God Money

Rhetorical “I love you’s”-
batted back and forth like flies
squandered sex replaces passion
 satin bed sheets stained with lies.
Caustic conversations, peppered
black with loathings mold,
through laser whitened smiles
veneering loveless, store bought souls..
A marriage of constituents,
fed on debt devoured dreams
youthful longings long succumbed,
to god money’s siren screams…
Credit cards, and joint accounts
the bones on which they feed-
A living breathing sacrifice,
to avarice and greed…

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A Good Man

I married him twice.

Both times
he  promised to
love, honor, and cherish 
for as long as we both shall live
and meant it-
both times..

The same man
two very different bodies
two very different places in time
but essentially-
the same man..

And I have no idea
why I did it either time.
I married him twice
the same man.
 Both times
knowing, no amount of
“He’s a good man”
would ever become love
or bring me any closer
to loving myself…

The Girl

Photo Courtesy of Dale Rogerson


The girl’s a live wire
from woven hair to mani’d
tips- she’s electric.

The girl’s on fire
magazine covers smokin’
Youtube links burn bright

The girl’s hot copy
glam pix or sordid romance
media laps it up

The girl is burnin’
flaming tongues set her ablaze
‘spec’ fuels the fire

The girl’s a train wreck.
Her every move on trial.
Bruised and battered, once
shooting star- snuffed out. John Q
Public? Drunk on her demise.

This chain of Haikus ending in a Tanka was written for Tanka Tuesday #synonyms only for the words: Pretty and Ugly. My choices are italicized.

The photo that served as my inspiration for this piece was provided by Friday Fictioneers.

Breech


Hiram slipped his elbow
then his forearm
then his wrist
from the swollen vulva
of the poor heifer
whose calf he’d had to twist
to get it to emerge all aglow-
first the legs, and then the torso.

“Delivering poorly
presented calves
can be some tedious work.”
Hiram stated
as he brought the calf
with one final tug n’ jerk,
“It’s a stress on the calf- and brother-
a right pain in the ars for the mother.”

“T’isn’t exactly painless
for a poor farmer
either, now don’t ya see
I’ll have to sell
off this wee little calf
if I’m ta cover yer fee.”
Farmer Ed countered, and so it began-
the necessary haggle-an…

Written for Chelsea’s Terrible Poetry Contest topic: Unusual ways to make money.

Three Fates

The Moirae


three little daughters
locked in their room
mother’s mad at father
so she beats them with a broom
father comes home drunk again
smelling of perfume
mother screams till father snaps
now it’s quiet as a tomb.


Sirens wail in the night
and stop at their front door
police come in with guns drawn
father hits the floor
lady from the county says
‘you’ll live like this no more,
with a drunkard for a father
a mother, rotten to the core’


three little daughters
live like that no more
shuttled between foster homes
life becomes a revolving door
of lies and disappointments
by eighteen they’ve learned the score
ones a mother, ones a junkie
and the other ones a whore.