Bleuets

In the time
that you loved me
I had done the worst things,
but you continually
asked me,
you called me to love you.
I was a failure many times,
messy, immature,
I wrecked relationships,
broke my heart,
broke many other hearts,
I lied,
mad bad decisions,
treated myself and others poorly.
And yet, over and over,
you crawled on top of me,
butted your furry little head
on my chin
and said,
“I am here, right here,
I am here to love you”.

You
taught me
how
to
love.
You — were a cat.
And you,
are a mother f@#%ing wizard.
You — persist.

Watching The Port In Angel Land

I’ve seen the young girls
these days.
She will go far and wide,
as the old saying goes.
She has lovely hips.
I wish I had them,
but oh well,
shit is what it is.
We all go on our sailings.
Some stay in port.
I still really love her,
watching her sip her
Mexican soda with a straw
through her lipgloss lips.
I wonder about her journeys
ahead.

The Trident Oak

I sat with the Trident Oak
to pray.
Felt your anger. Felt your hate.
The more I felt,
I felt love
and that is how I know
to remember you.
At the base of the Trident’s brow
tears streamed down my cheeks,
sunlight warmed my soft sensual skin,
and I remembered ancient memories
where we loved each other
and there was spring time in the air,
there was belief.
I took this feeling and I felt it,
I sent it to you.
This is how the Trident Oak
teaches me to pray.

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.

Go Back Dolphin Lesbians

I’d like to go back to where
the psychic ancient dolphin lovers
frolic, fuck, and grind in the azure water,
gnawing their sharp little teeth
on each other,
shredding the salt water with sunlight
in passionate, carnal wails
in the midst of longingly deep thrashing
ocean.

I’d like to go back, but
I can’t.
That’s just some far off, far out
cosmic memory now,
here to surface and die in my genome
like that aborted baby girl my girlfriend
and I let die years ago,
here only to be a feeling.

Blue eyes drifting in a car
on a sunny New Mexico day,
some afternoon never again,
just continuing on in the Universe.

Here only to be a feeling.

When You Kiss Me

When you kiss me,
yes, it’s luscious, succulent, sensual,
calming, inspiring, breathtaking.
But what I haven’t said
is that when you kiss me
I can see that kiss on my or your
deathbed,
if we get that chance.
It seems to fit there.
And I’ve never felt or seen
anyone’s kiss in that manner.
So I’m not sure exactly what to call it
when I feel that when we kiss.
I guess that’s what I’ll call this poem.
I’ve never known love where
I could or wanted to see
myself or the other person
in elderly life or terminally ill,
but for some reason I have with you.
I don’t know why, I just have.
I mean, I know why I never experienced
this before.
It is, or was, called fear of love.
But I don’t know why now,
I’m experiencing it with you.
Maybe you know?

Someone Who Loves You #1

Someone who loves you
will wake up in the middle of
the night when you wake up
not breathing well,
with a dry mouth,
feeling anxious,
your heart pounding tepidly
in the stillness of the desert night,
and they will ask you in a gentle whisper,
“Baby, are you ok?”

And yeah,
that is pretty straight up what love is

in its myriad ways.

Lesbian Kiss In Capitalism

God, your lips.
Wait, not that “god”.

Just your lips.

In lesbian love
with each other,
ripped that masculinity
from the Aegean
in ancient times,
they did
on some days, in some regions.

Then why not now?

Why can’t the air be ours?

Or why not the fruit trees by the
weathered windows from Naples?

Why is winter always judged?

Your lips do this thing to me
when the hearth fire burns,
endless rains fall from the sky,
and my bones feel cold, mineral,
and hollow.

Your lips; slain, succulent and laid out
in my mind across everyday for
the rest of living,
similar to sunrises
in so many collected mortal eons.
They uplift a TV repair shop
in Oregon,
upholding what must be heaven.

They turn from smooth beige
and melt into translucent metal.
Do they?
They do.
They melt my flower.

When A Human Loves A Cat

He’s not even my son.

He’s not my flesh and blood.

Not my species or countryman.

He can’t utter a word of human language.

And yet I love him with all my heart and soul,
every ounce of my being.

My strange genetics to his ancient, long genetics,
laid there right across the universe,
side by side in this unfathomable miracle of
the same moment in time.

I say it with courage,
I say it ready to crumble in endless
sentient, fecund melancholy…

I love you Bleuets.

Serve the house of the masters
to destroy the masters,
undo their myths.

The little, mighty cat.