My poem Voices chosen as Yellow Chair Review’s first weekly feature

My poem Voices chosen as Yellow Chair Review’s first weekly feature.


Someone said Anne Sexton wrote poetry so Kurt Vonnegut could conquer fear

coerced confessions never the most reliable
you want truth then look at Botero’s art
stick my head in a latrine and call me Rover
leash me beat me send photos to your friends
I’ll tell you every truth that never existed
shackle my hands to the dungeon wall
fetter my ankles and dress me in a red bra

be sure to match the panties painted on me
show my hairy arm pits my hairy knees
my face and belly and disgusting arms

what you want me to be what you’re afraid I am
soon I’ll confess both my sin and your own
I am a spy who bears incendiary thought
the hand of an angry god ready for retribution

put a collar on my throat sing cantatas of jeers

I call Lowell mama and Plath was my daddy

Sexton became my lover on the asylum path
I got no poppa and momma doesn’t want me
I’m not a normal woman I have needs
she breathed into my ear I want it all the time
at least I did before these new little pills
Dear Abby got it all wrong at least about me
she says women think about sex only rarely
while she claims men do every other minute
she’s wrong or I’m not natural the votes are in
It’s not that I see people as walking dicks or cunts
I’m no kvetching Portnoy either I don’t complain
it’s not like I’m even very good anymore I fear
the way they all leave I must have lost my touch
but still I have my needs my needs my needs
I hear your rhythms in words inside my head
put your hands around my neck inhale my breath

she confessed my madness in lie after naked lie
she chronicled my strife in every precise detail
torturous connections described everyone’s fear

her breath in my ear made me want to be her poppa
hold her in my arms and carry her to a sturdy bed
listen to her prayers and lick her throat with kisses
hide my excitement behind a mask of care
but I knew exactly how it would all turn out
standing on the path behind a cold stone wall
she’d forget me as soon as she found another
that’s if she’s ever able to forget me at all 

she was running for the streets when she found me
I was running from the streets when I moved in
she told me stories about family but nothing real
she sang Jim Carroll lullabies throughout the night
a song about people he knew who died so young
she let me sleep by day against the doctor’s order
she didn’t like how wet I get didn’t like my smell
I left her to be Edward Hopper’s waiting redhead
and now live on the always lonely side of the pain
condensation on glass my paper and flesh my pen
blood for ink scrawled across a threatening wall
a rhyme on my lips I’ll jump into my own grave
and I shall die sullen no one knowing my name
split me in threes with your spite part poppa part
meat-hook part the me that lurks in sordid glass
since I’ve already been to Brooklyn as she said
there’s nothing more to expect from this life
but it’s not her I want now that she’s left me
it was the thrill of meeting her on that path

I gaze into the mirror like a Botero beauty
I always hear her rhythms inside my head
I’ll forget about her as soon as I find another
that is if I’m ever able to forget her at all
I don’t think about her now except sometimes
those random dark hours when I call her name

from Botero's Abu Ghraib series

from Botero’s Abu Ghraib series

Anne Sexton with quote

Anne Sexton with quote


embrujada by Donna Snyder

My poem, embrujada, won the Rock the Chair challenge for the Yellow Chair Review and will be published in their August 2015 issue.  This is substantially the same poem with minor changes.

embrujada featured at the Yellow Chair Review’s Rock the Chair


she seeks truth in a boy’s flesh
he has none
nothing promised
nothing given
nothing subtle nor redemptive
a flame between her eyes
fire at the tip of a spotted nose
burning bush splinters and ash
disconsolate night gives birth to fate

ancient house of cactus and brick
she howls there in the shadows
a starved dog on a hot night
dystopic present tense here to stay
decay accumulates with every breath
nothing borrowed and nothing new
honest blues buried in the back yard
a stone grave
a brass bowl
an angel carved from a dead tree
her self caught in retro porn chic
no satisfaction to be had
grace and wisdom another myth

the only truth found in a drunk tattoo
ugly monkey
frog beauty
frantic ache
sad tequila spit of rain across her face
language no more her gorgeous cloud
no mermaid symphony
no siren song
no wild sweet echoing in the dusk
gentle oasis gone dry too damned fast
warm flesh now snow cold soon old
a foul shadow left behind to tantalize
time chained and drunk in a pine cave
the universe dancing to night’s song

public domain image found in Wiki related to the Greek Goddess Nyx La Nuit by William Adolphe Bouguere

public domain image found in Wiki related to the Greek Goddess Nyx
La Nuit by William Adolphe Bouguere

my newest poem posted at Vagina Gun

Fwd: Poem of the Day: One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII

Why does this have to come today, as if to mock me?  My favorite poet,  the power of his love poems, enter my home in the night, electronic reminders that passion and desire are no longer my provenance, long since decayed in a cemetery’s dry earth, with no grass or trees, here where the sun brings death, not breath.

The mail, Neruda, the world sing in unison, You are alive in a world that does not love you, does not know how or why you should be loved. My escape route littered by empty pill bottles, stumbling, I follow footprints of callous children and disloyal dogs into limbo. The devil has taken residence in the body of a Welsh witch who finds no satisfaction. Chamisa in flames grows the desert. Dust and ashes fill my mouth.

Link to “Fwd: Poem of the Day: One Hundred Sonnests XVII”

Link to Poem of the Day One Hundred Love Sonnets XVII by Pablo Neruda

my poem Eternal Return along with the painting Falling Girl by Dame-Glenn Brady

Eternal Return in VEXT Magazine

So she took a lover. (Or did the lover take her?)

So many years have passed between then
and now. It’s hard to sort it out.
The painting in the attic old and oozing.

The two of them are strangers now. She’s
grown a beard in solidarity with a dying dog.
Sandblast wind straight to the eye of god.
No more moisture, neither kind is welcome.

And isn’t the truth overrated anyway?
The universe sucked into its own black hole.
Nothingness and nowhere somewhere
on the other side of somethingness. Let us

give thanks for gravity, despite the bags
and sags and drooping downs. It’s not
the end of the universe after all. Gravity,
in the end, is our salvation. There on the lip

of nowhere, there where Gravity dons leotards,
a jock strap, and cape and saves the day. That is,
saves the universe. Some version of something
returns as we bounce higher, farther than the

reach of energy and matter. Begin again.
There was an old man named Michael
Finnegan. Dead so long ago, but the wake
continues. The infinite return of death.

Lust will resume after this break for station
identification. Only the shadow knows for sure.
The dying daddy wanted to know, what is love,
anyway? And she wonders as she wanders

through time and space if he ever knew the answer
before that last breath or at any time when young.
She wonders when will the widows ever learn, pity
is not love. Aid is not commitment. Lust dies.

The first question being answered,
there is nothing more to say.

Falling Girl by Dame-Glenn Brady

Falling Girl by Dame-Glenn Brady