There's a Lion in my Heart

He has ripped a few holes
with his claws
(not on purpose)

but the other side of his paws
have the softest fur,
and as much as I love
beasts, especially the cat,

he is stretching into my arteries
each limb, his strong neck
curving, his back arched.

I have been hoping that I'll be
able to lead him quietly out,
using raw meat or a nice
ball of rope.

But I may need a noose at this point
before he tears me open,
and leaves a gaping hole

so big it'll be hard to repair
and I'll need
closed-heart surgery.

you HAVE to check out this blog

This is a friend of mine that goes to my church. She is 9 years old, and has the COOLEST blog ever! Check it out!!! It's in my list of Neato Blogs and Stuff, and it's called, "If You Give a Kid a Bookie"

if I could only

get the kind of roadside assistance
that SHE is getting-

she is the one who can run in heels
ride side-saddle with a skirt on

laugh at his not-even-funny jokes
and simply
sit,

and others will be in awe of
her beauty

stumble to catch her
twist an ankle on the way

and keep going
light her cigarette

while I am lugging the fucking tire
across the road

with grease smeared across my face
and my flats are hurting my feet

over-dramatized? maybe
but I have to do something

I mean, no matter how hard I try,
lipstick just will not stay
on my lips

another Easystreet prompt...danke!

I have to be empty

before I can be full.

Some things aren't worth cramming
in my top;
they'll just spill over anyway.

I am a trash can, Ziplock bag, mouth, stomach,
file folder, bowl of cereal,
and pot of dirt with too many seeds.

Whitman knew better

In this day and age, we have too much to hide behind: the dollhouse, the picture tube, the air-conditioned cabins, the plastic, but too much will become not enough way before we’ve finished. The barren, carpeted, astro-turfed, laser-lighted sun-stricken earth is showing signs of wear and tear. Turning to live with animals will not be an option. Whitman knew even then, we were not so “placid and self-contain’d” as beasts...The nuclear blast may not be a bomb, but a slow, rotting in water, drowning, death.


side note:
This was originally written for 6 Sentences, but I submitted another one to them, so I thought I'd make this one my prose poem. They say it has to be sentences, but that doesn't mean it's not a poem...damn them...it's a prose poem! Form shmorm...If I wanna use form I will, and if I wanna change that form into my own thing, I will. If I wanna call it a poem, I will...be it a marred sonnet, or a smeared rondeau, or a bullet-holed haiku...
For all you poetry Nazis out there...aaarggh! (just had to let that one out...hehe!)

I can't sleep

You know how sometimes you want to go back? You remember how beautiful that place was, and you want to go there so badly you seep the dirt from that place out of all your pores. You remember the smells of the slow-cooked soup you made for him. You remember the taste of his hands. You remember being held so you thought you were inside a cocoon, and it felt perfect, like you never wanted to leave, to grow wings. Like you wanted to be that worm in that shell forever. You remember his laugh, and you remember when that laugh changed. You remember when he stopped. And you know you can't go back but you want to anyway, shit, you can't fucking help it you just do. And he comes back for a while, and he gets right under your feet, like a cat, when you are trying to walk, and tells you how great you are, and you listen, and you hear, and you taste his hands again. But then he stops, and there you are, having forgotten your own flowers all over again. And then comes the familiar ache in your
left
index
finger.

and the latest news...

"Bush Oks Execution..."
I wonder if he gave a thumbs up when he did...

Headlines (for Linus)

Some wars are unseen
until it is too late.

A 50-something man yelled hateful words
in the sanctuary,
pulled a shotgun out of a guitar case.

Youth were performing a play behind the altar:
“Gunman Opens Fire in Tennessee Church, 2 killed”

Some wars give us the world.

In Iraq, a soldier lost his sight,
shrapnel in his eyes.
“Soldier of the Year, 2007”

As a teacher to boys going overseas
(to war)
his sight is more intact than ever.

Some wars are seen every day, until we
hardly
pay
attention:
“4 female bombers strike in Iraq, killing 57”

We’ve heard all of these stories before, laid them
to rest under the tree of “that’s life,”
but only because
we
weren’t
there.


another Pen Me a Poem prompt...

and God said,

you should have followed
the dusty sunlight
through the stained glass

looked for dangling legs
followed the razor-winged
angels

whose legs floated far above
your own

you could have caught
them with your tongue

but you chose to rest
when the color of the sky
could have been orange

you were too busy hiding in the clouds
so you couldn't see it

you would have been a good person
if not for the furnace
(something you thought was love)
that burned your face

(then I realized
I was the ventriloquist)


from a couple of old easystreet prompts...

I am

the girl most likely to drink
the pot-liquor from the boiling meat,

or sop it from the plate
with soft bread.

I am the girl most likely to dig
in dirt with my fingernails

rather than use a shovel.

I am the girl most likely to
fall in the hole I just dug.

I am the girl most likely to
spill the pot-liquor on
my boobs.


from an easystreet prompt...gotta love em!