Liz

I drank Janis's rage and sadness with my Kool-Aid

Sang of Bobby McGee while other kids sang their ABCs.

I daydreamed about clouds with Joni

And was schooled about men

who wear women on their arms like expensive watches from Carly.

I longed to fall under the spell of a Magic Man

as I inhaled the earthy, herbal smokiness of the concert hall air.

But the next morning I was still myself

Their world would never be my world.

And as much as I wanted to be like her, Tori was fairytale beautiful
 And I was too old to be either a Cornflake or a Raisin girl.

Then along came Liz.

We all knew Liz. We were Liz.

She was the girl next door who swore like a sailor.

She was the seductress who got screwed.

She was the cynic who just wanted a boyfriend.

When she sang of a Flower

it was an O'Keefe painting come to life.

Liz was a storm.

She thundered onto the scene screaming like a girl

And we heard her

Because she was one of us.
 We were in Exile too.

She spoke our language.

Used words that we had been told nice girls don't say

But she knew we had been thinking all along.

Her world was my world.

Her words were my words.

She helped me find my voice.

submitted for Poetry Potluck, Inspired by a Song, at Jingle Poetry

The Bootmaker

photo courtesy of Rob Hanson

Who will fill his shoes when he is gone?

His dye stained hands are leathery as the hide

The hammering fills the hours from dusk til dawn

He has no one with whom to share his pride.

His daughter left his home in rage and tears

He never even knew that she was wed

Never met his grandson of three years

She tells the kid his grandfather is dead.

The older sons both went to fancy schools

Now they shun the work he does by hand

They have no use for all his simple tools

He does his best to try to understand.

His youngest son is practically a ghost

He's heard some folks refer to him as trash

But he's the one who favors her the most

So when he asks, he always gives him cash.

Who will fill his shoes when he is gone?

Who will tan the leather, cut the size?

The bootmaker keeps working on and on

No one to replace him when he dies.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

Time Out

"Time-Out" by Ella Wilson

I hope this bench is here when we are old

We'll rest when we grow tired from our walk

We'll reminisce of all the times we've strolled

These very streets as we watched life unfold

Or maybe we'll just hold hands and not talk.

submitted for Thursday Think Tank at Poets United

Come On In, The Water's Fine

Photo courtesy of Matthew Saindon

Let's take a swim

In the waters of sin

Dip a toe in

That's how we'll begin

But then we'll submerge

Give in to each urge

As our bodies converge

In a heavenly surge

I'll pull you under

Head pounding like thunder

Ripping asunder

All that you wonder

And all that you knew

And did misconstrue

How you need to subdue

A love wicked and true

So come, let's get wet

And never forget

We need not abet

Any saints as of yet

submitted for Poetry Jam, Swim, Swam, Swum

and for Photograph Prose
 and for One Shot Wednesday, Week 48 at One Stop Poetry