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.

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.

Under The Lamplight

Right under the lamplight,
she kissed me right
under the lamplight.
Her arms were big,
they were strong,
they held me right.
Her curled black her
one with the air,
one with my wants,
melting my blood from
leather to lust.
She could turn me over
and over all night long
as her simple frilly girl,
play with my skirt and legs.
As we kissed she trailed
my soft skin
on her fingertips.
The small of my back.
Solid and soft.
Wave in.
Wave crash.
Wave out.
Full moon beaming,
floating,
dominion on high,
coming ‘round clouds.
I gasp. I moan. I gasp.
Tallgrass by the side wavering
in breeze.
My breath.
Her lips.
Her tongue.
She kissed me right under
the lamplight.
Her hand in my hair,
the other on ass.
The moon pulled the light.
The moon pulled the light.

The Water You Last Drank From

The water you last drank from
remains
by my bed.
I will leave it there
as I let go of you
over this next season of my life.
It will evaporate,
turn to air,
and travel very far from here
over the next million years.
And that was
always going to happen to us
as well.
Though it was quite miraculous
how the infinite configurations
placed us together in this
infinite ocean,
soul to soul,
body to body,
soft skin lain on soft skin
in morning sunshine,
vaporous breathing to the
heavens
where once upon a time
you had reached for
that water you last drank from
for the final time
in the aftermath of something,
something riveting, tumultuous,
healing, and laid bare for
the other to see.

I see now and look over at
what will be gone soon,
what will be gone as Autumn
and the hearth fires start up
again.

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.

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.

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.