This child that hid in the smallest cupboard,
that held wool between outstretched hands.

This child that you nursed though illness
and clothed in school shirts so white.

This child that you protected as a lioness
yet a voice of an angel in lullaby.

This child that became a man yet never forgot
that when he counted the freckles that
adorned your face he lost count
and you said are a sign
you'd been kissed
by the

for my Mam Joan Lloyd
A caw-
ing of birds
with blunt
-ed beaks
and clip-
ped wings
that can’t fly
or sing
worth a lick
-ety split
ing and peck
-ing a-way
at the best
ing inside
a chest
-full of
ing Blue
felt art
songs in-
of sing
-ing along
ing they
know better
-   the rest?
This in response to the deletion of a great and true HP Poet’s account tonight as a result of constant harassment by at last count 13 dumbass, iealous, couldn’t write a decent poem if the male har-ass-ers tripped over their stupid pricks and the idiotic wagging female tongues who all took part in this. You know who you are. This harassment was reported to HP and to Eliot directly without the courtesy of a reaponse, and without action to curb it. The creation of monitors was a total waste of time. Many of you know her as Vicki. I’m sick of this kind of shit done by supposed adults, and sickened most of all by HP’s allowing this to continue even after multiple messages. As far as I’m concerned, the Guidelines and the so-called monitors aren’t worth a fucking dime. Which is exactly 10 cents more than I’ll ever again contribute to HP.  Go ahead and lock me ip, put me in the corner for awhile, or expel me. I don’t care. Maybe  we will see if the monitors are paying attention at all, or just another silly myth. If you’re a monitor and reading this, I would like to hear your thoughts after you wake the fuck up.
Most Sincerely,
a transmission of love
from one to another
a portrayal of remembrance
from the living to the no longer
a life-ampholyte - in its obviously
contrasting and multiple
for love
for death
but nothing other than care and affection
be like a flower
be made of good

Flowers like silk
Just like my sister's skirt
When the flower bud absorbs the sun
I see my sister weaving
The gold rays to her cloth
The clock struck something
deep in the Creek, my brother
said it’s nothing, keep dreaming,
he didn’t notice the hour for
the lamp-smoke, our power
was out, you see, and all
I could hear was the roiling
water of the storm, the unsettling
wind on the roof, like kettles
filled with boiling red men,
they were all grinning
and talking precisely, like
the foot of a newborn, or
stripes on a snake, marveling
at the grace, the naked form
of my father’s guitar playing
the blues like only the dark
clouds before morning can do.
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