THE DAY AFTER
How often
I’ve hated myself,
After
Cold gin
Has
Warmed
In my stomach
And dirtied glasses
Lined up
On the counter
Reminded me
Of wasted hours
Spent
Sipping martinis
And dreaming of things
I
Could have done,
Should have done,
And will never do
As long as
Empty bottles
Are replaced with frequency
And gin soaked
Olives
Look better
To me
Than life.
- Sheree La Puma-Watson
(featured in the poetry forum 10.08.11)
editor's note: This is a familiar view; this world through an empty glass. Heavy the weight that would keep our view locked on that blurred lens. Turn around; the window is open, the sun is shining. - mh
HANDS
No excuses, I don’t care
What they say -
Remembering –
Those hands –
Still bitter tears
After 20 years
Remembering –
His hands –
Dirty fingers,
Callused,
Rough,
Groping my face, breast.
Rabid
With desire,
Like a dog
Digging
For pink flesh.
Lines down my neck
A trickle of blood, ragged nails
Scratching
Dividing me in two, mind, spirit -
Floating
Drifting,
Disconnected.
His sticky sweet
Breath permeates my being.
To this day
I can’t stand the smell
Of whisky.
Pressed down,
Being pulled down
Against his sweaty
Groin.
Silent
Tears searching for salvation
Unearthing
Judas
The night my mother’s lover
Crept
Into my bed
& impressed me with
A memory.
- Sheree La Puma-Watson
(added 10.08.11)
Clean Sheets
A blessed child, precious, adored, no need
to hoard love under the bed…
soft, warm, clean sheets
made of crisp linen and percale
ready to swallow men whole
in an ocean
of hungry satisfaction
addicted so addicted
by twenty
had men beckoning
on knees, so many knees with flowers
roses, orchids, lustily open
wanting to be touched
held in my arms
rocked
on my hips
bounced in my lap
never enough, two, three
fifteen
never enough, need to feel
their need
desperate torture -- call it
cruel punishment -- never have me
for themselves
knowing youth is fleeting
pain apparent
need a fix
or I’ll wither away, twisted
contorted in lonely
lost despair
overwhelmed, with mountains to climb
so I bury my lust/love deep
inside my toes
curled tight, locked away
my face blank for ten years
no words, no poetry, only anger, bushels
and bushels of misplaced anger
no sex, no lust
no love, no passion, no wicked thoughts
now thirty, leaking out, my desire leaking out
every pore, every opening
like a flood
like the Mississippi, rising up and over
no where to go
first my neighbor, then on to others
uncontrolled pleasure, consuming everything
in its path
never free
I will never swim free
I would sleep
with you
first.
- Sheree La Puma Watson
(featured in the poetry forum 12.26.10)
Networks
He called her
A bitch...
Told her Neiman Marcus
Was running
An October special
On restraw jobs
For flying single seater vehicles.
They all laughed,
Especially the fleshy, mildewed ones.
It made their hearts race,
Which is more
Than sex had done
In the last thirty years,
But then she countered,
“Must have been a local special.
Our Neiman’s featuring
Petite G-Strings
In rhinestone, leather and silver lame.
What’s your preference?”
It made the hoary ones groan.
They were protective
Of their mentor,
After all it was merely custom,
Standard indoctrination,
Belligerent routine,
And they were all friends,
Intimates,
On that
Computer
Bulletin board.
- Sheree La Puma-Watson
(featured in the poetry forum 10.21.10)
Hot’n Spicy
Lots of rich
Cheddar cheese -
Just a hint of Jalapeno,
A dash -
Of chili pepper
With a blend of
Zesty tastes and textures,
Born of the sun,
For coy
People
Who want a little spice
In their lives.
I bought a dozen boxes,
Should have filled
My cart I thought. They promised me
Pleasure…
Something new and bold
And I was desperate,
Needed a little variety
In my somber life.
So I took a chance, spent
Forty dollars,
On the red hot boxes
And smiled
A saucy smile
As I stashed them in my
Cupboard
Unopened.
I wasn’t really hungry
After all.
- Sheree La Puma-Watson
(featured in the poetry forum 08.07.10) |
