Gay Writer needs your love (I swear to God it’s not what you think)

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unsplash-logoDmitry Bayer

Hey Everyone.

I am really excited to bring to your attention something that I think I should have been doing for a while now.

As most (all three of you) know that I post my poetry online for free, I have decided (my husband has decided) that I should post them as well as my fiction online through Patreon.

I know this whole system is somewhat controversial but I try (at least on my Patreon page) not to be. The access is broken down into levels that I think are pretty cool and would allow me more writing time and more focus on content creating instead of running around Hell’s Half Acre (Hi Sam and Dean).

Besides being a poet, I write fiction. Mostly gay fiction in the paranormal genre and if you’re an author like me you know that when you type ‘The End’ the real work is just beginning even if you are traditionally published.

I would like to deliver the best product I can to the people who spend their hard earned dollars on the stories and poetry that I create and I just need some backup ( Marvel or DC doesn’t matter) to help me do that.

So, without further ado – here’s my site www.patreon.com/fefeeleyjr

Come by and visit.  I hope you like the place.

Thank you

Evangelical Survivor (National Poetry Month)

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The creeping sad and delightful darkness
sweeps through the gate of my mind
twisting swirling bits of memory
and pushes back the iron gates with a bang

through many dangerous toils and snares
I delighted in the part of me that made me human
as I lay a pagan sacrifice to baal
with the dagger of salvation protruding from my chest

on a marble altar with a weeping angel above me
her face shrouded in cement hands
I stared heavenward with amazing grace on my lips
when my hands falling off the altar,
brushed the licking touch of hell with my finger tips

I am a child of the night
born in equal measure light and dark
the profane and the most holy
possessed by demons and angels clashing
drawing perfect harmonies from my throat
that sound like a roll of thunder raging
with rain and wind and lightning crashing

Heaven has a special place for us
a grace given by God to those whose servants betrayed him
whose salvation was purchased along Dante’s journey
for how can a benevolent God cast someone down
who’d been nailed to the cross without a thought of mercy?

I am the reason for the thousand years of weeping, with milestones about your neck
me and children like me as revelation tumbles from our lips
when the prophet Daniel and John the Revelator speaks with our voices,telling our stories
of shadrack, meshack, and abendigo cast into the fiery furnace
but saved when the image of the fourth man appeared to walk us home.

All the way home leading the parade of his Rock n Roll children
singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah.
Our cold and broken Hallelujah

I Don’t Wish to be Friends with the Past (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoJonathan Bowers

I don’t wish to be friends with the past
Tis like tiptoeing through a graveyard of broken headstones
crumbling
Where sculpted angels with folded wings weep
And forgotten crypts lay dark

I’ve grown, and changed, and got older
While yet the lay still where I left them
In the same spot, the same plots and stories to tell

I visit from time to time, in my thoughts and in my mind
But I try not to linger, though fondness begs me to stay
To touch the faces of my beloveds like I used to
In the past where they lay

But all my fingers do as I brush their hair back
Is pass through without moving a single strand
For one cannot touch what used to be
The way it used to be
And here, I am the ghost wandering

I’ve known lovers, and I can still in mind trace the peculiarity of their bodies with my lips
But there is no memory in the way they feel any more
Not their hands
Not their hips

No, I don’t wish to be friends with the past
Though occasionally I return
To walk amongst what might have beens
Before my soul remembers what is touchable here and now

 

Healing Childhood Hurt (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoKat J

Childhood hurts

How does one get over a childhood hurt
that is the poem that you gave to me
and I would love to tell you it’s in prayers, in psalms
in the melody of your favorite song,

I would like to say it’s in the whisper of your lover
in the softness of his touch,
in the morning walks with your thoughts
or on your ride to work

I would like to say you can find it in creativeness
wrap it up in art and sell it to the highest bidder
or write it down in words to be sold
on Amazon- well, before it’s pirated, anyway

I would like to say it’s in therapy
‘over it’ comes in a drug called Fukitol
take two (with food)
and call me in the morning

Yet here’s the thing
I’ve learned in 37 years
of asking myself the same thing
that you asked me

How do you get over a childhood hurt?
The answer is simple
You don’t.
That hurt you will take to your grave

Now, before we get despondent
before we throw in the towel
and cry ourselves to sleep
let me offer you some solace

I’ve traced my pen
across my scars and bled out on the page
I’ve wept, and winced
and cried and lamented over how bad it still hurt

I’ve purged the infection, over and over in my art
and while the scar remains
I lift it up for the world to see
and find that others have wounds like mine

We connect.

And it’s there in that moment
this bizarre realization
that the thing I once despised
I am grateful for

You never get over it, no
but you can get through it
and you can use it
instead of letting it use you

 

Sounds of Spring (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoStudio Dekorasyon

 

I wake up in the morning
drifting sunlight through my window
grackles chatting up the neighbors
somewhere on another lawn

Fan above me whirling
nestled deep in cover warmly
lawnmowers buzzing pleasantly,
underneath the morning sun

I sit up, bones a’crackin’
reach for the ceiling I feel my back poppin’
I toss the covers aside and stand
and slip on the clothes from the night before

Dog leash in one hand,
sneaker-clad feet slap the pavement
puppy dog rushes to do his business
pulling his sleep addled master along

Noseeums float lazy
in the shadows where sunlight isn’t reaching
neighbors walk to their cars quickly
coffee cups and car keys clenched in their hands

The smells of the dewdrops rise
along with Star of Jasmine on the air
I put earbuds in my ears
and stretch my legs for a good long walk

Journey in my ears blaring
Steve Perry singing clearly
about the wheel in the sky always turning
that’s the sound of my springtime morning

 

 

When she broke free from the clouds (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoA. L.

 

I can see it so clearly, now
in the silver current of the river
I remember a woman so vibrant
a living prism
that shattered light into a multitude of colors
when the sun broke free of the clouds

She was an artist, you see
her world was of red, and blue, and sea foam green
and bring them together in harmony
like Monet, Michelangelo, Divinci
when she could break free of the clouds

She understood the collective unconscious
it spoke to her, as it speaks to all
who sing the words, write the script, dance the dance
with the flick of her wrist should conjure images
when her mind was free of the clouds

Yet, the sky was often overcast
a mesocyclone dulled her afternoon
and faded the pallet so richly hers
and brought storms with wind, and rain, and hail
the clouds cast shadows she could not break away from

There is a certain weakness artists share
a flaw of sorts in our matrix
an unquenchable desire to connect
and the ability to hear all of humanity
so when a strong guiding light shines it can distract us
but all that glitters is not gold
and though the clouds may gather, it does not mean rain

We are artists because God is an artist
no longer do you fragment the light
that comes from the firmament
and though your brushes may lay still
you are the light that burns forever
they day you broke free of the clouds

Real Love (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoKevin Grieve

Real Love

Water left on the bathroom floor
toothpaste in the sink
morning breath kisses
and aching backs
grey hair at the temples
and date nights on the couch

Bill folds
walk the dog
separate the clothes
and walk them to the laundromat
fevers, nightmares,
three a.m. dash to the bathroom
Are you alright?
Yeah, I’m fine
wait half awake for him to return

Throw this ratty old shirt out
or make it into a dusting rag
pay the bills, chase the cat
Christmas Trees
and flowers in vases
can you pass the gravy?

I’m getting older
you’re getting older
where the rubber meets the road
dishes in the sink
off to work you go
it’s another day in the life
of real love

 

Poem for a Funeral

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unsplash-logoMalcolm Green

There is no light without the dark
no life without death
the sun can’t rise in the morning without
the setting of the moon
and the fading of the stars 
Why this merry go round, then?
What lessons are etched upon my heart?
Had I reached my limit of knowledge to carry?

There is no ecstatic joy without deep sorrow
each waterway must end where the land begins
No Spring Flowers without Winter’s frozen snow
no lasting love affair without the first chaste kiss
There I stood in the midst of many
one light in a sea of a billion stars
participating in life’s grand display – shining brightly
furiously burning ever so wonderous
surrounded by space as black as pitch

Yet, there is no truth without a lie
No relief without the pain
There is no mercy without the crime
and there is no night without the day
I’ve done all I can in this body made of clay
I’ve said all the words I came here to speak
and though I am gone from your joyful presence
there can be no fond memories, without the pinprick of grief

So watch for me in those times, my dear
when the sun fades just to the west
when the skies are orange, purple, and red
and the moon begins to crest
Find me on the last day of summer,
and talk to me right before you fall asleep
I’ll be listening to you, my darling
in the spaces, in those transition places
Right there, in the in-between

 

I dare you…(poem)

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Dare to be different.
Dare to speak your truth.
Dare to stand in it.
Dare to be a guide on.
Dare to raise the banner.
Dare to raise your voices.
Dare to resist the night.
Dare to be yourself.
Dare to do the right thing.
Dare to speak truth to stupid.
Dare to set an example.
Dare to be safe in your skin, safe in yourself, safe in your world.
Dare to stare down a bully.
Dare to correct a wrong.
Dare to shout down lies.
Dare to sing the truth.
Dare to be observant.
Dare to be aware.
Dare to be righteous.
Dare to be loved.
Dare to be free.
Dare to be a dreamer.
Dare to be a lover.
Dare to be a friend.
Dare to be a sister.
Dare to be a brother.
Dare to be a mentor.
Dare to be a light.
Dare to be a phone call.
Dare to be a voter.
Dare to march in protest.
Dare to kneel and pray.
Dare to stand against tyranny.
Dare to make a mark.
Dare to live.
Dare so that others may live.
Dare to be counted.
Dare to be a leader.
Dare to be hope.
Dare to be a teacher.
Dare to be a preacher.
Dare to do all you can.