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WUYWABF Nature can be cruel - so, Of course, they decided She is a woman to devour Us, abandoned  here By your benevolent god. The little skunk convulses In the yard. What damage Became him? Cursed by Nature, so no one dares To stoop down and sooth His trembling soul. Tiny paws claw at empty Air; he writhes, twists, Tries to escape the pain. We, helpless due to scent And fear, watch and betray. Hoping The number for Animal Control to be the salve To lift us all from Her feroc

Mosh Pit Sol LeWitt - Negative Pyramid - Mass MoCA We are a structure          At Lollapalooza - The way you grab          My arm and yank          Me through, bestie,  Beastie Boys, metallic beats, and certain injury. My skinny legs dredge Doc Martens and strive         To keep up with you; Your vintage leather jacket, cries to “Fucking move” part the crowd and          You rescue me In a way I could never rescue You. Reach out my hand To yank you out of that orange Grove.

Lap Sizzle up on the sand. Land with such monotony - Lulled into bliss. This Is what it is Supposed to be like. Her poem, about love, the One I read this morning, is The most real. Not a war, she offers. But a journey; and though Passports fade and expire, With the correct Simmer the ocean Expands and contracts and Is all it was ever Meant to be.

Poet Mother Narratives leak from pencils. (The speaker is not always the poet.) Remember, you can hide Many truths behind Just one lie.

Sink Lured forward for years, thorax Exposed, neck displayed. Take what you want. Let My blood. Leeches crawl Across my chest. It is Always this way in the still Part of the river. Calm breeds. Then the storm comes, all Will disrupt and swim, Caught in currents beyond Imagine. Where you are Is not as safe as you feel. Danger always lurks - the Naked man with the butcher Knife, hidden in the bushes. He sees Your breasts with no armor Beyond a shelled bikini Top and your neck

Semaphore June 1, 2025 Every parade this month A scream, a dance, a pyre. Rainbows and leather. Queens And quotations. Short shorts And oppression. Do not Saunter backward. No Matter how the effect Chills us. Keep Waving our arms. Keep Signaling to our neighbors. The flags of our Queer Alphabet; Poles colorful and black. Disco dirge and laws On our bodies; in our beds. Pink triangles. Red pills. Rainbow oceans of roads.

DOGE + Art = Loss “The poets brace themselves for imminent, over educated poverty.” ~ Mona Awad There is no more porridge, and He has yanked medicare Right out from under Your gifted Tiffany flutes, And Wedgewood china plates. A cloth whisked from A cardboard table Held aloft with milk crates, And MFA fantasies. Silly girl. No one      really cares about                verses. Lined up and enjambing      Themselves right Off of tall cliffs       And shattered faces. A bouquet

Errors Tour Long before Taylor Swift, we Poets have written about bad Break-ups. Claws dig In to hearts, and refugees Run into empty night. Wine, A Stag’s Leap, like blood Stains our teeth and drips From somber lips, but our Fingers are laced with poison Ink. Glides across Pages. Heals us, Psyche. Shares our tunes in tomes.

May is supposed to be kind. Flowers, A bouquet you hand to me; Smile and the rain’s behind. But, no. The gloom has Followed us, and no relief Is on the digital horizon. Spoil me around a poll, add Ribbons - shiny, silk - to dangle And dance in the breeze. This will never happen. Winter Is resentment, and it bubbles Up in the mud under tires. Stuck here and the trenches Pull. No way to go that Way. Lillies, where are you? Where?

F.t.P. A Golden Shovel after Margaret Atwood You are not better than I. Who are you to judge?        I can & will take you Down as We lock horns, teeth. The World through the trees, And all you will do Means nothing by The end when we are all dying. From MA

One True Beauty Finally, where I hoped you would be; now Butchered much to my misery. Locks of glitter and a solid length, Shelved in a closet. My joy it has tanked. Speechless in chair, I let her chop. Feckless, left with fuzz, straggles, a terrible mop. Fopp and tears, folding laundry and such. A night of shifting terrors kept waking me up. Jo sold her tresses to climb. Apples, typewriters, war effort, equine. Her sisters rushed in to comfort her woe, While here in my parlo

Her Own Private Archive: A Found Poem Words from Daniel Mason’s North Woods She dreamed about these Ancient forests. (Glorious Beyond imagination.) She has found That the only way To understand  the world As something other Than a tale of loss is To see it As a tale of change. For a moment stillness hangs Over the rubble. And then, It all begins again.

Thus Far A birthday poem Shamed for daring, for growth. There is no satisfying those Who’d never be what they want. When she has reached and realized It’s all a bunch of bullshit, how quickly The game swallows her back up, Into the Sarlacc Pitt. Her tentacles Flail to escape and useless. She is Cassandra. She is Leia, and no one Will listen to her foolishness. Drown in sand and omission Of possibilities bright on the TV Screen. Dream of throwing A ball that is worthy, or Supp

Harridan What I shall call the next Collection. The words we use For She. Belligerent. Bully. Bossy. Strict adherence To rules inflicted          On us each when young. How Flynn’s Cool Girl Speech Can be an anecdote For this need for acceptance. She said, we get a rush From men’s attention, Because we have all been taught To falsely assume they        Are superior. Ladies, This is a trick. Embrace The labels like your squawking, Newborn son. Swaddle each; Make them your own.

Snarl Back a bitch into any corner, and Her scissor-knife pearls come out. This is more than a threat. A clamorous, Brazen carillon; every word Covered in silted enamel -  coffee stains and a salad fork chip - But each is carefully polished, Floss between white spaces, A thesaurus. There are so many ways To say father. Each connotation A ransom for your love. Spit through the venom. Do not Give up and recede into Tall trees still standing. A coterie To hide me, my pups, show

Garden of Empty Promise The soil is almost too good. These Gourds will take over the field. Never enough bellies for all that Sinewy spice. Take a picture of your Accidental harvest. Post for all The hungry world to browse. That you Have too much and them, never,        Enough.

Colonize II Fist to cuffs, you make the laws; Clutched now, all of us, in your claws. Cool girls pose, so we fit in, Even when doing such leads to sin. Make believe everything’s all for you, And on my finger that manipulative jewel. Duels internal, “This is not right.” But you’ve got the brawn;        Always win the fight.

Colonize I A Golden Shovel after Margaret Atwood Time will ease guilt; you will not remember whether The plot you have built your house upon, the Windows soaking in false sun, is wilderness That soothed another; is Someone else’s real Estate. Sweep floors or Wash those panes. Not Caring depends Upon a brain sponge on Hyper-drive, who Thinks she is better and lives In her stolen home there. MA’s original line from Margaret Atwood’s “Circle Game:” “Whether the wilderness is rea

Our Holy and Obsolete Symbols II ( From MA’s “Eulogy for the Giant Tortoises” ) Try to anatomize all this, I dare you. There is no clear-cut diagnosis, No matter how many guts You arrange on the metal table. Impious toddler jockeying a rented Feller buncher. Our Constitution rolled and bound, For now. Stowed under a cenotaph, glistening Pink marble; a resplendent Lion guards for now. Half the country Smashing bottles at his paws.

Our Holy and Obsolete Symbols I ( From M.A.’s “Eulogy for the Giant Tortoises” ) With someone so suboptimal in charge - Taking a feller buncher To everything that matters - you Recall the schoolyard bully, Holding all under his hideous Gaze as the teacher looked away. One cannot make the false True just by claiming it enough. Except in minds who lack Wisdom to recognize wrong.