Poppies

poppies nod

brave morning

they unfurl 

trusting light 

tangerine crepe

tissue-paper thin 

their core

darkness 

exposed

to heal 

beneath 

brilliance 

:hrr

Mourn

oh, how long
history lasts

passed

shame literal
as eye color

folklore like
a birthmark

if-this, then-that

i turned
out inside
the self
that is my

layered flesh
like safety

curved smile
of female hidden,
unadored

the artifact
buried,
neglected

my sad loss;
reason to

For some reason tonight, putting my clothes away, I felt compelled to write what the poem above is about. I have more clothes than I think I do; when I've done all of my wash, I'm surprised. I usually end up feeling I'm wasteful and have a sense that each item is an attempt to cover, disguise, and hide "me."

The poem above is about women. Our strength has been wasted on survival, which takes a toll. It's hard to go along, to avoid, to keep peace, and sometimes, to remain safe and to be protective.

The lesson was passed on that our bodies were something to fear; our power was denied or we handed it over, our beauty too risky, and our desire for love, acceptance, and respect, selfish and unwomanly. We tend to be fairly good mothers; but we can't mother ourselves. In doing that, we do fail as mothers. Many of us have been abused, punished, neglected, and abandoned. We've repeated cycles that we didn't even know existed, and have had almost identical experiences generations apart. Our stories are not unlike so many other women - past and present.

This poem is one attempt to mourn the loss of the beautiful female; and an attempt to rediscover and celebrate her. The weight I've learned to carry is the weight of our collective sadness. It no longer serves me - it's "reason to."

Ms. Misery

misery finds me
buried beneath paper
where I've made myself
another small scrap
not unlike the others

she lifts corners with
fingers like thin-bladed
swiss army knives
she's pretty on the outside
sharply wicked on the inside

her indiscriminate slices
do random damage
like paper cuts
I don't detect until later

I eat my words;
I am learning
to use invisible ink

Verse Ain't Free

the poet competes -
words are sport
of an individual kind

accolades and
applause shave
our insecurities
like seconds off
the clock

a ribbon of response
proof that our words
are not unremarkable

we grow flabby -
cigarette in hand,
drink on the desk
with melting ice -
making rings mother
wouldn't approve of

we exercise the one
gray matter muscle,
hunched over the broken
"f" key on the keyboard,
the sticky, clicking, echoing
typewriter that doesn't always work

our ink-stained fingers,
clutch crumpled napkins,
stuff torn notebooks
into backpacks, purses -
piles on the floor

all that paper a
steady diet for the
silverfish who live
like us; stuck between
two sheets of paper,
disintegrating when pressed

Detta - 1968

black enameled
stairs, worn
with sorrow
climbed solemn
to a second floor

her small room
sat back, tucked
within an alcove
a bright tiny space

pink chenille
remembered
her weight -
dancing legs,
laughter like
sudden joy

when I arrived
the sacred heart
was still smiling -
but even
the floorboards
missed her

the only light
in a dark house