Tag: #author

She Fills Me Up

Away above the clouds she dwelled

until slumber I took.

In her left hand, she grasped a plain, wooden bowl

In her right, an ornate, porcelain vase.

In dark, I slept in terrors as her lengthy arms fell from the sky

Grasping the bowl down my throat, she scooped me out.

Misery, we shared.

But, as the day began to creep back in,

her magical potions of clear, cool water caressed me through with joy and jubilation. Dig me deep and fill me up, my wise, wizened Mother.

Is it the left hand or the right tonight?

Like every night, it’s both.

Acid in my Drink

I drank a cup of poison today

opened her up and slewed her down.

And, all of the folk who wished me harm,

regretted there wishes and were over come with a mass of frowns.

I said I drank a cup of poison today

would have eaten it if I could

But, I knew that drink was all my tummy would take,

Otherwise, gnashing I would.

You drank some, too, my dear ones

And, agreed that it’s better than guns…

except in a true duel

I was Eight

Cannot breathe

Sheets smell of a two day continuous fart gala

Eeeww!…He flicked a booger on me that he had balled up like a balloon.

I have become a waste can for fresh, newly picked boogers.

How do you get raped while the rapist picks his nose?

You remember the punishment that will befall you next time Mom and dad are away.

Between the tears and his sweat your Tweey Bird nightie is drenched and a full breath is impossible.

He’s so scrawny yet feels like a boulder on your chest.

Rolling off of me, he does a gymnastic type dance and is on the floor.

“Get out of my bed, slut” he remarks in a sneering yet comical way,

but you can still get the hint that he means business.

I was eight.

After All

Staring at the paint chips in the ceiling,

Not wanting to move because I’m sick and finally cozy.

I’m starving though.

I stretch and claw my way into a half seated position

My mammoth duo of dogs aid me to no avail.

I lie back down,

defeated.

Taking a couple of puffs off my vape,

I rev upward.

I’m hungry dammit.

I stretch and wobble,

the dogs think it’s game on now!

I grab a chair and pull myself up.

Thighs of fire get me cleaned up and fed.

But, looking at me in the end, you would never know the fight.

Southern ladies always are presentable.

After all, we tidy our hair and freshen our lipstick,

even if the house was on fire.

Poetry: Thanksgiving

I forgive myself for idealizations of holidays pastFor quick crying between wishesFor wiping tears on my pumpkin apronFor missing the harvest moon …

Poetry: Thanksgiving

This blog entry by an amazing artist conveys my thoughts exactly. I am alone this Thanksgiving, and it really had me down until I read this piece by sweet Bridgette. You should check out her writings and photos.

And, to those who wonder where the turkey and mash potatoes are- they are in your heart, dear one. Thank each of you who read and support my blog. Your dedication keeps me dedicated. Many thanks and blessings to you all!!!

Love~ Susan

Crying Mary

She’s a no good harlot!

She’s possessed with evil intent.

She paints her face and wears improper clothes.

But, the winds scream Mary.

Why is she this way?

No one but she and her God know what happened to her.

One act of kindness from the Right Person-

She is healed.

And, the wind whispered Mary

My Catholic named is Mary Magdalene.

I know her pain and see through the lies.

Her invisible scars speak to me.

And, I cry MARY!

*giant nod to Jimi