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Best Poems From
DONNA QUESINBERRY
(06/05/1957)
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21.
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The Leaves of April
an ode to spring..
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leaves in spring are tender occurrences
sprouting heavenward with a vibrance
that the blue jay mimics at my doorway
a warbling kaw in ridiculous showmanship
he ruffles feathers and leans in with an intrepid
mannerism as if to dare me to mark his territory.
men and women preen and strut in springtime
as well, after a current of jumping rope and jogging
to prepare for the abundance of potential marketing
that can take place at happy hours, malls, and
in front of street vendors. Hoping Mr. or Mrs. Right
with traverse their path, view silkened tan skin
with fit muscles and lean masses of preponderance.
Then summer arrives like a rouse denoting who
has won the race to coupling before the fall holidays.
Donna Quesinberry
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22.
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Tinged Bassinet With Verbs
Puerto Rican
exposes his dirt pile
in brushed briars.
Oh... virgin loss
with fears muffled
under his fleeced coat.
Wrestlers pin delivered
slopped mouth drippings
of nippled bruises, and
leaf filled crevasse.
Impasse - no awards.
Desert boots skated down
glassy pasted hardwood
to that frigid landing,
being basement floored.
Doped laughter remained
chicken necked hideous.
Belted parents, those
pubic inquest sentries,
raised lesions.
Grade: diapered seven.
Impasse - no escapes.
Uncle festered his
little tittied cutesy,
past momma to
a modern turf.
Sickened stomach and
stoned smiled hostage.
High achiever, their
cipher stealthed lordette,
housing ulcerated bowels
remained... road kill pretty.
Impasse - no communion.
Donna Quesinberry
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23.
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Together There We Made Love
It was a zoot suit affair,
going in the oblong club
wearing a thin yellow black pinstripe and
spikes hot pink-
tight combo, scarf bringing everything,
together.
The oblong club housed tangerine walls,
marbled floor tiles in white-black,
violet brass fixtured ladies room's and
furnitures red green-
any zoot suit, like this one, fit right in,
there.
In the dance floor middle, was this fountain
spouting high from the big pool,
there were incessant techno movements under neon lights and
improvised diversions hailed-
for us it was a beginning, that frenzy, everyone called
we.
Big aquariums lined favored crash rooms,
we sat in sofas with big legs showing,
some gentlemen quarterly teethy smiles and
lotsa money attitudes-
a subculture interpretations, of crystalline designers, in motifs we'd
made.
The oblong club entertained model lives of digits,
obscured personalities rested trenchant plump, to
cavort and careen from room to room and
no apparent satisfactions-
palm fronds swayed madly, behind us, so we forged our
love.
Donna Quesinberry
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24.
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Trotskyist Opposition=Ameri.kan Occupation
Humint interested her
rallying the big lights
of earnest salivation
like a deer to a salt block.
No reasoning, except
that dark alley ballyhoo
of excitement and con
firmation. The daylight
gets dull at times. But
she dresses slower
these days. Will little
fanfare or acknowledgment.
Convertibles were fun
salutations in Ft. Misery
going to the beach on
the back road - alone and
f.r.e.e., like a rebel in red.
face tan and full or promise
before the men. remembering
the picture of stolen moments
that no one ever knew of.
always innocent - yet owned.
love has a way of removing
the blots, leaving corporeal
snap.shots of times lines
like glimmering stars set
against a distant sea of
aquamarine, where she
played her hardest. with
out love. with the soliloquy
of liberty at her side. knowing
the rushes against flesh
when walking in murky
waters between the dunes
now were feasting vessels
those sharks that decided
that day was not for the
taking. fate has her own
path, we question her naught
engaged? rogovin? alas
no. the socialist epic
drawn up through the billows
to suit a man's credo. the
ring never on the right or
left hand long enough to
grasp its real meaning.
bucket.man belongs to
her. his heart rendered.
tears are not easy for
a strong man to muster.
to ask a woman for tissue.
to hold her against her will.
for not wanting to loose her.
the child was a glimmer of
hope that suffered the taunting
of ill photographs, claiming
retrograde at Chernobyl was
a solemn defeat. requesting
the tare at the hollow to solve
all life's burdens. the shame
of it all. in the dark no one
is alone. the dark is where
otherworldly creatures dwell
and they come to call at will.
one just need know how to
conquer their staving hungers
and put them to their weary
tasks of suffrage and penance.
she is his libertine.
he is her muse.
Donna Quesinberry
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