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

Yielding

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

Needles

Weaving nights I count the threads
of my needle. Cream forms in my
coffee. A siren screams for attention
outside my window. Ruins I see.
People's faces clench with pain.
Lights skimmed in the alleyway.
Improbable that they will come in
time. I smudged the glass with my
face pressed. People yelling for help
intending that they will be heard.
Humming fills my ears so loud I
can't breath. But my eyes are fused
to the outside. Absurd jester I make
by just sitting here? My eyes fill with
salty water. They sting their cuts. Sorry.

Deidre Grotbo

A Cry to Grandma

A maze of hallways leads me to a room.
Where melted faces stare, from a memory of a dream.
I hear a whisper, "You don't have to enter."
Shaking, I walk in, see white.
Death surrounds me. When I look at her body,
my heart shatters, and I cry.
I leave to see my mom crying.
outside the hospital room.
A numbness takes over my body.
I shut my eyes and see the dream,
her head wrapped in red stained bandages of white.
The beginning of the heartless zone I am entering.
I let no feelings exit, enter.
I leave the hospital, stop crying.
My mom is pale, white.
We get in the car, enclosed. I push for more room.
As we traveled through town, the dream
keeps crawling in my mind, her broken body.
We lean over the table, my mind far from my body.
People speak to me, and I enter
life again. Speak up, I can't see. My dream
is still on her. I see my cousins crying
in the hallway, strong men weak, waiting by a hospital room.
I move my chair closer to the wall that is white.
The suit they picked is blue and white.
She looks like she is sleeping in her body,
but she is gone. We left the funeral room,
my dad too afraid to enter.
As we drive in the car, I watch my mom crying.
Mom tells me to remember her like this in my dreams.
The people seated neatly in rows is a like a dream.
People dressed in black and white,
stand to say a prayer. Everyone is crying.
I feel out of control, out of my body.
We lay roses, one for each grandchild, on her casket as it entered
the hearse. So many roses there is no more room
The dream of the hearse drives away as the sky starts to cry.
White flowers surround the church. In the basement room
nobody talks as I enter.

Deidre Grotbo

Vacant

Satan visited today, a mind empty
is his playground. He moved through
my veins to the heart, beating faster
with every word he licked my wounds.
You are right innocent child,
a burden. I created a monster,
a being like no other. Chanting
away in the middle of darkness,
sobbing.
Take away the pain, devil, I beg of you.
Pray to me child? No, night should
fade, rising light will be bestrode
across me.
When the sun hits you, I′ll still
be there, watching you, twirling
in your memory, a workshop
of my deeds. You conceived me.

Deidre Grotbo

Mask

The thumbnail moon hangs low tonight,
raccoons visit me during the dark times.
Their black masks fit me well, hauntingly
enough.
Silence tattoos the forbidden fruit as weeping
serpents give up on their dream. Hour glasses
turn over and pieces evil scatters across
jigsaw puzzle.
Cacti stands tall, their thorns pierce
my innocence. I slithering past, walking
into the desert. Head bowed, the snakes
follow me.

Deidre Grotbo

Thunder

I flip through the torn pages of January.
Shaking, my hands reach, aching
for warmth. The sun glares and turns
his back.
Breezes make the palms sway,
tired eyes scan the murder scene.
I sketch the criminal. Feeling
venerable, I cross my arms and leave.
Shadows cast, my running eyeliner
marks me, broken. Bright patterns
of dusk stretch among the rooted waters.
I fall to my knees, submerging cuts
and bruises into salt, I curl my fists
in defeat. Beauty dies down to sand,
brushed away.

Deidre Grotbo

The Stirring of Hope and Spells

Violently it mixes the creation,
brewing an exile of craziness,
leaning on a witching life.
I cry, missing innocence.
Burning at a stake, a stake
of truth and common sense.
Only cob webs stretch along
windows, eyes drenched
in rain drops. Aroma steams
from the boil, revealing
loneliness, abandonment,
hatred. A candle is blown
out as the craft is done,
just as the spell. Sprits
rise to the clouds, turning
white, longing to be as black
as thunder.

Deidre Grotbo

The Middle of Summer

Burning ash settles,
sticks in my lungs
like grass stains.
Thorns peel away
the skin of my feet,
water flowing across
a rough stage.
I move closer,
beneath canvas
blocking the sun.
Like a statue
I'm solid,
pure and alone.
A frenzy of flowers
clash into bloom.

Deidre Grotbo

Praying

I open scars, red skin
bleeding. Sinfully I caress
the hatred, slowly touching
pale skin. I will never understand.
Grasping the candle,
the donation box, empty,
I add my 25 cents.
Charging for a miracle seems odd.
I kneel and open my hands,
raise my head, looking
for and answer in the light
and stained glass.

Deidre Grotbo

Numbers

A figure struts in front of boundaries,
mocking my illusion. A sum
of nightmares, dividing my life
and my death.
A character leaps behind statistics,
whispering the estimated time.
Signs of uncontrollable thoughts
symbols of enduring pain.
Guilty decimals cycle around
a loss hope of fear, happiness,
or forgiveness. The digits remain,
all equaling one.

Deidre Grotbo

Little Girl

Glass separates a past
and me, through stains
and blue tints. Worlds
and stars have moved
around me. I care about
those times. A never ending
cycle of life and death,
whispers to me. Need
a night-light to keep my
monsters from coming
out of my closets. Hatred
destroys my old photographs,
drowning these thoughts of her.

Deidre Grotbo

Changes

You make me open scars,
rugged red skin, bleeding.
Flames lick my fingertips,
the pain eases over my mind
as I laugh at the sight of you.
Reflections. Illegally I caress
the hatred, slowly touching
porcelain skin. I will never
know reality. I get on my knees
and open my hands. Grasping
the candle, donation box is empty.
I add my 25 cents, charging
for a miracle seems odd. I raise
my head, looking for answers
in the light and mirrors.

Deidre Grotbo

The Road to Lake Koocanusa

Pool of waste reflects bitter mountains,
as green paints brush on flat land.
Burned out trees golden with life.
Black haze drips down on the windshield.
Trucks pass, dogs in the back for a ride.
Clouds make images above.
Crosses mark the deaths of couples,
children, people. Covered in flowers
and gifts where loved ones morn.
Red barns stand tall in the lush grass.
Planes fly high over us. Lighting
stricken trees still stand.
Blue water towers mark the town.
Sun lightens the valley. An Indian
girl standing alone, waits to pass.
Dirt roads lead to broken houses.
Bright colors catch my eyes,
a dream plastered on a billboard.
Over the horizon to see four
island stretched in the mirrored
lakes. Flat as the world.
Blank signs indicating the road
a head. Dead ground soon to become
full. Just like me, just like us.

Deidre Grotbo

Tapping Fingers

Sun drenches my hair,
as vapors of rain stain
my face.
Alone, far away
you laugh. I forgive you,
honesty will let me sleep.

Deidre Grotbo

Spring epoch

Birds sing and fly.
The weather
chills me. Warmth,
no, winter still.
I want to face the sun.
I want to turn to gold.

Deidre Grotbo

Salty

Taste the outbreak, reeling
in the flames, eating the city
one street light at a time.
The gothic scene scrapes
the nail polish off. Pulling
hair one strand at a time
to feel the true grief, evolving
in a state of pleasure. Licking
the lips of an era, caressing
the bosom of a toughened
soul. Wrapping the present
in the rhythm, I kiss the neck
of a blurred an anticipation.

Deidre Grotbo