the tattoo
of my skin
oh the warrior of me begins
my drumming heart beats
as needles sew deep
these stains of a beast in me
upon my external
bleeding
I dig my claws deep
holding on
in my eyes
the raven
of my moon
full
begins
stretching her wings
to cry
warrior
woman
find your peace
stained
by ink
of the needle
eternal
tattoo ‘
internal
tattooed
in your spirit
with these wings
fly free
she grew
violets beneath her eyes
of purple prose
black and blue
recited day after day
each morning
she opened her windows
released the blackbirds
and the rains came
falling hard
each night as she closed her eyes
the blackbirds returned
she grew diamonds in her sky
the most precious was at night
stone of darkness
black diamond
she used
and cutting a hole in her heart
her toxic love escaped
releasing the chains
that held her hostage
and one morning
she picked the violets
opened her windows
released the blackbirds
and as night returned
gave back the diamond
to the darkness
and left
never to return
how hard for you
it must have been
to take that tiny step
ants climb mountains
build castles out of
tiny grains of sand
I never asked you for this
just one tiny step
to mine
now your rabid mind
has bitten you mad
even giant steps
wont reach this time
did you really think
you were immortal
there’s is only one more step
left for you now
and that is for the making
of leaving this world behind
How I wish
you could have found that tiny tiny step
in time with mine
my mother
sparse not white
hollow no echo
vast
humming
the soundless hum of air
trapped
with no bars
a hostage
of denial
less than
two feet from reach
I could have been on the moon
now many distances
have passed between us
and I like an ant
and they above in a plane perhaps
look down
and see a multitude of specks
Im so small
inside and out
heavy the drops
rain
running down his face
the old man
skirts with expert pretence
around the downpour
of traffic
people reign
Holds on to his trolley
as if it was his
very own head
full of life’s spoils of fizz
in metal and glass
thrown aways
recycled
ten cents to his bank
see his gnarled hands
curled
around his daily dig
of the cities garbage of tips
trugalug trugalug
rattle and roll
Its raining cats and dogs
and the days near been to its end
and the old man
dressed
in printed blooms
of skirt with pleats
steel cap boots
peekaboo muscled doorknob ankles
with poppy red and purple
legs of stockinged veins
Knows he’s got to get out of the rain
His face a scar of stories
line this pickled faced
where the growth of hairs
have a mind of their own
growing like a veranda
these well sprouted brows
shelter his two dark wells of eyes
and trugalug trugalug
rattle and roll
as the storm clouds blanket
a dark snarl of night
it is hard to see
this old man without light
for his skin and his clothes
like an extinct animal knows
how to camouflage
even in prose
but for the rain
that could wash his name on the street
He trugalug trugalugs
and rattle and rolls
and as quick as a bug
disappears
beneath the nights rug
recycled
In The Hive 