Month: April 2022

Poems

Wildflower Lover

[one more lesbian love poem to celebrate Lesbian Visibility Week and National Poetry Month]

She is the configuration
of a wildflower.
Gold coiled hair, freckles,
crystalline blue eyes.
Others have thought, expressed,
…been this.
But it matters not.
She is still what she is.
Her genetic and cosmic story.
Her unique manifestation.
Billions of years unfolding.
That I
get
to see, to receive,
here now, in these days and hours.
They won’t come again.
Like the wildflowers
the Universe scatters for us,
the wildflowers of Earth’s Spring,
the wildflowers of Zyvar’s Autumn,
across the far and near planets,
and us in our wildflower minds
our wildflower skins,
burning, burning ever after,
always into stars,
the scions of gravity
our ancestors’ love receive.

Poems

Gen Z Lezbos Let’s Go

The young ladies
who took my order
at the taco shop
had a good laugh
after they complimented
my pretty nails
and I shared with them
that I’m gonna get
my pretty nails
removed soon
for the sake of my girlfriend.

They then both
showed me their pretty nails
and said
they’re in between girlfriends
right now.
Wink, wink.
And I said
“Apparently we cannot
be trusted to be gentle”.
They burst out laughing.

I like connecting
with the young lesbians of today.
They’re much more accepting
of me
as a woman and a lesbian
than many of the
maintain perfect appearances
millennial lesbians
or the bigoted
baby boomer lesbians.

Poems

Angel Land to LBD

They call it lesbian bed death,
that is what I’m living,
from the highest highs of Angel Land
to the lows of being left alone and neglected.
I don’t have all those “real” woman parts
so it makes sense that
no “real” woman who’s a lover of “real” women
would want to touch me and my odd parts.

I know there’s one woman out there
who is an authentic sapphic
who wasn’t molested or abused by a man,
or who is not grossed out by the male parts
or who doesn’t only lust singularly for woman parts
… who will love me as a woman,
and adore and cherish me for my femme self,
tend to me like the flowers of Spring.

I know there’s one woman out there

… maybe one.

To get to Angel Land from LBD
you turn left in the shadows of the summer night
and lay waiting in the stillness of darkness,
alone with a partner in bed,
bearing fecund hope in your firm, perky
hormonal breasts,
sometimes with tears pooled softly in your eyes
as your breathe lost into sleep.

Poems

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.

Poems

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.

Poems

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? 🤷🏻‍♀️]