Tolbert

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 the real trouble begins…

Drunk on power, sole focus my druthers

Slurring amidst an apoplectic fog.

*

Struggling to form coherent words and phrases

With points to make, internal fight ensues.

Self-compassion saunters in and erases

The bottomlessness of my roiling rage.

A wildcat has its mouth wide open bearing its teeth with its eyes squinting shut.
Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/nature-summer-yellow-animal-55814/

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a sensual poem

The top of a purple wax candle is seen at the bottom of the picture with a bent black wick aflame in the middle and rising towards the top. There is a sienna colored aura surrounding the flame.
Photo by George Becker from Pexels

Like a wick waving to the warmth of the flame,

I hum in your heat.

The wick splays and frays as the tiny fire envelops and burns its ends,

like my appendages separate, melt, and welcome you home.

You are wick and I am aflame or you are flame and I am wickedly awicked.

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a poetic lamentation

A figure stands in the rain. Their top half obscured by a red umbrella and the bottom half visible with black and white patterned baggy, blousy trousers. They stand in front of trees.
Photo by Aline Nadai from Pexels

It’s called a period

but how many times

do we have the fortune

of it being only a

statement;

It’s called a period

but how many times

would we like

the exclamation point

vibrating with immense pressure

quaking our uterine walls

cramping, crimping, and cringing

bloody waterfall of tissues

to unwedge itself from our craw

and embrace us in parentheses

of heating pad, hot bath or shower,

and/or food craving;

It’s called a period

but how many times

is it a question mark

slithering down the leg

outside of the bedtime fashioned canoe pad

or dripping from the the overflowing tampon

leaving us to wonder why

we still have a uterus;

It’s called a period

but how many times

do we want to ellipses and/or dash

our way out of everything…

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a poem

A chipmunk in profile in cobra yoga pose on a branch. The head and nose are pointed up with the chest raised off the branch while the rest of the body hugs the branch. Leaves and trees are blurred in the background.
Photo by prasanthdas ds from Pexels

Chipmunks chirruping

right outside of my remote working space

ceaselessly screeching

and my tense, dense

lump of cerebral fat

cannot tolerate it.

I blast *Renaissance through my phone

and seconds after “I’m That Girl”

is bouncing off the walls

the chipmunks chirps

silence.

These mutha-munks ain’t stoppin me.

*Beyonce’s new album, Renaissance. First track is “I’m That Girl.” Listen below.

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a poem about enjoyment

An orange sunset reflects over orange ocean wave crests.
Photo by Александр Прокофьев from Pexels

The ocean is a welcome place —

its waves crest

curling and embracing its occupants.

Salt water is creamy and divine;

swimming and floating within it

is a decadent experience.

The ocean is immense —

spreading its joy and love

softening all that it encounters.

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prose about loss

Yellow to beige background bathed in sunlight barely visible in the top right shines down over flaxen colored plant growth.
Photo by Kat Smith

Yellow curtains are drawn.

The sun’s beams brilliance penetrate the brightly colored window drapes, though it is on its descent, closing the evening.

and the glow in the room is heavy.

Everything feels like bulk this week.

Pinned to the bed when I wake up in the morning,

sluggish with leaden feet when I move through the house,

my mind full of iron with sparse thoughts to ping pong off the bars and turn to dust

filling my senses with the smell and feel of disintegration.

Dust is what we become and yet the good memories, the loss of my friend and my family, all hang over me like a pressure-filled storm cloud.

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Tolbert

Tolbert

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