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How Isabella Conquers Her World

you have descended

from indigenous medicine women

and girl scout goddesses

you came into this life

with power that takes growing


head held high

with strong female role models

confidence you will cultivate

by surviving pain

rising to challenges

you’re finding out

you’re stronger than you know


creating your own peace

owning your joy

making happiness your choice

remembering you have endured

their belittling words


they need to feel better than you

because they have nothing to be proud

how sad is that

pity them

waste no time on bitterness

take comfort

people like this are their own reward

you will rise above their words

you will outlive their petty hearts

the world fears all shades of women and girls

who believe in themselves

do not ever give a bad person

the power

to make you feel like

you are less

to make you ashamed of the way you are woven into the fabric of our universe

or that it is anything but

perfectly divine

to be you

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

between wooden pole and peach tree

my mother’s mother
was the last person in my life
who despite having a dryer
would at times
still hang her sheets

to dry on a clothesline
flapping crisp and clean
in purifying sunlight

as a young girl
how i loved to run
through her glowing linen corridors of delicate pink flowers
cool wet fabric braising my skin
giving in
to kentucky meadow breeze

hung by clothespins handed down
through generations of mothers and daughters with aching backs
aged oak soldiers still ready
for laundry duty

(country people are funny like that
when you have nothing
even the simplest thing becomes
precious because it was your great grandmother’s)

i watched flashes of her through shifting panels
as i played

she would hum as she strung them up
between wooden pole and peach tree
giggling at me
smiling over my mischief

other times she seemed to be lost
the death of her firstborn son
18-year-old uncle i never met
would creep across her face

now i weep realizing her strength
her uncanny ability to make everything right
for those she loved
in times gone wrong

the result being fresh
unsullied purity to the skin
upon crawling into a summer night’s dream
so soothing
as to lull
the most fitful soul to sleep

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

No. 2

over the partition
he kept staring and craning
shifty-eyed and beady
to the point
i felt his glare must be sunlight
by a world’s fair sized magnifying glass
with the intent of melting my face off

well and often breaking
“you can’t check this relic out
so the research must be done here”

so finally he works up the gumption
saunters over
clears his throat and says
i’ve seen you here in the library before
over in antiquities
why do you always tie up your hair with a pencil
you should wear it down

i can feel him
he’s got creep emanating from him
on the inside he’s ted bundy quaking

i don’t look up
all hard
keeping my eyes on the line i was reading

because i may take a notion
to write a poem
or stab someone in their jugular vein

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

as you arrange dead flowers

i’ve painted all of it
on the ceiling of the library dome in alexandria
to study the profane scope

better understanding the history
the higher i ascend
through falling ashes

this is what i know

my interpretation of the pattern

you only acknowledge the sacred
as you seek to destroy it

you’re sick

you take such pride in your trophies
heads mounted on the wall
all wearing your mother’s pearls

the manner in which your
opossum eyes delight
in fresh kill

wax romantic about your bloody left hand
as you arrange dead flowers

i’m impervious ever since
you gouged out my ability
to experience pathos

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

battle hymn

this day

i am the way
james dean’s white t-shirt
clung to his rippling biceps

i am the moment bessamer
he could make steel from iron ore

i am the line of marilyn’s spine
in a backless gown

i am the sharpened bloody edge
of joan of arc’s sword

i am a snarling indian defending what is mine
by charging my painted horse
into war