Tag Archives: mother

wet charcoal

04 Friday Sep 2015

Posted by in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Don’t get cocky — Everything can get blown
apart. There’s no help the way I’m wired.

Vast sky: I am small. Mother, Maiden, Crone:
be with me as I drift — I’m still tired.

My name sounds rough in your tongue. This slashed bole
of a stump means that there’s no way I can

cling tight, I’ll just leave smears like wet charcoal.
I’ve read the Bible, Torah and Koran:

all man-made laws that restrict my sisters
restrict me — When they came for the sissies

and the butches I was high strung enough
to stand my ground, though there are some horrors

you can’t beat — how do I love these slashes
or find a name that doesn’t sound rough —

mother monster sire lady

10 Wednesday Sep 2014

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“Madness plants mirrors in the desert. I find their meaning frightening.” ― Floriano Martins

4th PRAYER:

What could catch Lilith? A djinn’s brass bottle?
A song? A prayer? No one could catch Isis,

and she was twice as old. A human skull
is not constructed to house a goddess;

She is vast, like a sand storm, like a djinn.
Mother monster, sire, lady. I am Thirst.

I am Hunger. There isn’t enough sin
here to feed a soul. Sin, like a sun-burst,

is far beyond human control. Make me
arch. Make me dreadful. I’m nothing but loss.

But I believe. Hunger. Thirst. These answers
will not save my soul. I am vain and She

who I’ve caught in a bottle, like a cross,
like a book, will always hate her captors.

without

30 Saturday Mar 2013

Posted by in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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It was in a valley of sunflower

blooms when the maid, the mother and the crone

came to our door. They called you out. “Daughter”

is a word hard enough to shatter stone

so now all I have left are broken rocks.

I am fine with the rites and all we do,

but not this. First they cut off your dreadlocks,

tattooed your skull, gave you a sword, taught you

how to kill. My daughter now makes chaos

kneel and beg but was taken one spring day,

leaving nothing for my arms to hold tight

but air. I wait for you, love, so that my loss

might be found. You’ll always be my blessed, fey

child; not some blood-soaked woman, dying knight.

is all i have

25 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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my grandmother blacksmith in her workshop

my grandmother blacksmith in her workshop

Why pray to the gods when nothing is spared
before faithless thorns? little pricks? That itch
none can scratch, save my Harmaa, the gray-haired
blacksmith, who forged Krig Haxa, the War Witch,
for me. I learned my trade from a gypsy
butcher, Navalha. I keep my heart-stone
with a cat-girl named Nuu-Nuu (a cutey-
cutey war machine) Now you know the Crone,
Mother and Maid I share my synth-blood with.
For blood, even in a white-boy machine,
is all I have. I’m a very pale male.
Keep faith for me, my dear Mama Blacksmith
and my Na, who cuts rot from the bone clean,
and my chrome Nuu, with her cat-ears and tail.

thirsty beasts

15 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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thirsty beasts

They were at Mina’s door, with “cocu geste,”
deceived fury; they found the Count, smiling,
sitting on her bed, dazed, tousled, bare chest
pressed to her lips. She, carnivore, drinking,
took her fill. The world is full of unknown,
thirsty beasts; Victorian men were blind
to their own. Ask the maid, mother and crone.
Ask those who love and have been loved. Mankind
with its syphilis and brothels ruins it
for the rest of us. Mina soon declared
she was “unclean” and vowed never to “kiss”
another man. The virus we transmit
might damn us. Yet, as with all blood, love shared
between us, brings such ambrosian bliss.

eyes like the moon

26 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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shooting an arrow at the sun

“I shot an arrow into the air
it fell to earth I knew not where,”
from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s
“The Arrow and the Song”

When she came to me, Azazyel, I didn’t
put two and two together. All angels
can be fickle souls and I was pregnant
at the time. To ascribe human morals
to them is like saying rocks choose to be
good or that the sky chooses to be blue.
Really? As lovers I knew her swampy
region, her tiny hills, her lush bamboo
grove. Then came war. Just because I can’t touch
her does not mean she’s gone. Our Sammael
looks like you: with horns, hooves, eyes like the moon.
Of the rebels, the news never says much.
just, “shots fired in the third circle of Hell.”
Hurry home soon, lover. Hurry home soon.