Sadness Moans
shooting pain lurches like a stranger in the blackest night
where monsters live releasing their copies, swarming past, out of sight
jealousy walks on rugged stones stealing from the gifted
holding hands of small cactus plants until the desert sands are shifted
behind their peering eyes a Judas runs to throw a stone
whiffs of his betrayal, climbing to the top of the field, I hear his moan
trust a blanket, with a thousand promises, tickling me
deceit, painful rubbing of an alligator’s bony plates, I run to a forest tree
a stranger in this house of horrors, yet I have to live
stealing glances, taking chances, as I taste the bitter love I cannot give
Luna Moth and Her Lover
intense eyes open imaginary shutters
her green wings, the luna moth flutters
she mates once has no mouth, dies, lays eggs in wooded covers
would I give my life for one more night
knowing death would be my one last flight
with you, my darling, keeper, and lover of my heart, I just might
Rumor Damage
rumor is a spineless seed dipped in fertile shadow dirt
that multiplies and causes pain and unexpected hurt
silence, a bed partner that takes but never gives back
as a man tells a buddy how easy he got her in the sack
black spots jump off potatoes and out of a perfect dish
surviving boiling water and a blemish on an ideal wish
misfortune of a hammer that averted a four-inch nail
a hungry man begs for food and becomes a vulgar tail
her legs jump from flower to flower, hoping for a treat
for sleeping alone with her legs and scheming little feet
jealousy and deceit was the cause of their blue demise
scissors cut paper, and true words, well – their end is no surprise
Uncle’s House
memories grow roots that spring up like dandelions on a freshly mowed lawn
hiding among floating clouds, unwanted hands, or those thin leafless limbs
the taste of cigars on lips or the slimy feel of uncles’ probing thick tongue
he took me to church, like to watch me dance and listen when I sang hymns
lots of summer afternoons, I sat for hours while the birds sang songs to God
his lap was big, and it felt good to have someone to care what I liked to do
summer days remind me of candy, fishing, and rum bottles hiding everywhere
the smell of marigolds or that living room and wiggling to get away from you
Mermaid’s Lost Love
seaweed, green, like my eyes, harbor me in this woeful abyss
waning as my golden blueish scales morph into blackness
shadow life, and inquisitiveness died and bled the colors of the
Bolivian orange-red sunset, which calls to your land’s hummingbirds
as their darting ceased, when my only child died not far from your brown banks
caught in a mile-long fishnet with a dolphin, and sea turtle friends
a triangle of death as I watched her die slowly as I tore my fingers
trying to save my little mermaid child as my blue tears floated skyward
a mere full moon later my merman swam into a black pool of thickness
unable to swim, black death covering his scales, cocooned as he died a painful death
I visit a river that has ancient trees with long gray hair, our family knew
my sorrow theirs, for they would clap as we would sing our odes
large white stones for basking, close to flowers that smell of love, and hope
braiding the morning glories, red swamp hibiscus, and white gardenias
into black hair as reminders of the lifeless and those that will follow
our world under and above the sea is dying from white man’s greed
regret and sorrowfulness breaks my heart into pieces
soon cut into ribbons like the seaweed I will die from sorrow
for no longer do I wish to see the sunrise, no, not one more tomorrow
Old News Is Not Old News
whites of fearsome eyes looking up from blood-soaked boards
black bodies stretched naked, branded, and shackled to floors
fifty women drowning overboard that enslaver’s work quickly done
another coast, heavily greased black muscles, glimmer in the sun
2021 computers on – I listen while today’s news on a video rolls
spinning lies another bright young man died as this story unfolds
choked, gaged, sprayed, or flayed, old news nothing fresh today
sadness is killing me daily, as I think, what will their mothers say
another way of killing folks instead of hanging on a hoary oak tree
black people want to live their lives, be respected, and to be free
I am sick and tired, of being sick and tired, of the filthy shocking pace
of how white men keep eradicating people, not included in their race
~~~
Joni’s blog is Rum and Robots. Her national and international publications can be found here: https://the-inner-child.com/publications/. She is a surviving Adult Child of Alcoholics. Joni is a retired nurse and paralegal. Since the age of six, she has been writing songs and poetry. Joni is an avid environmental advocate. She was first featured on The Short of It in December 2020, and her work was published in the first anthology – The Sound of Brilliance.
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