If our love is a sin, then heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinning as ours— Radclyffe Hall
Explore themes of love and identity
Of Stephen Gordon’s innate sense of masculinity
Since a child, her desire, ‘women’
The idea that if love is considered a sin
The unfolding of a female sexual invert
The act of loving must be a tender selfless act, revert?
Love itself is not inherently sinful or
complexities of love, we shan’t ignore
But rather the circumstances surrounding it
Misfits from Malvern to London and then to Paris!
Ira furor brevis, the frailty, taboo and strife
Fellow q***r characters, all walks of life
From the *sapphic salon hostess Valérie Seymour
To the 'miserable army' and more
of outcasts that frequents the 'merciless
Drug-dealing, death-dealing' bars of Montmartre
Written in another time, still support and solidarity to
generations of LGBTQ genre
*Sapphic is an umbrella term for same-gender loving women or woman-aligned people, including lesbians and bisexual+ women. It is used to describe topics, activities, and ideas related to same-sex attraction among women. The term can also refer to the Greek lyric poet Sappho.
Who was she? I asked for she had evaporated in front of us.
“Brighid, Mother of Ireland,” said a familiar voice.
It was my father-in-law. He frequents this pub daily.
“How do you know?” I asked him.
“Saw her sixty years ago; she looks the same. Never ages.”
I decided to look her up after that, and I was not disappointed.
I have this friend, a regular
gallivanter who frequents thrift stores.
He was always searching
with compass and intuition.
He had a North Star
for a heart, a beacon
I can follow on dark,
dull nights, when boredom
and redundancy permeate
the air like a warm mist.
When that mist comes
to rest, like Sandburg’s cat,
rubbing up against my legs
tangling my limbs in melancholy,
he comes like a swift breeze,
blowing away the fog
with a thrift store, ten-dollar trash can
and a little league baseball bat.
With a sly smile and firm
swing, metal reverberates
in the air and my skin
dances a merry foxtrot.
My hand grips the grainy
wood, I swing hard,
laughing in the clear night air.
He comes visiting when least expected
In all places at any time or clime.
No rich nor poor ever can shun his calls,
Not the youths or those who are past their prime.
When he arrives, you cannot close your door;
He makes his entrance though you say, “No more.”
He frequents battle fields and hospitals;
He drops by on anyone, weak or strong.
His visits, though unwelcome, fall on all--
Man, woman, child, alone or in a throng.
When he appears you cannot say, “Next door,”
He barges in for what he’s looking for.
Though mute who utters not a word nor sound,
Oft he announces himself with a “Bang!”
Sometimes he bides before entering a home,
Sometimes he’s as quick as a boomerang.
At times he leaves a clean job, at others gore,
His visits are an event to deplore.
There are few who invite this visitor
And would embrace him if he could be touched.
But most fear and detest this unseen guest
That distinguishes not who’d be dispatched.
He crawls or slides or floats, or he may soar--
And comes for you before you can implore.
March 30, 2023
I’ve never wanted to be anything other than myself
except for maybe being your person specifically,
but the appeal of being a house cat or some
other equally lounging, peaceful animal has never
exactly captured me in any great way.
That was until I saw her feeding birds
and then I thought perhaps I’d like to be a brown and gray
pigeon that lives on all the ledges of the city,
and frequents the power lines above the park bench
to gossip and catch up with all my fellow avian brothers.
She had brought her to-go container from Felini’s
and was feeding 30 birds crostinis with tomato
sauce which I don’t even particularly like
but she would smile and speak her word’s of encouragement
saying, “come on loves, crostini is best enjoyed with tomato
you’ll love the contrast in flavor.”
Now I don’t know that much about what kind of lives
pigeons lead or if crostini really is best enjoyed with tomato sauce
but I would imagine it’s the sweetest kind
of life when someone like her comes to treat you to
an Italian meal at 2 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon
It's in the gloaming
in lingering twilight
that beside me the disquiet sidles
clouds idle, the violet of a bruised eyelid
and shape of fingers broken
and long healed
permanently wrong.
Inside me the violence is silent
but wants me pried open
wants my right hand knuckles swollen
wants an explosion
The release of a fight
so long denied I've forgotten
how my nose feels broken
It's ironic, my kindness.
The lie of my niceness.
How I hide behind politeness.
I'm like a vegan that ate meat as a child and loved it, devoured it, cracking open the bones to lap up the marrow, who greedily suckled the fatty sleeve on a new York strip, who now frequents dreams where steaks make blood puddles all over the plate. In the dreams the blood tastes of violence and light, when she breathes she can taste the death in the silence and in the blood on her tongue she tastes life.
A lady who frequents downtown
Wears a frown like a circus clown
One day she fell
And bloody hell
She wore a big smile (upside down)!
A swindler who frequents Toledo
has Fools Are Born To Be Canned as his credo
Scamming the mob by mistake
he made a hasty break
He now fences had soap in Escondido
2/7/22
Homey Hiatus, Hiatus Homey
Noble nascent notice nature,
frequents features fertile favor,
charming colors cure complacent,
notice nature, noble nascent.
Subtle stages stylishly sort,
pledged perianths pleasures purport,
artless aiming accrue ages,
stylishly sort subtle stages.
Weeping Willows wigwag waters,
often ogles overt otters,
eaglet escapes easy expose,
wigwag waters, Weeping Willows.
Becalming boon blamed babbling brook,
lingering lulls laboring look,
saunters solely scenery strewn,
blamed babbling brook becalming boon.
*Alliteration/Rhyme Scheme
The first and last line reversed per stanza
8 syllable count per line
2021 January 27
Hiatus
~~Chantelle Anne Cooke
it's a longing
present... but so present
that often frequents us ...
A real reminder of something
that existed one day
and that is still done
consistent...
Wrapped up is in us,
but it is so simple to untie
that lies down, sleeps and
stretches
in our souls ...!
A beautiful song bird..
My blue jay..
Sings a symphony
My baby blue bird bird sings to me..
Joyous expressions..
Awakened to musical bliss..
Spreading cheer throughout the day..
Sweetest is my blue jay..
He is my companion
A birdhouse he frequents..
In an outdoor sanctuary..
With lush green gardens surrounded by a fragrant rose garden..
Resides the birdhouse..
A lovely companion he is..
In times of sorrow he brings forth serenity
Blue..
Cool..
Calming..
Peaceful..
Baby blue bird..
My songbird spreads love..
Sings to me..
While he flaps his colorful wings..
Sweet blue jay..
Represents freedom..
Grant us all the freedom to love..
The freedom to know we are all love..
An orphan of her own doing, she frequents the nightclub scene
Completely her own person, possibly pumped up on heroin.
I try to make conversation but she doesn’t know me
She is speaking with her angels, needs no people at all
Smiles condescendingly at me, and I fade off
Understanding she is not sharing her pain
Keeping it safe, hidden under a smile I barely recognize.
She is goth-like in appearance, black make up decorates her eyes,
not wanting to stand out or be noticed;
I am unsure why she is here at all.
I see her talking to her spirit guides; and I admire her.
She is her own person, needing none of us.
If we disappeared it would not be noticed.
She is an orphan of her own making.
Keeping her pain hidden under that hesitant smile.
Her superstitious nature wears a rabbit foot in her pocket.
A plethora of various religious symbols around her neck.
I wonder if her angels are from Egyptian mythology?
Are they Christian, Buddha or Mohamed-led?
I approach her but dare not ask.
Her smile stops me.
I am dead to her.
We all are.
An orphan by choice.
Man builds pyramids and gilded cities
sends starry ships to haunt the moon
my tabby frequents back alley parties
in two pairs of orange striped boots-
Man has concocted earth bending bombs
magical pills to keep us happy and beating
my tabby just prefers a star studded romp
then a long vigorous scratch and feeding-
Man twists his mind with his purpose in life
tip toes along the cliffs of a nuclear blitz
my cat stalks and paws at a tiny red light
then just as quickly looses all interest-
Though quite smelly-aloof and indifferent
he cares nothing about race, gold or politics
he scratched my cherry headboard to shreds
but his soul is pure and without prejudice-
All year round he's plays a slinky saint nick
leaves homemade gifts upon my porch
at times he barfs up Picassoesque things
still I tend to his bowl and carry his torch-
He flashes his furry bum in front of company
and his litter box is quite the opposite of sweet
but I'd rather hang out with my lil' orange friend
than any arrogant- two faced human being.
Malevolent demon,
Exploiter of pure malice,
And funny business,
Sif's whorish haircut
Enraged Thor, then soothes gods,
With tripartite gifts,
Goaded Balder's death,
Had perverse shape-shiftier Thokk
More appeasing piques,
Clings Narvi's bowels,
Whilst pains cured by Sigyn's bowl,
Vows evil frequents.
You may judge me unworthy to comment on this,
I've no child, so no memory, chaste of their kiss,
Not one bouquet of laughter, to perfume the hall,
Nor a sense of completion, I gave child my all.
So, why count what I never had, now that it's gone,
For my choices were always mine: master or pawn!
All those fractals of interest, unborn don't sing,
There's just adult unconscious they're missing a thing.
You may ask why I bother now writing this poem,
For far-reaching's my voice and peace frequents my home,
But the fact is the woman (I love) lost her child,
And her fragile emotion releases the wild.
Now her husband of choice feels child too (lost in wood),
The sun rises or sets in the south as it would,
My winter's through summer, and summer's just fall,
How child's heart longs for south lands where summer is all!
Our emotions can always bring child's gasp to brave,
But to know you're not master does not make you slave!
But it's faith to the rescue if you'll let Him win,
And your soul in God's hands that sees healing begin.
Brian Johnston
March 25, 2018
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