In Celebration of N.A.S.T.Y. Women
 
N.A.S.T.Y. women paint concentric rings
on their breasts when they speak up,
a target for every nitwit with an EQ
smaller than his shoe size,
who views a verbal query as an assault; on him.
 
N.A.S.T.Y. women know he parrots “nasty” because Mom,
said it when he fondled his tiny parts
in front of family,
and he’s still mad; at Mom.
 
N.A.S.T.Y. women raise boys to view girls
as more than tits and slits.
“Don’t let your little head tell your big head what to do,” she warns,
though sons roll their eyes and pretend not to hear.
 N.A.S.T.Y. women teach their children
that cheating,
to win means you’re a loser and that smug,
winners are double losers.
 
N.A.S.T.Y. women salute their soulmate sisters who,
also brave belittlement by being born female, then,
mourn those who flee the fight and forsake the feminine Self.
 
N.A.S.T.Y. women brawl for identity as subservience doesn’t serve a:

Newsworthy – Authentic – Self-assured – Tenacious – Young-at-heart,
 
Winning – Original – Magical – Adroit – Nasty woman.

- Jocelyn Moore
 from Pinedale, Wyoming
First published by Rats Ass Review, Online Poetry Journal in its “Such an Ugly Time” Collection,  January 2017.
 

A Greek Goddess

The curved sculptured roundness
of her ass was exposed.
The silky covers,
messed and tossed aside
covered only her legs and shoulders.
Her long hair tossed about in a natural,
tangled garden of beauty,
making her an ancient vision
of a Greek goddess.

The dampness
of a night filled with lust
lay dormant
while passion
still lingered in the room.

The contour of her hips
resembled polished marble
as if they had been carefully carved
and formed by an ancient sculptor.

All I could notice,
amidst this moment of breathtaking beauty,
was the mosquito
sitting on the sculpted roundness
of her perfect ass,
injecting its stinger deep
into the exposed soft and tender flesh.

- Dan Abernathy


Hitch!

Go and cry with a stranger! Do it in their car.
Get in their car, completely in.
Take your heart out and put it in their teeth.
And listen.
Listen to them say they work too much.
Listen to them say they’re underpaid.
Hear them geek out on how their truck works.
Let them crack you open a Bud,
even if you think it’s yucky.
Listen to them talk about the land they love,
and the wife they lost.
The way they can’t seem to find love,
or to make it stay.
Listen to the way death scares them.

Relate to them admitting that as women in our late 20’s, we might have found ourselves attracted to relationships that are terrible for us. How it’s a necessary phase of life, to teach us what parts of ourselves we really need to work on, and because we’re turning into mothers, whether we want to admit it or not.

Let them tell you you’re courageous.
Let them lecture you on how you’re crazy.
Listen to them talk about how hard it is
to control their teenager, or run their business.
About how they’d kill for their mama.
About being there
when the Berlin wall came down.
About how they got in trouble
and cleaned themselves up.
About how your health is everything.
About how family is everything.
How they lost their daughter
and granddaughter in a plane crash in Alaska.
Listen to how they believe there’s good in all of us, though it can be hard to see.
Listen to them speak of holding their baby sister
in their arms as she slips away.
Talk about Cancer.
Talk about being someone’s sister, or brother.
Talk about being in the room with death
and how it was beautiful and sad. And cry.
Tell them the truth.
Tell them you’re scared too.
Show them you’re alive.
And then they’ll walk with you…….Always.

- Shayla Paradeis,
contributes from Columbia Falls, Montana. You can follow her on her blog. Rock, Water, Magic www.cdtkiddo.wordpress.com


Note:
I have to add a side note with this poem, as I picked up Shayla, the author and gave her a ride. We visited for over an hour before the road split taking me one way, and her another. We talked, laughed and got a teary eye. It was my baby sister that, “I held in my arms till she slipped away.” You honor me Kiddo, I look for the day our roads cross again. - Dan