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Kimi Sanchez Jun 16
there is power in being a girl
but there's also sadness
                            struggle
                    ­        anger
                            uncertainty
and most of the time it's hard to find strength in being a girl
except in knowing that the sisterhood is rising,
we're coming,
a force to be reckoned with
and nothing to stop us

there is power in being a girl
and there is also inevitability
ConnectHook Apr 23
Endless scoldings from the Nanny
mean-face global fascist granny;
data-driven witch of woe
born of winter’s frigid flow.

Boys rebel in her dull school:
passive subversion of her rule.
Minds thus stagnate—shut down early
graduating sullen, surly;
unsure why they hate the world,
emasculated and begirled.
Oh snap! No Haiku.
Got to come up with one quick . . .
OK (breathe again)
ConnectHook Apr 20
We’ll give *** credit
while you shriek: humanity !
On it must go—
dialectic insanity.
You have been programmed
for dumbed-down diversity:
Feminization
through global perversity.
Femininity
is a ***-given blessing.
Appreciate it.
The Mother, gets Father
to crush them when
they are babies.

Father always wanted too
crush them anyways,
While Momma, she...

Tamed him, Father; see?
By giving them over
to be crushed
some day.


...always defer to some other camp,
put it in VEGAS terms...
focus on and then to say,
Revolve your mind
turn around.

When my grandmother dies,
I hope they fill her casket with flowers.
So that the last time we see her,
she is nestled in amongst
the delicate feathered petals of mountain bluet
haloed by the bright yellow of birdsfoot
the length
of her soft
decaying body
is caressed by the long stalks of bottle brush
and bog candle
so that we can imagine her,
splayed out in a warm field
on the outskirts of St Johns
laughing in the sunlight
the weight
of such a long life,
of mothering so many children,
melting away
into the warm red soil.

I hope the service
is held in a small white church
with all the windows thrown open;
the clear air and the sunlight
tumbling down onto our heads,
onto her lightly clasped hands,
onto her soft  lips...

I hope they read poems for her
play light happy songs for her
I hope
everyone remembers to tell her
they love her.
I will ask,
that they bury her somewhere
with a good view of the stars,
lay her to rest where the wind
blows the smell of the ocean over her,
and she can admire the sunrise
under the arms of a gentle Alder.

I hope we remember
that she has loved
so deeply
that she has laughed
and lost
and been so unbearably human
all of her life
even when she has been quiet
even as she has cared for us.

I hope we remember
what a resilient woman she is
but also how tender.
How new she once was,
to love
and to it’s touch.

And when I
am someone’s grandmother
I hope they remember
that even I,
was once somebody’s lover.
JLB Apr 2014
I  find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of ***** humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both *****. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a **** where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal, forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.

What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you ***** open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight.  We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.

— The End —