By Jennifer Hubbard
Crunchy diamond grass ‘neath
blackened tread stripped soles
deeming death to young shoots
stretching for February mustard
sun ‘tween foggy boughts
purple yellow crocus beds
next to snow drop monk
figures bowing heads
to pray for gray cascades
from crisp moist air.
AFRICAN DRUMS FOR MARTIN LUTHER KING JR DAY;
PLAYED BY THOSE DAMN WHITE HIPPIES
By Jennifer Hubbard
Reminded of charismatic church
Sunday morning arms flail,
bodies twist
though not so supple
as the African midwife.
How is it that white
people want to be black
and teach black
people to be white
but they aren’t,
instead they expect natives
to stay
on their reservations,
to eat
WHITE fry bread
but say you have value
in your peace pipe yet
breed nothing of peace
with one’s soul, nothing
of the Good Samaritan
love and grace of Dr. King
in “I have a dream.”
By Jennifer Hubbard
Amid purple spring
crocuses, white snow
drops, blood
red roses tossed
into thin fake
‘n’ baked, manicured
acrylic, silicone breast
implanted, parted
collagen pumped
lips and nails
By Jennifer Hubbard
His eyes traveled her body
up and down, to his satisfaction
her gait up the marbled stairs
thickness of thighs
strength of calf
sexy short skirt
same girl he saw daily
at the swimming pool,
bright eyes, flirty laugh
a flower among a buzz of girlfriends.
Later, at a college party
hot cocoa she served
six mugs later, he still returned
for more
roundness of face, dark
brown hair, a teasing look
of mutual attraction.
Invited her out
so happy he clicked his heels
twisted an ankle
won a kiss.
Mom At Home Poet 