has gone out
and went. And now
I can’t seem to
do anything. I’m just sad
and depressed. I need
a friend to give me
a swift kick in the ***
to get my motor going
at last. But no one is
around or wants to be
bothered. They have
their own lives to
look after. When was
the last time I smiled
or enjoyed some
hardy laughter? When
was the last time I did
something fun with
someone?

with arthritis.
My head from the drinks.
Bags under my eyes.
My arms sag. And I’m beginning

to shrink. I’m taking
my clothes off for money. My books
don’t sell. I’m going to hell
for adultery –

and stealing/don't tell!! You've lost
interest?  I lose many.
With my paycheck today I can
buy a box of Good & Plenty. My stomach's

not flat as my *****.  –
I can go down and gritty. But
last night’s a blur. Now a days I crash into
every door. I can cut a rug No plug can shut me
up. And you'll for more!

My Happiness
is not
dependent upon
your approval
or availability
or if you don't like
what you see

My happiness
is not through
a job
friendship,
a marriage
or a child.
My own life is
worthwhile

My happiness
is not based
on my weight
my face
and my *******
or if I ace
all my tests

My happiness
is liking myself
as I am
and doing the best
that I can
Being grateful
for what I have
Not walking in
other people's shadows
but shining my own
special light
and doing what
I think is right
Standing up for myself
even if
that goes against
everyone else

is strung by a grey thread
rolling off my four-post bed
at night till the light of a
screaming morn when I sew it

back on with a line from a
song. I'm a bobblehead doll nodding
to the crowds. Floating high like
a balloon, getting lost in the clouds

in a marmalade sky. My head is loose
you can spoon it up like chocolate
mousse. I lost it so many times shopping
for bargains at the five and dime. It fell

between the wooden slats, and was
scratched by a feral cat. I'm like a headless
chicken, running around. Like roux for
the gravy one can say I’ve been thickened.

hung
as a pendulum
and swung as so
side to side
of all my woe
till I let go

My head
is thread
as if sewn on
and unraveled
to some man’s song

My head
is weaned
as if sliced
from a guillotine
weaned of all smiles
and laughter
no sweet kisses
thereafter

from all my thoughts. So heavy
it might slide off. My body can’t support
such a prodigious mass. It feels like a 200-gallon
aquarium of toads being gassed.  And when one thought

rises above the other a shot goes
off. And the **** thing splats, like it was
put on high-speed in a blender – I have toad frappe.
It’s so opaque I couldn’t clean out the sides if I had a rake.

The whole thing congeals,
for goodness sake. But the insidious
croaking doesn’t go away. In fact, the decibels
increase by the hour each day. It’s madness I say. But
madness is genius.

ball. And his voice
the paddle. He kept whacking
the celluloid globe to the tune
"man on the moon" I skedaddled

as a deer crossing the road
seeing a truck marked "oversize overload"
His notes ricocheted on my forehead
as a concert hall of "the living dead" My eyes

fell out of their sockets as pennies
rolling from my ripped jean pockets. I put my
hand inside to find the lining unravelling to
"man on the moon"

is not a rose. I cannot
water it and see it
grow. I cannot pluck it and
place it in a vase/look at
its pretty face.

My heart
is not a kitten, I can
hold in my hands, stroking it,
and have it fall
asleep with a tummy full
of cream into a velvet dream.

My heart
is not the sun. But it burns
me. I cannot
absorb the warmth of a July
day or shine in the light –
my skin is thin but still
covers it in shade.

My heart
is not an apple
I can bake into a pie
and serve it up
with ice-cream on the side.

My heart
is an itch. But I cannot
scratch it. It’s broken
in pieces. But I cannot piece them
back together.  If so, I'd bead them on a string
and wear them all as charms in a bracelet
around my arms.

I used to run naked in the rain,
feel the whisper of my love
in lavender fields through the songs
of the swans as they danced. And I

chanted along. As the sky caught
fire I spread my wings. Now my wings
are tinged with ash. My heart’s a broken
glass. It can’t hold anything. I carry its

pieces in the crease of my pocket. It
shards cut me. They stick into me
reminding me of what was. I revel in
the pain. Because not to would mean

to wake up from the dream. Even if the
dream has turned into a nightmare. I’d rather
sleep with it bare. Don’t you dare try to
wake me up. I’m with my love.

but it isn’t working.  It just makes
thumping sounds. It can’t get over
all the hurting that you caused it. It feels like

it’s been stuffed in the closet and buried
under the blankets and pillows. It’s an ***** that no one’s
playing. It’s been spayed so it can’t reproduce love the

way it used to. I pulled it over on the highway, so
no one would run it down
if they came this way. That’s where I am today

in the break-down lane.

now. It’s sitting on
my brow. It’s built its nest
upon my hair. And baby lines are
hatching there among the bangs
which hang like curtains,
for nothing is certain. I pour a drink
and I sink into this chair in great
despair over you,
ah another line or two
I release –
Only to increase the depth
of its weight
And Oh! it makes me wait
And wait
And wait
And wait

I wouldn’t dare go near the water,
for I might sink to the depths of the ocean

floor. So heavy that I can’t even stand up
to walk. It’s almost down to my knees. I’m bowl

legged from the heaviness of
carrying it in places it shouldn’t go. It’s like

a ball and chain around my ankles
now. It restricts my movement. It confines me

to where I am. I don’t like where
I am. But here I am, until I am no more.

men dribble
up
and down
tossing me
running loops
jumping through hoops

My heart’s a ball
men slap
with a paddle
across the table
over the nets
to get closer
only for them
to smack me again

My heart's a ball
men hit
rolling me
til I sink
in the same dank
dark hole
in a lull
waiting for someone
to pull me out

My heart's a ball
men make a racket
and then smack it
in the air
till I fly
over to
another guy

My Heart's a ball
men bat around
I eat the dirt
on the ground
and then
they run
after they scored
I feel
just like a *****

started out the size of
a dime. I couldn't stick
my finger into it. When I lost
time it grew into the size

of my shoe. I'd walk around
for miles this way, carrying
the weight till it was as large as
my waist. I was stuck in quick

sand. Going down slowly no one
lent me their hand. The hole turned
into a stone pit that men did
cartwheels and even a

split. Over the years it expanded
as the ocean and sky. Sun and moon
cried into the abyss. I told them
I found the lost continent.

is the spot I crawl into
to get away from the noise
and the fray. Cats cannot
follow me in. They sit outside

chagrin. It's my little nook
where I read my book, as I sip
my cherry wine penning every
line. The only noise I hear is the

whirring of the fan. I'm a velvet
mole burrowing in my hole. It's where
the lilacs bloom, in the floorboards of
my room. The ceiling grows as I

doze in my rocking chair. Cats
peep at me through the hole. They can
not see me as they squint. Blowing
my horn, they take off and sprint.

The Grass is my carpet
The Sky is my roof
These Trees are the walls
There’s no plaster or nails
The woodpecker hammers the holes
The wind is an oscillating fan
The squirrel and robin are my friends
The squirrels chatter
The robin sings
The colorful leaves, a Picasso painting
The fireflies, my night-lamp
And it’s free
Every twig on the ground beckons me
Every sprig that jumps out flirts; what a tease!
The dandelions are little suns
I’m growing little golden orbs of seed pods
that blow like snow in the summer air
I don’t need a bottle to hold the moonshine
It dances over me all the time

my neighbor the guards. The rain
isn’t water. It’s poisonous shards.  The
rhododendrons aren’t shrubs. They’re
surgeons in scrubs. The grass are blades

cutting into my legs. Women are cooks
roasting me on a spit. Men are hooks
digging deep for a slit. The bus is a walrus
leaving at seven. I have the fare. But I

won’t walk over, not with these
legs, not until I am sober! It will not
take me far. It doesn’t burn rubber. The bus
runs on a tank full of thick blubber.

is a kitty-litter box. People
dumping their **** on me. Asking me to
write their name all over my **** body. For
a price I’ll do anything. Custom-made

seems to be the thing. They don’t want
to do my lines. I don’t get them high. Everyone
else is on vacation. I’m 24/7 with frustration. I slip
on my anguish like a banana peel. I get bunions

from wearing high heels. Not to mention I feel
like a ****. It’s not the kind of vocation you can
tell your in-laws of. I never see them anyway –
only once on Christmas day.

isn’t so nice. Pull out
a block/stack it on top
so many men pulling
my pieces now and again
leaving me with empty slots
but none fill the holes
and so, the pile grows
till I implode

If I drank a whole bottle
and swallowed some pills
would I ever
could I ever get out of this ill
if I sank into a deep oblivion
if I never saw a daylight hour again
would it change anything
I dare say that it would not
I'd be easily forgot
it would probably rain on my funeral day
the wind would blow over my grave
the only thing moving within inches of it
would  be a squirrel to restless to sit
I wonder if my husband would follow my instructions
to be buried at Forest Hills next to Anne Sexton
It's my last wish
since none of the others ever came true
I figure that's the least he could do

Myles/Soldier

He doesn’t know where he’s going to sleep
tonight. Depending on the weather, he could pick the
park bench. It would be better in one of those populous
rooms downtown, where he’d have to hold on tight to his

belongings, keeping one eye open. And they’re crawling with bedbugs that give him a rash. Do you know how hard it is
to have an itch you can not scratch because of all the layers on your back? He doesn’t know when he’ll eat again, maybe the

soup kitchen. Or if he’s lucky he might collect a few dollars
from the business men who buy their coffee around the
corner. During the day he frequents the thrift-shops, sits on the couches in there when he gets too tired to walk. He might

pop in the donut shop to wash his face in the bathroom
sink, and some other unmentionables so he doesn’t stink. Sometimes he sells jewelry. He makes it himself, sells it
there on the sidewalk. I bought a piece myself. Cost me

$5.00. I made friends with him. I sat down on the
ground and we talked. He was young enough to be
my son. That part really got to me. His parents were both
alive, so he told me.

playing the same chorus big
as King Kong. The men are footnotes
through the tune. They enter
in April/exit in June. The song is played

through the years. It began on eight-tracks,
then records, and went to cassettes. As it
hit the CD’s I became a mess of broken needles
and skipped tracks/mangled tapes and old

hacks. Now the same tune is on
my phone. And I sigh in my drink to it all
alone. It plays on my head every night
in my black, drenched bed. I can’t stop

the chorus and the shrieks. My voice
is hoarse. And I’ve no strength. I’m
weak. I sang it to lovers and to friends. I sang
it on YouTube to women and men. Some

like it. Some do not. Some can relate. But then
it’s forgot. It echoes in school hallways
and locker rooms. It echoes in broom closets
and doctor’s offices. (that prey on us loons)

together like woolen fibers
in a sweater. Out of place and
out of time. Patches covering
the holes in mine. The stitching

unravels
through the journey
of my travels.  Needle pen
in reds and golds bleeding out

in the folds. Shrinking in
the wash from every toss of man
I couldn’t get over my head. And still
creak like boards in my bed.

I run
off, a leaking
faucet. None can shut
off. The drip is tiny,
but toying at you. A puddle
in the room.

I’m sideways
as a crab. I move in
this direction, leaving
footprints in the sand
that wash away
from a crashing wave.

I’m tilted,
tumbling in the wind,
a tumbleweed bouncing
in all directions, covered in
dust. I flake, nod and cuss.

are tight.
my *****’s loose
I’m left/not right
I like the juice

They like my looks
don’t read my books
it’s **** & ***
boy I’ve got brass

I’m in a funk
but I’ve got *****
one day they’ll see
there’s more to me

maybe even read my poetry

won’t hold my breath
because I know
that in my death
they’ll miss me so

are straight
as a geometric line.
A curling rod wouldn’t
lift them.  I sift through
the day as flour in a sieve,
with lumps on top -
It's no way to live.

My lips
are stuck
together
as the valves in a clam.
I don’t talk to people.
It's the way I am.

My lips
are pale
as the cold winter's moon. I color
them red with thick cream. But it
smudges as fudge and sticks
to my dreams.

My lips
are cracked
as drywall spackle
slapped on the wall. I look
as a clown in view
of them all.

is a desert
an arid wasteland
of tumbleweeds
rolling in the ***** breeze

My loneliness
is an abyss
a bottomless chasm
of pain and sarcasm

My loneliness
is a venomous snake
that lays in the grass
and waits

My loneliness
is hell
a fiery pit
of beggars and spit

My loneliness
is a friend
that smiles at me
and upends

you resurrected me!
I was a lifeless cadaver.
You were impelling energy.
My love, you replenished me.
I was a dry, barren desert.
You were the salty sea.

My love, you defined me.
I was a blank page.
You were flowing calligraphy.

My love, you restored me.
I was broken, scattered pieces.
You were adhering epoxy.

My love, you molded me.
I was unshaped, static clay.
You were expressive artistry.

My love, you filled me.
I was an empty cup.
You were a light Chablis.

My love, you created me!
I was a ******, white canvas.
You were the brilliant da Vinci.

a lake
yours a ripple
I'm a tidal wave
you -
a trickle

My love is
an evergreen
yours a bonsai
so, contained are you
I rise

My love is
a whale
making a splash
yours is a seal
sleeping in the grass

My love is
a feast
yours leaves me starving
mine, a banquet for kings
when I'm with you
my stomach is growling

lets people in without
a mask. It exposes ****
and ***. I push myself,
not a cart. I call this

a work of art. I hand over my
body. I pour out my sweat. I swear
I work myself to death. I just
asked for 4 days in Paris. But

they closed their borders
and turned me down. So, you see
this girl is gagged and
bound.

engulf me as a wave,
and spray their mist
of warmth, as an elephant
washing himself. “Don’t leave us

to lay flat and still” as grandma’s
quill. It’s my cotton cave. And I
brave the day naked as a beach
in December. All I remember

is the burning sun. The day calls me
as my angry mother. I can't listen. My covers
glisten with last night's sweat. And I fret
if I move out of my cotton cave. I'll have lost

all their warmth. For I can't carry
them. They're an army of men. And I,
a bedbug nestled in as a morsel of chocolate
inside the cookie.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1696209889?ref=pe3052080_397514860

If you like my poetry on here why not buy my book for the new year? Copy this link and it will take you to the Amazon page!!
I could use your support for my writing!

Thanks, Sandy


https://www.amazon.com/dp/1653666625?ref=pe3052080_397514860

and my skin is sagging. My hair
is greying and my belly’s
hanging. My passport is covered in
dust. I don’t have no money so

ain’t no trust. I go about my
business every day, putting in
the same hours. But not once
empowered. Men cutting me up

like I’m the salami in their deli
sandwich. Should I join the army? I’m up
four in the morning without a bugle
just to take notes and doodle. Put on skimpy

underwear and wigs that cover
my fried hair. Parade around with my
hand stroking the strands of my ***** –
not my black cat, like myself is loud and pushy.

as a bird is an Andean Condor
as for years, they've all be squandered

as a string, a dozen blue tassels
as my home, a large empty castle

My pain
measured be a light year
if talked out it'd fall on deaf ears

My pain
in running shoes couldn't walk a step
if I hand it two arms it'd grow bulging biceps
my grief is a wreath hung on my door
a thief that robs me of more

as a stuffed purse
about to burst at
the seams. I was
so green.

My Passion Bulges
as a toad’s throat,
puffing out after a meal,
like a water-balloon,
with a broken seal –
till it splatters. That’s
when I could feel.

My Passion Bulges
now like a fat man’s
shirt, tightly drawn over
the chest until it hurts, riding up
the flesh and splitting the
buttons. That’s what I get
for being a glutton!

I take when I leave
home. Pithy and sharp,
plucking the strings
as a harp. It has a golden

case, polished
and engraved. I lay it
down on wood from trees
in the neighborhood. It dances

pirouettes smoking
cigarettes. Lighting up
as a firefly every man's lie. It's the
torch everyone can see

from my back porch,
periodically. It fills my nights
with song. And strings
the days along.

is gaining pounds. My head is filled
with worries now. My self-esteem is
at an all-time low. I’ve lost all my friends
I had a long time ago. I don’t have

a conventional job. My calling is calling me
a ******. I’ve gone on to do *******. But
if I keep gaining weight that won’t pan out
for me. But I’m making money so far,

more than my books will sell. I guess I’ll
just have to starve to keep this body in
top condition. But losing hope is awfully hard
on this gal’s ambition. And if people ask me

what I do, what do I tell them? I’m a poet
who takes her clothes off and plays with herself
to make money because her writing alone
won’t sell.

as the others. But my heart
is. And that counts for
something. The rich always get
more. And the poor try to make

pizza with leftover bread. There’s
only so many ways you can divide
it. But a splinter can stick as well as
a knife. Many a splinter has

cut me a slice. Whatever you carve
mountain or hole you don’t always have
total control.

are public,
out on display
for men the
pleasure of

ogling. It’s sobering
men pay
fifteen dollars
for a **** that hollers,

an *** that wiggles,
arms that flap
like a road map hanging
out a car window, and crow’s

feet that can’t walk,
fixing their hand
to their ****. My public
is private. Behind the screen –
men see know a thing!

in my shoe. I can’t shake
loose. I’ll have to stop. Take
the shoe off. Shake it to release
this flint that’s a tease. It’s as

fleas on a dog. Or a sneeze and
a cough I can’t let up. It’s the
tickle that’s fickle! In a blow
or a hack I’d have it off

my back. But I reach for
my stash than drop
the rock. It began as a pebble –
that turned me a rebel. The callouses

I bear from leaving it!

follows me in the dark. But as
I reach to it I grasp at air. It’s black
and large as my garage. But like my keys
I can’t put my hands on it –

And as my keys I lose it
for it to turn up again, the silent friend,
the wall flower. Peering out
of the clouds as a brief shower. It doesn’t

talk. But I it listens. It walks
behind me in the distance. It’s my only
friend. Sometimes it scares me. So, I put on
the light. And it’s out of sight. I miss it.

you follow me down
the darkest streets
through alley ways
and dusty roads –
wherever I go

you are an inky silhouette
hung on the wall –
a lighted cigarette that has *****

you are a serving attendant,
my Siamese twin. As I end -
you begin

I've wept on you as a rain shower
and screamed at you for growing in the chinks
my, wallflower

you were the only woman
with me from the beginning
and you'll be the only friend
I have till the end

we'll hold on tight and illuminate
the desert skies
eating from dust bowls
with silvery lips and painted red toes

are big and worn. I've worn them
since I was born. None can
fit in them. They only are my size. I've
worn them in sunrise and rain,

through beatings and days
I was drained. I danced in moonlight
singing a song all night. I walked the
floor in them wiping baby's

phlegm. I soiled then in my garden,
and the day I starred in woman
*****. They shaped all I was. Saw me
through menopause. They're filled with holes

and old. But even unraveled
have sole. I cannot trade them in. I'll only die
in them. None can fill my shoes. Even if
they choose to have a shot. It just isn't their lot.

is drawn on
with a lipstick crayon
of crimson red
making pretty
when things are ******
but it doesn't stick -

snuffed out like the light
in a wick as the wind blows
rise in the morn
tattered and torn
check off the boxes
smile at the foxes in boots
and suits

what breaks the cycle?
drinks are the substitute
for masking the pain
the mascara runs down
my face in a river of rain

next morn
draw the same smile on
with a pink crayon
don the chiffon sweetheart dress
smile that smile
and egress

is my purpose.
I’ll spread it over
every surface
as fertilizer in a helicopter over
a bed of thorns.

My Story
is my pulse.
It beats throughout
my bloods.
Many it will repulse.
I’ll stop at nothing else –

My Story
is mine to give.
Take it as it is.
I’ll scream it so everybody
hears!
There’s something in it
for everyone who reads
it. It’s theirs.

places adjectives
as threads to sew my holey words
together. His eye is sharper
than a needle. He makes cuts

to adjust the silky fabric of the line
onto the model. Letting out, and
taking in, meritoriously measuring for
the uniform fit. Without him I’d be

a tired scarecrow hanging tied to
a pole on a cloudy day. Or a loose as a pile
of leaves not raked. I cannot brag, for it is he
that weaves his fibers into me with every

word. His stanzas are my buttons to hold
the garment together. He’s weather-proofed
my blackest suit. He’s made a sheen
that catches the reader’s eye. He’s a Mercedes –

given me license to drive. Thank you, prized
editor for being my tailor. Without you
I’d be patches of cloth none bought. Only you
can see the Cinderella in me. You turned a rotten

pumpkin into a shiny coach. You made a grey
mouse a bucking horse that flies off the page.

like icicles on my nose. Hanging
jagged with pointed tip, so sharp
they cut my lower lip.  They rusted
from sitting outside in a paper

cup. I held them up
to the sun. It's years since
they've run like a river
down my face. They baked

in place like the cheese
souffle. Hardened like a ball of
clay. Then cracked into lines
I pen. My ink is wet. Better it than them.

I’m going to do my thing
it’s very different than anything else
you’ve seen

my thing doesn’t need
your seal of approval

my thing has a voice
it’s a LOUD voice
and you can’t turn its volume down

I would advise you
if you’re unhappy with my thing
to get your own thing

then-
you’ll be too busy to worry ‘bout
My Thing
when-
you have your own

hot as you snuck in, a swab
with a megawatt grin. There's a fire
in the old man's chair. In his hand
a can a beer. Heads hang on the walls,
a buffalo and brown bear.

My walls
were yellow straw as I lay
swaddled tight, a cherry
babe. Clawed and bled
by a buck. Swatted around
like a hockey puck.

My walls
were sticks, like
my legs. I learned to walk
on two thin pegs. I did not talk.
Just wept and begged. Slept
in till my eyes glazed over
like a donut, burned my cheeks
with his cigarette butts.

My walls
were bricks I'd stick
in my black leather shoes.
You tried to push me. But I'd not
move. I'd not fall or
blow down.

My walls
were tall
and blocked the
sound.