the plains flood
soggy as bogs
thick as fog
I sink into a hole
in the ground
like a bowl I'm round

as I walk
white as chalk
the sun balks at drawing me a light
and like quicksand
I'm swallowed by the night

till I’m nil
all is still
and doesn’t move
no stars or moon

after the rain
the pains flood

hanging in a dimming sky
an outline of a face
flat with just a trace
of a trimming sigh

eating up the night
drinking the starlight
swinging side to side
like a vampire bride

clinging to her past
walking the same path
on broken glass
she cuts her heels and cries

fading under the moon
lying in a spoon
the sun painting her lies
in Strawberry-Rhubarb pie

fall in puddles like the rain
outside the window
on the ground they slowly piddle
dribbling memories hang as curtains

blowing in the breeze
of the big-mouthed window
flapping in the dusty air
wings of penguins that can't fly

turn from side to side
like a swivel chair
the blackness grows like a fungus
on all of us

we learn not to trust
the nights are taffy
stretching out
pulling and twisting

we'll shine up
the lines glossy
the next morning
with paint and spray
to begin the day

like a child believes
in Santa Claus
and Freud in his
smoked cigars. I believed

in him like the sunrise
every morning, the dawning
of a new day. I felt not a thing
would lure him away. But I crumbled

like a stale cookie in his hands. And
my pieces all landed at his feet. In a fell
sweep, he swept them out the door. Robin
redbreast ate the crumbs. I believed. And now

I’m numb.

for free. He painted sunsets. He
painted trees, rainbows, and
sparkling seas. The colors all

blinding. Dancing in the shadows of
velvet green.  Sliding on the lure of his
sheen. As a babe to the breast, pulling west

to wean. But arid as a desert without
the mother ****. And still wearing
the papery hull on this husk of wheat.

of my hair like shampoo
if the memories ran down
the drain like soap bubbles
and take with it the pain

If I’d washed him out
like a stain on my blouse
or clean up the cracks
by adding some grout

If I’d washed him out
like a flood drowning everything
in the path, an erosion of
this thing called love
no aftermath of brokenness
only wings to clear the emptiness

the sun, the clouds. The birds
fly south. The ocean tide recedes
from the shore. Crimson leaves

break off from the trees and circle
in the wind. The butterfly does
her mating dance again and

again then waltzes off like so many
men. Children grow up and leave
home. Friends divorce and move

on too.  Only a dead body
lies still. And still,  I can't find
the will to move on from you.

as a lion urinating on a tree.
His scent sprayed all over me.
Has me restless as the wayward
wind, blowing in and out again. I don't

see him, touch him. But I breathe
him in the crisp morning air, in the sun's
hot angry glare. I don't hear him, haven't
in years. But as clouds heave their

billowing chest I sing out loud
like robin redbreast. I sing a song
of spring when we were just a foolish
fling. But the winters have passed,

hanging icicles of glass above
the eaves. I swear they'll stab me
if I sneeze. My fireplace lies dark
and cold. The lines of mine are

dusty rolled. They sit moldy in
the old fruit old. I don't eat them as I did
in younger years. I just breathe them
and get high. I'm a caged butterfly.

December -
the winter I splintered
in shards
spikes sticking in
the icy-covered yard

Remember that
April-
the spring under the Maple
the sting of sweat is sweet
the swing in our two feet

Remember that
July -
two bodies lying in the sand
walking on the beach
hand in hand
salty spray of the ocean
in our hair
the sun's burning glare

Remember that
September -
through November
as leaves began to fall
a golden, crimson plunder
as youth lost all wonder

like her torn denim jeans
ripped at the seams
or the emerald-green grass
after days of a heat wave pass

or the sun after it sets
as the evening presses on
like the end of a song
or a memory refusing to

hold on
or a friendship that is gone
or the Sunday paper left
on the lawn, after it rains

the reds don't burn
they turn pink
and the crisp whites yellow
into moldy marshmallow

this glare. A firefly
diving in the ebony air
won't be captured. These wings
molt. But won't be fractured.

None can dim
this spark. This star shines
in pitch dark, sharp as talons
of a hawk.

None can dim
this inner glow, cast
a shadow on the flow of electric
light. It burns for all. And burns
deep bright.

the high
the glaze on the cake
made of sugar and artificial color
once the spill fizzles

you're left with the drizzle
like a Monday morning rain
and you carry the pain with you
it's in your stiletto

and running pantyhose
in your nightstand drawer
with the poetry book he bought
and your nerves taut

as the strings of a bow
till you let the "bleeping thing"
go
but it follows you

hollows you out as a log
feet stuck in a bog of his lies
swarming like flies in your face
and not a trace of him –

'cept his picture in the nightstand drawer
along with the poetry book that he bought

like dandruff on my curly hair
or autumn leaves blowing in the air
as lint on my red low-cut sweater
what's all the buzz about some fuzz
all it does is leave my hazel eyes
wetter than last year

Shake him off
like a cold
this is growing old
like sleep
awake to he's a creep!

the sun
would you melt it down
like a ball of butter
letting it run
down the gutter?

If I gave you
a book
would you burn it
without taking a look?
Would all the pages
go up in flames?
Not a spot for me
to claim.

If I gave You
a tree
would you chop it down
till it falls on me
and I'm trapped
underneath?

If I gave you
my -
I did from the start

to help me
not help me to himself.
Doctor is written
in calligraphy after his name

hung in his office on the wall
in a wooden frame. All men
and women said this man's
well-read. He takes Plato and Keats

with him to bed. But he took me
to bed with him too. Only thing -
none of them knew!
Please read my true heartbreaking story -

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09SDGX1VF/ref=dbsadefrwtbiblvppii1

wrinkled
as a slept-in bed
disheveled from heavy ***
sprinkled with prickly sweat
on a worn-out mattress
no less

His lies lie
hidden
in his overstuffed closet
dancing with the skeletons
a colorful composite

His lies lie
still
as a still-born baby
but they grow as the trees
and cannot be buried

His lies lie
south
as sunny Miami
after she found out
he turned clammy

pull her in
with painted lies,
dandelions hypnotize.

She's a wilting flower
within the frame
of the fifty-minute hour.

The ground is fertile
to grow. But he breaks her up
and turns her over like a ***.

Pulls her roots
that she clings/snips the feathers
off her wings.

Paid a king’s ransom
to sit all-day
looking handsome.

on a silver platter
with a sprig of time
and a wedge of lime. Some

have soured. Some have
burned. Coating cloaks
the cracks in a sheen of

spinach green. But underneath
it crumbles. He bumbled
the whole thing from cutting

the strings of the braciole. Like Holly
to the cat. I lay flat on my back.
Growing lean from eating his

words. I've cleaned up
serving hors d'oeuvres.

******* up the air
around me. Pulling me
under and trying to drown
me. Looking down

their noses. I can't stand it
when they whistle. Their words
are shooting missiles. They lie!
They squeal! Pigs sniffing for

their next meal. The squirrels
work hard digging acorns in my
yard. The birds are up at dawn
singing songs on my front

lawn. The little bunny sniffs
quietly chewing blades of grass. This is
me/how I pass my afternoon -
in reverie and solitude.

of the closet. She's the essential
black dress women wear to nightclubs
and funerals. She was folded over

a chair after a night out making the
rounds. Now she's found hung
on a wire. She tires of the moth biting

holes through the weave and the folds. She's
mashed together with pants and sweaters in
a dark cramped space. With no place

for her, maybe an overfilled drawer. Dig her
up under the piles. She still has style. A dusting off
and a quick wash shines her like new, with a pair

red-heeled shoes, a necklace strung of
pearls. Now here's a dynamite girl!

of things to say. Don't have room
inside a page. The page runs
like a river. And flows into the oceans
called, a liver of a life so stalled.

I don't run out
of anger. Long-tailed like a
langur following me from tree
to tree. I can't seem to
catch a breeze.

I don't run out
of sorrow. I've some for
today, but more for tomorrow.

he is not with her
he divides his time
like wedges of lime
you have a piece
and so does she
one for the son
one the daughter
one for the *****
and tonic water

When he is with you
his head is filled with blossoms
and gardens of flowers
butterflies and highs
and ivory towers

When he is with you
there's an empty chair
at the table
and empty plate
empty glass
his side of the bed
is unwrinkled
pillows fluffed
none of his stuff
on the nightstand
just a gold band
stashed in the drawer
living like an outlaw

is like a rubber glove
stretching over the skin
so, hidden is love
just an elastic shell
with rooms for fingers to dwell

This pain
is like a pair of dark sunglasses
blocking out the sunny skies
covering up weeping eyes

This pain
is like a cowboy boot
you can wear with dress or suit
tough as leather
weathering all the storms
in cross-stitching and high platforms

Linda Lishes
She washed dishes.
Her dying wish is
to have her sud-soaked hands
wrapped around a studly man.

Here lies
Harriet Housewife
All she wanted out of life
is to be more than someone's wife.

Here lies
Wendy Winger
She wanted a shot as a Billboard singer.
She didn't make the charts.
They switch the channel.

Here lies
Karen Kohut
She called herself a poet.
She wrote about life in books.
But none ever look.
The publishers didn't print her.
She didn't take a hint, sir.
As they read her epitaph
all they do is laugh.

a heart
rip to shreds
split it apart
leaving it hanging
outside of its breast
with a gaping hole
in the middle of the chest
in the cold night air
till frost covers it
and the pieces look like
bacon bits
you spread on a salad
even broken -
it's still valid

is often rotten inside.
Shiny red with golden highlights,
hanging by a thread
glistening moonlight.

You take a bite
and you wince.
You kissed a frog
not the prince.

him as he was
when time was on his side
and he was young
green as spring
when roses bud
so, I could thaw him out
and he could melt
in a strawberry puddle
in my mouth

I'd freeze
myself as I was
when butterflies danced
in my tummy
and stars sparkled
in hazel eyes
and the world
surprised me
all the time

I'd freeze
us as we were
warm as a pair of mittens
nestled and snug
purring as sleeping kittens
milky and downy
life was a plate
of chocolate brownies

as an egg. My shell
is cracked. My insides
puddle on the floor. I'm a

sticky mess of goo with
a hollow shell, and bits of
pieces trying to hold on,

but flaking off. If I fell into
strong hands I'd dress up
as an omelet or a quiche

Lorraine, not a beaten coagulated
heap of pain, leaving my stain
on the planks of wood. If I was

fertilized I'd have the azure
sky as a canvas. And float among
the dancing clouds. If I was held warm

in a downy nest till I grew a pair
of wings, I'd fly off into the sunset
and have an early spring.

I am hill
I move
I am still
I am earth
I am sky
I lay down
I fly
I am desert
I am storm
I am cold
I am warm
I am sea
I am shore
I am me
you are yours

He's the dew on the
morning lawn. He builds
nests inside her head. She
can't rest with a hummingbird

hovering in her ears. He's the coffee
and the bacon. No mistaken he's
the itch in the middle of her back
she can't scratch. He's the speck

floating in her iris. He's the shot
and the virus. He's the air she breathes,
the pollen, and the sneeze. He's the sun
over the horizon. He's the moon that

lies in the sea. He's you and
he's me. He's the trees standing
tall, the crimson leaves in the fall. He's icicles
dangling off the eaves. He's not gone.
He doesn't leave.

as the wind. She blows
through the trees. And swirls
in a billowing gusty breeze. But nobody

sees her face. She's the mist hanging
in the air, the drips of sweat
on his neck from ear to ear. She's the

condensation on the bathroom mirror. He
looks into hoping to see clearer. But he can't wipe
it off. She's a lipstick stain stuck

on a cloth, hidden in his breast pocket. She'd
hoped to be Tiffany's locket, gold, and shining
in the sun/not covered over as a nun.

of stone. As sand slips through
a clenched hand. With nothing
to grasp onto but a fist of lies,

whirling around horseflies, biting
tight bronzed thighs. The welts are
the size of dimes. You can't melt

stone casting a light on the face
of a rock.  A flock of gulls,
circling for crumbs scattered on

the shore. This wore the azure
down till the red drowned into
the brine. Lost over the horizon

as a herd of bison on the African
planes, after the November
rain.

like a car in a junkyard.
Squeezed me like an accordion.
Haven't spoken to him since then.

He crushed me
like a walnut in the jaws
of a nutcracker.
Broke my shell to bits.
They should have laws
forbidding this.

He crushed me
like roadkill.
Ran over me,
and left me for dead.
I'm flattened.
How did this happen?

the rug
from under her feet
laid her flat
as a fitted sheet
and danced
over the body
on every beat

He Pulled
rose petals off
one by one
till the crimson bloom lay
scattered blood ashes
curled in the tray

He pulled
the stitching out
before the wound closed
then he ran as a run
in her pantyhose

He pulled
the plug
from her life-support
stole her breath
on every caress
till the last death

that I can't
I shouldn't
or I ain't
I wouldn't

The pendulum
on the clock knocked you
off your pedestal. The cake
you ate made your head

hit the ceiling. Swelled it
to the size of a hot balloon
air ride. You stretched me as
an elastic. And I snapped. So,

I'm jumping out of your basket -
that I can
and I should
I am
I would!

and padding his wallet
the shots are for him to call it
she bares her soul
his eyes roll
staring at the clock
she fidgets as she talks
counting down the seconds
the sweeping hand beckons
a woman outside is waiting
in a room filled with chairs
and magazines
she fixes the leg of her jeans
as she stands
the glass runs out of sand

is a beast with peppermint breath
and shiny white teeth. Sometimes
they hide their claws in the bottom of

their bedroom drawers. Sometimes
their sweet song is exiguous as their
black leather thongs. Sometimes you're

trapped in a bubble that only leaves you with
a measure of trouble. And sometimes it takes
a sharp pin to see all the years you've put in.

as golden red leaves fall
and the trees stand bare and stall
when winter grows near
and July is only a memory
that can't fly or fill his sensory
when frost kills the grass
the light quick to pass
darkness hangs in the air
she fills out like an eclair
when her face isn't a rose
in its place wrinkles grow
belly soft and feet are swollen
her youth silently stolen

Even the babe
has to detach. It's part of
the birthing aftermath. As leaves
on the trees in the fall

blow off their colors, red,
gold, and all. So, every branch stands
naked against the crisp autumn
air. And the ground is a blanket

of leaves flying in pairs. Two threads
of yarn woven together, a weave,
unraveling and separating. The
green is now fading into yellow

and blue. Not part of the same
hue. But just as colorful a strand -
not stranded together.

as trees lose their leaves
to regrow. Some things
in life you have to let
go of, as dust in the wind

so too, it blows. Clinging is
for vines. But not for
men. You can't make
a new beginning

til you make
a beginning's end.
Every green
turns yellow

or red. Every bough
breaks. And the baby
falls, cutting the cord
accordingly. Still wearing

the sap as the maple
tree. I'm losing my stinger
as the honeybee. That part dies
as it's left behind.

or string the stars. The harps
you heard were sliding boxcars.
He didn't paint the sky sea blue.

Your tinted glasses blocked out
the roux. He didn't sprinkle the morning
grass with dew or blow up the sun like

a golden balloon.  He didn't scent the room
in drifts of lilacs and lavender.  He shifted
like the months on a calendar.

somewhere in the middle. Riddled
with flaws, and translucent
as gauze. Two painted walls
flaking. Two unattended hearts

breaking. I leaned on him. He on
me. Both of us dead batteries. Wires cut
and sparks flying.  Fires begin with two
bodies lying. I lived to tell, all the while
he burned in hell.

Read: "Love Outside The Boundaries" by Sandra L. Wyllie

as a snowball rolling down
the mountain. Every man had
a hand in its making. Every man
packed more on till it grew large

as a boulder. It barely moves from
its weight. Once this snowball was a little
meatball on my plate. And every man
the tomato sauce till I was lost in

indigestion. I was tossed as the linguine
in a polka-dot bikini. I stuffed my face into
every man's line as spaghetti wrapped
around a fork, so entwined and cut short.

He was a brick wall. I was a rubber ball
bouncing off him. He was the stone. I was
alone sitting next to him. He didn't read

a line/didn't hear a word I
said. My words, winged as birds
flew over his head. I swear

I was fog. I'd no visibility. I hung
like mist. But he'd no agility. I was
the blood-filled cyst he drained. He cut off

the tip and let run the pain. My screams
were bottled he didn’t uncork. I was
just a model he repeatedly forked.

I was sitting on the couch
with the phone in my hands
and my legs dangling. I held
that phone so many times. Putting

my lips to the line, with him on
the other side. The only thing connecting us
was the wires. Looking out the window
and seeing the clouds roll in grey as

the head of my aunty Lynn. I swallowed
back the rain. My voice was cracking
from the pain. Stillness hung the line
like a flying nun. He shut it down

like a circus clown, leaving peanut shells
scattered on the ground. After the show,
is a mess to sweep up. But he swept it all
under the carpet. So, I departed like my uncle
Finn in a bottle of Tanqueray gin.

pushed under the rug
buried in the earth I dug
crushed under man’s foot
thrown in a fire/turned to soot

I’ve had pieces
with hairline cracks
ones that melted down to wax
with jagged edges and faded top
the ones that bend and flop

I've had pieces
glued back together
but didn't hold in inclement weather
ones that scattered as mice
shaken and rolled like dice

I've had pieces
thin as floss
one’s old cloaked in moss
some are here
but most are lost
the ones here are covered in frost

not a season. Men
fly high and slow in billowing
dust that blows hot and cold. Splintering

in winter. And hitting bottom
in autumn. I blossom January through
December in fire/not an ember. Spreading

my petals on my pages as men spread
their seeds, in denim and tweed. My words
sing with the birds every morning

as the golden sun is dawning. Sparkle
every night under the sweet moonlight. I harvest
this budding rose as men talk in prose. Watering

every stanza into a lyrical bonanza!

to live. I've the sun in
the mornin, the soft blades
of grass sprinkled wet
with dew. The jay's on the wire

in their blue and white attire
and the chipmunks playing peek-
a-boo. The clouds roll in like candlepins
down on a strike.  But they're just

a tyke that needs to be sent
to his room. No more drama, I can
walk around in my pajamas till
noon. Dance in the light of the full

moon. Not wearing a thing
‘cept rosehip perfume. Just the three of us
flying high in the marmalade sky -
me, myself, and I.

through the glass. As I
pass a bead of water trickles
like the tears of an orphaned

daughter. The pain on the pane
is palpable as the morning
rain. It left a stain on this heart

that spread as the glaze on
a fruit ****. I passed again and
the acid in my gullet leaped

out of my mouth like a jumping
mullet. I quietly left. But my breath hung
as a billowing cloud cloaked in death.

that can switch his eyes,
nose. mouth, and hands. He turns
hats faster than an alley cat. Filling
the holes in red blue and gold. Yesterday

stood a boxer asking for a rematch.
Today he’s a pirate donning
his eyepatch. I can’t tell the mask he’ll
wear. His parts are strewn

everywhere. His smile as a clown
turns into a mustache-colored
brown. He puts on boots, sneakers
leather shoes, and suits. He's a villain.

He's a hero, a reptilian, a Robert
De Niro. If I could only bake
fry, mash, or stuff him! Throw him
in my oven. But I'm not a glutton.