She's an alphabet artist
she paints in words,

from a palette of adjectives,
nouns and verbs,

the landscape she finds
in the folds of her mind

she exhibits in volumes of verse.

She counts the moments
In sighs and shudders
And sings his wonders in the wide and wanting spaces
At the centre of her soul.

She loses herself
In the world between the words
And hides his shy confessions
In the shadow of her secret self.

I was happy in our home and she answered all my needs
So the day that my first person died, I was sorely grieved.
I plucked out all my feathers as a sign of my distress.
My silences spoke volumes about how I was depressed.
My first persons’ other family didn’t want a cockatoo,
So they took me to the shelter on the day that I found you.
Now I sing and speak and play. I’m happy once again,
But I will never once forget her; my first person and my friend.

Some think it cute when young girls twerk,
Or use cosmetics like Tammy Faye.
Isn’t it cute to hear them curse?
Childhood?- Oh, that’s so passé.
Dress them like their older sisters;
in clothing barely more than slips.
Put ****** heels upon their feet
to roll those prepubescent hips.
I pity those who think this progress.
I put the ball back in their court.
The taking of innocence, I find appalling.
It makes childhood nasty brutish and short.

She posed for ******* magazine
In nineteen Fifty Four.
Her green eyes met the cameras glare,
And she cared not who saw.
Her freckled skin was milky white,
her hair a burnished flame.
Her ******* were real and firm and high.
Dolores was her name.
She married shortly after that
And loved the child she bore.
She had both family and career
And she cared not who saw.
They called her a few weeks ago
To pose for them again
For once one is a playmate,
A playmate they remain.
Her skin is mottled, wrinkled now.
She sports a silver mane.
They used a gentle softer light
And a shawl embraced her frame.
She posed for ******* magazine
Like she had once before
Her green eyes met the cameras glare,
And she cared not who saw.