POEM: Boys with flowers

From svartalvheim.tumblr.com

I would like to see fewer men with guns.
I would like to see more boys
with flowers in their hair.
I would like to see boys putting on aprons
and baking on cold winter mornings
while their mothers, sisters, girlfriends
sleep wrapped in colorful duvets.
I would like to see boys kissing
with flowers in their hair.
I would like to see wrestling matches
that end in congratulations with a kiss.
I would like to see men embracing
instead of a handshake at arm’s length
one pump that’s it let go.
I would like to see boys
who are not afraid to be boys
to be girls, to be men,
boys who are not afraid
to touch and be touched.
I would like to see boys
who laugh for joy and not shame.
I would like to see boys wearing flowers
who didn’t have to die
in a river, in a war, in a gang fight, in a bar brawl
whose lives, not deaths, can be celebrated
with wreaths of flowers, who wear flowers
in their hair, bells on their ankles,
beads on their wrists, hearts on their
sleeves, sugar on their mouths,
boys who can live. I want the boys
to live forever. Is that too much to ask?


POEM: Resurrection part two

Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,
and his name is Jesus, sprouting up as wheat
to be baked into bread and grapes to be crushed
into wine under the feet of the Magdalene harlot.
Now the green blade riseth, and it is Adonis,
a salad shared equally between Proserpina
and Venus, seasoned with olive oil and
the vinegar of women’s tears. It is a tall
strange hatchet-faced man named Lincoln
whose death bred lilacs out of the dead land,
an uncrowned sacred king, his mad wife
trailing petals in his wake. How can I be happy
when all these gay flowers are dead men
rising up, testimony to those dead too soon?
But they are so beautiful, Flora whispers,
and hands me a bouquet of roses thick with thorns.

A ballad of spring flowers

Flora wears a pretty gown
but her feet are in the mud.
Her hair is twined with flowers
but there’s shit between her toes.
Without manure and mud
her flowers will not grow.
She waters them with blood
if nothing else will flow.

You may dance with Flora
but she’ll outlast your art.
Her feet can never tire
unlike your mortal heart.
But she will not forget you;
she’ll bring flowers from your grave
and wear them when she dances
in her next immortal rave.

Do not curse the goddess
for she is not the cause
of deaths that have no answers
and anger without pause.
The Fates ordained that flowers
should come from shit and mud;
but Flora will weep over them
when they have sprung from blood.

To Flora on the Floralia


Flora, Flora, Flora!
It is your festival because the flowers are blooming!
Flora, Flora, Flora!
Goddess of flowers, of pleasure and joy!
I say your name to every flower I see:
Flora to the tulip, red and white, cream and yellow,
Flora to the dogwood, pink or white,
Flora to the cherry blossoms, to the grape hyacinth,
Flora to the violets sprouting in the cracks of the church steps,
Flora to the daffodil, fading away, to the orchid in my kitchen,
Flora to the roses that are soon to come.
Where the grass is lush, Flora,
Where the flowers bloom, Flora,
Where the birds do their mating dances,
Flora, I see your joy and rejoice and praise you.