Tag: lgbtq

Poems

Angel Of Color

The Angel fell upon me.

And how she laid across me

she looked like a fallen angel.

So I raised her up, uplifted her.

Her breasts met

the morning light.

God saw this and God created

color.

The blue of day was born.

God gasped, God was overwhelmed.

God gave up.

God gave the colors and the day

back to all of us.

So as the angel breathed out

she shared sacredness with me

and everyone else.

Knowing we together on that

morning had reformed God,

the Angel gave me a dress of

dazzling color

that I wore to

Autumn’s banquet that evening.

She wants me to look like

the changing leafs.

I am a changer and I am

her woman.

Poems

Weak In Her Arms

I’m taller than her.

She knows how to hold me

in a womanly way.

She’s held a tall woman before.

She’s an athlete.

I think that helps her with

confidence and cool calmness.

She’s stronger than my last

girlfriend and my last girlfriend

was pretty strong.

I really like strong women.

Swoon. It’s my achilles.

I love feeling weak in my

babe’s arms.

Poems

Born Male

I was born male.

She looks at them on my thighs.

Soft brushy freckles.

She likes them.

Her lush lush lips go upon them.

She says I’m such a lovely, lovely

woman.

I giggle.

She kisses my soft, white legs more.

So I gasp and I moan.

This feels right. It feels succulent.

It feels more appropriate than

how I was originally made.

So I turn and I turn it on

more and more.

I burn and she melts me.

We melt together

in midnight and morning sun.

Poems

In A Hotel Room In Albuquerque

In a hotel room in Albuquerque
I wake up
in the middle of the night
to various things you said
speaking in my mind,
like a radio tuning in…

Initially there is static,
my mind is groggy,
the words are unclear,
but soon the more into
consciousness I awake
I can clearly hear:

“Women don’t have penises.”
“Women don’t dance like that.”
“Women don’t have those kind
of thoughts.”
“A woman wouldn’t wear that.”
“I don’t think women do things
like that.”

Then I get up.
Go into the stale bathroom of
my hotel room.
Grab my pink metal tweezers
and continue my tenacious ritual
of plucking out the remnants of
my beard hair, one by one,
as I stand there for an hour
underneath the nauseating
fluorescent lighting,
plucking probably 800 hairs
and plotting out my plan to
move to Berlin to become a
Sapphic lesbian, woman-only,
sensual and tender,
feminist healer prostitute.

Poems

Earthling

I love you Mother Earth.

I’m going through

my first lesbian breakup.

And I am standing on

you right now

looking up at a billion stars.

And I know I’m an Earthling.

Resolutely tender and mortal.

Vulnerable to the Universe’s

dispositions.

I will love you

always.

Poems

Glorious Lady

That glorious lady
came calling to us.
And we knew she would.
Tits to tits,
fingertips to nipple,
then
mouth, teeth, lips to nipple.
After we’d spent 3 weeks
hurting and hating each other,
that powerful, almost full moon,
on her way out,
she called us together, she beckoned.
Two women.
That’s how we do.
Cleaned our heads.
Cleared our hearts.
Set us to the tone of oak tree shadows.
Around her home,
the backyard.
Her strong, soft, determined,
yet gentle lips
found my smooth-skin shoulder.
Her sultry face, suave mouth,
maybe the only that can.
Then yes, I said yes to her,
yes to us,
for a moment suspended
between gold light
in navy night and those waffty clouds,

and the moon called us like
animals.

Good lord,
what will we do with each other?
Our animalism seems certain.
For that glorious lady
showed us.
Two women.

You know, the moon comes ‘round
over and over.

Poems

Ripcord, You Dreamy

His name was Ripcord

(well, something similar)

and yes, HE was a lesbian.

I met him in a place in Dallas

I should not have been.

He liked the flirty skirt I was

wearing and he said he liked

my dark eyes and my fit, but

feminine figure.

We talked about very gay stuff

together.

He talked about how big his clit

was.

I said I’d loved a couple women like that;

one was femme,

the other – more a chapstick lesbian.

He said he used the male pronouns

because he wanted to f@&k with

the patriarchy.

I told him I really liked that.

I’m not going to lie,

I really wanted him,

so I got his number.

Poems

Ice Cream In Angel Land

In Angel Land,
sometimes we eat
ice cream in the morning.
And sometimes that is
after we’ve had
blissful, woman to woman
morning sex,
with soft skin and gaspy moans
melted into each other.
And sometimes
we eat ice cream
when we haven’t had
that blissful morning sex
but we wanted it,
so we take a deep, still moment
to savor the rich and sweet
cream instead.
Either way,
the ice cream in Angel Land,
on a sunny, rainy, or cloudy morning
is always
quite a delightful experience.

Poems

Half As A Person

Half a person, I live to be.

Never a daughter. Not a wife.
Not a land owner.
Not a mother.

Once a son.

Then
I turned away as a father.

I can’t stop what the sun sees

half in the mirror,
always half is the mirror.

The other side, holy side,
effervescence, the spirits.

Whole to my cat,
the little sprittlemites.

Born to be shamanic… supersonic.

Two parts are those oak trees,
pollinator and pollinated.

But me,
in the land of people and cities
and big box stores
selling merchandise from China;

I live as half a person.
Vanished and thriving.
Voiceless, unseen,
but I guess I get to be pretty,
sometimes,
depending on the beholder.

Poems

Inquiries About My Genitals

On the day
we signed the contract
on a house that we’re hoping
to live in for the next 20 years
and raise her girls together,
she started by asking if
I was still open to, still considering
getting a vagina.
She said it was confusing to hear
me recently say that
I’m starting to be secure with
being a woman and having a penis,
my belief
that I can be a woman and
still have a penis.
She nodded in agreement,
then furled her brow, but…
but there was something else.
True, yes, she said.
But it is incongruent to see me
as a woman, for me to be a woman now,
which she assured me
she experiences me as,
and then for me to have a penis.
Those are not two things that
normally go together… her words.
She continued, having something
inside her she needed to share.
She bumbled awkwardly with her
words at first.
Something she was uncomfortable
or a little embarrassed to share.
So I softly cajoled her to get it out.
Finally, she shared:
There’s no other way to put it
that doesn’t sound crass,
I want vagina.
I want to experience pussy.
She breathed heavy and dreamily,
sighing.
So yeah, maybe that’s yours
when or if you have one.
I’d like to experience that.
Or, or, or.
Maybe, maybe
it’s another woman.
She stopped, paused,
trying to find her words.
I mean, we’ve talked about
non-monogamy, but never ended
up there.
Yeah, maybe that’s something I’d
like to experience.

I confirmed with her I understood.
That I really like pussy.
That no, in fact, I love pussy.
That it’s wonderful.
I get it.

Then I stood there thinking in my
mind;
why did she bring this up at the
end of the day on a day when we
made a big commitment to
each other,
why then?
I don’t know.
Was it because of
our big commitment now
she was more comfortable
being honest with me?
And maybe she wouldn’t
understand this,
but my mind wondered
back to a couple days ago,
and I was thinking about how
these two douchebag guys
in a bar
invited me over to their table
to flirt with me and then
cut to the chase
and asked me about my genitals
and my plans for getting
a vagina.

I guess these inquiries
about my genitals are happening
now
because I’m finally
starting to look like a woman
and maybe me having a penis
doesn’t add up to folks.

Yeah, it’s good to know;
I’m finally a woman.
I’ve finally arrived.
Welcome to the world, girl.