safari porn

in the highest places what is green is missing while

in the lowest places the green hangs lower still, lower than the

cow caught necking and not in the romantic picture that goes

viral all over the internet but with a virus that’s so subvirile even

the bull wouldn’t be caught dead knowing that giraffes

don’t neck, and don’t sleep much drowsing less than two hours a day,

savannah dwellers, whisper yellers, and still the fellers

bachelor herds

the only animal known for its neck and heck that virus check reveals

all is weller in the necking world of savannah dwellers even when there’s

a bottle neck in the safari industry the wake up call will always be the green

possibility of seeing giraffes neck high in the wild

 

 

 

spittle

the apple tree

crisp fragrance

before molten fall

an epic harvest

to savor

yet,

you took one heart shaped bite

then spit it out

for the crows

 

I painted the room purple

I painted the room purple

for betrayal

angry brush strokes smashed against the wall

I’m certain the neighbors heard

divided allegiance

because you tainted their perception

of me

with your lies and twisted truth

oh mountains majesty

a Lenten journey I did not agree to make

when I signed myself with ash

hung the sackcloth curtains

empty belly from an imposed fast

believing Good Friday is not the end

and lilacs resurrect from tombs

but only when its time

you can’t buy lilacs at the florist

I painted the room purple

 

(Prompt for Hour Sixteen:

Write down the first line of your poem before reading the rest of this prompt..

Write the rest of your poem, the poem can be about any subject that you like.

Then copy and paste the first line so that it is also the last line of your poem. You can change one word of this line, but only one word.)

breathing fire

when the wagon wheel broke

they stopped

for good

no one had the heart anymore to go on

this place would be enough

 

the fire tender started the first fire

using small sticks and leaves that the children gathered

and larger logs that the older children carried together

 

the fire tender drew a circle around the fire

and no one could enter without her permission

“mother, may I?”

“yes, I see you, I know you are safe, yes, you may”

and she watched

 

the fire tender kept buckets of water nearby

and the thickest blanket for smothering

the tools of safety

in case she should fail

 

the fire tender always smelled like smoke

work fire smoke;

as the village grew

all fire descended from the first fire

the kitchen fires

the blacksmith fires

the fires that burned the dead animal carcasses that died from sickness

the fires that burned the weeds off the fields

the candles in the bedrooms where babies were born, or children read books

the wedding fires and other village liturgy fires

all fires knew the fire tender was their mother

 

the fire tender’s heart beat

fanning the flames

of the first fire, the work fire

pumped the essential life blood of fire through the veins and ventricles of the village

 

the fire tender welcomed the story teller into her home

and together the two women lived

keepers of the flame of fire and story

creators of light and life and passion

both smelling of smoke

and tending the flames

 

(Prompt for Hour Fifteen:

Write a poem about the heart. But don’t focus on the heart as a metaphor, focus on it as a reality. For example the function the heart serves in the body, or heart monitors, etc.)

broken glass

I took my kids to the beach

to collect sea glass

greens and blues

from glass tossed into the ocean

then tossed about in the ocean

before being tossed up by the ocean

onto the sand

broken, yet beloved

edges softened, touchable

kissable

resurrecting in new beauty, new life

a mosaic collection where purple’s the prize

that once danced with seaweed

and waxed and waned with wave and moon and mermaid

until washing ashore

a treasure

 

(Prompt for Hour Fourteen:

Write a nature poem. But play with the genre. Most nature poems are about the beauty of the natural world. I want you to focus on the intersection of the natural world and the unnatural world. Think dandelions sprouting through the concrete. Think garbage on the ocean or Ivy on a house, even flowers at a wedding.)

Naaman’s slave girl (2 Kings 5: 2-19)

where is your name, slave girl?

you’ve gone missing

taken from your family

not remembered enough to even have a name

purchased, war bounty from a raid

attentive to your mistress

who didn’t have a name either,

wife of Naaman;

through compassion you became blessing, slave girl

a remnant of the colored cloak of another slave, your ancestor

and you, slave girl with the missing name,

a liberator for the one with the name, Naaman;

what milk carton bears your image, your name?

what mother searched for you?

what was the smell of the pillow your father carried daily because you had last slept on it?

where is the dust that still carries your name, your bone, your marrow?

where is the book that your name is written so I can read it, slave girl, instead of this one marked Kings?

I want the book named Slave Girl

I want the book with your name gone missing

 

 

 

 

I didn’t use Jeep, Breastbone, or Panic

she liked to call Monday her Sabbath

and eat peaches at the lake

under a canopy of beach elms

with the squirrels chattering

brave enough to scanter across her picnic blanket

stealing peaches for themselves

celebrating in glory their bounty

which they didn’t have to steal

because she was ready to toss them a spare

peach for the beach

until the moon shown

a perfect peach in the evening sky

reflecting orange syrupy colors

that dripped away like her Sabbath

 

happily

I probably should have waited until I’d fallen in love

or was old enough to vote

instead

as soon as I met myself fully for the first time

stepped out of my closet approved sanctuary

declared myself ready for my happily ever after

I was asked, not asked, told, to leave this house,

abomination.

They did give me $100 to get started

on my way

as long as my way was away.

I sewed a bright pink triangle to my backpack

to make sure we all knew

what exactly was happening here.

Transcripts would not be following me,

and my happily ever after became my happily never after.

Shelters don’t take minors.

Minors are fresh meat on the streets.

So I headed to the mountains, of Colorado.

I don’t think of myself as homeless, but houseless.

My home is in my tent, with my sketch pad, and a dog that adopted me along the way.

I named her Milk. For Harvey Milk.

Our hometown is here, and our time is now.

We once camped in a lady’s backyard for four months.  We chopped wood for her and piled it on the back porch.

She offered us a space in the house, in a room with a crucifix, but we’d rather live houseless than in a room with a tomb.

When she died her son gave me her hatchet, and I keep it in the tent to sleep with at night.   Me and Milk and our hatchet are home now.

Happily severed after.

 

 

 

 

splish

the girl child came early to church

to help prepare the sanctuary

place the candles

put the ribbons into the book in the right places

place flowers in vases for the altar

she vacuumed and swept

even used Windex and newspaper on the stained glass windows that were low enough for her to reach

she pulled the empty silver insert out of the baptismal font

filled it with water

and brought it to the priest for a blessing

for that is how holy water gets its holiness,

but

the priest bent down

took the silver bowl of water from the girl child

and asked her to bless the water,

and the priest;

the girl child placed both of her hands into the water

and began to splash

and smile

and the blessing words that she spoke were,

“thank you, God, thank you”

and the splashing holy water landed on the girl child, and the priest, and the altar, and more

home

we carried her poetry in an old lunch box

metal, with a broken clasp

so we tied it shut with an orange bandanna

and put a sunflower in the knot

there was a faded picture of Kermit the Frog on the outside

 

I led,

we took turns carrying the lunch box

as we maneuvered the boardwalk of Yellowstone Park

the stench of sulfur crept into our clothes

we knew we’d take the stench home with us,

she followed behind

 

in her wheelchair

the eagle floated the stretch of the river beside us

while she floated, using those electronic controls that respond to her lips, her breath

steering her own way on the boardwalk

content to follow behind, mostly so I didn’t hover

free to glance

 

at whatever caught her inner eye

selecting images and collecting words along the way

so that when we arrived at the end of the boardwalk

at that big deck in the mountain meadow

where moose wander by

I would open the lunch box

drop the sunflower and forget it there

pull out a new piece of paper

she asked me to use the purple pen

and scribe her words

 

if I could choose one

to walk or fly, I’d choose to

give eagle a ride

 

she titled the poem “home”