When You Had A Tumor

When you had a tumor
I went down to the giant
wizardly oak trees
along the Trinity River
in the center of Fort Worth
and I prayed.
I told the trees there was
someone special to me
who was sick, who needed help,
whom I hoped they would heal.
This was early Spring of 2018
and the trees still had not grown
their leaves or buds.
The trees were dreaming still.
In their dream space
I saw your sister who had passed
and she stood between portals,
showing how time was
multidimensional
and we could move through
the portals.
I envisioned the rings inside the trees
and that through them
we could go back in time
and there in the past,
heal your body,
or at least take it on a different
path of cellular development.
I felt them. Asked them.
They guided me.
This was my first time
encountering the wizardry of trees.
I took two giant acorns
from their basin
and kept them as talismans.
I believe that not only did
these wizard trees
optimize your cellular configuration
but they opened a path in time
that led to our golden years of love,
living out at the country houses together,
watching sunsets,
chasing fire flies through the big field
under moonlight,
holding you like a baby in my arms
in the oak forest,
playing countless guitar songs to you
that you always meowed to,
and you watching me turn from a druid
into a druidess.

The Herald Of Angel Land

Angel Land is not a place.

Angel Land is found.

Be a woman, then it’s pronounced.

The love of women.

Holding them. All of them.
All forms. All shapes. All bodies.
All colors.

And to be held by them.
From behind.
Chest to chest.
On our sides.
Quietly, judgment is held
when talking,
no judgment.
Just sunshine coming in
from the window
onto the softest of skin
in the morning
and warming.

Angel Land is in life,
in these hours,
on this Earth.

Angel Land turns the eras.
Calls all angels.
We are gathered.
God is coming.
We come.
We replace God,
the fatherly god.
We give God to everyone
who sees us,
hears us,
hates us,
embraces us.

Angel Land is the era.

On Our Way To Mexico

While taxiing on the runway
for our flight to Mexico,
you sitting two rows behind me,
my eyes filled with tears
as I simultaneously thought
of the love here now
growing between you and I
and also my heartbreak and loss
from an abortion five years ago.
That child would be five years old today.
I believe I carry her soul in my heart and body
as I live out my time on earth.
When I conceived her
in the middle of
a cold Michigan winter night
a light burst forth in my mind.
That light continues to
burst out of me
in all ways, in everything I do.

Traveling along the runway
I saw wildflowers growing
from weeds,
plastic bags shredded in the barb wire
of the airport fencing,
and an ambulance
rushing someone away
on a secret emergency airport road.
Once we caught flight,
I looked back and saw a glimpse
of your blue eyes
looking out into the blue skies
and I said to myself,
“Oh, here we are”.

Pussy Fever In Technicolor

I have such pussy fever
but I am loyal.
So many passing women,
in all their infinitely
different energies and beauties,
turn into constellations
that mesmerize me and
I dream beneath their skies,
dreaming deep and soulful breaths
for fleeting, passing moments.
This woman with thick arms.
This one with an afro.
This one who speaks with conviction.
This one speaking soft and cool.
This one with perfect hips.
This one with rose-carved lips.
This is a new season for me.
An era with new eyes.
With the eyes of a woman now
I believe in and lust women
more than ever before.
Believe all that we have to live for.
I love and lust in Technicolor now.
So you, my suave faced, buxom love,
you get the best version of me.
The best I’ve ever been.
The dreamiest of my heart
and the loveliest of my love.
I’ve told you this before.
This is why I eat your pussy
as if you and I are in heaven.
I see you sad, I see you angry.
I see you amused AND forthright.
Broken AND driven.
Exhausted AND sultry.
I want you AND THEN I want you.
Perfect FOR me. Humanly imperfect.
Tender and blue eyed,
honey kissed nipples.
Speaking at a conference.
Folding laundry.
Bringing me a bagel.
I love and lust in Technicolor now.

Maybe We’ll Kiss

Maybe we’ll kiss again
when the waves come back in
and the eyes and hands
that naturally stray
decide to stay.
Decide upon
some summer evening,
I guess this is okay.
I guess this is exceptional.
Exceptionally unnoticed
of the times that are exceptional,
breaths of angels
and silken skin
betwixt anger and frustration.
Exceptionally unnoticed,
fallen breaths in Southern humidity,
hidden things on Southern winds
and Southern birds.
Hidden breaths.
Hidden portals.
Hidden lands.
Doors to lots of other places
other than Angel Land.

Exceptionally unnoticed
those Earthlings walking
to and fro and talking to
the souls and the band of souls.
Hold onto or let go of the one
hand in the cosmos
whom you know as spirit and
mortal.
Dimensions crossed, dimensions
crossed once and singularly
in this sacred configuration.
Though eyes and hands,
they naturally stray.
Love is cheap to dying ones.
But shouldn’t it be the opposite?
Maybe we’ll kiss again,
I shrug and turn to vapor.

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.

Scent Of An Oak

The scent of an oak
can heal you.
It’s presence is now and forever.
The time of a tree
stops and continues.
Ways that we mostly cannot be
though the universe curls its mystery
all around and all around us.
Weep, weep, weep,
eternally child-like human.
Kiss the hard, tight bark with
soft lips and
touch the trunk with
tender hands fated to age.
Outliving the creatures of
the forest,
she breathes so much slower
but deeply gives her respirations
to all those kinds of Earthlings,
the kind and the despots,
taking their spirits
up to her tops
and lifting them to the winds
of the sun,
whether in hope, metaphysics,
or death,
sail them on to white-light and
never-ending kingdoms.

The scent of an oak
can heal you.

So breathe, breathe, breathe,
kiss her hard, tight bark.

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.

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.