Tag Archives: lesbian

Patience


Patience

My wonderful woman, or women–
I know not who you are,
The ones who will fill my life
With love’s truest light for a time.
But I can wait for our time.

I may meet you in the street,
A dark club, through my career,
Or some unforeseen event–
You will see my soul, and I yours.
We will touch, we will laugh,
And dance under moonless skies.
But I can wait for our time.

I am ready for your light in my life–
For your bright smile to turn my head.
I am patient.
I can wait for our time.

I am complete as I am now–
Your addition will make me more than
Myself, a better woman in all I do.
The thought of you makes my heart sing.
But I can wait for our time.

And when the hard times come,
Those trials and tests of our life,
We may pull together, or fall apart–
Devotion only takes us so far.
Still, I can wait for our time.

Whether our love comes slow,
Or burns as hot and fast as a match,
I will wait for our time to come.
But please don’t keep me waiting too long.

© Bridget Noonan, 2012.

Yep, I think that says it all.

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Bare


I had a crazy productive night. I was going to return my (sliiiightly overdue) library books, but then I saw the moon, and my good intentions went down the tubes. Cruised down to the lake to watch the moonlight dance on the water. Then I decided to go find a quiet stretch of ditch to park in far out of the city limits, where the world still smells alive and the crickets sang.

I needed it- needed to get away from people and their noise.

So I had to write a piku-style thingy, among other things that need a bit of spit ‘n’ polish before going up here.

Bare

we are bare,
full
of the moonlight;

we will dance
bare
in the water,

this empty
beach
our sweet escape.

night swimmers
dive,
silent and sure.

full moon night
hides
nothing from us

we swim, bare,
bathed
in healing light,

fearing no
thing
in the darkness

as long as
we
are together.

weightless, we
kiss
never fragile

hesitant?
no.
full moon watches

over us
while
we splash and laugh.

our steady
hands
on warm bodies

floating out
deep
abiding love

we are bare,
brave
women in love.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

You think I’m romantic now, just wait until I find a lady to write for/about. Jeez.

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In Repair


Okay, so there are like a million different ways that people put their emotional and mental recovery into metaphor. I like this way.
I own this poem; I don’t own the many songs or other creative things also titled “In Repair”. But if you also like Our Lady Peace, we should be friends. The John Mayer song is pretty cool too; not as cool as OLP, but it’s hard to be that cool without being Canadian. ūüėõ Kidding, I’m not some ultra-nationalist sneering at every other place. I just figure that there’s not enough respect for Canada, so I do what I can to stir some up.

And I’m not saying I’m all the way “recovered” (because who the hell is?), but every day is another step that I take back up the stairs to …happiness, I guess. I don’t know what’s at the top of the stairs. I know what’s at the bottom, and thank insert-your-deity-or-higher-power-of-choice-here that I didn’t get there, because it’s kinda hard to get back from dead.

Annnnd now it’s poetry time.

In Repair

School had me feeling
Like I missed a stair on
The way down- heart in my
Throat, bracing for impact,
But for years.

As I bumped down the steps,
Parts of myself fell off.
After a while, you forget
They are missing at all.
Before this

Realization, my
Self-image was a wreck–
I mentally lopped off
What hadn’t been sliced off
In ribbons.

The clink of screws and bolts
The taste of copper, blood–
How could I miss the stair
And end up thumping down
To ruin?

Loathing, gloating, snorting,
The jeers, the leers, the sneers,
Do not have the power
To take what belongs to
Me alone,

So I must gather up
Dignity, self-respect,
All these tattered things that
Drop to the wayside when
Everything

Is wrong, is pain, is doubt;
When regret seems stronger
Than the steel of my soul
In the shape of a spring,
Burns so bright.

Regret holds less power
Over me now, only
The power I give it.
I can return to the
Times before

Without losing pieces;
Instead, I become a
Magnet for the things I
Left behind on the stairs
I slid down.

Now, I must climb back up,
Gathering odds and ends
To solder and sew on;
Not the same as before,
But better.

© Bridget Noonan, 2011.

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Silly Poet, Rhyme Ain’t For Kids!


I wrote this little snippet on versebender‘s blog. The actual poem, The Simple Rhymer, is excellent.

Thank you for this poem
I’m sure I don’t know why
Writing in some rhythm
It always makes me cry.

Sure I need to practice
My skills with meter more.
Though for this poetess,
Rhyme’s easy to ignore.

©¬†Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I tweaked it a bit to make it flow better.

I don’t know if I really have a style, so much. I don’t often use any pattern on purpose, or rhyme things. So what makes a poem? That’s for you¬†to decide. But I’d like it if you thought this was all right.

I Don’t Want You

This experimental phase is
Flattering, really; but you knew
From the start I don’t need you that way.
I don’t want to fall in love with you.

Because when the experiment ends,
You’ll still want to be friends
And I’ll hate every man that you date,
(Or fellate). ¬†You say it’s not a test,
But I know what’s best — for me.

And it’s not that I don’t want you;
Never doubt your wicked charm.
I just can’t allow myself to dream
That your kisses won’t cause me harm.

Stop your lovely words and deeds,
Because I refuse to water the seeds
Of affection for you in my heart.
We both know that this can’t happen,
So stop teasing this poor lesbian.

©¬†Bridget Noonan, 2011.

I like to pretend that I have women banging on my door begging to sleep with me, or date me. Haha! I had a lot of fun writing this, actually. If you can’t look back on life and laugh at it, what’s the point? When I start dating some lucky gal, this will be even better. If I’d written about the same subject in some formless free-verse thing, it’d probably have turned out all dark and depressing and ‘woe is me, I’m sooo aloooooooooone’, and who needs that? I’ll leave the mooning over unavailable (or fictional) women to Lord Byron.

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dead wrong


dead wrong

call me
a crazy
left-wing
faith-accepting
home-wrecking
open-minded
feminist
lesbian
but if
pat robertson
is right
about any
of the
hate
he preaches,
I would
much
much
much rather
be dead
wrong.

©¬†Bridget Noonan, 2011.

Written in response to a prompt (can’t remember where I found it). The prompt was to describe one thing using five or more different words.
Plus, Pat Robertson is a whack-job. His gang seems to think that, by protecting people with “evil” sexual preferences (like us queers) from hate crimes, that suddenly bestiality, pedophilia and necrophilia will become legal and also protected.
I… have no idea how people can make a jump like that mentally. Then again, to them, it’s all the same thing. Anyone who doesn’t believe exactly what they do will tear down society and there will be homosexual orgies in schoolyards around America. “And another American family is destroyed!”¬†After all, every dyke and fag is a criminal with a hidden agenda, just waiting to rise to power and paint the whole world with rainbows or something. I don’t understand why they have to hate us for who we love.
Garfunkel and Oates did a great song in response to one of his many offensive comments. It is a thing of beauty. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXPcBI4CJc8

Actually, that destroying American family quote is from a really funny clip of Lewis Black’s stand-up routine. Start it at like 3:35, it’s when he does the whole “gay banditos” bit. If you’re offended by swearing or people standing up for human rights, I don’t suggest you watch it. Actually… I still suggest you watch it; it’ll be good for you to expand your mental horizons.¬†http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-id4GKsaQk&feature=related

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