Lisa Jun 13
my favorite girl is honeycombed
a heart of bitter jelly locked
the ants crawl but dissipate
amidst, i blush coquettishly
i am her prince, blue and fond
stranded in abundance of wild grass
somewhere in Texas
my throat is dry and my mouth lingers
on the sunflower seeds i spit aimlessly
into the dirt
Waiting for seedlings to crawl, a spurt of
"this love will grow someday"
i can taste the spit of the tongue
that knows my name by heart
and wouldn't have it any other way
no i wouldn't have it any other way
my fondness is knee deep fuckerr
Mary-Eliz May 9
In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.

Daily she put on shmattehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty

even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,

to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.

Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups

for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment.

The story shone in her as through
tinted glass, how the mother

gave up and did without
and was in the end crowned
with what? scallions? crowned
queen of the dead place

in the heart where old dreams
whistle on bone flutes
where run-over pets are forgotten,
where lost stockings go?

In the coffin she was beautiful
not because of the undertaker's
garish cosmetics but because
that face at eighty was still

her face at eighteen peering
over the drab long dress
of poverty, clutching a book.
Where did you read your dreams, Mother?

Because her expression softened
from the pucker of disappointment,
the grimace of swallowed rage,
she looked a white-haired girl.

The anger turned inward, the anger
turned inward, where
could it go except to make pain?
It flowed into me with her milk.

Her anger annealed me.
I was dipped into the cauldron
of boiling rage and rose
a warrior and a witch

but still vulnerable
there where she held me.
She could always wound me
for she knew the secret places.

She could always touch me
for she knew the pressure
points of pleasure and pain.
Our minds were woven together.

I gave her presents and she hid
them away, wrapped in plastic.
Too good, she said, too good.
I'm saving them. So after her death

I sort them, the ugly things
that were sufficient for every
day and the pretty things for which
no day of hers was ever good enough.
The beginning of a poem Liz Balise posted "Where I Left Them" reminded me of this Marge Piercy poem. Liz's went off in a totally different direction, but since I had been reminded of this, I thought I'd share it.
Her tears, suspended from one cheek
Like liquid tassels
The other, immune
And dry as the dust bowl
There are two sides to every story
Yet this one is beyond two dimensions
Her explanations have layers upon layers
Like an ambiguous onion that begs to be undressed
And once exposed to the air, its bitterness once again
Provokes her tears
I do desire to ride down the rocky path
The one that steeply descends to the shore
Where anger will put to flight
And heap upon me, understanding
And a daughter's trust
julianna Feb 23
A middle-aged couple
Stares out their front window
Happily watching the workers
Busy on their front lawn, digging a hole.

They had lived in this neighborhood
For three years
With their three precious daughters,
The family dog, and only two trees.

The mother would often complain
Because the houses looked bare
The father was sad,
Said the air was stale.

But they know well that each day that brings a trial
Brings a blessing, too.
Today, the dog is barking
And there's plenty of work to do.

Still, they smile.
Because today they get a brand new tree.
The Dedpoet Jan 31
Who I was
Is not who I am,

     Quarter Moon
Beams of Where's
My Daddy tears hit
And the lonely nights
Have taken toll on me.

Where are you now
Little GIRLS?
I want to see you,
I need you,
I'm better now.

It's ok Daddy,
Echoes of the crescent
Regret arc over my soul,
And the hint of seeing
You again drives me to think
You still remember me,
You still love me,
I regret everything.

Just because I'm your father
Does not make me a good one.
I live for your future, even if I am not apart of it.
Cyrus Gold Jan 24
Lost in conversation at a party
with a friendly person
I ended up almost tardy
but the event was worth it

This woman older than myself
had lost her youngest son
He had a bout with depression
and used his father's gun

A teen that never listens
comes with the territory
Blamed herself for doing the same,
called it her "horror story"

A touch of blue hit her face
as she remembered his smile
Her hands continued to shake;
they had been for a while

It got me thinking quite a bit
of what we leave behind,
be they achievements or kin,
by them we are defined

We tell the world of our struggles
with words and demonstration
and teach the kids how to live,
preventing devastation

Our legacy will continue
past their life expectancy
and through the passage of time
raise their dependency

The stench of death is rotten,
but still our biggest fear to date
is living life to the fullest,
yet remaining forgotten

And not to mention
raising sons and daughters;
we do our very best to keep them
from the guns and slaughter

Living in the here and now,
ever considered a future
where your experience today
will tutor newer users?

So* leave your mark - *be it poetry, melodies,
artistry, pedigree, even guiding infancy or
serving in an infantry, believe in your legacy
You're remembered infinitely.
Martin Narrod Jan 23
A Fancy Word For A Plug    
     That’s how it opens, from the end ripped off, the open end. Good bread, meh. The best bread I can find
here right now.
     every afternoon someone finds everything they’ve thought they’ve ever needed in the trove of glances stalking their eyes stalking back at someone only
      five minutes ago they may have called them, stranger, but brilliantly they have hope now, or the illusion I had thinking I’d be able to please every woman I’d ever take to bed
     being fifteen years old can do that to someone who spends nights after high school smoking his father’s marijuana. It’s funny how glances and stares are all a single man needs to feel empowered by a woman
     like he’s just captured his muse in a butterfly net. This is before he learns not all lepidoptera are butterflies, before he learns to transmit his rattling indecipherable hormones to her antennae, but never to touch the wings.
     He is a stalker of wing-touches, with a fancy diet to guide him through the unforgivable minutes he tricks himself into thinking he can make anyone happy, he carves a topaz vase he hoards the few moments before any voice should trammel these moments whose preciousness isn’t foretold by nearly a decade.
      Everyone wants to escape someone to move from one silence to another, they put on a show if only to escape everyone they ever went begging eyes from in a not so distant past.
      I used to last eight or nine times a day in college, I made a collage of faces for a Freshman-studies course, as if there was no price too vain for me to expose my soaked and fleshy junk. That was until I started guilty catching stares, taking away a gaze from another’s gaze, becoming Casanova for a moment, then again it’s still hard to resist something I know six billion people are wanting to put inside or be put inside.
Anaya c Jan 23
my tears will disappear
and i will heal once more
this is a now forever, never ending process
our love and our memories will not ever leave
these parts of my mind have been closed off
the life here has faded like your voice overtime
time has ripped you from my memory
all of you has left me only leaving the painful memories
i'll forever live with
i try not to think too much
because i expect a miracle
i know you won't be there when my nights seem eternity
those nights spent pondering you
and it will bring the heaviest oceans to my eyes
so i continue to wait
remaining broken
for the day that will never come
when i can hear your voice once more
and recover myself whole again
the love shared between a daughter and her mother is powerful and unbreakable // dedicated to my own
my head can be crazy, my head can be sane
my head can be home to the worst kind of pain
the kind that revisits - unwelcome, unkind
belittle the days that were good to your mind
it leaks into dreams so to make of you less
attacks you at night when you’re trying to rest
but this is what’s crazy and this is what’s sane
your mind is an altar, a product of pain
the kind that will knock ‘fore it opens the door
acknowledge the body that lies on the floor
the kind that shows empathy for you and me
erases the days we could never be free
mothers, daughters
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