A Slip of the Poetical Tongue

Image found on Google Images (psychologytoday.com)

Image found on Google Images (psychologytoday.com)

When a Diva Dies

Winehouse & Houston,

the modern-day Billie Holiday,

wind notes into melodies

synchronizing souls

into the melody of emotion.

Their influence, their inner demons

forever etched

into the musical staffs

of popular culture.

Sing on, songbird.

Sing on.

The Nature of the Thing


a label, a word, a term,

two syllables

flowing off your tongue.

A sultry saxophone tune

landing on the gentle surface

of your soul.

It exudes power, sacrifice,

sensuality and wholeness.

Within its essence lies love,

springing forth like a reservoir

of water nourishing those

within its presence,

an all-healing slave

to open wounds

of experience.

Within its essence lies hope,

radiating through kindness

that is cherished and reciprocated.

On the outskirts lie mirrors


what society thinks she should be:




what her mate expects her to be:




But perceptions clash with reality.

A woman is like a peach:

one never knows the sweetness iinside

until one experiences the layers

surrounding her core.

Double Vision

Slammed doors

Knitted eyebrows

framed in anger

Innumerable scars

Mind entombed

Deflowered too soon

Broken spirit


of a former shell

Screaming for help

No response is heard

Mirrors reflect

the uncanny turth:

She is lookiing

at her mother’s face.

Schizophrenic in Love

Tethered in midair

Smoke and mirrors

Part of the act

The locks unlatch

The magician waves his wand

She stretches back and forth

A rubberband that refuses

to let


Innocence Lost

Feeling out of place

at Vacation Bible School,

I slink behind trees.

I survey the lot,

a sea of various hues

bathed in summer heat.

Tweens huddle in cliques.

Younger kids swarm around

except for one child.

She curls her arms through

the pyramid-shaped jungle

gym, agile and free.

The kindergarten girl

missteps and skins up her knees.

Angel tears cascade.

I thumb them away,

bandage her boo-boos, rock

her in my embrace.

A smile soon appears.

Belts leave Sassoon jeans and whirl:

We’re Wonder Women.

Sixth grade classmates crane

necks and wonder why I

choose her over them.

She still sees the good

in this world.  Her dreams ride on

horse-drawn carriages.

Her best friend steals dolls,

not the dimpled guy who reeks

of musk and cologne.

Her mother can move

like a work of art, not a

piece of sculpture with

clay muscles melting

on one side into a sea

of Bell’s Palsy.

We swing high, arching

Buster-Browns toward the clear sky

without any cares.


4 thoughts on “A Slip of the Poetical Tongue

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