70’s Santa

The turn off route 93 had been slight

This is what I remember of the night.

There had been no threadbare child’s strap to encase my dreams.

There had been no traveling movie…to allow normal to be sane.

I remember those star crusted memories as though, I could achieve, I could achieve, I could achieve.

After coming from nap time with Santa and no delivered good to be had.

Remember, remember, the polka dot, the low fashion, the plaid.

Adorable in strawberry blonde.

Cute with a nose like a knob.

These days I do not allow myself to be host.

Santa, with perception, can now be a ghost.

Dining in the Moment

I stood there over open water

It had been beautiful, all at once…then not at all

Freckles of milk weed rustle with my flannel

It had been beautiful, all at once…then not at all

I sat near a Shaker table waiting for New Hampshire autumn to wine and dine

It had been beautiful. all at once…then not at all

Deliver Unto the Forest

I do not know where to go to stay strong.

I understood where I always needed to believe.

To the ravished forest, brutal and gentle, dark and light.

Can I ever release this flight?

Quail twinkling upon slightly frozen blades of grass.

Milk weed disposing of fluff, hard and fast.

I do not know where to go to stay steady.

I understood, however, the dug earth, the rampant maple leaf, the need to see and see…

Would deliver me.

Poets of SMITTEN Speak: Melissa Fadul

I had lost a female friend (catholic.) She had been assumed to be in a lesbian relationship. She drove to Conneticut and never returned. Her partner, appeared, distraught. Disturbed with how she had been presented by the church. Odd,
in the folk group we all sang in…to see Dawn dismissed as though, she had been a stick figure on a chalkboard. ‘How could Dawn leave without any real reason for leaving? Persecution for her beliefs? My young heart never understood or knew for sure.
Dawn remains a missing person. The police called it…a mental health issue. The church dismissed it all. As if Dawn never occurred. Her lover moved on full knowing that…lesbians do not have an account. That women who love women are just something to be disregarded.  @randomwordbyruth

TheFeatheredSleep

Melissa Fadul lives in New York with her wife, dog and two rabbits. She teaches English Literature and Advanced Placement Psychology.  She loves animals, poetry, and film and photography and baseball and screenwriting. Melissa is currently writing her second poetry manuscript and a screenplay.  Melissa hopes that someday she can work with her favorite actresses: Naomi Watts, Rachel Weisz, Cate Blanchett and Mariska Hargitay.

Is the Die Really Cast?

I was a sophomore and part of GLU (the gay and lesbian union as it was called then) getting my undergraduate degree in New York and two years younger than twenty-one-year-old Matthew Shepard, when barbed wire pierced his wrists as he was pinned to a fence on a chilly October evening. After his assailants, Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson thumped his skull, dented it, they stole his shoes and wallet before running him over in a pick-up truck— leaving him for…

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Sleeping with Valor’s Retreat

There are lines to this scarcity.

Hidden obstacles filled with joyless doubt.

Now that I am in…the dead air is coming out!

A covert world we all must go thru…

and, the question remains…

‘Will I have the courage to go without you?’

The grass beaded with dew and the…aromatic earth…

does not quench my soul as it used to.

Lying and dying have become art forms.

A certain style giving unto…laughing…crying.

Courage in the blinding light of day can whisk the unthinkable webs away.

Nonetheless, the night…with its sporadic fits of sleep…

Still begs for valor’s retreat.

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