Stunt Pilot

 

I had more to say than my skin could hold,

so lent my tongue to red weedy blooms

and with Winter Mother still and cold

Sawed and planed her coffin rooms.

I had more to go than my feet had bones

so lent my skin to a spring-stormed road,

a cowbird child from a nest of stones

by an April wind to the May field sowed.

I had more to dream than Night could carry

so lent my skull to Mare in trade

for a poppy dream of elderberries

and a jar of poisoned marmalade.

I had more to die than Death could sanction

so lent my trick to an urn of smoke

and hid there in sly satisfaction

tucked like a babe in Lugus' poke.

________

for Sunday Muse # 155. 

Hates Haiku , Flies Solo

This is the sort of thing that has those bitches snickering behind their hands--
I burned the bed, including the one in my mind,

but I took one of them outside first,
so I'm not as rash as they say.

I have shelves and shelves of poetry--
my own and everybody else's.
"My love is like a red, red rose," like this, and like that,

What a load of crap.

Now I sleep on the couch, in case there's suddenly something good on,
or I feel like steeping myself in a trash novel all night
like some sort of nocturnal tea bag.

I'm always brewing something.

So fuck you, you with the soft lips; you with the strong arms. 
Here's the list, you're on it, get lost.

At 3 a.m. there was a show about dinosaurs.
They had shrimpy brains and big spikes and some had clubs on their tails.
Half of them were girls, all they cared about was
laying eggs and eating.
I watched that shit until the sun came up.

My friend says, "You could still meet somebody."
It's true, I could.
Here I am flying through space with my big bright tail.
Here I fly, with my shitty track record and my poems and my passion.
Here I come, down through the atmosphere, 
not looking for you, but on my way anyway.
_________

for Sunny's "sleep and insomnia" prompt at Toads. I love to sleep. I never have insomnia.

With Telescopes

With telescopes,
everything becomes scientific.
I held still so long watching an insect on a stalk a half mile away,
that birds nested in my ears
and rented my head to a carnival.

When I open my mouth, it's oompah bands.
When I publish, it's pablum.
When you kiss me, it's junk data, but repeatable.
____
 
a 55 for real toads. 

 

Coquette

I made a thing from weeds and bark
and called the thing I made--a heart.
I wrapped it 'round with wire and twine
and crossed it, kept it--called it mine.

Love my heart, love it much
despite the rot and wasps and such
and when you're done--I'll love you back
to see what nightmares come from that.
_______

for Rommy's challenge at Toads.

 
 

Cherokee Kiss

Saint Creola,
patroness of crows and Gypsies,
hear my prayer
and bless our Cherokee kiss

in the asters and black jack--
like anything--
like this.
_______

For Play It Again, Toads #20 at Real Toads. I did Mama Zen's. (well no shirt, Shitlock.)

Sounds kind of like a song. I wonder who should sing it? ;-) 

For J. ( A Sonnet)

"One loves well only once; the first time." --La Bruyere

All that winter I waited, close to you
as breath to words, and yet I was silent,
wise enough to be mute and not intrude,
content as your listening instrument.
No voice was ever so adored as yours--
no hands that made me wish to be the book
they held, so memorized, all else ignored
in my single wish for your favored look.
The devil finds a weakness and within
it builds the sweetest of all illusion.
So, for such deception, thanks are due him;
pieties are best spent when we lose them.

Why did you kiss me, just once, with no word?
Kisses evermore, superfluous...absurd.
__________

Constellation In Glass

I said, "I have the sea inside a glass flower vase.
I have the stars on a necklace string, leather and light."

You said, "Oh, for the blue behind the moon;
the rain that never rains enough--
the silence--the ivory key--the night."

The etched leaves on the face of the flower vase
tell about your fingers on my skin.

And the necklace? Its silver clasp 
opens only once--releasing 
the lonely orderly stars...again.
_______

 

1972

Here is a lily, love.
See that y'never doubt me.

I have things to do this morning--
I can't confess them, and even if I wanted to,
they have burned the churches down in Belfast and in Derry.

Here is a kiss, love.
Do you need a promise, to know that I am true?

Bodies are fragile things,
and that is why I touch yours so tenderly,
as if you might be torn away from me in an instant.

You might, love.
There are still snakes everywhere, no matter the fairy stories.

In her palace sits a queen, and she has everything.
Still, her fingers are never satisfied unless they make a rope
to fit my sweet white throat.

I am a banshee, love,
and so I must scream. For you though, for now, I whisper.

God made everything in seven days--
that's what a good Catholic girl can do.
I have inscribed little crosses on the pipes and in the powder.

Remember me, if I should fail.
I have cut a lock of my red hair where your lips have been,
and nested it in a silver locket for you to keep.

Here is a lily, love.
A sticky for the Easter rising. 

I am not much, love, but I'm yours, no matter what happens today.
I am just red hair and some spit for the Union Jack;
a prayer for Mary and the thing that I must do.