Duende and Honey (a poem)

Duende and Honey

music headphones listen

Today I give you music.

Melodies

to make your spirit

rise

and

 sink

Harmonies like feathers stroking fur

rains pelting earth under glowing sun

stars streaking against inky blackness

I give you the old songs

that curl around you

warm

like mother’s blanket

honeyed tea

to soothe your weary soul

I give you drumbeats

tapping

pounding

thrumming

dancing with your heart

I give you fingers stroking strings

playing shivers

along your spine

and lyrics

golden poetry

to shine in your darkest places

duende

to stoke forgotten fires

words to cure

words to lift

words that sail across this vast sea that

divides us

and whispers my name

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Willow Spirits (a Poem)

Warmth will fade and winds will blow

Then come ice and winter’s snow

In dormant sleep we lie below

Still, in the spring, our tendrils grow

 

Roads may end before they start

Cruelty’s arrow, Cupid’s dart

Pain to pierce the fragile heart

But we refuse to fall apart

 

Though rocks may fall and ground may quake

And tears will spill and hearts will ache

Our willow spirits rise, awake

To bow, to bend, but never break

 

bruce lee willow trees in wind

Badass (A Poem)

Does anyone know when the rules changed?

When once women

smiled upon, praises heaped

for her whispers, powder-soft feminine grace

delicate charms

rewarded for fragility

her tears like treasures raining from lowered lashes

Stay pretty, they told us.

We were cherished once

honored

Bought, never borrowed

safe beneath his wing.

Until

the world thought it best to change the picture

sudden shift

grafitti-marred brick wall displays

the new Femme Fatale

strong, savage beauty

clad in black leather

full lips like blood, eyes like flames.

Though born soft, she is tossed in the arena

to fight alone

Badass

Rogue

Swallow the dark elixir they feed us

inject fantasy into our skin like tattoos

Be HER, they tell us.

Buffy, Katniss, Khaleesi

Forge the spirit of Athena

the hardness of the Amazons.

Fight with the strength of a man

dance the lead like a man

be ever more like a man

but stay…

pretty.

female warrior

Crayons (a poem)

“Use the whole box of crayons,” he said.

So I spilled the box

and began to paint my life

Orange: cheerful days that glow

Green: for fragile things that grow

Silver: hard work, dollars earned

Blue: for love that’s not returned

Purple’s passion paves the road

Yellow’s laughter shares the load

Bright red flames for bridges burned

Blue is love that’s not returned.

Gray the silence lasts so long

White the empty, sterile song

Black the endings, lessons learned

Blue, the love that’s not returned.

Fiffer-Feffer-Splunk (aka: Happy World Poetry Day!)

Say-It-With-a-Poem

Today’s a special holiday

observed across the land

a time to honor poetry

the crummy and the grand.

 

Egads! You cry. You rhymed your blog?

Oh dear, such cruelty

to force the world to read your slop

transformed to poetry!

 

Take heart – for only once a year

deserves such accolade

tomorrow, from your memories

these dreadful rhymes will fade

 

(Nature aims to set the mood

with gray and thunderous rain

as though the weather knows it too,

that rhyming is a pain.)

 

I guess I could have skipped the rhymes

and written in haiku

or flowing, esoteric prose

Like Maya Angelou.

 

Or, break the rules like Dr. Seuss

and fill the gaps with junk

like cats in hats and Sam-I-Am

and Fiffer-Feffer-Splunk

 

But genius poet I am not

so my apology

for this experiment

in lame originality.

 

Well, that’s a wrap, it’s time to go

amazing how time flies.

I’d better hustle back to work

and quit this exercise.

 

Now it’s your turn.

Come on…it’s not like you can do much worse.

Let’s honor World Poetry Day

by writing blogs in verse.

poetry talk

Wings (aka: Two Poems on a Winter’s Day)

Ode to a Caterpillar

 

Oh little caterpillar

who brought such color to the world!

How I remember

tiny fingers grasping

heavy Mason glass

swift

ready to catch, to observe

the free ones

the ones with wings

the ones who flew.

So much you learned, as you curled

safe

in your small, loved home

until today

fragile walls tearing loose

open crack of wide, wide blue

cupped in hands

to test new wings.

Oh butterfly

this world is yours.

caterpillar-to-butterfly

 

Night Angels

 

Eyes lifted toward darkened skies

strapped warm in leather womb

hushed voices mingle with

steady drone.

There I see it

flash of copper light

brief sight of wingless angel

flying in the night.

Warm sigh

fingers pressed, cold against glass

until

once more the darkness lifts

and angel glows.

One by one

on tall, steel legs

they dance

across the stars

halos burning in bronze glory

as my lashes droop

beneath watchful eyes.

street-lamps-shining

Too Much Like Water (a poem)

(I wrote this poem tonight, though it has been in my heart since a friend (or one I thought was a friend) stopped being a friend. What makes a person decide to stop being a friend? What makes a person decide to stay? What do we do with the unanswered questions that haunt us? Was it something I did? Was it something about me? About us? All I can do is turn my obsessions to poetry.)

Too Much Like Water

Maybe I was too thirsty
and you heard the rasp and rattle
when I spoke
with words unused too long.
Maybe I was too much rain
crystal, pouring drops
flooding shallow banks
too soon.
Or together, two strong rivers
flowing, roiling, pushing
for the narrow neck
to the wide, vast sea
Or you, like ice
(like me)
unyielding
ungiving
Or we, a stream
that rippled toward the sun
whose hissing touch
left us only vapor.