February 23, 2019

Soft Gentle Distraction

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Soft hands are of no interest to me

Is my first thought but I realize

That’s not exactly true.

I’m sort of obsessed with them

Morbidly fascinated by the life lived

Resulting in no calluses, no broken nails

No cracked skin, no permanent grease stains

No dirt (no longer soil) embedded on the side of the index finger

Not a sign of that organic complex that

Supports life in any corner of a nail.

Lives so foreign to me and mine.

And so I sit and stare at hands

Men’s mostly.

Having a different unrealistic absurd standard

For women’s hands.

Not wondering about their soft hands

Not wondering why their soft hands aren’t repulsive

And why men’s soft hands are. To me.

Not wondering why I care at all or

Why I’m not just worried about my own damn self

Or the actual subject of this (yet another) meeting.

Instead here I fixate on pristine doughy man hands

Only wondering if I’m making a face

As I stare.

August 20

Feathered Backyard Pets

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It’s hard when pets are companion to you

With chard they would be dinner for others

My yard is playpen for my feathered few

Regarded as farmyard to another

When one of my chicks has met her demise

The run no longer safe for happy hens

When fun has turned to tears escaping eyes

I’m done tamping the grave, sad once again

When wings and legs are menu selections

Crying over chickens is frowned upon

A thing to save for fuzzy affection

A sting allowed only when pets are gone

Adored as much as bowwow and meow

Therefore deserving of waterworks now.

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(A Beymorlin Sonnet)