POETRY
Abandoned Among Sand Dunes
You left me.
You said you’d wait with my backpack, but didn’t.
no phone, no money, no water –
I can’t drink my camera.
You left me.
I took too long. That’s what photographers do.
You have an itinerary to follow.
at least I have a hat.
You left me.
I sit under the acacia tree, me and my Canon.
Will anyone in the group miss me?
Or will I blow away with the sand?
Himba
Bus after bus,
White face after white face,
Picture after picture.
You take my land,
You take my way of life,
You fence off my world.
So, I let you trample through my village,
I let you peer into my hut,
I let you photograph my child.
You pay to view me like animals in cages,
You pay for the trinkets I sell,
You pay, so I pretend it is ok.
Fairytales In the Age of Me Too
A Reflection of Time
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
The fairy tale is over.
I see you for what you are,
A reflection of my insecurities.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
I am beautiful,
Without your judgement,
Without your proclamations.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
The instrument of my inequality.
I won’t wear your torture devices,
Clothes that constrict, shoes that immobilize.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
I shatter your status quo.
My daughters will know their strengths,
They will know their power.
Riding in the Hood
Grandma, what big eyes you have.
The better to see you my dear.
Grandma, what a big nose you have.
The better to smell you my dear.
Grandma, what big teeth you have.
The better to eat you my dear.
Riding Hood, what a big gun you have.
Just Do It
Who are you?
I’m your fairy godmother.
I have brought you a carriage made of pumpkin and slippers made of glass.
Not to seem ungrateful, fairy godmother,
But RBG gave me equal rights and a pair of Nikes.
(Paradise Review Writing Contest, 2nd Place Poetry, 2021)
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Why?
So that I may climb up.
Why?
So that I may rescue you.
I cut that shit off ages ago,
Wove a rope,
Now come and go as I please.
Go rescue someone else.
(Paradise Review Writing Contest, 2nd Place Poetry, 2021)
Growing Up On The Gulf Coast
Rusty Dreams
The car is a relic of the 60’s.
It’s become the diner’s trademark.
Look for the old Chevy out front.
Her dress clings over a pot of crayfish.
Old man brung ‘em this morning.
They’s getting harder to find.
Even gator knows his numbers are limited.
People gotta eat.
The girl cooks up dirty rice in the back.
Truancy is due to pass again.
He’ll eat his etoufee and overlook another day.
The old woman, like the girl, had dreams.
Blown away with the hurricanes.
That was when the car was new.
(Cactus Heart E-Issue 14, Winter 2015)
Grandmama Swims with Water Moccasins
Rain dances with leaves.
Arthritic limbs scratch at unhinged shutters.
Window panes scream at the wind.
I want to run but can only hide.
Grandmama’s glare threatens me into silent prayer.
Roof tiles Frisbee across the yard.
Water moccasin swims pass our stoop.
Water devours one step, two steps, three.
Three feet to my four-foot-two.
Grandmama’s hurricane lamps glow with false hope.
Canoe crosses the street, full up with other grandmama’s little girls.
Old woman came in with the tide; she will go out the same.
“Don’t fear death, child and you won’t fear life.”
Easy to say when you’re eighty-four.
(Freckled Ink Online Journal, March 2019)
HERO WANTED
The promise of turquoise blue waters, with ribbons of emeralds sparkling in the sunlight.
The promise of romance in her dark eyes.
She said the ferry would only take five hours to cross the calm sea to her island.
A Greek island filled with the stories of heroes, and history, and fate.
But weren’t all those stories tragedies?
Does the Parthenon not crumple as did the civilization it represents?
The waters have turned gray with the rage of Poseidon.
I have turned green with the vertigo of sea sickness.
There are no heroes here.
Only want-to-be survivors bargaining with gods for a place in the lifeboats.
I lean over the railing and see her beneath the waves. Her dark eyes, her flowing hair, the lips which spoke of promises.
I close my ears to the siren’s song.
Odysseus, be my guide. For there are no heroes here.
The Society In Which We Live
Inside the Pain
The first thing noticed was his hand, burned raw.
A perfect circle of white surrounded by red.
It had to hurt, but the pain inside hurts more.
Next was the eye.
A miniature cloud of its former self.
It must have hurt, but the pain inside hurts more.
He stumbled from person to person mumbling his appeal.
The staff reprimanded, “Robert, you have to get out.”
The pain inside ignored them.
This day, numbness is replaced by agitation.
He spews vulgarities at demons past and present.
Years of hurt surface with the pain of withdrawal.
Unaware of his frightfulness, his filth, or his hunger.
He drifts from streetlight to streetlight.
The hard, cold concrete will hurt, but the pain inside hurts more.
(Paradise Review Writing Contest, Works of Merit Poetry, 2018)
You’re Thirteen
I’ve been working the streets for a year.
You’re thirteen.
I make more money selling shit on the street than you make working here.
You’re thirteen.
I just want to go home. Why can’t I go home?
You’re thirteen.
I have to take care of my brother because my mother can’t.
You’re thirteen.
That was my fourth foster home.
You’re thirteen.
I don’t like all the rules. I can take care of myself.
You’re thirteen.
My stepdad threw me out because I got too old. He’s into my little sister now.
You’re thirteen.
I think my dad’s in prison. I don’t need him.
You’re thirteen.
I was in the car, but I don’t know who shot the bitch.
You’re thirteen.
Mom’s excited about having a new baby in the house.
You’re thirteen.
I’m clean. I don’t need to get tested.
You’re thirteen.
Why do you care? My folks don’t care.
You’re thirteen.
(Mookychick Online Magazine, March 13, 2018)