September Poem 52: A Portrait of Mother and Child: Why are There so Many Poems about Fucking?

The breathy tone. Her voice singing out. Her

Soul so close to another. Pressed against

Her breast. Tightly caressing the warmth of

Skin on skin. The way she stares in her

Eyes. Pillowing head in arms. The way they

Breathe together releasing, bringing hearts

Back in unison. The sultry rocking

Of a mother comforting her child.

Primal calls of need only heard only

Understood by one other in the same

Moment. Nothing but two held there by the

Gravity of their love. One become two.

None know, but the pull to bring in life.  To

Be mother. To be all that fills the earth.


September Poem 51: The New Wild West Show

The yellow sky and blue white hills that rose

In the autumn of the earth. The cold and

Sometimes snow of the Smoky Mountains kept

Out the tears when looked on in a certain

Eye. The old man’s spitting years sputtered through

Like cleaning up. Like the skin from a dead

Snake, he pealed the bark of the mulberry,

A fiber to weave his back while also

Staying Cherokee in the November season.

He made his time in the casino to

Trade drink for play and wondered if this should

Be life to rob the weak to pay the poor.

To pay the weak to rob the poor. To pay

The cowboy to see the Indian play.




September Poem 50: Stand Up and Signify

Ever the cuckold. Ever the man in the horned

Helm standing in public protest of him-

Self. The long raking scrape off self-scourging.

The deep clean slice of a limber switch on

A naked thigh. The ache of walking in

To find another enthralling her. The

Pain felt good, for he had to self the soul.

But that was beside the point. Beside the

Intense blue of close cropped hair. The metal

Rings pierced through. And the black painted lips. All

Aggressively feminine in all the

Wrong ways. He had wanted another try

At whatever she turned down. To be strong.

To be masculine. To be in control.




September Poem 49: The Red Field Guide

Dressing your kill on your knees. The last leaf

Falls. The story ends. Your wood shed. A roofed

Pile that you built. Old pallets, scrap wood,

And an angled flat roof you covered in

Left over scraps of tile. Your cabin.

Warm from your seasoned wood. It had been her

Present to you. Or your present to you.

Your dream. Your refuge from her. From never

Ending shitfits. Angry that you cooked your

Own meals. Angry that you invited her

To eat. Angry. And why? Because of your

Mannerisms. Because her father did

Something. Once, before you knew her. Something

Like nothing you had done. Blame without end.