Not Wearing Black Cos that Would Look Suspicious

Her heart grows wild things:

weeds that bloom in the dark,
fanged daisies
with sweetening grins,
big flowery butts that break small boxes,
CWS (cackles witchy style).

She looks smart in a velvet cape,
dreadlocks,
and a batty hat;
with soul (and teeth) bared
in defense of her loves …

She is
maiden Sister,
mother Protectress,
and Sage crone…
A wild woman

who takes her journal for a stroll
in the woods
“(not wearing black
cos that would look suspicious).”

 

 for Gina, my Daydream Believer: Happy Birthday, dear love!

Gina

photo (and the journal in it) belong to Gina Morley;
the pole stuck in the dirt is park property
*cough, cough, cough*

Red City Barn

Incessant,
the serenata of engines
rolling down and up Broadway
lulls me from sleep;

except on Friday nights.

At the dawn of each weekend,
the commuting symphony
is accompanied by duets
(and trios)
all pissed off and calling for blood,
a cappella.

How I long for the song of island winds…

“Bitch!
You knew he was with me.
But tramps only care for themselves.”

“I didn’t know.
Do I talk like an ignorant tramp?
Do I dress like a tramp?
No, that’s you.”

“You two deserve each other.
I hope he treats you real bad
and screws you worse.”

How I long for the song of Caribbean crickets…

When the concerto
of cars and buses and drunk romance
gets too loud, I change direction.

I place the lively pub patrons at my back
and focus on the redemption
of my bit of city:

for even on the darkest of nights,
I can see the barn through trees and shadows,
conjure up the red of its walls,
and feel the gaze of horses
widening the grin on my face.

I will always long for the song
of island winds,
of Caribbean crickets,
of a palmwood cottage
settling for the night…

But while I’m grinning at my Red City Barn,
the longing is just bittersweet nostalgia,
for childhood songs now gone.

for Dee

in Poetry Jam,
Brian Miller wanted to know a secret
that made my city special

Red Barn

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Red Barn Gate