We Have Let Our Mothers Down

Look past the mirror.
See the world beside your face;
don’t let the flashing screen blind
you with half dressed girls,
dominant men.

Whips and chains excite me

A beautiful women,
with a striking voice, only
becomes a faming star
when bare skin is shown;
Wet white tee-shirt, riding a bull.

Images of women, no class
no respect–bodies beautiful, shared,
misused, yet they don’t care. Fame…

Sex in the air I don’t care I love the smell of it

She is the role
model for these coming
young girls–need we question
single teen pregnancy.

The horizontal between real
& fantasy– blurred to None.
These are now one.

All women struggled for– now
seen as nothing more
than meat, to only be used
for sex, abuse, controlled.
Equality is nonexistent;
nothing has changed.

If they only knew–mortified, some turning in their graves.

A Wretchedness that Pulls Insights from Misery

I wonder              if you think of me
every day like I do you.               Every     day
thoughts press indents in my brain          crying
out your name with sting             heart     can’t shed
this pain                 I sing to you, about you               music
I wish to help ease          my suffering          of leaving
you        I left you, yet I harbor this ache             grueling
torture still          after all the physical pain              you left… 

I dream                of you                   move on              you
say, I try, I do, and I’ve moved             but I’m wounded
it’s hard to trust                love       another                   to put
myself out there like I have                         before…

I realize                my motivation comes from         you
perhaps why I still desire you      though I hate you
my need to impress, show you                  I’m capable,
smart, reliable…                everything you couldn’t see
It’s funny though            your girl now,    everything
you despised for me      cleavage for all     to see
makeup blackening eyes              and        a baby
by another          though I never had one       you’d kill
had I. You couldn’t stand              thoughts of another man
loving me yet you            accept                   a bastard child
maybe because he’s just              like         you,       a bastard.

Photo Fun with Seasons in Vermont

Smokey the Bear

Hands formed by coal upset innocent
skin. A trembling voice pleads
Please, I love you…

A vast fire lying inside, never warning
the match has been lit. Her whimper fails
to cool this fuming flame.  He fuels

shame.

Spits of ember slap–
she well knows she’s a disgrace
as he burns the glow from her face.

Tears of blood seep from wounds within,
although some leak through broken skin.

Soon after ignition, streams extinguish.
A victory won by the smokey bear,
he picks up a light– sweet smoke fills
the air. She looks at the burns
that are not to be shared
as he kisses then whispers 

don’t be scared.

Music in the Vein of Hands

When it begins, these hands are foreign;
One cannot know the coming pace.
It may start in slow, tapping
drums in the ears. Then a trembling
occurs throughout the body.
These hands force it to move
 in ways unusual: a dance…

The palm presses steady like the drum,
making the blood move
through with vibrating notions.
Note struck nerves, the fingers break
through the skin, bringing sound
to a place where only blood beats.

Here it picks up and the fingers press
each side of the heart, causing it to beat
with rhythms unusual.
The thumb taps the vocal chords,
creating raspy sounds, corrupting
the hands unblemished work.