Striptease

some spirits are as fragile as a rose

sweet as honey, lovely to gaze upon

but easily damaged

by callous souls who heartlessly ravage

scribbling hateful words with sharpened crayons—

soft petals wilt ‘neath weight of heavy prose

leaving door open to rot and disease

rose abandons hope, does a sad striptease


©️2023 jai

wounded couplet

Image by Jiří Rotrekl from Pixabay

Penance

the wolf is at the door

he howls…I moan
he knows I am in here
afraid and all alone

the wolf is at the door
he claws the ancient wood
he knows I am behind it
he knows I will taste good

the wolf is at the door
his nose draws in my smell
tastes the sweetness of my fear
his appetite I will quell

the wolf is at the door
I rise to let him in
this night will witness penance
past time to pay for sins

the wolf is at the door
I gather my courage close
my fingers curl round the icy knob
I let in the lupine ghost

the wolf is in the door
he growls...I scream
thrust my dagger into his heart
carve out his bloody wet dream

the wolf is on the floor
I smile in satisfaction
he thought I would be an easy meal
too weak to take bold action

the wolf dies on the floor
no longer a threat to me
I write my name in his cooling blood
for other wolves to see
©2023 jai

Image by Peace,love,happiness from Pixabay

Love Hurts

John Parker stepped into his pants, glanced back at the woman sleeping in the bed he had just vacated. And the guilt hit him. Why did he do it? Why did he have to nail some bimbo he’d just met when he had a beautiful, willing wife at home?

He almost always questioned his actions after the fact. But never before. When he met a pretty young thing, every thought in his head was crowded out by the one imperative: get her in the sack. And since he fit all the prerequisites—tall, dark, handsome, successful—most A-list women had tucked away in their minds when eyeing a potential hookup, he seldom struck out. It was just so damn easy.

He left three hundred bucks—cab fare plus a little something extra—on the bedside table, and after looking around to see if he’d left anything behind, slipped quietly out the door. He hated goodbyes, some more than others. That’s how he’d ended up married to Liv: he couldn’t tell her goodbye.

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Rivers

In her life, she has crossed many rivers.
Some she swam with sure, steady strokes;
Some she walked over on burning bridges;
Some were so shallow, she easily waded.
But fording the last one, she almost drowned,
Failed to reach the other side.

The swift, black waters dragged her down,
Filled her lungs with life’s heartaches,
Then cast her battered body back to shore;
Left her choking, gasping, gagging,
Down, but not defeated.
Never defeated.

Older and wiser, she bided her time,
Waited at the river for the dire wolves to come drink,
And built a raft from their strong bones,
Made a cape from their warm, gray fur,
Then floated across the cold choppy surface
And stepped off safe and warm on the other side.

She fashioned a home from the raft bones,
Made a bed from the sleek fur cape,
And she abided there in the high desert
Content and happy as she grew old
Until the time came for her to leave.
For there was one more river yet to cross.

©2023 jai

Image by freddy urbina from Pixabay

Little Girls and Old Women

told to honor and obey
little girls can’t find their way
lips zipped against food and speech 
gotta stay skinny, gotta stay meek

or true love won’t come their way
submerging self, the price they pay
striving to be who he wants her to be
she loses her and becomes his she

put Prince Charming on lofty pedestal 
feed the ego of immature male
make him feel like a mighty king
no matter the fact you’ll never be queen

for him, queens are the porn-star pack
perfect dolls all waxed, maxed, and stacked
always ready, willing, and able
not real women...just juvenile fables

poor little girls become old women
before realizing there is no winning
for the enlightened, this epiphany brings joy
no more worries about pleasing a boy

just march to the beat of your own ditzy drummer
pick white daisies in your own field of summer
dance in the rain while the devil beats his wife
and always carry a big suspicious knife

©️2023 jai

Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

March Chimes

March chimes tinkle in the wind

Telling me spring is on the way,

Chasing away dark winter days.

And I wonder where the wind has been.



Unlike winter, spring sports a grin,

All toothy gold, warm, and gay.

March chimes tinkle in the wind,

Telling me spring is on the way.



Sometimes brash, chimes dance, drunk on gin.

Or perhaps, weed entered the fray.

Drunk or high or merry, who’s to say?

They jump and jingle as they spin—

March chimes tinkle in the wind,

Telling me spring is on the way.

©️2023 jai

rondel

(Author’s note: written for my mother, whose favorite season was spring.)

Image via Morguefile