Friday, September 12, 2014

POETRY - His Fingertips

His Fingertips

His fingers so wide
I cannot slip mine

So I hang onto the tips.
Smile, happy inside.

He curls around
enfolds my hand.
I am cocooned
safe for the day.

When I have grieved enough
he will open that hand
and let me soar.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

POETRY - Beneath My Skin

Beneath My Skin

My emotions are just
beneath my skin.

My body barely able
to contain them.

What happens
if they escape
take wing?

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Poetry - The Women

The Women

The women live
up and down
the street.
Each has a box
with a door.

They sell themselves.
They buy a chance.
They –
for the best.

They want –

Sometimes they win.
More often –
     slapped down
               chewed up
                    spat out
by those
designed to protect.

The women
continue to give.
Each generation,
each culture,

knead their bread.
Finds the food
to fill their bellies.

They take to their
beds. Want passion
and softness.
Some win,
get to sleep in
his arms, safe
through the night.

Some not so lucky.
Wam Bam
Thank You Ma'am.
Or worse –
               torn apart.

Lie in confusion,
in despair.

They gave it all.
Tried to hold
on to their souls.
But some gambled,
lost that too.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

POETRY - Why Do Poets Write

Why Do Poets Write

Why do poets write?
The obvious, trite answer
because we have to.
But why?

I write because
I have no choice.
I need to tell my truth.

The words tremble
in my body
on my tongue.
My mind sometimes
frightened, terrified.

Banks of fog.
I pull phosphorus
letters from the sea.
I gather them
begin to build the words.
To tell my tale, my truth.

When I am afraid.
It makes me –

I pick I choose
till it is right
and then I sleep.

But still it is not done.
I say my poetry
gives me voice.
It does.

It requires that I speak
say it out loud. The words
spring to my lips.
Get caught in my tongue.

Sometimes tastes of bile,
other times so sweet, so light.

They can be sticky
grasping to my body
not wanting to leave
the safety of my lips.

Each time a word is
spoken, a sinew rips
and it is strengthened.

I am so tired.
I fall asleep.
I can rest.

I wake, I tremble
I write again
because I have to.