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Wk kortas Apr 2017
There was, every spring, a new batch of pups,
Yipping, nipping, clumsy ***** of ***** fur,
Looking for all the world like speckled tennis *****
Before they’d learned any hard lessons
At the hands of a racquet.
They chased their tails and each other,
Not to mention various other denizens of the barnyard:
Frantic chicks, cranky piglets,
The occasional bemused draft horse,
And sometimes they chased us as well,
Yelping childishly, rolling with us on the ground,
Nipping bare fingers and toes,
Afterwards lying on the ground asleep,
Looking , save for the rhythmic twitching of their paws,
Positively angelic.

Come late August,
The time would come to set them on the *****.
We’d long since stopped thinking about it,
Much less questioning it
(I had, one year, asked my father if the puppies had to go
One time too many until,
With a look that brooked no further conversation,
He said flatly It’s what they’re born to.)
So we went on with the business
Of the soft, slow late summer
Until one evening just after sunset
We would hear the baying of the hounds
Out toward the back fields,
Mechanical and workmanlike at first,
But soon strained and syncopated with excitement,
And at some point there would be
A cacophony of cries and snarls
Until such time there was only silence.
The next morning we would visit the dogs,
And we’d pet them and rough-house a bit,
And there might be an oddly rouged spot
On their coats here and there,
Or one of them might sneeze out a tuft of fur
That didn’t rightly belong to them,
And every year our Uncle Bryce would slyly opine
You boys may want to be a bit more careful
Around their mouths now, hear
?
Jade Jan 18
If I am writing about you now,
then you have stolen from me
something as precious
as the gem I was named for--
my voice.

Though,
I'm afraid our encounters
were never quite as cinematic
as Disney's animation--
no tantalizing mist of green
shrouding our figures,
no sweet harmony
evaporating from a
frightened, rouged mouth
in wisps of golden light,
and absolutely no
happily ever afters.

See,
you've always had
a catty flair
for stepping all over me
like a Just Dance Mat--
yes, I'm quite familiar
with the way you toy
with others, myself included;
and the pawn has never
defeated the Game Master.

Call a ***** a *****;
I know very well that
I can't change you
or what you did me.

I can't undo the hurt.

But I can reclaim my voice.

Through poetry,
I will say all the things
I wish I had the courage
to say to you
way back when
in response to your
cruel fuckery.

I will expose you
for what you truly are--
a petty,
self-righteous
sea (witch) *****.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Jade Jul 2018
Reaching out towards
delicately rouged areola
(dusty pink,
supple
like rose petals)
his fingertips blush madly
upon their first caress.

He nestles himself
against her blooming *****,
against this garden of a women
where only lovely things--
Star Dust.
Laugher.
Poetry--
may grow.

— The End —