The Lady Wore Black
The lady wore black,
the color of poets,
dark force with which
to be reckoned.
Powerful vibes
emanating
in noble hues.
The color of
melancholy chants
but also romantic,
not empty as
bright colors are.
Signifies water -
cleansing
of sadness.
Color of outer space
beckoning us
as far as we see.
Used by cave dwellers
to showcase
their lives.
The color of words
blackened on pages
of our existence.
Poets celebrate the
uniqueness of black
opening up
onyx realms of
creativity.
Disney Did the Dirty
Testing the waters,
I’m married to a rabbit
but I’m a human cartoon,
he’s the one who should
breed like a rabbit soon.
I was drawn to be
voluptuous and sexy
by Disney cartoonists
and they purposely forgot
to draw on my undies.
But, alas, my Roger
uses Viagra -
Roger can’t get it up
and all my curves
are going to waste.
blowing in the wind
with nary a taste
and I am horny
and unfulfilled.
In other words,
I swipe at dry crumbs
He’s unable to do
what rabbits should do.
I flail and curse at
my open heart
and open legs
as I turn bright red
on center stage.
Men in audience
stare back at me.
I jump into bed
with another stud,
part-owner of town
where I reside.
He’s not that hot,
but he will do
until I find
a replacement man.
I smooth my hands
over my svelte body
and notice a bump
crowding my tummy.
Dr. Doolittle proclaims,
"Congratulations, Jessica,
you’re having a litter,”
as I lie spread eagled
in a paper gown.
How can I have a litter?
I’m not a bunny
and it’s not my honey’s.
I slink back home
to confess to Roger
but he has been
arrested for killing
my paramour.
I cry to myself,
it’s all my fault
he didn’t want
to do such a
drastic thing.
But I was wrong
Roger didn’t do it!
Judge Sicko,
deranged psychopath,
had vowed
to destroy Roger.
Judge’s goggle eyes
had focused on me,
for his turn
at a tryst.
I meet Judge Sicko
for a drinkie poo
and poison his drink,
swirling it
with my little finger,
then leave the bar.
Roger is released
says he’ll accept
my litter so
I leave whole pack
of baby bunnies
with him and sashay
undulating hips
on my journey
to find a
hard lover,
fully aware that
a good lover
is hard to find
but a hard lover
is good to find.
After all, a sexy
cartoon character
takes what she
can get before
it’s too late, baby,
it’s too late!
Why, oh why,
did imagination
of Disney
make me this way?
I really can’t help
going astray.
Mind Games Two - Kiss of Death (collaboration and revised version of @ruffmiriam ’s poem, Mind Games)
I shovel your love in grave at my feet,
hiding behind your bedroom eyes,
sewer seeking lowest level in lies.
I hang by my neck from a rope,
swinging toward you, then swing back,
always yearning for your visits late
at night, when you smell of sex.
Tossing my insides out, leaving
my mind in utter disarray as I moan
please stay, please go, show me mercy,
revisiting same old crippled highway.
Love me in your heat, defend me
from your cheat, mangy dog in heat,
ferry me to heaven – endless delusion
until great divide – kiss of death.
Pink Lies
“Did you dream of me?” She asked opening her eyes to the morning’s bright sun. The mini-blinds were in the half open position, causing shadows and sun-streaks across the bed cover.
“Yes, I did.” lied. I sleep little these days.
“Was I beautiful?” She asked.
“You still are.” I answered, kissing her brow.
“Pink lies.” She smiled. White lies are for your friends. Pink lies are for your chemo-patient friends. That was the only tweet she had ever tweeted. That was in the beginning when she still had hope.
“You are beautiful.” I whispered, placing another small kiss on her cheek. She turned towards the window and the morning sun, her back staring at me. From outside a morning bird chirped a melody. Inside, the only sound was the quiet hiss of the small air tubes delivering oxygen.
“What was your dream about?” She asked.
Any answer I gave would be another lie. She sleeps a lot these days. I don’t. I stay up all night watching her. I look for the rise of her chest, you know, to be sure. Sometimes I will trace my finger along the scars. One on the left, a longer one on the right. The scars replaced her small breasts. They felt strange beneath my fingers as if there was something below the skin. I watch her closed eyes. The movement behind her colorless lids is rapid and constant. I wonder what she is dreaming of. I watch her lips. They were dry and cracking. Sometimes they bleed. Sometimes I see them moving, talking her silent-dream talk. I lean over, placing my ear close, hoping to hear her words. There are none. I look at her head where her beautiful fiery red hair once was. It’s all gone now. Smooth whiteness. Her aunt knitted her a wool cap, a fiery red cap. A fuzzy red ball with two little eyes sits on top the cap. It makes her laugh. She wears it all the time unless she’s sleeping. It’s too hot at night. She hates her baldness. There were so many other things she could have complained about, the nausea, mouth sores, the constant tingling in her hands and feet, the lack of any energy. But she has never once complained about those things. Just the baldness. Oh, she had the most beautiful red hair. It fell below her shoulders, bounced with the slightest move of her head. It was so soft and always smelled of gardenia, amber and vanilla. Musky yet intoxicating. The first time I saw her I knew I had to touch that hair. She never takes the red cap off if anyone she knows is in the room. Except me. I told her, a bald head was sexy. Pink lie. Then shave yours, she said. I should do that.
“It was about you.” I answered her.
“Was I beautiful?” She said, turning towards me. I stared into her eyes. The once brilliant green no longer sparkled.
I heard the front door open. It would be Gloria. Gloria was the hospice nurse. She provided what I could not. I think God hand-picked Gloria to be our hospice nurse. She always smiles. And sings. She is always singing some song from long-ago musical. Sometimes I know she is making up the words she doesn’t remember. That makes my wife laugh. Gloria is strong and knows why she is here. She never tells a lie; pink, white or any other color.
“I have to go to work.” I tell her. I know she will cry, but just a little. She knows about the bills. So many bills…pink bills.
I kissed her goodbye.
I opened my eyes. The half-opened blinds revealed dark gray skies. I could hear the rain drops hitting the window. I had fallen asleep. I had fallen asleep! I sat up in the bed reaching for the lamp. The light seemed too bright in the dark room. I could hear the oxygen tube delivering its essentials. I placed my hand upon her chest. The scars felt strange beneath my hand. I could feel her heart beating a thousand miles below my hand. Her eyes were open. During the night, when I slept, she had placed the fiery red cap with the fuzzy ball on her head.
“Did you dream about me?” She whispered.
“Yes.” A tear warmed my cheek.
“Was I beautiful.”
“So beautiful.” I told her. “We were walking on the beach. No one else was there. The moon and the sun sitting on the water. You asked me how could that be.”
“Is that all?” She closed her eyes.
“No. The moon and the sun were there to see you. The gasped at your beauty.”
“Pink…” Barely a whisper.
I placed my hand upon her chest, tracing the scars with my fingers.
“Lies.”
“No. It is the truth. Dreams never lie.”
She opened her eyes. I don’t think she could see me.
Smiling, “Pink dreams.” She closed her eyes.
Shadow Child
For a fraction of a solitary second,
voiceless child blushed like flower
as the precious ruby hours
flooded her on dusky footprints.
On fragile wings, she attempted
to soar above the shadowy night
in her solemn cape of darkness,
lost among the throngs in silence,
seeking shade in shadows of others,
a fate that threatened to engulf her.
Alienated clouds and dusky skies
fed her hunger to whisper aloud
in moon suspended in charcoal skies.
Cobwebs littered her dim space
as morning mist overtook her soul.
She reached for a smile just out of sight,
yearning for awakening blossoms.
No one saw her bleeding in anguish,
crying for a reprieve from obscurity
as she attempted to whisk doubts
into sheltering winds of hope.
She felt the overcast shade lift
like an eclipse beckoning her
with warm fingers of light.
She grasped her new beginning
in a bouquet of enchantment
for the first time, seeing the truth,
pushing away dejected shoulders.
The shadow child grasped the stars,
healed the clotting loss of innocence,
listening to her voice chorus
with hundreds of other children,
awakening to the knowledge
that her shadowed existence
is the child she once was
but is no more, as she opens
lips to speak, “Please play with me!”
