Friday, January 16, 2009

Rebellions of a Misunderstood Sheep-Hater

My cousin, the sheep.
What a stupid name!
Goat sounds more
manly, more to
the point. But he
gets all the attention.
Oh, sure, I'm the more
attractive. Still, he's
the sweet one, the good
one, pure. On the other
hand, I am the devil's
pet. I get a bad reputation
because I have horns
and a beard. What a
bunch of bull! No,
wait a minute, a bunch
of sheep. At least
I don't go naked
every spring. Why is he
so special? We both
speak the same language.

Deidre Grotbo

Mothers and Daughters, Women

I am suppose to survive,
a woman, we love fast,
hard. Forgiving sprits
beautifully constructed.
Dear diary's collide
into moments, songs
speak a truth, laying
in our lips and eyes.
Carrying ourselves
with dignity and pride,
crashing with our
first tear.

Deidre Grotbo

Petals of a Rose

Sun sets in your hair,
pierced lip sings a song
of a revolution . The artist,
I will call you. Drawing pictures
of goddess and gods.
Kurt and Angelina's
lover, husband and wife all
together. Pagan sign hangs
on your neck, magick in
one green eye, one blue.
Daring and spontaneous
woman, writing of past
lives, standing up for what
you believe in. Laughing out loud,
making no sense to anybody, except your heart.
Angels exist, tattooed on your ankle.
I will miss you, Angel.
Farewell, until we meet again.

Deidre Grotbo


At night, a woman sits by a window
with shadows in hand to cast upon
the beautiful. A man stands on a dark
bridge, waiting for them to tattoo his soul.
Baring each others questions they collide
as shades of the sky change from blazing
to calm. Searching for the pattern of damage,
they arrive at an answer; faces reform
with the decades and people patch over
their secrets. Dazed, they strum their hearts
and leap.

Night Flying

(For Grandma)
Evenings breath grazes the mountain.
Time leaves, death stalks the moon.
From above, heavy souls watch
Grandma's eyes crash into mine,
burning holes in my heart.
I want to cry to her, but the owl
cannot hear. I want to sing to her,
but the dove will not speak.

Deidre Grotbo