A poem about my body’s song

I am womb-less.

Stabbed by a knife wielding computer named Davinci.

Four dashes run across my belly like an equatorial line.

A boundary demarcating the femme of the north and the queer of the south.

I bleed no more,

but the vagina doth roar.

Last week, she thrummed like a percussive shiver in a hollow drum,

again and again this buzzing.

There was a full moon on the rise.

And the crest of womanhood seeping from my baby girl’s thighs.

My body still beats, still makes song

even with the cervix and uterus gone.

A sunset with full moon and waves of water in the foreground.
Photo by Lucas Meneses from Pexels



a poem about socio-behavioral conditioning

A hand is pictured holding a green mug that is being dipped into a stream of water.
Photo by Jens Johnsson: https://www.pexels.com/photo/person-scooping-water-using-green-cup-66090/

It has taken me this long

to realize

how many times I have

drunk the Kool-Aid.

When I admittedly

enjoy sipping, spilling, and

sharing the T(ea).

Pinkies up or firmly gripping,

dainty hold or fist a clenching,

I do enjoy a spot or thermos

of tea.

My conviction and my passions

have led me

into one too many

Kool-Aid keggers.

Was it my forties,

promises shrouding lies,

or standing back sober

from the saccharin high

just long enough

that broke me?

It was the T

(and all of the above).



prose poem

A dim lit view of a cemetery with a headstone in the lower right illuminated from behind. Leaves are scattered about the ground of green grass. A black iron sign stands to the left.
Photo by Micael Widell from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/silhouette-of-graves-720732/

Sometime ago I thought a romantic

send-off into the great ethereal beyond

was to have my vacant physical body

put onto a pallet of wood logs bound together

sent off to float on water and air whilst aflame

into twilight, stardust, and moonglow

surrounded by the elements that buoyed

my astral and physical bodies in the before time

when I was vivacious — soaking up

nature’s bounty

star ashes to earth ashes

fiery marrow dust to gaseous decomposing dust

ocean drops to salty dissolution.



a poem

Blue and pink abstract.
Photo by Anni Roenkae from Pexels

Females are a miracle.

Every month the inner walls of our center, our being,

where all of creation is birthed,

is extirpated and shed

blooming anew.

And where there is growth,

there is also pain.

Accompanied with a flower that weeps

and wails tears of blood,

gushing a mercurial and sanguine


Each month a part of us dies

to make room for the new.

We are demonized and dehumanized

for what our bodies do behind clothing

and outwardly silent,

yet inwardly our bodies scream

and rage

through the thrumming, throbbing, and drumming

of uterine tissue ripping itself apart.

We should be celebrated, raised up, and honored

through agony and the walls of our womb liberating itself.

We bring life, we hold it, we nurture it, we caress it,

we set it forth, we set it free; we are power and magic.



a poetic critical self-reflection

A white stucco wall with a crack down its center.

When “I don’t care” is your weak defense —

an attempt at creating a pseudo come-uppance

and a deflection laced with false pretense…

Realizing that your license

for wielding this phrase is an offense

and it is time to cleanse

Yourself of this conditioned happenstance —

in the future purging the occurrence

of the word vomited “I don’t care” utterance.



a runaway quatrain

A poetic re-telling of how I am handling the first stage of grief.

Sitting at the Anger Bar a stewing.

Dishing and venting with the bartender,

An urge to have another round, brewing.

Fighting the anger-holism overtaking


Me. Where the last round “tastes(sh) like anothers,”

And this is where…



a poem about suffering while stoic

Clouds hover over mountains with bits of snow, trees, and greenery. Sunlight casts over some of the mountaintops while others are in shadow from the clouds.
Image from Rocky Mountain National Park (2020).

Rock solid like a mountain

how long

before you see

my transformation.

Erosion is not as easily

viewed unless measured.

Cracks and fissures

allow for things to slip through,

break forth, and

spill out.

But often it’s not until

the mountain crumbles —

hard rock face turned to

powdery, granular rubble

that anyone begins to


how long the changes

had been going on;

all along my loves,

all along.





Queer Writer & Poet | Sex and Sensuality | Health and Wellness Interests | Personal Experience | LINKTR.EE/TOLBERTMBB | Instagram @tolbert_on_medium