Bohemian Sundays

On Sunday afternoons

I crank the Victrola
To perfection

Sergi Rachmaninoffs
Dark whispers
Fill the room.

Into my body flows
Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No.2

Gentle are the fingers
That bring my toes
To point

I must concede
To the music’s full need
Of my passion

My grandmother yells
In broken English

“You should not valtz on your toes that vay”!

I pay no heed
To her words

Mephistopheles has offered
To be my waltz partner
Later I will pay
For youths passionate sins

Until then
I shall read Nietzsche
Whilst unsupervised

And dream of passions golden embers

Sleeping deep within me
Seething to come undone

I shall waltz with Mephistopheles whole-heartedly
To Hungarian Rhapsody No.2

I am after all
Nearly fourteen
and
Part Bohemian

*

Floating Flowers

My Great Grandmother

French Indian Border Reiver

Bare feet
Carry restless legs
Through darkest back wood night
Where stripped bare trees
Bid stars to shine on high so bright

Sweat laden chest
Causes cross to cling on breast
While white breath
On winter wind
In panic comes to rest

Mother straps sleepless babe
Over mad pounding of heart in chest
Closing her eyes
She floats down stream
Past empty burning nests

In hopes of reaching
Freedom’s dream
On the shores
Of the sun drenched west

*************************

Written in memory of women

who survived forced migration

Rutting Bull Dance

Golden brown hair
worn in a loose braid
tickles my back

My eyes
are bohemian blue

I am 5 foot 7 inches
and weigh 150 pounds
of solid lean muscle

I am built like a man
with large teenage breasts

My nails grow long like stone
from the tips of my fingers

My hands are calloused
from swinging a double edge axe
with deadly force

I wear a size 9 work boot
covered in red mud

I smell like leather
rolled corn and oats
mixed with the sweat of livestock

I have the natural stride of a man
with a thousand mile stare

I have the punch
of a ten pound cannon ball
and the kick of a mule

I have a mind
that is not afraid to speak

I like cold bacon beans
and cornbread

buttermilk
for my drink

I rise up
with the sun
and
go to the ground
with the moon.

From tree tops
I sing away
all my own sorrows

I bathe in rivers
and streams

I sigh deeply
under a sky
full of stars

I fear no man
or beast
of the field

I talk to God
all day
and
clean my shotgun
every night

Today I am dancing a jig
at a country shin dig

And all the young single men
Are wishing they owned enough ponies
to make me their bride