Seattle Metro Poetry on Buses
Home is where the heart is.
Hearts, in jars on a glass shelf.
Hearts, on tattooed arms with bloody drips?
Hearts, by teenagers, their folded fingers and palms touching?
Hearts, drawn in purple crayon on paper, taped to the refrigerator door?
Yep. Like that
Seattle Star May 2015
Aggressive little buggers
for such petite flyers.
Mid-air hovering on invisible wings
greedily hungrily stabbing slender tongues
into high-octane sugar water.
Possessive territorial and
vibrating at a rate
that cannot allow relaxation.
Sun reflects glimpses of vibrant heads
but, eye-catching is not often nice.
Dive bombers with evil intent to harm
people, dog, squirrel, or another.
If they were humans
they would be slender, chain smoking,
bitches, that drink too much
Splenda sweet coffee and talked trash
as they dyed their hair unnatural colors.
Before Dinner was on the Table
We consumed mom
before dinner was on the table.
We couldn’t help it.
Her maternal core calibrated to love.
Worn flowered apron wrapped
her middle-aged pudge.
Covered her elastic waist jeans.
Covered her stretch marks.
Covered pain cut deep when dad left.
Covered the stupid ridicule of
our petty opinions about
her television shows, lacking pop knowledge,
thin greying brown hair, loose thighs,
computer futility and boxed wine.
Our unconditional arrogant right for love
like royalty takes upon a whim.
Careless of the bits crumbling off her
invisible honeyed paths scattering
from the kitchen to the laundry room
to carpool lanes and ended in our bedrooms.
We gobbled her up.
Horror Writers Anthology
Poetry Showcase volume 2
I am the Monster under your Bed
I am the monster under your bed.
I am the one with slender wrists
that grab ankles when you rise to drink
and pulls you quick under the wooden frame.
I am the one that creaks the floorboards and
makes the hollow whispers sing from your closet.
I am the one that waves my fingers
with long dirty nails in front of your night light,
creating moving shadows on your bedroom walls.
I am the one that collects children’s toes and
wear them, a lovely necklace of wobbly shaped pearls.
It makes me giggle so hard I almost wet myself
when you cover your head with a blanket.
You can’t run fast enough to your parent’s room
because, sweet dear,
I live there too.
Silver Birch Press
and EMPOWERING STRONG
MOMS EVERYWHERE (ESME)
Waiting for the Oatmeal to Cool
I wait for the oatmeal to cool
the honey and almond milk
poured and stirred to speed the process
I wait for you to stop chewing,
the stained cookie monster bib
faded blue from bleach and washings
I wait for you to open your
perfect pouty pink lips
enough that the baby spoon slips in
I wait for you to crawl
I wait for the still night when
my sleep is not interrupted
by your selfish need for me
I wait for the quiet when you
and your brothers are in summer camp
kindergarten and college
I wait for you to drive my car
dent my car, then
fib about the circumstance
I wait for you to cry
your heart tattered by loves
first wretched break
I wait for you to fly away
our homes many states apart
your busy busy mid-aged life
I wait for your Sunday calls
your proof of affection and
sharing children’s new baby pictures
I wait for you to talk to my doctor
or help start my ridiculous
stupid motorized chair
I wait for you to warm my soup
and steady my spoon as it
slips between my thin lips
My lovely girl
I wait for you
Summer in Del Rio
By Suzanne and Rita Bailie
Two years since a drop of rain whispered through town,
Even tress withered right out of the ground.
Folk clung to the shade afraid of day light hours,
Their petrified souls cried for cool water.
Under the dark of a new moon a lone
Silhouette appeared on the outskirts of Del Rio.
A rider, an angel of sorts, with icy blue eyes darting with fire.
God’s eternal foe in black hat and buckskin.
Whispered thoughts led him to the saloon.
Where he flowed on a motionless breeze.
All drinking ceased. Even the flies held their breath.
The place became as still as a cathedral.
Glancing round the room with predator knowing.
He strode right by their hollow desperate souls.
Wisps of smoke curled from his dark skin boots.
“Large whiskey,” the simple order.
“I’m powerful thirsty and I’ve a fiendish ride.
Pour me your best golden fire.”
With shaking hands, the barkeep filled an empty glass.
Whiskey downed through pale thin lips.
On the wooden counter, he tossed a gold coin.
It burned forever all who tried to claim it.
With a Sulphur sigh, he left the bar
and people still claim to this day.
When Lucifer, himself, needs a shot.
It must be summer in Del Rio.
A Scent More Intoxicating
The crew and I orbit in a sterile shell of titanium and composites.
Earth cargo was delivered 13:25.
Among the supplies and experiments were gifts from home.
We hovered in a circle, taking turns enjoying this bittersweet pleasure.
From my wife, a present of dirt from our backyard.
Trina wrote, “Sprinkle with water, wait a minute, then open to smell.”
Well-trained to execute orders, sixty seconds later I lifted the lid and inhaled.
Earth bound memories burst through me.
Freshly turned potatoes and carrots still covered in dirt.
The forest floor spongy against bare feet.
Muddy boots resting by the back door.
Cloaking fragrance of the gooey mire near a creek.
Rosy cheeks of our children playing in the wild.
The perfume of mushrooms, trees, ponds, fallen leaves,
frogspawn, worms and damp roots.
This was the gift of mother earth.
The others asked if they could enjoy
what made me smile and close my eyes.
Not just any dirt. Too much sand or pebbles simply ruins it.
It has to be soft and dark and rich.
Even a slight smell fills my head
stirring up an odd longing that I don’t deny.
Of course I looked up this strange behavior.
After reading about my socially inappropriate, unhealthy desire
I began a wide array of supplements. They didn’t curb my enthusiasm for the most ignoble of stuff.
Dirt just sounds so, dirty.
Who would do what I do?
My husband smiles and gently wipes
smudges of dirt off my cheeks.
He thinks I love gardening.
Fearing my genes could taint my children I forbid
them to make gooey mud pies or even help pull weeds.
My small organic flower garden sits in the corner of the yard.
As fall nears I scope earth into plastic containers
and freeze it for the winter.
While January’s ice turns soil to cement
I microwave a spoonful of loam and hold it in my mouth
a delicious hint of a summer day.
Espial Journal 2016
I Clung to You
The day you left.
I clung to you
with hot and heavy hands.
I held tight
knowing my sisters
would scoff in disgust
at my unbridled love
and desperate adoration.
The Origin Story
The origin story is within me
I too have a pedigree from stardust
Classic super hero melodies flow in my blood
It's the same for you too
Slogging through the day, then
BANG SMACK KABOOM
The opportunity for change
or the need for change...
Heroes allow it to wash through them
embrace the discomfort of transformation
Molecules tickled their DNA improved
I fight it, deny it, and sabotage it
Being a super hero is stupid.
Weirderary Volume One
Mexico Vacation Album
My photo album
Dead things seen in Mexico
Example fish, dog
Bird, cow, flat lizard, starfish
Old woman on gift shop floor
She Rises: Why Goddess Feminism, Activism, and Spirituality? Volume 1. Published Mago Books
What Does a Moon Goddess Do?
She rides her moon rays around the twirling world.
Or floats, a moving silver reflection, on tropical seas.
Under the large luminescent pearl,
she feasts with fairies on sweet night dew
then dances on soft snowflakes drifting in the dark sky.
The night owl soars with her resting on its glistening wings.
Her flaxen head sleeps on blue sand dunes.
Softly, her breath flows through you.
Seattle Star 2015
High strung shivering ninnies.
Their DNA closer to a rat
than a real, warm your feet and heart, dog.
Always predictably ridiculously aggressive.
Biting ankles, beady eyed, ear scratchers.
You’re as fierce as a bowl of pudding.
Run and hide, shaking behind the couch.
Or cower in your own puddle of yellow.
Your repetitive high-pitched yapping only draws
attention to your innately inferior nature.
Take your small-statured, Napoleon complex,
thin-skinned self, off to an island,
far far far away.
Go live with other useless creatures
like centipedes and scorpions.
Syzygy Poetry Journal
Tomorrow I'll Paint the Door
The setting sun will die someday too.
This summer love ends and
a new bottle of Chardonnay opens.
Out my back door, at the edge of the meadow,
a fox trots by carrying
the last of my respect from his black lips.
Like my fading tan
slipping easily from my skin,
your warm clasp is gone.
From your pants pocket a whisked key,
tossed on the wooden table by
the front door, I’ll paint blue tomorrow.
Syzygy Poetry Journal
You shone on me in Mexico.
Empty tequila bottle,
faded green slices of lime,
a feel good time,
all left by the pool.
we walked the damp night beach.
Your lips were salty dry.
Our moon shadows became one.
Now, you shine only on him.
You both want another.
You are of my blood.
Yet, we are cold oceans apart.
A needle’s width means
miles and years.
I’m told blood is about 75% water.
If so, can the currents of
red hallowed love
that flows hidden through
our ancestral DNA
help us find our way back?
I can’t answer your call.
The cloud of hopelessness
too heavy too dark
for me today.
I’ll bind myself
in a blanket,
and lay awake all night.
Pleading with your guardian angels
to get their asses in gear.
I simply can’t anymore.