Undisclosed

peach daylily

She envies those with clear complexion,

Bolder lines or styled perfection,

Longs for leaves with different shape,

Curly locks instead of crepe;

She notices when other flowers

Spread their scent in evening hours,

Wishes she could clone the rose,

Or wear the Lady Slipper’s clothes.

She doesn’t see as her eyes wander

Yearning for whatever’s yonder,

She’s been painted, leaf to stem,

In beauty that could rival them.

 

 

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I Am Woman

crystals

I am Woman.

I shouldn’t need to roar

to be heard. My

‘no’

shouldn’t

require legislation,

nor my value

be

equated with

my measurements.

My safety should not depend

on what I chose to wear, or where I

choose to walk, but on the simple fact that

I am

woman.

Burned Bridges

cosmos brittle

She smiles – but, life having burned the bridge of her nose,

it no longer has a means to travel from her lips to her eyes.

“I hate him,” she says,

in the same tone she used to order her decaf latte,

taking a sip

and trying not to spill

on the perfectly white tablecloth.

Pulling Petals

Daisy in the dark

Childhood sits in meadow bower,

pulling petals from a flower –

Love me not, or love me well,

only days to come will tell.

Time moves on, and hope blooms bright,

but girlish dreams will die this night.

*

Maiden rests in meadow green,

pulling petals from their sheen;

dying, petals lose their bloom

as tears soak bridal glory’s tomb.

Time moves on, and hope fades fast,

the die is set, her fate is cast.

*

Mother sinks in meadow shade,

pulling petals in the glade;

habit tells her love belongs

to children and their hopeful songs.

Time moves on, and hope lies dead,

daisies, fringeless, sink like lead.

*

Woman weeps in meadow bare,

pulling petals which aren’t there;

empty heart bleeds petals past,

and bleeding, seeds its peace at last.

Time moves on, and hope renews,

as Wounded hands hold girl’s deep bruise.

We’re Snowed In, Love

Snowed in bistro

We’re snowed in, love, the world is white,

mistakes are drifted in tonight;

our slate is cleaned, the past is dressed

in whitewashed grace – so be at rest.

Blunders wear refinement’s shawl,

faux pas flaunt finesse, as all

our errors lie beneath the snow;

let’s start again, and let yore go…