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.