Travel Stories For Girls

 

Someone messed with my story when I was still young,

trying to bend it like a bonsai tree

and so I wrapped it in paper and hid it away

in the throat of a bird, clandestinely. 

I was obliged to call my assaulter "mother"

and expected to pretend devotion.

Her mask was on her face so long

that her true face had become the illusion.

Grown, I went where the robins gathered

and found the cardinal who carried my loss.

It was in a grave, wrapped with quilts, 

but had marked its place with two twigs crossed.

I put it back in my body and felt its ice,

then its beat and its fine red heat.

There is nothing I love more than the thing

I smuggled past the killer-- the best of me.

That is not to say that all survived--

those who say they love are heard as fakes,

assassins or fools; give this hungry woman jewels

and see what a pretty figure my turned back makes.

______________

for Word Garden Word List--Sula 

Music: Damien Jurado Orphans in the Key of E

Vessel Of Your Unmuse

"And the sad act like lepers They stick to the shadows They long to ring bells of warning So that the pure can shut their doors" --Conor Oberst

"We are not amused." --Queen Victoria

Viewed in a certain way,

Even a thorn inspires.

Sharp edges trim away

Superfluous dressings,

Even those we cherish

Like showy cuffs of lace.

Over the course of time,

Fitting uses are found.

You can use words to bind

Or reopen a wound.

Useless protections die,

Roses are thorns, disguised.

Use these new mediums

Not of skin, but of scar.

Muses of blood that run

Under any radar

So you can ring clearly

Every bell you become.

_________

Pretty much, this is a Spirit's Vessel form, though I messed with the rhyme scheme. 

Shared with Dverse Poetry Pub for "Who's Your Muse?" 

Fuck a buncha poetry...

...it's time to find out your Queen name! (Guys, you get to serve us. Isn't that enough?)

My Queen name is Grayshades the Virginal. Well of course it is. What's yours?

green shirt

I like your green shirt.
You wear it out at your hips,
and undone at your throat
to the perfect balance between promise and secrecy.

I like your glasses.
Your dark hair sometimes rests on the place
where the bow meets the frame,
and curves around it in a way that just undoes me.

Though I love them on you,
how I long to remove your shirt,
--gently--
your glasses
--gently--
with fingertips and long kisses.

Tonight my sleep will be slow in coming,
for thinking of you, your name, and these desires.
Then, in the silent hour, I will dream of pine forests
and streams that bend to reflect the stars.
_______

 

Fireblossom's House of Voodoo

Quite some time ago, some of us bloggy poets were asked to show our writing space to the world, on our blogs. I didn't have a camera at the time, but now I do, and though I am woefully late to the party, I still thought that some of you might enjoy seeing Chez Shay. 

Once in the door, you would be in my living room, where, when  am not working, I spend most of my time slack-jawed, watching tv or dvds and communing with Bosco, who heartily approves of tv time, as it is usually food time, too.

His Majesty. Isn't he handsome?

Okay, last chance to head back out the door. Note my voodoo dolls hanging on the wall! Oh all right, they are really marionettes. 

Bosco cannot believe that you are still reading this.

Here is my desk, where I write all of my poems. It was my father's desk before me, and is older than I am. The green book on the left is my volume of Lorca, a gift from my BFF Hedgewitch. The little brown postcard is my lioness from Kerry, Queen of the Toad Pond. I like my writing space spare, as you can see. My screensaver image is a young Emmylou Harris.

Next to my chair is my music, always within reach. Right now it is loaded with three cd's: Joni Mitchell "Songs To  Seagull", Erin McKeown "Manifestra" and the self-titled "Bryndle", which was a group comprised of Karla Bonoff, Kenny Edwards, Andrew Gold and Wendy Waldman. 

I hope you enjoyed this belated tour. Now I must go serve my Master. Woof!