Voices Rise

source

The children have no fear to speak

Their voices rise above the grief

that cuts us low and makes us meek

but children have no fear to speak

Our honesty is all they seek

Just listening provides relief

The children have no fear to speak

Their voices rise above the grief.

 

submitted for Verse First, Voices, at Poets United

Playground Games

The Circus With the Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall

Come over here 

and join the fun

We'll make you dance 

We'll make you run

Don't be scared 

I'm just a clown

We'll play a game

I'll hold you down

Let's all pick teams

Which do you choose?

Now don't complain

about that bruise

And don't go home

and tell your mother

unless you want

to get another

Do you think

that it's not fair

because we like

to pull your hair?

Don't start to cry

We're all just friends

We'll meet up when

the school day ends

There is no use

to make a fuss

They're playground games

Come play with us!

submitted for Thursday Think Tank, #97, Playground, at Poets United

and The Mag, 118

Eat This

Little girls like

little birds

open pink mouths

and peep

because we need to eat

We need

someone's hands to feed us

to keep us and

You have to believe

the ones who feed you

and so you believe

You believe

what they feed

and they feed

and they squeeze

and they tease

You remember all the names

They say you're fat

and stupid

and worthless

They criticize

and minimize

they feed you lies

and you swallow their words

even though they burn

even though they hurt

And is it any wonder

that girls are dying

from eating disorders

that we stick our fingers

down our pink throats

and vomit up

the poison

that makes our stomachs churn

that we clamp our mouths closed

and finally say no

This body belongs to me

and I'd rather see it starve

than swallow the shit

that you give me

I'm hungry

but I can't eat from your hands

anymore

My mouth is sore

from trying to lick an empty spoon

to find sustenance

and getting a hand slapped

across my face

Scolded

Told you're too needy

Too greedy

When really all I wanted

was someone to

feed me.

submitted for Poetry Jam, The Sound of Music

This is how it should be: Corrine Bailey Rae-Put Your Records On

The Crows

photo by Dorothea Lange

juicy berries ripe for the picking

hungry hands fidget in pockets

pilfered produce

scouted, squeezed, bruised, tasted, devoured

when did you learn to turn away

pretend not to see?

look at your garden

the fences won't keep out the crows

they circle as you sleep

submitted for Poetry Jam, A Time to Ponder

Little Ghost

image from Magpie Tales, Google images

She was the kind of girl

everyone talked about and

no one talked to

There were rumors 'bout 

what her daddy'd done

but no one really knew

In the mirrors at the Cut N Curl

the women clucked her name

said she was a pretty thing

it really was a shame

The menfolk of the town

they shook their heads and

mumbled low

through clouds of smoke 

with whiskey graveled breath

don't want to know

She had a haunted look about her

seemed to hurt to smile

she was just a little ghost

dying all the while

Then one day she was gone

in her place an empty chair

no one knew what happened to her

and no one seemed to care.

submitted for Magpie Tales, 91

Balloons

 *This one is in honor of all the kids at Camp Phoenix, the hospice camp where I volunteered this week. They've all had someone close to them recently die.

image source

Balloons aloft are lifted to the sky

Up to the clouds above they rise to meet

those who've passed from this life on to die

and left us here bereft and incomplete

The wind will get them where they need to go

with messages and wishes we have sent

to those we'll always love with hope they'll know

just how much they're missed and what they meant

From sun, from sadness tears are in our eyes

We watch as our balloons sail higher still

Vanishing, we whisper our goodbyes

Like bright hued birds they fly away; yet still

Our gazes linger after they have gone

knowing we will soon have to move on.

submitted for Poetry Jam, Elegies

Not Quite Still Life

Little Girl In a Blue Armchair by Mary Cassatt

This is Miss Cassatt, Child
She has brought her paints
She's here to do your portrait so
There best be no complaints

Sit upon this wooden stool
Do not make a fuss
Be a little angel and
Do not embarrass us

But Mother, dear, this stool, I fear
Is really much too hard
I'm tired and I'm bored
I want to go play in the yard

Don't be so fresh! You listen now
Or else I'm going to scold
Get yourself up on that stool
And do just what you're told

Perhaps that big, blue armchair

Might be a better fit

I'll even let my doggie come

To be in your portrait

Okay, I'll try to sit still but
This dress, it makes me itch
It's stiff and hot and pokes me
I can feel its every stitch

Stop slouching, Child, you've wrinkled
Your lovely little dress
And get that pout off of your face
This portrait's such a mess!

submitted for Poetry Potluck 44, Painting Whispers, at Jingle Poetry

Why I'm a Poet and Not an Athlete

image source

I must admit I'm quite pathetic
In all sports or events athletic
Despite my need for exercise
To break a sweat I quite despise
Ever since my childhood
My agility has not been good
When I tried to kick a ball
The ball would stay and I would fall
Give me a basketball and net
And lots of air is all I'd get
On time trials run around the track
I was always in the back
When choosing up sides for a game
I'd wait til last to hear my name
So, no, I guess I can't compete
I'll never be a star athlete.

submitted for Poetry Jam, Be a Sport