the park
To people-watch.
Quietly learning things
That can’t be taught.
Silently yearning
To accompany none.
To simply be
In the comforting company of one.
Alone.
Talk is tiresome.
And I’ve talked for too many years.
Home, in spite of society.
Home, in spite of deity.
I covet, I desire, I lust to communicate.
It’s a sin to have waited this long.
To let these words languish,
Unused and unloved.
Herds of unwritten pages
Penned and left silent
Under the varnish of a social façade,
Confused and shoved aside.
The words that aim to hit a woman’s heart,
Not her eardrum.
The words that pull laughter from a man
Residing in the slum of his despair.
The words that inspire the inner child,
Not to give way to fear,
But to demand fear bows at their feet.
Smiling, no matter how many tears scroll down their cheeks.
Surviving collateral damage in the years they toil to be unique.
Braving the verbal batter all the peers who scold their defeat.
Home is right where I write.
Home is right where I think.
Home lies in the honesty of humor, humanity, honor and humility.
Home is in the words
That haunt and transcend language.
And they linger, patient
In the periphery
Needing no translation.
It is the holy dialect of our motherland.
That is the tongue I long to speak.
We are of Taraxacum.
A volatile genus in duress.
Our heads disseminate, blown from our stems.
Rash thoughts ignite into words and whirl
On the wind,
Take seed in a flash of tongue and slice of eye.
In the young, loamy soils
We till fears deep.
They spring up from the ground and
Spark into being.
Fractured fragments of the whole,
Born from friction, this contempt consumes.
And it is like a wildfire.
Thick, fiery vines twist and coil.
Flowers, stoked to an angry bloom, blaze and burst,
Throwing open petals wide with the backdraft of odium.
It scorches and scars the skin of the earth.
We are barbaric in this unnatural state.
Hearts sterilized by the heat of hate.
Hearts full of bitter sap and brambled embers.
Roiling smoke stings and blinds us,
Chokes away our empathy.
This fury lashes through our humanity
Until there are only blackened sticks and
Smoking patches of ashy dirt.
The afterglow of spent, searing sentiments
Fade from the carpel.
Here, a pistil of arrogance and one of defeat,
And here, a pistil of disgust
And another of ignorant nostalgia.
Fear singes the last delicate cell walls
In a red, luminescent squall line.
And finally, fully charred,
The spent bloom wilts and crumbles.
But their fire has not left me infertile.
In this crackling, wild prairie,
There is a budding, a delicate anticipation
That the rains of my sorrows will sprout new growth.
I must germinate, cultivate
A bright breath of compassion,
Lest the world around me burn out and
Smolder into cold nothingness.
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
Our first kiss was in the depths of a
Fetish Room
It was summer, the time of year
For love to blossom like wild daisies
We burned bright and dangerous
A forest fire gone rogue
Suddenly, I felt more daring
Not thinking about tomorrow
The killer of passion
All I wanted to think about
Was how your kisses
Ignited fireworks in me
Exploding into the brightest colors
Whenever we were in the same room
We transformed into a danger zone
Our flames devouring the walls
And although our hearts had
No fire escape to lead us out
We kept on playing Russian roulette
Loading our guns with six bullets
Because death by love
Was ultimately better than
A slow, tedious death.
***
Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Bleed Like Me: Poems for the Broken
Celebrate National Poetry Month!
Men are taught to take what they please
Women are taught to relinquish their treasures with a smile.
It’s why women mistake brutality for love
And men believe a woman’s body is for them
to seize without consequences.
***
Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Bleed Like Me: Poems for the Broken
The bathwater is turning scarlet red.
I wonder what you will think
when you will find me dead.
Never would’ve missed you if you hadn’t left.
Never would’ve loved you if you hadn’t said goodbye.
But very soon you will wonder why,
you abandoned me here to die.
One of these days,
One of these days.
The scent of blood lingers in the room.
Will my death bring you possible doom?
Never would’ve been obsessed if you hadn’t left.
Never would’ve loved you if you hadn’t said goodbye.
But very soon you will wonder why,
you abandoned me here to die.
One of these days,
One of these days.
This scalding blanket of vulnerability
Is giving me more security.
Never would’ve adored you if you hadn’t left.
Never would’ve loved you if you hadn’t said goodbye.
But very soon you will wonder why,
you abandoned me here to die.
One of these days.
One of these days,
You will miss me.
Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Bleed Like Me: Poems for the Broken
The Inkblotters 