Some men prefer dolls.
Real women are too complex.
Dolls keep egos safe.

Paradise sought,
Paradise down an alleyway,
Paradise by a fountain,
Your body is a fountain,
Under the lamplight,
Your body's a fountain.
Paradise down the alleyway,
Paradise against a brick wall,
Paradise in the ivy,
You're covered in ivy,
Under the streetlights,
You're covered in my ivy.
Paradise sought,
Paradise by the water,
Paradise gained,

Paradise denied.

Does but does not
Should but cannot
You threw it away
To gain mediocrity.

Somewhere in that
Angel's lair is my true
love, sleeping, waking,
Or maybe on his knees again,
Rosary-wrapped fist, his icy
Eyes staring straight ahead at Him hanging there,
The only man he truly adores,
The only one he'd give up
Love for, the only one
He allowed to brand his soul
With the image of
A sacred heart.

Yes, my true love is talking to the angels,
And letting them set the date.

I reached out to you
When I didn't know who or what I was,
And you gave me a piece of paper
that stated, "Redeem at your own risk".

I think, at the bottom of the pile,
is a list of all the things
I've learned to be afraid of...

And it all comes down to one
moment, one millisecond of traffic light red strobing deep into my terrified soul,
Pushing me forward into a sun so bright it burns like acid
And callously exposing me in all of my littleness
To the universe who looks over once and then ignores...

When I fell in love with life I did not know that one day it would lay in wait for me to pass by,
And then jump from behind to press
Itself into my open back
Slicing my core to ribbons,
And presenting me with the only truth there is:

"Nothing, absolutely nothing, is guaranteed."

Kiss me, drink with me,
Ireland and Africa,
Truly, Black Irish😊!

Bend to me darling and feel my embrace,
I shall be your only lover--
Whether you like it or not.
They might try and divide us,
But I will not let that happen,
We are meant to be together.
We will always be together.
Your blood runs like poetry
It soothes my dark fever,
I will drink you with pleasure
And revive this dead soul. 
As I trample your green earth
I do not care if you run,
I will narrow your escape
So you run only to me.
Your screams and cries are the symphony
I composed with a gun,
I have waited so long
And I ache to conduct.
My chance has arrived,
I'm impatient, dear sweetheart,
No more blue, no more yellow,
But my own white and blue,
New born from old,
Red as blood, bound forever...

A hospital bombed...
But...Putin worships Christ, right?
At least he's not "woke".

You set a match to my prairie grass mind,
And I quickly spark,
Rushing upwards
Like Burning Man.

Fourteen state-wide ban
One history is valid
Welcome back, Jim Crow.

It is everywhere this season,
Mother looks like father looks like
daughter looks like son.
As they gather around the holiday tree
Like escapees from corporate Whoville,
They sing songs to a baby
Who couldn't care less about Target.

Which is worse, poets?
Harsh critiques or... apathy?
Public view is public.

October is here
Heat gives way to cool days
Autumn! What a treat!

(This is a very old Spanish fairy tale that was told to me by my first Spanish teacher. It has lived in my heart since then and I am temporarily re-telling it in prose)

A sultan in Moorish Andalucia acquired a new bride, a beautiful young woman from the snowy far North, Scandinavia, in fact. The sultan was delighted with her gentle manners and exquisite looks, but grew concerned when he noticed that, day after day, she was discovered seated in one particular window that overlooked his garden behind the grand palace, the one with a view that took in the sierras. He asked one of her servants to inquire into her mistress's behaviour and learned that she was deeply depressed because she missed her home. A little annoyed but curious, the sultan approached his bride, determined to get to the bottom of the matter and change her demeanour.

"Why so melancholy, fair one?" he asked her and with a sweep of one jeweled hand indicated the magnificence of the room they currently occupied. "I have provided thee with many jewels and beautiful clothing, sweet perfumes and well-appointed chambers, such as these, where you can take your ease. What else must I do to bring a blush to your pale cheek?"

"Oh, my Lord," replied the maiden, "If you must understand, I am a maid from the far North, the land of snows and the Midnight Sun. Forgive me for my melancholy! I am grateful for your kindness and mercy but, quite simply, I wish I could look out this window and see only the cold white snow below! How my heart would rejoice for it would remind me of home!"

The sultan smiled because it was only the beginning of the summer. "Alas, fair one," he said and sighed, "That is impossible.
While there is snow in the distant mountains, we do never see it here in the valleys." And he reached out to touch his bride's soft cheek, saddened when tears flowed over his fingers. "But be of good cheer. I am the ruler of these lands and if we cannot go to the snows, then...I shall bring them here."

Several months went by and the princess became sadder and sadder to the point where she could no longer leave her bedchamber. And then, one crisp lovely late winter morning, the sultan's servants announced his entry into her bedroom. The sultan was shocked when he saw her, still beautiful but so thin and so pale. However, he was confident and urged her servants to dress her warmly and prepare her a chair. "My lovely one," he said to his bride, "I have something to show you. Come away with me. I think you will be pleased."

The sultan, his princess, and their retinue proceeded to the window where she had previously sat, the window looking over the garden, the one with the view of the sierras. And, lo! Everyone but the sultan gasped when the hangings were pulled aside to reveal a garden filled with...snow.

But it wasn't snow.

The garden was filled with almond tress, thousands upon thousands of almond trees as far as the eye could see, each almond tree bursting with life, each tree laden with fragile white flowers.

Do I need to say that the princess was stunned by her husband's loving gesture and that she recovered immediately?

As you expect, they lived happily ever after and every year, the princess had her beloved "snow".

The End.

Poets are more disciplined
Than paper soldiers
could ever imagine.