The Best Therapy

The best therapy I’ve received
all year
was laying on a hard wooden floor
using a plush toy rainbow bunny rabbit
as a pillow
while a three year old girl
and a five year old girl
drifted off to sleep with soft gentle breaths
because they were no longer scared
because I lay on that hard wooden floor
protecting them.
Something about their pure, deep breaths
was life affirming,
very much like an elixir.
All the things they’ll face in life,
yet I sat their gently with those breaths,
knowing
we all grow and die, time passes
and
this soft breathing of children into sleep
somehow gave me soul-soothing courage.

As A Woman #2

As a woman
I’m learning
to apologize
over every little thing
and notice how other women
apologize for inane things too…
like sorry for turning the light on too quickly
sorry for cooking too much food,
sorry for placing ketchup on the wrong area
of the plate for a kid,
sorry for having a rough day.
Sorry, sorry, sorry,
I’ll try again, I promise. Tomorrow.
I apologize.

Thankfully though,
as a woman
I’m also learning
that it is absolute bullshit
for us to be apologizing all the time
over passengerless, stupid shit.

Love As A First Time Lesbian

Sometimes there’s love.
Sometimes it goes away.
Sometimes I’m waiting again.
Sometimes I try another day.

Sometimes I return.
Sometimes I stay.
Sometimes the sex
makes my mind a spiritual kind of place.

Sometimes there’s madness.
Sometimes it’s divine.
Sometimes there’s hurt.
Sometimes it’s just fine.

Sometimes I lose my faith.
Sometimes I have to pray.
Though always I know I’m gay.
And always I can’t let go,
as weak or strong that is
to admit to say.

Yeah, this love is weak and strong.
There’s no veneer.
No going through the motions.
Yes, there’s weak.
And there’s also strong.
Right here all along.
This ain’t no hetero kind of nonsense,
trying to keep up appearances for
society or family.

This love is weak and strong.
Grab my wrists babe, lead me on.

[For National Poetry Month, why not celebrate, shine light on, and be real about Sapphic love? 🤷🏻‍♀️]

As A Woman #1

As a woman
I am learning
to be deprived of my
emotional needs.
Though, still I say them. I show them.
I’m transparent about them.
Sometimes I infer or hint at them,
but I don’t hide them,
because that’s what women do
and how we live.
It’s almost always obvious
to others when
we’re “off” or “shaken”.
Because of course, we’re “weak”
or not strong enough to lift
the heavy stones to build those walls
around ourselves.
And so we endure being left
by both male and female lovers
to be loved underwhelmingly
and from that some of us learn
to love ourselves, others, and the universe
very deeply.

Birds Of Spring

Why do the birds of Spring
sing louder and gather up
in flirtatious throngs
when in the northern woods
I play alternative pop music loudly
in my humble cabin
and dance like the womanly waves
of the nearby green ocean?

Are the birds of Spring gay?
Is Spring gay?
Budding and blooming,
the nipples on my chest.
Is the universe queer?
Scientists will affirm this
in their scholarly toil between
the gradients.

I dance anyways.
I still dance.
I dance away the afternoon.
I am gay.
And I am here.
The birds of Spring come and sing.

The Tao Or Zen Of Making Your Partner’s Bed

There’s something to be said
about the Tao of making
your partner’s bed.
Maybe not exactly the Tao,
but probably more like the zen of it.
That is;
the joy and fulfillment of doing
and the beingness while doing so.
Because with deep, passionate
love for her
it brings me big, infinite,
self-pausing joy
to do something that will ease her mind
and give her a soft pause
of breath for a moment
when she comes home alone
later in the day
and finds the perfectly made bed.
Lord, the pleasure of being lost
in the focus and meticulousness
of a cause beyond oneself.
If this is not zen
then perhaps it’s love.
Or perhaps zen and love
are both one in the same and
and all of this together is what
Lao Tzu called the Tao.

When You Were Sick

When you were sick
you didn’t like doing the stuff
you used to do.
Our children grated on your nerves
and you needed to be away
from them regularly.
You also pushed me away a lot.
You snapped at me, others,
even yourself.
You focused mostly on what was wrong in our lives.
And there were days where you
just had to stay in bed.
Your body hurt constantly.
The disease appeared to take over
your soul,
but there were moments where
your soul sprung up
in defiance and joy.
I sat quietly, meditative in those times,
sometimes smiled gently,
but inside I rejoiced.
I would go into another room
and cry golden tears of happiness
and tell some unknown entity; thank you.
I prayed a lot for you to be healed
and I am not much of a prayer.
But at some point I had to ask myself;
could I still love you
if you never got better.
And the answer surprised me
and brought me
new understanding of myself.
The answer was; yes, I could.
I was now loving you
in ways I’d never been able to love
anyone else, even myself.
I am now loving myself and others
more than I ever could before.
I am grateful for you.

I Believe In Angels

Years ago
when traveling back home
in the middle of the night
in the car with my father’s 2nd wife
after we had visited him
in a treatment facility for his
crack cocaine addiction,
his wife shared with me
that she believed in angels.
She spoke of them in the Christian sense;
having wings, being dressed in white,
but being invisible
and flying around to help people in need.
I sat there in the sad darkness of
the moving car
and thought the stuff coming out of
her mouth
was absolute bullshit.
Now, after having transitioned to female
and had soulful lesbian sex with a woman
… now yes, yes I do believe in angels
and I know they’re living, breathing,
here on earth.

Five Hundred & Forty-Five Mornings

One of these days you’ll
not wake up
and all the people you will
have ever loved
will be dead.

Tell me that is not the way towards love.
Rather,
show me that won’t come true
for you.
Show me.

Show me little things matter.
That they’re here.
That you’re here, alive.
Not just waiting for moments
of love to pass,
to pass on,
to be something without you
or to be something with
only you and you alone.

Come touch my sensual body and
my passionate soul
here in the morning,
the 6,540th morning you have left
on this earth.
For if you touch it
once every 12 days
that means you have
545 mornings left to touch me.

If you touch it,
death holds off on its road to the stars
for one less moment.

Make me some kind of sentient lover.
Am I a seraphim again?
Let me be made as a woman.
Find me a woman.
Bring her tongue to my nipples.