"moccasins" poems
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the ******
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
7.3k
if you can be anything
be kind.
we are all just humans.
we laugh at cute cat videos,
hum little songs,
eat raw cookie dough and laugh when it makes one giant cookie mass.
life is made of these moments.
people deserve so much love.
how often do we remind our families we love them?
is it often enough?
how many days do we think only of ourselves.
human nature is beautiful and terrible and stunning.
somehow hate seeps through the cracks of time and makes us bitter and angry.
and it's fine to be angry.
just don't let it consume you.
remember sometimes that there
are old folks out there who still tease each other,
there are babies who giggle when you play peekaboo,
there are dogs with slobbery tongues who need head scratches,
there are children spinning and laughing when they fall.
humams are important.
we are special.
even people we say we hate.
i thought i hated my mom
but i know she cares
and i have seen her run when she thought i was in danger.
i have seen her break into tears at getting a DUI and trying to explain to a child that she might lose her job.
being human is tough.
our hearts harden trying to protect ourselves but
we end up locking people out.
in trying to avoid being hurt
we hurt the ones we love.
please never forget that each person you meet has more than just facet.
people are stunningly complex.
don't judge someome til you've walked two moons in their moccasins.
humans are worth so much.
i don't know what i am saying
but i mean it with all of me.
i love you.
you deserve so much.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
Sacagawea's Capture
As I strolled the Knife River trail
a dust cloud swirled and fell
and earth lodges appeared by the score
extending from the path to the river banks.
Hidatsa women sang at their chores,
husking corn -
beading moccasins -
scraping a buffalo hide.
A band of hunters dismounted
and released their ropes -
dropping two deer and an elk
by the hanging rack.
Triumphal shouts from the river
turned all heads to the shore
where warriors, returned
from Shoshone fields,
lashed up canoes and dragged
their human spoils up the rise.
Several squaws reached out
from the gathering crowd
seizing two of the squirming children.
A Shoshone girl with terror in her eyes
cringed as a warrior raised his arm.
"No, tell your Hidatsa name!"
Sobbing she choked through broken tears,
"My name is Sacagawea."
I bolted to breach the walls of time
to face death in her defense
but a new whirling cloud intervened.
When the dust fell away
all the lodges had vanished
with all the Hidatsa villagers.
Kneeling down to the Dakota grass,
I caressed a circular hollow
etched deeply in the silent earth.
August 6, 2010
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
Grandmother Willow said
listen to your heart, you will understand
but when it pounds all I want to do is run
my heart says so many things
one minute it's telling me to climb a tree as high as the branches let me
the next it says hook line and sinker
and when I'm with someone beautiful, it says
nothing, it just
flutters and pitter patters
Mulan was always my favourite because
she had her heart broken and still
She Saved China
all on her own
my heart breaks like twigs and crumbles like dry
stiff leaves
in Autumn
and my heart is also a rubber ball that bounces from
one place to the next
too rapidly,
I forget where I am
and where I just was a moment before I ended up
wherever I ended up
my heart is like ice and sometimes if you are the right temperature,
it will melt for you
my heart is aware of fallacy and sometimes if you try to coax it,
everything I ever felt for you
won't exist anymore
a few months ago I was sitting at the back of
a midnight bus
in my hometown,
with a hippie headband on, accompanied with braids,
a long dress and moccasins of black suede
when a drunk teenager pointed and hollered directly at my face,
"you look like Pocahontas, how many John Smiths love you?"
I don't get angry anymore
I just get tired
my heart goes to sleep for days and wakes up at
the sudden gong of recognition
in eye contact
that lasts longer than just a few seconds;
my heart awakens at sunsets,
when I am sitting in a tree alone
and it awakens each time I successfully skip a stone
I've always thought highly of the two
disney cartoons
and it's not just because they can fire a harpoon
it's something like embodying the female
self-assurance,
strength of the soul,
embracing solitude like wind on a stroll
heart strong from a softening,
heart loved from singing just for singing
heart open like eye contact
that lasts longer than
just a few seconds
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
The white cells,
seemingly not fearful of
oozing,
festering,
metastasizing,
fear black cells,
wearing hijabs or dreads.
The white cells
are fearful of the brown cells
that **** and process their chickens
and mow their lawns for them.
The white cells fear the red cells
though they like moccasins, canoes,
and wild rice soup,
fear yellow cells
may be smarter than them
so they label them
***** and Chinks.
The white cells
don’t seem to mind
asphalt-coating,
starlight-stealing,
convenience store sprawl
devouring healthy green cells--
alfalfa cells,
forest cells,
swampy, boggy cells,
black-eyed susan cells.
The Chamber of Commerce
calls it growth,
progress;
but this town
needs a tourniquet,
maybe chemotherapy.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC
A slope with naturally created dampness
causes me to lose my stride
and mess my moccasins.
How will this muddy mess be conquered
by my not so balanced state-
shaky even as I stand and ponder.
A friend is already on the other side,
as use was made of two delicately placed logs
but my trust for them is nonexistent.
I choose another log to complete the path,
heavier than I had imagined,
and I place it not so delicately in between the others.
Medium sized rocks penetrate the soles of my shoes,
and tease the nerves in my feet constantly.
They never pierce me fully and I am thankful.
My brain is set on numerous trains,
and the tracks, and railroad spikes.
I was warned but I was more than disappointed.
There was truly nothing there but garbage,
splinters of wood and scrap cloth
caked with mud and gravel.
There is some beauty in this trip.
The nostalgia I craved was nowhere in sight,
but that was not such a bad thing after a moment.
Sprinkled along the rocky path
little areas of beauty stood out through the vacancy.
There were daisies everywhere.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 8:43 PM UTC
The drifter in the room is a stranger,
he is crazy, is Bigfoot with deer moccasins on−
monster of condominium rooms and dreams.
The drifter in this room used to be my friend.
He spoke straight sentences, they did not sound like poetry-
reverberated like a narrative, special lines good a few bad,
or stories being unwound by the tongue of a gentleman,
lip service, juggler of simple words to children.
The night is a dark believer in drifters,
they sound sober, affairs with the wind,
the 3 A.M. honking of the Metro trains.
Everything sleeps with a love, a nightmare at night.
The drifter.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
From where I stand, there is a kaleidoscopic view of the world.
My cousin always had something negative to say about my upbringings, my excessive scruples.
Life is an hourglass.
The scent of your tongue is a foul one and I cry because it reminds me of my brother.
The blood runs down my fingers, scared I run to the nearest lake.
Has anyone identified Victoria's secret?
The reindeer reign over me, because of this I know Santa is near.
The wind tells me stories of my father who lived in China until age 8 and I ponder if my love for sushi is hereditary.
The kitten meows until I give her milk. Little *****
My red moccasins are the reason I could not attend the wedding but I have no regrets.
Yet again, you enter my thoughts, and I throw you out like yesterdays trash.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
Granny gave me moccasins
To run and play in.
She got them from the pow-wow.
They made me swift
And light on my feet.
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a dream catcher
For my good dreams to fly through
And the bad ones to get caught in.
She got it at the pow-wow.
It made my nightmares go away
And gave me dreams about my ancestors.
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a totem pole
So that I would know our seven clans.
She got it from her father.
The Ani-gatagewi keepers of our land
Ani-gilahi and Ani-waya the peace and war chiefs
The Ani-kawi and Ani-tsiskwa earthly and spirited messengers
Ani-wodi and Ani-sahoni the creators of medicine
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a book
With the words of my people
And their stories.
She got it from the pow-wow.
I learned about our earth mother
And how we grew from her *****
She told me
“Remember who you are”
Granny gave me a day
To wear my moccasins.
She took me to the pow-wow.
I saw the people from my stories
And dreams.
My people and clans.
She told me
“You are ᏣᎳᎩᎯ ᎠᏰᎵ (Cherokee)”
*The seven clans of the Cherokee tribe: Ani-gatagewi translates to Wild Potato Clan (keepers of our land), Ani-gilahi are the Long Hair Clan (peace chiefs), Ani-kawi is the Deer Clan (earthly messengers), Ani-sahoni or Blue Paint Clan (medicine for children), Ani-tsiskwa or Bird Clan (spirited messengers), Ani-waya is the Wolf Clan (war chief) , Ani-wodi Red Paint Clan (medicine).
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
We're all walking cliche's,
So what's the big deal?
I can wear a beanie and a gay pride tee shirt and moccasins,
And listen to Neutral Milk Hotel,
And talk about feminism and politics.
Do not kiss me with your mustang convertible and your ****** piercings.
I am a taken woman.
But I will take your free drugs.
Thank you very much.
Stop mourning me,
My arrogance should never have been a turn on.
Pretzel crisps, tattoos, and student loans.
It's hard walking down the boulevard of broken dreams,
And bumping into all the other lonely souls.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
He stuck two sticks in the mud
Forked like a moccasins's tongue
To hold both poles while we smoked
Camels we stole from the coal
Truck man and drank homemade
Wine swapped for a knife and a dollar
To the drunk up the holler and a can
Of sweet corn ten years old still dusty
And rusted but the trout hit it hard
Anyway like slow flies on a slow
Golden Saturday a long time ago.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Maynard the Martyr
moored in the marshland
misrepresented
and misinformed
much maligned
melancholy
misfortunate and small-minded
unmotivated
a real Melvin –
macho magpies munch
mangos and marshmallows
in the moonlight
mired in muck and mud
misshapen
mutated
malformed
mushrooms
manifest momentarily
mocking Miss Marple –
marbleized Maples
mobilize
marching to madness
in moccasins
across Morocco
to Monico
or Mexico
perhaps Montana?
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
How Brave you must be~the squaw exclaimed to the Chief. " Why, I am more than a Brave", the Chieftain quipped.! " Just look at my feathers and the scalps hanging by my side, do they not tell of My many Deeds ? Her reply was a simple ,, "YES, I can see how you have adorned yourself ! " He retorted ~ " And you certainly can't miss all the colors by which I have claimed MY-STATUS ! " The Squaw responded~ "YES, the HUES on you, certainly tell me who and what you are, now that I look closely ! " And he added~ "Look at the careful way in which I have displayed my Collection of SCALPS, Spaced ever so carefully around my waistband ! She questioned further, "Have you ,Oh Mighty Chief, Properly named each of the Scalps , SO YOU won't forget from whence they came ? ? "OH, My Goodness, YES, he answered. "I wouldn't ever want to forget where they came from, SO~I admire each and Call each of them, By Name~ Everyday. "SURELY" She continued, "YOU are much more than any other Chief, and by the way , DO you use Windex or Glass-Plus to clean your mirrors ? ? " HE exclaimed, "I, really don't know what cleaning agent my servant uses, to clean my many mirrors ! BUT, they certainly do shine, when I look into them ! The SQUAW queried~ " BUT what about your shoes, moccasins , if you would, WHAT~~ is that Green-Gooey Stuff all over them ? ? HE-Commented~ " I guess that when I take my mighty steps, toes and feet, IN THE WAY, Fall under the Prances that I make ! ! ? " Then,She asked~ "Do you do your War'Dances often, or just as you are called on, by your mighty warriors ? " AND,,this Brave-Chieftain PROCLAIMED~ "WHY, I"ll have you Know, I do all of these Prances and Dances ~BY MY OWN CHOICE, NO-ONE tells me when or what to do. Except my visits with the Prince of the Air !" The Squaw thanked him~turned~then turned back~Asking " Measured by~ Scalps~Prances and Dances ? ?
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:11 AM UTC
Wandering through the bayou,
wrapped in its eerie embrace.
Mysterious and strange,
a magical place.
Never seeming to change,
even as seasons come and go,
swampy waters ebb to and fro.
Like long-lost daughters,
gnarled courtly cypress trees,
rise from black murky waters.
Draped lovingly in Spanish moss,
swaying softly in the breeze.
Butterflies seem to float across,
as gentle winds ruffle their leaves.
Bouquets of wild hibiscus fill the air,
mingled with sweet azaleas blooming there.
Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp,
the bayou is awash with soothing music.
As dragonflies flit the cattails, elusive,
water moccasins slithering at your feet
or lurk above you in the trees.
Just as, the sun begins to sink low,
comes the faint sound of a fiddle and bow.
The gator comes out of hiding,
rising from the dark waters below.
Looking for his meal and smiling,
with snapping jaws, a deer is caught,
then taken below where he will rot.
The moon rises high into the night,
as fireflies glow in the twilight.
A voodoo queen slips into sight,
with gnarled hands, she rolls the bones.
Whispering cryptic words, she softly moans.
Tenderly she caresses her snake,
wrapped around and about her neck.
A coon-hound whoops it up.
The gnarled trees cast spooky shadows.
Is that the ghostly apparition of Jean Lafitte?
Who managed to escape prison and gallows.
Did you bury your treasure in the water or weeds?
As the wind moans softly, time to turn home,
where you can fill your belly with spicy gumbo.
ALesiach © 10/12/2014
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
The next time you want to ban
brown skin from your white land ,
consider the crimson floods spilt
on burnt clay from red flesh.
You want brownfolk in this country
like we wanted pox in our quilts.
As our history is ripped to tattered patches
and replaced by a white silken sheet.
But this is the land of the free
and this is the home of the brave.
And when I say brave
I don't mean that caricature
drawn on the front of a baseball jersey,
with buck teeth,
a bird feather
and a tomahawk motion.
I mean the brave souls
that took a last stand
against the Custers
and the Mayflowers
and colonial white powers.
I mean the Sitting Bulls and Geronimos
who’s histories are rewritten
in Old Spaghetti Westerns.
Where John Wayne is always the hero,
and our people aren’t even cast
to play our own roles.
Hollywood won't stoop to blackface
but red face is PC.
Perfect Aryan models advertise American Apparel,
one authentic-looking headdress
and fifty-dollar native design
crop top tank tops
are like spoils to the victor.
It's enough to make one sick.
This is America,
where they steal your culture
and sell it back to you
at ten times the price.
Those faux hide moccasins,
**** on old tradition,
turn centuries old struggle
into a fashion faux-pas.
I once had a conversation with a girl
whose skin was made of privilege.
She said, ”I thought Native Americans
wanted to live on reservations..?”
Let that resonate. Repeat.
as if we were getting a room
at the Four Seasons.
It was called the trail of tears
not the trail of whimsical wonder.
But in this white washed world
invasion is called settling
genocide is industry
and poverty is tax-free.
Our heritage is endangered,
our veins are booze-diluted
but at least we have those scholarships
which, I suppose, we’ll use
to cram our brains
with a history
that never belonged to us.
Perhaps, all of those centuries ago,
we should have thought to build a wall,
you know, to keep the immigrants out.
We could have stood at the border
with picket signs of self-deluded righteousness
lungs filled with hate
for a different colored human
shouting, "Go home, Alien,
your dreams are illegal here!"
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
I went into the pro shop
Paid my fees and turned to leave
The man behind the counter said
"you're new here...I believe"
I said I'd never played here
He said "there's things that you should know"
"I'll grab us both a coffee"
"Listen close...before you go"
"The first two holes are easy"
"nothing there gets in the way"
"no bunkers, and no water"
"just the way to start the day"
"It gets tougher on the third hole"
"There's some birds up in the trees"
"They buzz you while you're putting"
"Remember...birds on three"
"The fourth hole is a dog leg"
"It has a river on the right"
'Avoid the yellow caution tape"
"We had a drowning there last night"
I swallowed hard and stared back
"A drowning out on four"
"That's right" he said "don't worry"
"At least it's not the wild boar"
"The WILD BOAR?" I said aloud
He said "he's on five through seven"
"Don't worry much on those holes"
"He's been sighted on eleven"
"The eighth is fairy simple"
"A par three that you can reach"
"Water moccasins in the swamp"
"And lots of spiders in the beach"
"The greens are all receptive"
"They hold well, just come in high"
'But, land is short...there's quicksand"
"So...go in there...you die"
"you make the turn, and grab a dog"
"I give them out for free"
"The owner says it's wasteful"
"But, I say...just let it be"
"The tenth hole is a par five"
"It' one to reach in two"
"But if you put it out of bounds"
"I'd leave it...if I were you"
"you know about the wild boar"
"so eleven gets a pass"
"he's got some bite, that sumbitch"
"He might gore you in the ***
"Now twelve...is quite a pickle"
"I'll tell you watch out now.....not later"
"We have a situation there"
"It's fairway's full of gator"
"What the hell is that you say"
"There's a gator out there then"
"Today there is but somedays son"
"You can meet as much as ten"
"You must be mad" I yelled at him
"I'm leaving...I'll not play"
"on a course so full of danger"
"There's no way...just no way"
I asked him for a refund
he pointed up above his head
"no refunds, only rainchecks"
"and then only if you're dead"
I sacrificed my forty bucks
And left, out to my car
The pro just sat and smiled
"I've scared off thirty one so far"
I know I'll not return here
not with friends or by myself
not with spiders in the bunkers
Or gators on the twelfth.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
Cherokee Travelers' Blessing III
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
May Heaven’s warming winds blow gently there,
where you reside,
and may the Great Spirit bless all those you love,
this side of the farthest tide.
And wherever you go,
whether the journey is fast or slow,
may your moccasins leave many cunning footprints in the snow.
And when you look over your shoulder, may you always find the Rainbow.
Published by Better Than Starbucks
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 11:19 PM UTC
Realizations
like pathways walked over with
moccasins and sandals
and ungulate feet.
the trail blazed by a tribe
is followed many times.
a line between
the time that seems
to snake through sand.
so fine,
i just want to **** you,
on the sand,
so fine,
we've been here before...
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
In my dream,
I was accosted by sugar ants
in the sandbox,
near the honeysuckle
and curled parsley
behind the house.
I was trying to eat the little ants
but was called in
for cheese and baloney.
When I came in,
hopping in worn-out slippers,
the glass door slid into the kitchen
with plasterboard walls
and beige ceramic tile.
There was a black spider
perched on the ceiling
with bright yellow knees.
Those years ago
I drew with sidewalk chalk,
made myself mazes
on the sloping driveway
too steep for basketball.
Cicadas dragged in heat
on waves, droning.
One landed on me -
a yell caught in my throat -
but I made myself look at it
and be still, shaking.
Back then I had an old cape
& a homemade bow-and-arrow.
I’d sally forth
into the backyard, barefoot,
jumping over prickly mulch,
brushing my shins
against clouds of low love-in-a-mist
with its threaded leaves
& shy blue-white flowers.
Sometimes my sister
was back there too, tanning,
or Mom carving
little men out of cherry,
but more often I was all alone
in that wilderness
in moccasins & living
off wood sorrel,
the brighter clover, lemony.
Or in rain
I listened to my brother
play piano if he was home,
maybe Bags and Trane,
and I’d dance between shadows,
the underworld of the patches
of carpet in the light.
Later - a little older -
I recognized that home
is more a time than a place,
and understood I would miss it
years before it was gone
so around nine years old
I went through every foot
of that high-ceilinged house,
that weedy backyard,
and made a solemn farewell
to everything in advance
trying hard to be ready
long before the time came to leave.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 6:41 AM UTC
Curled up in the passenger side, my moccasins rested on the edge of the seat.
Projecting heat pleaded the piercing winter from under my skin.
My chin fell slowly as ash insulated my heart.
My lips would part as second-hand soothing soot
Grew arms and cradled my soul like the look
A newborn baby receives when wrapped in adoration.
A suffocation as an indication I was not alone.
Strangers. Soaring together for forty-eight hours.
Oblivious to dangers our adolescent wings never noticed.
Our only focus was on each other.
At first, words of conversation refused to be discovered.
But all at once we slowly uttered
Our pasts until his demons appeared in front of me.
Surprised I could still see through the windshield ahead,
I did not dread the broken being to my left.
Because who was I to judge the stranger
Who’d unknowingly love me as if his life depended on it?
Have you ever been in love with a Thunderbird?
One that flies solely in winter blizzards?
Fueled by chain-smoking cigarettes
And Dunkin Donut cappuccinos with five sugars.
It never once regarded the threat
Of driving through life
At ninety-five miles per hour.
I fell in love at six in the morning, wearing a borrowed jacket.
Coated in sleep’s drowsiness, we floated on clouds,
Dodging white paper coral trees and buried houses.
I fell in love when the world stood still
And the snow descended along with our sanity.
Somehow a Thunderbird granted me amnesty from myself.
As humanity remained asleep, with stealth
We drifted through back roads in horrific elegance
That jostled my brain until my mind was rewired to my heart
And has remained that way since.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
in the last night of solvency we gather
the last of the moccasins are gone
all the indians here are punjabi
they are the nicest, finest people
in the poor dark night of new poverty
all talk of justice is gone
the school houses are useless imprisonments
no taliban are
here
just some drugged up people gettin
beatin by the police
come
the corporate billionaires are talkin
listen if you'd be considered loyal
to the new world's god
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
Cherokee Proverb
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Before you judge
a man for his sins
be sure to trudge
many moons in his moccasins.
Originally published by The HyperTexts
Feb 22, 2020
Feb 22, 2020 at 12:37 AM UTC
I hear when you're upset, a walk calms your mind
It explains why you're in stride all of the time
I know, right now, I'm the cause of your feverish pace
I'm the reason you've took to the trail and covered your face
So I suppose it makes sense that I should apologize
I know you love your shoes, but take this walk in mine
The souls they share - they're already worn
The toes are scuffed and the laces torn
They've been everywhere I've ever tried to roam
Eyelets have seen it all, except a peaceful home
The right tongue, it sometimes slips and lies out right
And the heel has turned, but not without a fight
They know how to cut shapes, they've kicked ideas around
Their views on life and the world are quite profound
The curve where your arch rests, it almost feels divine
They could be a perfect fit, yeah, they're my size nines
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:21 AM UTC
Daisy *** patchwork dress, lalala
I baked you cherry pie while you chatted a wizard
hope it kept warm in the oven.
Dear, the contents partner our cheeks
a good-natured face, freckled of breadcrumbs at
each of six circadian meals to come by day.
Everything is rosy in this hobbit hole –
flowers, and mouths, and food laugh all in sync.
I reckon when you digest
we shall scamper off to our twin bed.
Lalala I sing, and lalala you sing, raccoons are so
close above the wooden beams
that I know their supper is dandelion stalks.
Tucked in, this is what is christened a perfect fit
your foot the extent of my head
and kissing at my toes, their lady stubble.
(You, the skilled shoemaker
who will not tolerate me hiding in pelt moccasins)
If the moon arises, we do not see:
lalala, mockingbirds sing the garden to sleep
but the vegetation dances
like a dwarf’s beard, though blonde somehow
saturating ginger for a reading nightlight
bellies full of sweet cakes and dinner number four.
You kiss me our Eskimo way, then as halflings
I whisper about the ariel orchard today
(Rosemary, red-cheeks, lalala) afore first breakfast.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
Ms. Miss Me
Messes with the mess
Of Me
Messianic Masonic Messiah
Making mountainous modules
Manufactured from the make-shift
Makings of my soul
Which lifts me
Higher than before
It’s
Mysterious mysticallity
How you made me
After you met me
The misogynistic misogamist misfit
Meets Ms. Perfect
You misled me
You knew I didn’t want to fall in love
I mistreated you
And now
I miss seeing you
Mr. Missed Her
Mistakenly misunderstood
Her magic
For a trick
My mania must mean
I’m
Malevolently maiming my mind
Never mind me
NO!
Forever mind me
You’re forever mine
Even if only in the mind
My metal moccasins
Stump through
The mine field
On my quest to find you
Again
Constant explosions
Milling
A million
M-80’s to make
A metaphor
Of the fire within
The fireworks
I mean
Hopefully the fire works
I destroyed your
Mint commission
I meant condition
Your mint condition
Was devalued
From my mixed intentions
And messages
Monotonous tasks
To get you back
I get your back
And stay forever
In your past
Empty
M.T.
Mt. Empty
You built me
Just to leave me
Empty
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC