Thank you to Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram for letting me be a part of this radio program:
Here are my selections read:
Women Go Gothic:
The Looking
The woman
newly become as wraith
walks among the stones,
lost, yet looking
for something she vaguely remembers.
The dimming day like all the others,
this oncoming night, resembling many long past.
What she wishes to find does not come easily to her mind,
yet is all consuming on her psyche.
The weight on her heart is painful,
but she must continue,
for once she sights it, she will have tranquility,
after so much searching.
So she seeks, seeks, seeks…..
Ah, there it is.
In the ground,
so common looking
like all the others.
Yet, this one is special,
because of him.
And as she digs and digs down into the earth,
knowing she will once more finally touch him,
50 years of searching,
and then she takes him into her arms,
this tiny thing,
once again to love him as before.
Poe’s Annabel Lee
Dearly departed,
your face fitted inside the ornate filigree frame.
Your feathered hat
surrounds a rawboned face.
Your shoulders hold a filmy wrap of satin and lace.
Your skeletal fingers
shift in the light on graceful hands.
Velvet gloves clasped as you, the lost lover,
endure your woeful waiting,
as the pendulum wall clock ticks,
and you hoard his books,
as you anticipate
his arrival.
Women Are Humane:
The Ma’am in the Moon
When I walk through that final door,
I long to step onto the surface
of a blood red moon,
where all the Earth’s new days’ promises,
and passing days’ done deeds
can only be observed
by those who still breathe.
This declaration of humanity’s best intents,
even unto the last sliver of light.
May I romp on for all time,
floating joyfully from peak to peak,
exploring the nethermost depths of each crater,
polishing rocks as I go,
my smile paramount to the light given off
by this celestial orb of night,
to be seen by the children of all places,
for these are the souls that must be inspired.
And someday young stargazers
might look upon this spectacular rock,
their hearts swelling with brighter promises,
prompting a genesis of future, earnest purpose
for healing the world,
and call to mom, call to dad,
come and look, come and see,
the beautiful lady
on the beautiful blood red moon tonight.
Just Like Me
Oh I love her very much,
She looks just like me,
Cry little girls throughout the world,
From America to Mozambique.
Some small nosed dolls,
Round faces with square jaws,
And dark almond eyes,
Most pleasantly not at odds
With the surround of straight glossy, silky hair.
Full lipped dolls,
Broad noses at the bottom,
Long lashes at the top,
Elegant, graceful necks,
Each strand of hair coiled as if a separate galaxy,
One’s soul could get lost there.
Long faced Nordic dolls, with noses to match,
Straight ash blonde hair
With eyes of green or blue,
Red curly headed, hooded-eyed Irish,
The paler skinned sisters of the rest.
Indian/ Castilian mix dolls,
Light or dark skin,
Spanish-speaking mouth,
Dark, hypnotic gypsy-like eyes that flash
In the throes of a most magnificently
Played ‘behind the beat’ lilt.
Native American dolls,
Almond shaped eyes once again,
Dark coarse hair that lasts throughout life,
High cheekbones on broad flat faces,
Where above are bright shining eyes
That see the land true.
Little girls see dreams and hopes
In these approximations
Yet who defines that watershed time
When they cross the line
From self-love to self-hate?
How does it come to this?
When they look in the mirror
And all that they see,
Disparagingly,
Is that one
Who looks “just like me.”
Women Get Rowdy:
The Bebop Girls
(A Beat Poem)
The bebop girls
prance down the street,
in short skirts, high heels,
shapes in drapes.
They hear the beat,
pounding sound
from the Red Onion,
Their destination,
every Saturday night,
after dark.
Stamp on hand,
looks like a heart,
check IDs,
fake,
get in anyway,
if you look the part.
Dance floor crowded,
moving bodies sway and slap,
hands clap, clap, clap.
Stolen kisses from gin mill cowboys in corners,
a little weed bought from the stoners.
Bathroom conference,
go or stay,
free drinks too hard to pass up,
Too many and you turn dixie fried,
you throw up.
Time to leave when time’s spent more
in the powder room than on the dance floor.
The bebop girls,
stumble out the door,
stagger down the street,
still hearing the beat,
that pounding sound,
from the Red Onion,
every Saturday night.
Arguing Just For Arguments Sake
My grandmother had
the sacred heart portrait
above her bed.
It never raised the dead
of my grandfather,
nor my grandparents’ first born,
but better the devil you know
than the devil you don’t,
and the endless banter continued
throughout the years,
as she demanded the return of what was hers,
and he insisted
on keeping possession
of what was His.
I suppose this debate
was resolved
when she took her last breath.
Women Go Insane:
A Backyard Incident in St. Louis
My mother checks the yard for my brother
every night by flashlight,
forgetting he drowned.
She’s so certain he’ll be found.
My father took the blow up pool
to the dump
six months ago.
Only five inches of clear water
along with the grass clippings
that fell off the soles of our feet.
Birds and butterflies lined against
yellow and blue rubber,
a green garden hose
sending joy and tragedy
through the same tube.
And each night, the crickets are no guide
and the fireflies unveil no hiding places,
and all the calling in the world
will never flip the switch back to bright.
My Mother’s Secret
I found my mother’s secret
tucked away in a
drawer beneath some bras,
after she had gone away,
inside five boxes
of feminine pads.
Pills of all descriptions
without prescriptions,
such a canny mind.
What I first thought as gross forethought,
in fact was brilliant,
the elegance of her secrecy.
All these years of mindful outlet
with numbness as the goal met.
She, closeting her pain,
keeping the pretense of
a younger woman's necessity
when in fact, no younger woman could harbor
so many years of ache.
