Tag: women

Poems

Why Does The Queen?

Why does the queen

not sit on the throne?

The queen sits on a carpet

on the floor

with plebeians, peasants,

monks, witches, and shamans.

Why does the queen

not send armies into war

like the king?

The queen sends spices

and fruits to the villages

so the people can

make their food.

She sends instruments

so they can make music

to celebrate life

and lament their dead.

And wood so they can

warm their hearths.

Why does the queen

not take a king?

The queen makes other

queens.

History has had kings

enough.

Poems

Lesbian Witch

She is the first lesbian witch

who I have known.

Who I have loved.

Wanted very much so.

But I will never touch her.

For principle.

For reasons.

For learnings.

For loving my soul.

For loving

her soul and

our soul.

This soul.

The perimeter is everything.

Cast out everywhere.

Radiation. Reverberance.

Joy. Patience.

Acceptance how things are.

This is the kind of magic

that a lesbian witch weaves.

This is a spiritual love poem

that only high Sapphic love

could write.

So there, now I touch all

the women I love

… so holy, holy, holy.

Poems

Peni$-Pu$$y

My peni$ smells like pu$$y.

Good pu$$y.

Sweet pu$$y.

Again,

I’m talking about a peni$

my peni$, smelling like pu$$y.

And no, not because I

fkd a cisgender woman

with good, sweet pu$$y.

My peni$ smells like good

sweet pu$$y

because

I take female hormones

and I’m a woman

with a peni$.

You know,

womanliness wouldn’t fuck up

having a peni$.

Womanliness takes a peni$

and makes it actually ok, tolerable,

a real prized pony.

Poems

I Hung Around

I hung around a guy tonight.
He was really horny.
I was really horny too.
He was kind and cool,
and honestly,
pretty handsome.
I knew that should I want,
I could have him, we could fck.
I would know exactly what to do.
I know how to satisfy people,
anyone,
deeply,
pleasurably, heavenly.
But as I said,
he was a man,
so I had zero interest in him.
It’s moments like this that I know
I’m gay.
Horniness meets horniness.
It’s there for the taking.
But I do not take it, nor do I care.

And so I laid down in bed and
thought about women
and touched myself.

Poems

Moon Glowed

The moon with her glow,

I hid from her light

but she called me anyways

from out of my home

and into the night.

Her crushed tinsel dress

shining on high.

My lips found her thighs

and my eyes, bashful

but entranced,

afraid to look up to her

iconic face and powerful grace.

Her crepulescent lips

burning,

waiting, they spoke without words,

as they professed

they wanted, they needed my kiss.

She called me home for our

midnight embrace,

entwined and attune,

two women f@&$ing each other.

Two eons salvaged,

two eras made,

one whole age announced,

only one age now

from hence this time writ.

Poems

Found Objects

I found your strap-on harness.
I’m not sure what to do with it.
For a half second I got horny
looking at it,
thinking about how you looked handy
and manly wearing it across your
womanly curves.
You always wear your carpentry toolbelt
with such pride.
Then quickly I got sad and melancholy,
remembering how the last time
you used it on me
I started crying cuz I didn’t feel you were
f**king me with any interest…
then you started crying cuz you felt
critiqued.
I thought about dropping it off on your
front porch,
but I’m not traveling down your street anymore.
Plus, I concluded it would do neither
one of us any good to drop it off at your place.
I can’t keep it cuz not many women
will want to wear a strap-on
that another woman used on me.
I guess there’s maybe some out there
who would,
but I came to the conclusion to throw it
in the trash.

Poems

Dykes Don’t Give Up

Dykes. Dykes don’t give up.

We are loyalty, commitment,

acts of service, follow through,

and attention to detail.

Femmes can be dykes.

Butches are commonly dykes.

Transmen and transwomen are dykes too.

We’re not like straight women,

or bi women, or queer women.

Dykes are patient.

Dykes are open and transparent.

Some dykes might be polyamorous,

but they’re open and honest about

who they love

and what they do with people.

You will almost always know how a

dyke thinks or feels about something.

Dykes are straight shooters.

Dykes speak truth to power if and

when needed.

Dykes are anti-authoritarian and

anti-hierarchal.

Dykes don’t live in fear.

Dykes are kind and celebrate kindness.

Dykes live in light and they believe in

bringing that light to others.

Dykes actually mix well with all

types of people (except for bigots).

Dykes have tended to the trauma of

patriarchy, worked out a lot of stuff

on the path to liberation, and dykes

are here… to set the world free.

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

It Is

It is to be said
It needs to be said

Women can love each other
It is “ok”
It is forthright
a way of the Universe
A force and an expression
A form of magic
Very wonderful, applicable,
practical and beautiful magic

Sleeping beneath a tree
I have seen us
as women in love with each other
Grappling, entwined and carnal
The tree has seen us this way
Continues to see us
And wants to see us

Two women loving each other
In branches enveloping
In giving shade and shelter
In standing by for the
ways and days of solitude
and growth

Two women loving each other

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.