Success is measured with the shoe pile
Stacked high as their heels, in the corner.
A girl’s plumage, fangs, and armor
Cast aside.
Bait the trap with the rhythm
Familiar, swaying, upbeat.
Defenses lowered, shoes kick off
To pile in the corner.
Watch it rise with the noise in the room
The bass of the rhythm
The stomping of feet
Joy caught in the moment.
in the 80s
we used to walk past straight couples
holding hands & kissing on the street
& I would be raging inside
that we weren’t allowed to do the same
we could do it now I guess
in the big cities at least
without fear of being called faggots
or beaten to death with baseball bats
if we were still together
On cold winter nights in Appalachia
the featherbed helped keep me warm
covered in quilts handmade by Gran
her work of art in true mountain form.
When warmth from the fire had gone
and the cookstove cinders burned out
cold from outside entered the house
as the wintertime wind moved about.
Because of Gran’s handcrafted quilts
and the softness of a goose feather bed
on winter nights I’d always stay warm
with love in each patch by hand and thread.
Regrettable choices
There have been quite a few
Plenty of I’m sorry(s)
Paste due dates on to dos
Many evenings I sit repentant
Begging for forgiveness
One bedroom apartment
Turned confessional booth
Yet every one and zero
In my bowl of alphanumeric primordial soup
Lovingly
Violently
Led me
To (all) of you
They will not behave, these words
of mine. They fight or flee,
refuse to bring the music in my
head to the page, and I begin to think
I’d be better off, more useful
to society pouring coffee and toasting
bagels, until the rhythmic thunk-thunk
of their fall through the slicer
reminds me of music . . .
A warm cup of tea
A cloudless starry night
The cutest little ladybug
Making time to write
The wave from a neighbor
The call from a friend
A hug and a kiss
at each days end
The smell of anything baking
or creating a new dish
Picking every dandelion you see
closing your eyes and making a wish
Dont be waiting for all those big moments in life
missing the little things right in front of your face
Those little things are what keeps you going
filling your life with glitter and grace.
The fun pile of memories
In the heat of childhood visits
where there was no pain or struggle
only picnics and watermelon
walks in the dry red river
swimming in the cold
spring fed pool
The pile of gossip and pain
who owes who what
who left who, when and for whom
the despair of
no water
no job
is too much
wind and heat take over
The pile of dreams
moved around
piled up
pushed down
endless attempts to preserve
when red turned hight contrast
to the remains of cotton
scattered in the field
I’ve watched you hold
And take care of the old
Raggedely things
With devotion and faithfulness
You preserve, repair and reuse them
Respect them
We, the dinged, the dented, the squeaky
Are grateful, we
Ramshackly things
From a full chest filled with breath, I say truely
My heart is this big for you
The leaky old thing
