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Lady Daedulus

Daedulus.JPG

The rust gate at last released,

I hesitate, by the iron fence—

Afraid to leave.

Decades of padlocks snapped,

My bolt cutters did their job,

Working, bit by bit.

 

Trust, trust.

 

Sun scars my cheeks,

Atomic tangerine tiger lilies sway in the breeze

Alongside the wild lavender brush

At the hills along the highway—

The cars rush across the vast, flat plains.

I thumb a ride, to the airport.

 

Trust, trust.

 

What is it like when the small plane door finally slides?

 

It’s cold, so cold in the clouds.

Tethered to you for the tandem dive,

No wax wings—

You jump, I cling.

The earth gets closer.

If you don’t pull the cord, I will die.

 

Free fall, flush in the gut,

Spinning and screaming—

Until, the bright striped chute opens,

Red and white.

Lifting us into a great glorious florid waft—

We float down, to the damp grass,

My feet thud on the earth,

My knees bend, but do not break.

 

And you say,

 

You are still alive.

You will thrive.

You have freedom, you have choice,

You have earned your voice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lethe

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed on the internet.

Branded crazy, dumb as stumps, goaded, extorted.

Bullied and sullied in an abject abuse of power,

Fruit flies, dissected on a slide.

 

I heard your lies—

You, insatiate demon,

You will not take my voice,

Your tiny talons may claw my eyes

But I will not sign your parchment.

 

I heard the river Lethe—

Its black murmur grows to a rush,

Ferrying me on foam rapids

To some crazed misogynistic alternative reality.

 

The arsonists are in charge of the fire station.

 

The tabloids become real news—

That reveal all,

While the rest is fake.

Narcissistic hypocrisy blackens the sky.

 

Go on, grab my pussy.

I can take it.

Rant on my bloody facelift,

My menstrual cycle.

 

The moon, the moon holds my power.

We are more than body parts and functions.

 

The sea, it will rise into truth—

Churning black, around the water spout,

Sucking words, images, half-truths, hatred

Into a vast explosion of indignation and rebellion.

 

Which way do the stone-faced blue blazers point us tonight?

Where have you brought us, America?

 

 

 

prom queen

I wanted to find mercy—

In the warm air,

In the little breezes

That would save me

From the peacocks in full flourish,

The flowers blooming in florid obscenity

Red, blue bird-couples rejoicing in the heights,

 

Here, the snow still falls.

 

We sat, each on our end of the wire,

Listening to my tears,

Then the hush grew so loud

It was all I could hear

Through the ice storm,

Bullets punctuated on frozen glass.

 

Then, I remembered.

 

My hot tears sent you running

For your overcoat.

 

You bought me a red rose last week.

Called me your queen of May.

Now you have nothing left to say.

 

This is the cruelest breath I’ve ever drawn.

The silence echoes on the walls,

Broken only by flickering streams of blue street lamps . . .

 

It is unbearable.

Such emotions are inhuman.

Stone

My cracked cross gazes

At the sky

Toward that stern line of towering granite obelisks,

Polished, hard, self-important—

Rising proud from the tall grass,

 

High on the hill—

With your dates and names and places.

Born in County Cork, County Clare.

Husband of Mary, son of John.

Beloved.

 

I am nameless.

But we are all equal here.

 

Hunks of my coarse cement,

Long chipped from the iron core thrust back in the earth.

A kind soul stood me back in place,

After years of being forgotten—

Cleared the weeds, planted daisies.

Someone unknown, chose to care.

 

Here in the potter’s field, we are all young.

Small stones, small lives.

Helen, Anna, Vincenza, Michael.

They have names.

I know mine.

 

Someone once spoke it too.

And whispered it with soft breath,

Warm wind on my cheek before sleep –

Good night my love,

Rest in peace, dream of the angels.

 

I am nameless.

But we are all equal here.

 

Short-Listed!!!

shortlisted

My thanks to the Adelaide Literary Magazine for selecting me as a shortlist winner in their annual literary contest!  You can read the anthology here.

The edition is also available for purchase on Amazon.

noroton privateWhen you finally return,

To that old place—

The musky salt smell of low tide floods back,

In a flush memory.

You did not notice it, when you lived there.

 

Twenty five years.

Then the rest you forgot.

 

Green lawns lush, perfect shag carpet—

Shrubs carved into false spires

Obscene roses and florescent hydrangeas

Curated into some artificial, perfect world.

Expensive and unreal.

 

Ten cars cluster round the neighbor’s house.

 

I never knew the man.

He was 40, three small children,

Pretty blonde wife.

Then the Saturday run, then the heart attack.

 

But the joggers still jog,

Mothers still push blonde children to the beach in red wagons,

In a slow rush, a cadence to the sea.

 

A midsummer party,

Florid balloons wafting in the stiff air.

 

A Doll’s House

dolls house2

-after Henrik Ibsen

 

You are a child, Nora.

 

Did it amuse you to see me dancing about,

Dressing up, acting?

I passed from mother’s hand to yours.

I lived by performing tricks.

 

Little lark frisking about, nibbling macaroons—

Gambler, spendthrift,

The capricious little Capri girl.

 

A song bird must sing clear and true, with no false notes.

 

Earning my keep copying the words of others,

Well into the night.

It is wonderful to work—

I almost feel like a man.

 

Play the tarantella, dance with your tambourine,

Good little songbird—

Just . . . not so violently.

 

If your little squirrel were to beg you for something—

Would you do it?

I would skip about and play all sorts of tricks,

If you would only be nice, and kind,

I would twitter from morning till night.

 

One can retrieve her character,

If she owns the crime and takes the punishment.

 

I should so love to say

Damn it all.

Wait, I just did.

 

I drink wine for breakfast.

I shave my legs clean.

I drink in my smell and stop worrying about hell.

 

Tomorrow night, when the dance is over I shall be free.

There’s something glorious in waiting for the miracle.

 

I thank you for your forgiveness.

I will think of you,

Our child, this doll house.

 

But I have other duties, equally sacred.

I no longer believe in miracles—

Other than those I deserve.