dying calla lilies

quiet night traffic far away
every now and then a pup yelps
a wayward bird sings outside my bedroom tree
on book table black pressed wood
furniture of wayward youth
thrift store jar where my heart lives
a pair of dying calla lilies
representatives of shifts in life
into a phone i type feelings that should have been spoken many years ago
supple tender gentle were my hands
reaching up to the hearts of men
and discovered as i pulled back empty bleeding stumps that they had no love to give me

mbrazfield (c) 2021

thursday morning

it’s cold
fog morning
cemetary waking up
birds pitch black
mean beaks hell song
yellow eyes like jewels at antique store
flowers stand at ease
giants among the remains of someone’s mother
peace thriving in the land of make believe
worms yawn loudly
slipping in the dew
sky pewter gray
tufts of pink and baby blue
like your dilated pupils
that still seep into my miserable days lowering the golden bamboo blinds
the strong black coffee obsidian in my cup
gaping for molasses
amber golden brown from Canada
Neil Y nameless horses guitars and essence of sand
i sip and i wonder

take it like a man

sky weeping like widow
breeze cold dead man bones
the mirror of wilted flowers in my eye
piano and Adele my lips shut
breath held tight
her song did puncture
the pus filled soul in me
a mallet made of wings
swung across a street
it struck me in the heart
had that ambush ne’er happened
i would have never known
i was woman
for all the times
i had to take it like a man
to bow my head or look away
the lost glamorous stare
the sinking laugh
into the nothing
you said your mother would have liked me
but you never were in love
a convenience fuck i solely was