Poem (I Will Fight)

i will fight
i will fight until my hands break loose
until my bones crack
until my feet bleed from the running
charging
leaping
i will fight until i am torn and aching
for my sisters
for my sisters
for my sisters
and then i will keep fighting.

i will fight
i will fight until they crush my arms apart
until my eyes weep
until my head cracks from the beating
whipping
bashing
i will fight until i am numb and battered
for my mothers
for my mothers
for my mothers
and then i will keep fighting.

i will fight
i will fight until they start to see us
until i am red and glowing and furious
until my breast breathes loud from the gasping
shattering
thundering
i will fight until they are afraid
for my daughters
for my daughters
for my daughters
and then i will keep fighting.

Poem.

corn and dead grass and emeralds in marbled orb eyes
(shooting moonbeams back at me
in the pitch dark)
watched my every faucet teardrop.
even on covert, soul-sore days.

triangle ears cut from black felt patterns
(so sweet to kiss, so thin
with little network veins sketched in them)
heard each warbled languish mourn-moan.
even in voiceless, zipped-up nights.

cautiously padded paws
(that readied perpetually
my never-quite-squishy-enough-for-you bed dressings)
grazed all my hairline heart cracks.
even from fine, untouchable culprits.


Sweet Olivia,
I cherish the scars that you gave me.

Poem. (Goodbye to my back yard)

i sit
untwisted(freely)
in the sultry velvetness of this hot evening
drinking breath-by-breath in the sweet liquid air

drawing ever in
pushing then out

feeling the salt night on my sticky skin
knowing it was crafted by god for simply just Me

and grass and sky feel softer to the touch
(on this my night)
and compassionately more accessible than other (less here-centered) evenings
and the breeze suggests itself easily to my cheek
“we’re all here
and we’re happy to have you as well.”

Poem.

is this (enough?
is this) worth loving?

hair razored short
and fine as buzzed grass
clear eyes
red and blue
skin bare
bare
bare
stark as midnight
and whiter than pale is pale
flecked and flawed (and fragile)

soft, round body
tearstained down to the tiniest toenail
belly clenched up
twisted up
curled up
in sobs
sobs
sobs

dewdrop eyes
red rimmed and blue
shivery fingertips
grabbing snuggly warm blankets
to keep me here

sweet
sweet
sweet eyes
red around the edges and sparkly blue within
dripping tears like soft piano keys
(silently)
shaking

is this (enough?
is this) worth loving?

big, round bottom
soft shaky hands
tiny short head hairs
long, long legs
red bitten lips
blue weepy eyelashes

is this worth touching
and holding
is this worth breathing into?
(even the tiny short head hairs?)

is this worth:
“damn, i’ve got a great one here”
(even the big, round bottom?)

is this worth
watching sweetly
as you count the stars
sparkling in the baby curls along my neckline?
(even the soft shaky hands?)

is this worth wrapping up
for forever straight
without wanting or tugging or pushing?
(even the long, long legs?)

is this worth sharing a life timeline with?
(even the red bitten lips?)


is this (enough?

is this) worth loving?

(even the blue weepy eyelashes?)

Poems: Two Old and Updated, One New.

#1 (new)

this sweet, tender young thing
what we have
a thin and tenuous line
blushing between us
fromonetoone

this vinegrown flow'ring thing
a hint of a something
an almost yet undefined anything
lying in wait
to flourish
(or not,
we'll see)

yours is a dusted, misty face
and when we walk
away . . . (reluctantly) . . .
i forget its shapes and curves

i only recall the round water hue of your eyes
and vaguely the brightness in them


you come back
and the figure ripples alive:
angles chase down your jaw
slope arcs your nose
a sly sideways creeping smirk twists into your cheek
your eyes alight
our fingers curl up together and snuggle
i rest my head on my free hand.
may i remember more?

(smile to me again?)


#2 (sort of old but updated)

i wish i wrote like e.e. cummings
living life's aliveness nonsensically and ungrammatically with mountains and flowers and the like

i wish i wrote like f. scott fitzgerald
sweetly, satisfyingly, very darkly digging up tragically handsome truths

i wish i wrote like shakespeare
perfect poignant patterns placed profoundly upon his every poised page

i wish i wrote like maya angelou
offering blunt honesty with stark revelations of beauty in open, rough palms sun-dried

i wish i wrote like j.k. rowling
sweeping broad magickscapes intimately along the tender heartlines traced in her rapt readers

i wish i wrote like my father
writing talking reading all that anyone would cry about if they listened hard enough

but,
here
i
am.
and i write
like
me.
(which is...
who?)


#3 (very old but updated)

He doesn't see it.
Did he ever?
That shifting swirl in my eyes
I think it was freedom.

And it's still there

Glimmering in the back of my semigreen gaze
Unbreakably unstealable.

He thought I was his,
But I was never really anybody's
(And never really will be).

That's why it ended:
He thought I was his.

We painted an almostbutnotquite real picture
Of a picture perfect life
(Straight out of a painting).
But the oil slicked away and his eyes had changed color
Turns out I used the wrong paints
And his face looked like someone else's.

And I'm sitting here and I'm starting to realize real sudden:
I'm still free.
I looked in the mirror that morning and saw it
(Again)
And he was gone.

Maybe one faraway day he'll turn around and look backwards
And he'll see it at long last.
And maybe he'll say,
"She was never really mine.
She was always somewhere elsewhere away
Like how her eyes looked.
Like how the sky would look,
If it were semigreen and sparkling.

She was never really mine,
But I guess she was never really anybody's.

And from the way her eyes look,
(That is, if they still look like they used to. But I'll bet that they do.)
She probably never will be."

Poem.

i can feel your deep eyes
and i (don’t) want them back
and i (so) want them back
where have you gone, my love?

i pushed you.

my bare shoulders raise
goosebumps
at your ghost touch
still…
there…

gone.

i can still feel your dark eyes,
my love,
and i (still) want your
hands
hands
hands
like i had them updownaroundme
softly

why did i push you?

i wanted you gone
(i want you gone)
i want you back! my love

i want you back.
so badly i break at the waist
and crack
where have i gone, my love…

in my best days,
i’m here and you’re there and that’s good.
and when i lie down
alone
in the dark
i can feel your deep eyes
and i (don’t) want them back
and i (so) want them back